jutted straight out into the ocean, and a couple of kids sat on the landing with lines in the water. I cruised on by the pier where the Cadillac was parked and drove back up the looping drive that connected with the highway. As soon as I reached the highway I parked on the shoulder and hotfooted it back down toward the pier and stood in a screen of coarse and twisted cedar growth to watch.
I felt out of place and a little clumsy in my city suit and shoes. The sand shifted under my feet as I moved, and the wind off the water tossed the cedar limbs where I stood. The Cadillac sat where it had parked, its motor idling, the windows rolled up. No one got out. No one did anything that I could see. I shifted occasionally from one foot to the other, got out a cigarette, and lit it in the wind on the third try, cupping the match in my hands and shielding it by turning my back into the breeze.
The two boys sitting on the dock didn't catch anything. A single sea gull circled hopefully over them, waiting. A couple of hundred yards out to sea, several smaller seabirds, gray with white chests, skimmed the surface of the waves, dipping occasionally to capture a small something and then, back in formation, continued on, staying close to the foam crests.
At about two-thirty in the afternoon, a boat edged up over the horizon. By three o'clock it was directly offshore, maybe 500 yards. It was, loosely speaking, a yacht. And the Empire State Building is, loosely speaking, a skyscraper. It was probably 400 feet long and had at least three decks. There were two smokestacks raked, and the whole thing was painted a bright, brand-new vanilla color. At the stern in blue letters was the name, Randolph's ranger. As I watched they lowered a speedboat from two derricks on the stern and some guy in a sailor suit the color of the yacht clambered down a ladder and got in. There was a moment while he tinkered with the controls and then there was the faint hint of a roar and the boat swooped away from the yacht in a wide curve, leaving a broad rolling wake behind it as it headed for the pier. As it got closer I could hear the throb of its big engine.
Dr. Bonsentir got out of the backseat of the Cadillac. The Mexican got out of the front seat and the two of them began to walk toward the pier. The speedboat pulled in against the landing and the boy in the sailor suit held it there. It bobbed gently while Bonsentir and the Mex walked down the ramp and onto the landing. The Mexican handed Bonsentir in and hopped in himself as lightly as if his knuckles didn't drag on the ground, and the boy in the sailor suit spun the wheel expertly and the speedboat headed back toward Randolph's Ranger. The beachboy backed the Caddy up and turned it around and drove on up past me toward the highway. He had on big sunglasses and was too busy checking how he looked in the rearview mirror to notice me in the bushes.
The speedboat pulled up to the side of the yacht where a boarding ladder had been lowered and Bonsentir and the Mex went aboard. The speedboat eased around to the stern.
When the Caddy was out of sight I headed down toward the shack on the pier. From behind the bushes I had seen the telephone line running down to it. The guy that ran the shack had straggly white hair and a big belly pushing at his undershirt. His skinny arms were badly sunburned as were his shoulders where the undershirt exposed them. One of his front teeth was missing and he smoked a thin brown cigarette, hanging from the corner of his mouth. Half an inch of ash had accumulated on the cigarette.
I said, 'Use your phone?'
He said, 'It ain't a pay phone. It's a private phone.'
'Doesn't mean you can't get paid for its use.'
'Where you want to call?' he said.
'Local,' I said. 'Las Olindas.'
'That ain't a local call,' he said.
I took a ten-dollar bill from my wallet. 'This cover it, you think?'
I could see the grayish tip of his tongue as he touched his lips with it near where the cigarette smoldered. The movement dislodged the ash and it fell onto his undershirt. He brushed it absently while he looked at the ten.
'Yeah,' he said. 'I guess that'll be okay if you don't talk long.'
'Okay if I pause to take a breath?'
He took the ten and stuffed it unfolded into the side pocket of his khaki pants and walked to the door of the shack and leaned on the doorjamb with his back to me. That was supposed to give me privacy. I dialed the Cypress Club and got Eddie Mars.
'Marlowe,' I said. 'I'm down around Palos Verdes on a pier maybe ten miles south of Redondo, and I think I've found Simpson.'
'He going to stay put?'
'I don't know, he's on a yacht about a quarter mile offshore. Right now it's anchored.'
'Stay there, soldier,' Mars said. 'I'll come down.'
'You got a boat?' I said.
'I can get one,' Mars said.
'Good.' I said. 'Hold on.'
I got off the phone. 'What's the name of this place?' I said.
The geezer at the door turned, trying to look startled, like I'd interrupted his thoughts.
'This place?'
'Yeah. I'm giving my friend directions.'
'Fair Harbor,' he said.
I repeated it to Mars.
'Sit tight, soldier, I'm on my way.'
'I'll be here, Eddie, inflating my water wings.'
