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“What’s up? Who disappeared? Who’s sleeping in Mama Bear’s bed? You haven’t called. If I were there, I’d throw you out of the house. It’s hard to do long distance but, get out!”
“Okay.”
That shot her through the chest.
“Hold on,” she said, alarmed.
“You said: Get out!”
“Yes, but—”
“Crumley’s waiting outside.”
“Crumley!” she shrieked, “By the bowels of Christ! Crumley!?”
“He’ll protect me, Peg.”
“Against your panics? Can he mouth-to-mouth breathe those? Can he make sure you eat breakfast, lunch, or dinner? Lock you out of the refrigerator when you get too chunky? Does he make you change your underwear!?”
“Peg!”
And we both laughed just a little.
“You really going out the door? Mama will be home on Flight sixty-seven, Pan Am, Friday. Be there! with all the murders solved, bodies buried, and rapacious women kicked downstairs! If you can’t make it to the airport, just be in bed when mama slams the door. You haven’t said I love you.”
“Peg. I love you.”
“And one last thing—in the last hour: who died? ”
Outside at the curb, Henry, Crumley, and Constance waited.
“My wife doesn’t want me to be seen with you,” I said.
“Get in.” Crumley sighed.
57
On the way west on an empty boulevard with not even a ghost of a car in sight, we let Henry tell what had happened in, under, through the wall and out. It was somehow fine to hear our flight described by a blind man who enunciated with his head as his dark nose snuffed deep and his black fingers sketched the wind, drawing Crumley here, himself there, me below, and the Beast behind. Or something that had lain outside the tomb door like a landslide of yeast to seal our escape. Bull! But as Henry told it we turned cold and rolled up the windows. No use. There was no top to the car.
“And that,” declared Henry, taking off his dark glasses for finale, “is why we called you, mad lady from Venice, to come save.” Constance glanced nervously in her rear-view mirror. “Hell, we’re going too slow!”
She put the car in whiplash. Our heads obeyed.
Crumley unlocked his front door.
“Okay. Spread out!” he growled. “What time is it?”
“Late,” said Henry. “Night-blooming jasmine gets outa hand round about now.”
“Is that true?” yelled Crumley.
“No, but it sure sounds nice.” Henry beamed at an unseen audience. “Fetch the beer.”
Crumley handed the beers around.
“There’d better be gin in this,” said Constance. “Hell. There is!”
I plugged in my projector, sprocketed Roy Holdstrom’s film, and we turned out the lights.
