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That was it.
Give or take a metaphor.
69
Crumley arrived at noon and saw me sitting by the telephone.
“I’m calling for an appointment at the studio,” I said.
“With who?”
“Anyone who happens to be in Manny Leiber’s office when that white telephone on the big desk rings.”
“And then?”
“Go turn myself in.”
Crumley looked at the cold surf outside.
“Go soak your head,” he said.
“What’re we going to do?” I exclaimed. “Sit and wait for them to crash the door or come out of the sea? I can’t stand the waiting. I’d rather be dead.”
“Gimme that!”
Crumley grabbed the phone and dialed.
When answered, he had to control his yell: “I’m all well. Cancel my sick leave. I’ll be in tonight!”
“Just when I need you,” I said. “Coward.”
“Coward, crap!” He banged down the phone. “Horse handler!”
“Horse what?”
“That’s all I’ve been all week. Waiting for you to be shoved up a chimney or dropped downstairs. A horse handler. That’s the guy who held the reins when General Grant fell off his horse. Gumshoeing obits and reading old news files is like laying a mermaid. Time to go help my coroner.”
“Did you know the word ‘coroner’ only means ‘for the crown’? A guy who did things for the king or queen? Corona. Coronet. Crown. Coroner.”
“Hot damn! I gotta call the wire services. Gimme that phone!”
The phone rang. We both jumped.
“Don’t answer,” said Crumley.
I let it ring eight times and then ten. I couldn’t stand it. I picked it up.
At first there was only the sound of an electric surf somewhere off across town, where unseen rains touched implacable tombstones. And then …
I heard heavy breathing. It was like a great dark yeast, miles away, sucking air.
“Hello!” I said.
Silence.
At last this thick, fermenting voice, a voice lodged inside nightmare flesh, said: “Why aren’t you here?”
“No one told me,” I said, my voice trembling.
