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And went away.
Chapter Five
Later I moved along the dusty path through the jungle trees and the wild azalea bushes carrying two six-packs. I k
nocked on Crumley’s carved African front door and waited. I knocked again. Silence. I set one six-pack of beer against the door and backed off.
After eight or nine long breaths, the door opened just enough to let a nicotine-stained hand grab the beer and pull it in. The door shut.
“Crumley,” I yelled. I ran up to the door.
“Go away,” said a voice from inside.
“Crumley, it’s the Crazy. Let me in!”
“No way,” said Crumley’s voice, liquid now, for he had opened the first beer. “Your wife called.”
“Damn!” I whispered.
Crumley swallowed. “She said that every time she leaves town, you fall off the pier in deep guano, or karate-chop a team of lesbian midgets.”
“She didn’t say that!”
“Look, Willie”—for Shakespeare—“I’m an old man and can’t take those graveyard carousels and crocodile men snorkeling the canals at midnight. Drop that other six-pack. Thank God for your wife.”
“Damn,” I murmured.
“She said she’ll come home early if you don’t cease and desist.”
“She would, too,” I muttered.
“Nothing like a wife coming home early to spoil the chaos. Wait.” He took a swallow. “You’re okay, William, but no thanks.”
I set the other six-pack down and put the 1900 telephone book and Rattigan’s private phone book on top, and backed off.
After a long while that hand emerged again, touched Braille-wise over the books, knocked them off, and grabbed the beer. I waited. Finally the door reopened. The hand, curious, fumbled the books and snatched them in.
“Good!” I cried.
Good! I thought. In one hour, by God … he’ll call!
Chapter Six
In one hour, Crumley called.
But didn’t call me William.
He said, “Crud, crap, crapola. You really know how to hook a guy. What is it with these goddamn Books of the Dead?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Hell, I was born in a mortuary, raised in a graveyard, matriculated in the Valley of the Kings outside Karnak in upper, or was it lower, Egypt? Some nights I dream I’m wrapped in creosote. Who wouldn’t know a book that’s dead when it’s served with his beer?”
“Same old Crumley,” I said.
“I wish it wasn’t. When I hang up I’m calling your wife!”
“Don’t!”
