Death Is a Lonely Business (Crumley Mysteries 1)

“Huh?”

“An old seventy-eight rpm record when I was a kid. ‘No News or What Killed the Dog.’ Dog ate burned horseflakes from the burned-down barn. How did the barn burn down? Sparks from the house blew over and burned down the barn. Sparks from the house? From inside the house, the candles around the coffin. Candles around the coffin? Someone’s uncle died. On and on. It all ends with the dog in the barn eating the burned horseflakes and dying. Or, ‘No News or What Killed the Dog.’ Your stories are getting to me, Henry. Sorry.”

“Sorry is right. Jimmy, now. You know how he sleeps from floor to floor nights, and once a week he just up and strips down and takes a bath in the third-floor tub? Or the first-floor washroom? Sure! Well last night he got in the full tub, drunk, turned over, and drowned.”

“Drowned!”

“Drowned. Ain’t that silly. Ain’t that a terrible thing to put on your obit-tombstone, save he won’t have a tombstone. Potter’s field. Found in a bathtub of dirty water. Turned over, so drunk he slept himself into the grave. And him with new false teeth just this week. And the teeth gone, how you figure that, when they found him in the tub! Drowned.”

“Oh my Christ,” I said, stifling a laugh and a sob in one.

“Yes, name Christ, God help us all.” Henry’s voice trembled. “Now, you see what I don’t want you to tell Fannie? We’ll let her know, one at a time, spread it out over weeks. Retro Massinello in jail, his dogs lost forever, his cats driven away, his geese cooked. Sam in the hospital. Jimmy drowned. And me? Looky this handkerchief, all wet from my eyes, balled in my fist. I don’t feel so good.”

“Nobody’s feeling very good, right now.”

“Now.” Henry put his hand out, unerringly toward my voice and took hold of my shoulder gently. “Go on up, and be cheerful. With Fannie.”

I tapped on Fannie’s door.

“Thank God,” I heard her cry.

A steamboat came upriver, flung wide the door, and churned back downstream over the linoleum.

When Fannie had crashed into her chair she looked into my face and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Oh.” I turned to blink at the doorknob in my hand. “Do you leave your door unlocked all the time?”

“Why not? Who would want to come in and storm the Bastille?” But she did not laugh. She was watchful. Like Henry, she had a powerful nose. And I was perspiring.

I shut the door and sank into a chair.

“Who died?” said Fannie.

“What do you mean, who died?” I stammered.

“You look like you just came back from a Chinese funeral and were hungry all over again.” She tried to smile and blinky-blink her eyes.

“Oh.” I thought quickly. “Henry just scared me in the hall, is all. You know Henry. You come along a hall and can’t see him for the night.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” said Fannie. “Where have you been? I am exhausted, waiting for you to come visit. Are you ever tired, just worn out, with waiting? I’ve waited, dear young man, fearful for you. Have you been sad?”

“Very sad, Fannie.”

“There. I knew it. It was that dreadful old man in the lion cage, wasn’t it? How dare he make you sad?”

“He couldn’t help it, Fannie.” I sighed. “I imagine he would much rather have been down at the Pacific Electric ticket office counting the punch-confetti on his vest.”

“Well, Fannie will cheer you up. Would you put the needle on the record there, my dear? Yes, that’s it. Mozart to dance and sing to. We must invite Pietro Massinello up, mustn’t we, some day soon. The Magic Flute is just his cup of tea, and let him bring his pets.”

“Yes, Fannie,” I said.

I put the needle on a record which hissed with promise.

“Poor boy,” said Fannie. “You do look sad.”

There was a faint scratching on the door.

“That’s Henry,” said Fannie. “He never knocks.”