this a massage? 'Bout as energetic as a hand job from a corpse' and; 'Look at that, Cal. The guy's a stone junkie, and she's got scars and a twat you could drive a truck through. Couldn't pay me to fuck her by proxy').
There was sudden movement on the monitor: Mainwaring getting up from the bed, walking back and forth, and approaching the wall that separated the rooms. He licked his lips and stared up at the hanging plant that housed the hidden lens.
'Goddammit,' said Ginzburg. 'There he goes again. I told him not to say that.'
Cash stretched and yawned.
'Maybe I should go in there and remind him.'
Milo looked at his watch. 'No,' he said. 'Too close for comfort.'
Cash consulted a wafer-thin gold watch.
'What, eight-thirty? Thing's supposed to go down at nine-four-five.'
'Let's play it safe. Just in case.'
Cash looked at Ginzburg, who'd returned to his puzzles, then back at Milo.
'Whatever. But if he keeps doing it, I'm gonna go in there and kiss his ass.' As if on cue, Mainwaring went back to the bed and lay down with one arm over his eyes. One of his feet wagged like a puppy's tail. Cash watched him for a while, then said: 'How long have we been here, five hours?'
'About eighteen minutes,' said Ginzburg.
Cash looked at Mainwaring again, then asked Milo: 'What do you figure the chances are of this panning out?'
'Who the hell knows?'
'Got to learn to live with ambiguity,' said Ginzburg.
'Yeah, right.' The Beverly Hills detective lit another cigarette.
'Could you cool it with the smoke?' said Ginzburg. 'Place smells like cancer.'
'Fuck,' said Cash, going into the bathroom and closing the door.
Milo chuckled.
'Nothing like forced intimacy, huh, Lenny?'
Ginzburg nodded, picked up the burrito, looked at it, and threw it into the trash. It landed with a thud that opened Whitehead's eyes.
'Where's Dick?' he asked drowsily.
'In the John,' said Ginzburg. 'Beating off/
Whitehead's forehead creased. He got up, put two sticks of gum in his mouth, began chewing, and walked to the TV. Fumbling in his pockets, he came up with a palmful of change.
'Shit, all nickels. Anybody got quarters?'
Ginzburg ignored him. Milo produced three coins.
'Keep the volume down,' he said, handing them over.
'S it time?' asked Whitehead.
'Not yet. But let's play it safe.'
Whitehead looked at his watch, mumbled, 'Eight thirty-four,' and dropped the quarters into the slot atop the TV. Seconds later a loop called Jungle Love came on: a jerky, hand-held pan of a plywood-panelled room, followed by a long shot of a naked black couple squirming on a daybed in time to a rhythm-and-funk beat. The camera zoomed in drunkenly on contorted faces, fingers kneading nipples, then a series of gynaecologic close-ups that revealed the man to be exceptionally well endowed.
'Figures,' said Whitehead disgustedly, but he kept his eyes glued to the screen.
The door to the bathroom opened, and Cash came out, zipping up his fly.
'Good morning,' he said to Whitehead, who nodded absently. Then Cash saw the movie and settled back down on the end table to watch.
At nine-ten the phone rang. Ginzburg picked it up, said 'Yeah,' several times, and hung up.
'That was Owens in front of the 7-Eleven on Lankershim. Might not mean anything but two sleazes on a Harley Hog just turned east on Ventura. One was a porker.'
'All right,' said Milo. He checked the blackout drapes to make sure no light was escaping. Cash went over to the TV and turned off the sound, extinguishing, mid-note, the sounds of heavy breathing and the sympathetic rasp of an asthmatic saxophone. He watched for a few seconds, proclaimed the woman on screen a pig, and drew away. Whitehead continued to stare at the silent images, jaws working, then realised he was the sole voyeur and reluctantly switched off the set. He pulled out his .38 and inspected the barrel.
Ginzburg sat up straight and fiddled with his machines.
Cash walked over and eyed Mainwaring.
'Cool fucker,' he said, 'lying there like that.'
'Don't bet on it,' said Ginzburg. 'Look at that foot.'
Twenty-five minutes passed uneventually. The momentum that had begun with the phone call from Owens began to dissipate. After threequarters of an hour it
was gone, and a numbing cloud of torpor descended on the room. I found the shifting levels of arousal draining, but Milo had warned me about that. ('Trapp's impressed with your good citizenship - quote: 'First shrink I ever heard of who wasn't a crybaby pinko' unquote - so I can probably arrange it. But it's boring, Alex. We're talking brain death.')
Nine forty-five came and went noiselessly.
'Think they'll show?' asked Cash. 'Think it's them?'
'What's the matter,' said Ginzburg, 'You got something to do?'
The Beverly Hills detective thumbed his chest and
answered in a jive whine.
'I always got me something going down, my man. Something sweet and fuzzy, you dig?'
'Yeah, right,' said Ginzburg sullenly.
'Hey! What's eating you?'
Ginzburg shook his head and picked up his puzzle book. He tapped the point of his pencil against his teeth and started scribbling.
Cash muttered something unintelligible and returned to his perch on the end table. After pulling out a cigarette, he lit up and blew the smoke toward the monitor. If Ginzburg noticed, he didn't let on.
'Hey, Dick,' said Whitehead, between chews, 'how's it going with the screenplay?'
'Real good. They're looking at it over at MGM. Seriously.'
'Oh, yeah? Anybody in mind to play you?'
'Maybe Pacino, maybe De Niro.'
'Right,' muttered Ginzburg, suppressing a snicker.
Cash flicked an ash toward the monitor. 'Whatsamatter, Lenny, baby, you jealous - '
'Shut up!' whispered Milo, pointing toward the door. From the other side came noises: the trace of a shuffle; the hint of a scrape; the mouse squeak of a heel lowering softly. As brief as a heartbeat, but for vigilance, inaudbile.
All eyes fixed on the monitor.
A knock sounded on the door of the Scheherezade Suite.
The speaker on the vanity table transformed it to a hollow bark. Mainwaring sat up, eyes nightmare- wide.
Another knock.
'C'mon, answer it, asshole,' whispered Cash.
The psychiatrist pulled himself to his feet and stared at the camera, as if awaiting rescue.
'Oh, no,' murmured Ginzburg. 'Wet pants time.'
'If he doesn't answer it,' whispered Milo, 'let's go out there and bust them.'
'For what?' asked Whitehead. 'Loitering? We need conversation.'
'Anything's better than letting them go.'
The sheriffs investigator grimaced and chewed faster.
'Snap out of it, goddammit,' urged Ginzburg. 'Do you believe this? The chickenshit's going into lens hypnosis.'
