• • •
My attorney was doing the Big Spit again, in the bathroom. I walked out on the balcony and stared at the pool, this kidney-shaped bag of bright water that shimmered outside our suite. I felt like Othello. Here I’d only been in town a few hours, and we’d already laid the groundwork for a classic tragedy. The hero was doomed; he had already sown the seed of his own downfall.
But who was the Hero of this filthy drama? I turned away from the pool and confronted my attorney, now emerging from the bathroom and wiping his mouth with a towel. His eyes were glazed and limpid. “This goddamn mescaline,” he muttered. “Why the fuck can’t they make it a little less pure? Maybe mix it up with Rolaids, or something?”
“Othello used Dramamine,” I said.
He nodded, hanging the towel around his neck as he reached out to flip on the TV set. “Yeah, I heard about those remedies. Your man Fatty Arbuckle used olive oil.”
“Lucy called,” I said.
“What?” He sagged visibly - like an animal taking a bullet. “I just got the message from the desk. She’s at the Americana, room 1600… and she wants us to call.”
He stared at me… and just then the phone rang.
I shrugged and picked it up. There was no point trying to hide. She had found us, and that was enough.
“Hello,” I said.
It was the room clerk again.
“Mister Duke?”
“Yes.”
“Hello, Mister Duke. I’m sorry we were cut off a moment ago…, but I thought I should call again, because I was won dering..
“What?” I sensed things closing down on us. This fucker was about to spring something on me. What had that crazy bitch aid to him? I tried to stay calm.
“We’re watching the goddamn news!” I screamed. “What the fuck are you interrupting me for?”
Silence.
“What do you want? Where’s the goddamn ice I ordered? Where’s the booze? There’s a war on, man! People are being killed!”
“Killed?” He almost whispered the word.
“In Vietnam!” I yelled. “On the goddamn television!”
“Oh… yes… yes,” he said. “This terrible war. When will it end?”
“Tell me,” I said quietly. “What do you want?”
“Of course,” he said, snapping back to his desk-clerk tone. “I thought I should tell you… because I know you’re here with the Police Convention… that the woman who left that message for you sounded very disturbed.”
He hesitated, but I said nothing.
“I thought you should know this,” he said finally.
“What did you say to her?” I asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all, Mister Duke. I merely took the message.” He paused.
“But it wasn’t that easy, talking to that woman. She was… well… extremelynervous. I think she was crying.”
“Crying?” My brain had locked up. I couldn’t think. The drug was taking over. “Why was she crying?”
“Well… ah… she didn’t say, Mister Duke. But since I knew the nature of your work I thought… ”
“I know,” I said quickly. “Look, you want to be gentle with that woman if sheever calls again. She’s our case study. We’re watching her very carefully.” I felt my head unwind ing now; the words came easily: “She’s perfectly harmless, of course… there’ll be no trouble… this woman has been into laudanum, it’s a controlled experiment, but I suspect we’ll need your cooperation before this thing is over.”
“Well… certainly,” he said. “We’re always happy to cooperate with the police… just as long as there won’t be any rouble… for us, I mean.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’re protected. Just treat this or woman like you’d treat any other human being in trouble.”
“What?” He seemed to be stuttering. “Ah… yes, yes, I see what you meen… yes… so you’ll be responsible then?”
“Of course,” I said. “And now I have to get back to the news.”
“Thank you,” he muttered.
“Send the ice,” I said, and hung up.
My attorney was smiling peacefully at the TV set. “Good work,” he said. “They’ll treat us like goddamn lepers, after that.” I nodded, filling a tall glass with Chivas Regal.
“There hasn’t been any news on the tube for three hours,” he said absently.
“That poor fool probably thinks we’re plugged into some kind of special cop channel. You should call back and ask him to send up a 3000 watt sensing capacitator, along with the ice. Tell him ours just burned out…
“You forgot about Lucy,” I said. “She’s looking for you.”
He laughed. “No, she’s looking for you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. She really flipped over you. The only way I could get rid of her, out there in the airport, was by saying you were taking me out to the desert for a showdown - that you wanted me out of the way so you could have her all to yourself.” He shrugged. “Shit, I had to tell her something. I said she should go to the Americana and wait to see which one of us came back.” He laughed again. “I guess she figures you won. That phone message wasn’t for me, was it?”
I nodded. It made no sense at all, but I knew it was true. Drug reasoning. The rhythms were brutally clear - and, to him, they made excellent sense.
He was slumped in the chair, concentrating on Mission Im possible.
I thought for a while, then stood up and began stuffing things into my suitcase.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Never mind,” I said. The zipper stuck momentarily, butl yanked it shut. Then I put on my shoes.
“Walt a minute,” he said. “Jesus, you’re not leaving?”
I nodded. “You’re goddamn right, I’m leaving. But don’t worry. I’ll stop at the desk on my way out. You’ll be taken care of.”
He stood up quickly, kicking his drink over. “OK, god damnit, this is serious! Where’s my.357?”
I shrugged, not looking at him as I crammed the Chivas Regal bottles into my hand-satchel. “I sold it in Baker,” I said. “I owe you 35 bucks.”
“Jesus Christ!” he shouted. “That thing cost me a hundred and ninety goddamn dollars!”
I smiled. “You told me where you got that gun,” I said. “Remember?”
He hesitated, pretending to think. “Oh yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah… that punk out in Pasadena…” Then he flared again. “So it cost me a goddamn grand. That asshole shot a narc. He was looking at life!… shit, three weeks in court, and all I got was a fucking six-shooter.”
“You’re stupid,” I said. “I warned you about dealing with junkies on credit - especially when they’re guilty. You’re lucky the bastard didn’t pay you off with a bullet in the stomach.”
My attorney sagged. “He was my cousin. The jury found him innocent.”
“Shit!” I snapped. “How many people has that junkie bastard shot since we’ve known him? Six? Eight? That evil little tuck is so guilty that I should probably kill him myself, on general principles. He shot that narc just as sure as he killed that girl at the Holiday Inn… and that guy in Ventura!”
He eyed me coldly. “You better be careful, man. You’re into some heavy slander. ”
I laughed, tossing my luggage together in a lump at the foot of the bed while I sat down to finish my drink. I
