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I stepped back. Crumley regarded Rattigan’s tiny shoes lodged in prints put down a long, long time ago.
“Not exactly ruby slippers,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
We rode across town in a warm silence. I tried to describe the great black sea of Grauman’s.
“There’s this big dressing-room cellar, maybe full of stuff from 1925, 1930. I have a feeling she might be there.”
“Save your breath,” said Crumley.
“Someone’s got to go down there to see.”
“You afraid to go there alone?”
“Not exactly.”
“That means damn right! Shut up and ride shotgun.”
We were soon at Crumley’s. He put a cold beer against my brow.
“Hold it there until you feel it cure your thinking.”
I held it there. Crumley switched on the TV and began switching through the channels.
“I don’t know which is worse,” he said, “your gab or the local TV news.”
“Father Seamus Rattigan,” the TV said.
“Hold it!” I cried.
Crumley switched back.
“… Vibiana’s Cathedral.”
And a blizzard of static and snow.
Crumley hit the damned TV with his fist.
“… Natural causes. Rumored to be future cardinal …”
Another snowstorm. And the TV went dead.
“I been meaning to have it fixed,” said Crumley.
We both stared at his telephone, telling it to ring.
We both jumped.
Because it did!
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was a woman, Father Rattigan’s assistant, Betty Kelly, inarticulate, going down for the third time, begging for mercy.
I offered what small mercy I had, to come visit.
“Don’t wait, or I’m dead myself,” she wailed.
