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Fritz Wong twisted his monocle in his fierce right eye and probed the eastern skyline, smiling a wonderfully vicious smile.
“Gottdamn!” he said. “This will make the great finale. No script needed. Shall I tell you where Rattigan is? East! Gone to earth!”
“Gone to what?” said Crumley.
“Sly fox, swift cat. Rattigan. Gone to earth. Tired, ashamed of all her lives! Hide them all in one final Cleopatra’s carpet, roll them up, deposit them in Eternity’s bank. Fade out. Darkness. Plenty of earth there to go to.”
He made us wait.
“Forest Lawn,” he said.
“Fritz, that’s where they bury people!”
“Who’s directing this?” Fritz said. “You took the wrong turn toward open air, the sea, life. Rattigan headed east. Death called her by all two dozen names. She answered with one voice.”
“BS!” said Crumley.
“You’re fired,” said Fritz.
“I was never hired,” said Crumley. “What’s next?”
“Go and prove I am right!” said Fritz.
“So,” said Crumley. “Rattigan climbed down into that storm drain and walked east, or drove, or was driven east?”
“That,” said Fritz, “is how I would shoot it. Film! Delicious!”
“But why would she go to Forest Lawn?” I protested weakly, thinking perhaps I had sent her there.
“To die!” said Fritz triumphantly. “Go read Ludwig Bemelmans’ tale of the old man, dead, put a lit candle on his head, hung flowers around his neck, and walked, a one-man funeral, to his own grave! Constance, she does the same. She’s gone to die a last time, yes? Now, do I put my car in gear? Will someone follow? And do we go aboveground or take the storm drain direct?”
I looked at Crumley, he looked at me, and we both looked at Blind Henry. He felt our gaze, nodded.
Fritz was already gone, the vodka with him.
“Lead the way,” said Henry. “Swear a little now and then to give me direction.”
Crumley and I headed for Crumley’s old jalopy, Henry in our wake.
Fritz, in his car ahead, banged his motor, blew his horn.
“Okay, you damn Kraut!” cried Crumley.
He thrummed his engine, exploding.
“Which way to the nearest road rage, dammit?”
We paused by the storm drain, stared in, then out at the open road.
“Which is it, smart-ass?” said Crumley. “Dante’s Inferno or Route 66?”
“Let me think,” I said.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Crumley cried.
Fritz was gone. We looked along the beach and couldn’t see his car anywhere.
We looked to our right. There, speeding off down the tunnel, were two red lights. “Christ!” Crumley yelled. “He’s heading in on the flood channel! Damned fool!”
