A Graveyard for Lunatics

the lady said, it?s here!?

Sopwith! So that was Clarence?s name.

?I was afraid, I said, I hadn?t put my address in the portfolio.?

?It?s here, said the lady, 1788 Beachwood? Yeah, I said. I?ll be right over to get it.?

?Crumley! You?re a genius!?

?Not quite. I?m talking from the Brown Derby phone booth now.?

?And?? I felt my heart jump.

?The portfolio?s gone. Someone else got the same bright idea. Someone else got here ahead of me. The lady gave a description. It wasn?t Clarence, the way you said. When the lady asked for identification, the guy just walked out with the portfolio. The lady was upset, but no big deal.?

?Ohmigod,? I said. ?That means they know Clarence?s address.?

?You want me to go and tell him all this??

?No, no. He?d have a heart attack. He?s scared of me, but I?ll go. Warn him to hide. Christ, anything could happen. 1788 Beachwood??

?You got it.?

?Crum, you?re the cat?s pajamas.?

?Always was,? he said, ?always was. Strange to report the folks down at the Venice station expect me back to work an hour ago. The coroner phoned to say a customer won?t keep. While I?m working, you help. Who else in the studio might know what we need to know? I mean, someone you might trust? Someone who?s lived the studios? history??

?Botwin,? I said instantly, and blinked, amazed at my response.

Maggie and her miniature whirring camera, trapping the world day after day, year after year, as it reeled by.

?Botwin?? said Crumley. ?Go ask. Meanwhile, Buster???

?Yeah??

?Guard your ass.?

?It?s guarded.?

I hung up and said, ?Rattigan??

?I?ve started the car,? she said. ?It?s waiting at the curb.?

36

We rioted toward the studio late in the afternoon. With three bottles of champagne stashed in her roadster, Constance swore happily at every intersection, leaning over the steering wheel like those dogs that love the wind.

?Gangway!? she cried.

We roared down the middle of Larchmont Boulevard, straddling the dividing line.

?What,? I yelled, ?are you doing?!?

?Once there were trolley tracks on each side of the street. Down the middle was a long line of power poles. Harold Lloyd drove in and out, cat-cradling the poles, like this!?

Constance swerved the car left.

?And this! and this!?

We swerved around half a dozen ghosts of long-gone poles, as if pursued by a phantom trolley car.

?Rattigan,? I said.

She saw my solemn face.

?Beachwood Avenue?? she said.

It was four in the afternoon. The last mail of the day was heading north on the avenue. I nodded to Constance. She parked just ahead of the mailman, who trudged along in the still warm sun. He greeted me like a fellow Iowa tourist, plenty cheerful considering the junk mail he unloaded at every door.

All I wanted was to check Clarence?s name and address before I knocked at his door. But the postman couldn?t stop babbling. He told how Clarence walked and ran, what he looked like around the mouth: quivering. Nervous ears that itched up and down on his skull. Eyes mostly white.

The mailman punched my elbow with the mail, laughing. ?A Christmas fruitcake, ten years stale! Comes to his bungalow door in a big wrap-around camel?s-hair coat like Adolphe Menjou wore in 1927, when we boys ran up the aisles to pee, away from the ?mush? scenes. Sure. Old Clarence. I said ?Boo!? once and he slammed the door. I bet he showers in that coat, afraid to see himself naked. Scaredy Clarence? Don?t knock too loud??

But I was gone. I turned in quickly at the Villa Vista Courts and walked up to number 1788.

I did not knock on the door. I scratched with my fingernail on the small glass panes. There were nine of them. I did not try them all. The shade was pulled down behind so I couldn?t see in. When there was no answer I tapped my forefinger, a bit louder.

I imagined I heard Clarence?s rabbit heart pounding inside, behind the glass.