Old man in lion cage. Killed. Weapon unknown.
Canaries-for-sale lady. Frightened.
Pietro Masinello. In jail.
Jimmy. Drowned in bathtub.
Sam. Dead from alcohol given him by someone.
Fannie.
With an addition made in the last few hours.
Smothered.
Other new and possible victims:
Henry, the blind man.
Annie Oakley, the rifle lady.
A. L. Shrank, the fraudulent psychiatrist.
John Wilkes Hopwood.
Constance Rattigan.
Mr. Shapeshade.
With an addition. No, cross him out.
Myself.
Crumley turned the list upside down and backward, eyeing it, rereading the names.
“That’s quite a menagerie you got there, buster. How come I’m not in your sideshow?”
“There’s something broken about all those people. You? You got your own self-starter.”
“Just since I met you, kid.” Crumley stopped and turned red. “Christ, I’m getting soft. How come you put yourself on the list?”
“I’m scared gutless.”
“Sure, but you got a self-starter, too, and it works. According to your logic, that should protect you. As for those others? They’re so busy running away fast they’ll run off cliffs.”
Crumley turned the list upside down again, refusing to meet my gaze, and read the names out loud.
I stopped him.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” he said.
“It’s time,” I said. “Hypnotize me, Crum. Elmo, in the name of the sweet Lord, put me under.”
“Jesus,” said Crumley.
“You’ve got to do it, now, tonight. You owe it to me.”