Death Is a Lonely Business (Crumley Mysteries 1)

“Dark?”

“Dark.”

“You’re underwater on the train, there’s so much rain and someone swaying behind you, behind you, moaning, speaking, whispering.”

“Yesssss.”

“Can you hear what he says?”

“Almost.”

“Deeper, slower, going, moving, swaying. Hear his voice?”

“Yes.”

“What’s he say?”

“He says—”

“What’s he say?”

“He—”

“Deeper, sleeping. Listen.”

His breath fanned my neck, warm with alcohol.

“What, what?”

“He says—”

The train screamed around an iron bend in my head. Sparks flew. There was a clap of thunder.

“Gah!” I shrieked. And “Gah!” and a final “Gah!”

I writhed in my chair in my panic to escape that maniac breath, the flaming alcohol beast. And something else I had forgotten. But it was back now and it blasted my face, my brow, my nose.

A smell of opened graves, abattoirs, raw meat left too long in the sun.

Eyes slammed tight, I began to retch.

“Kid! Christ, wake up, God, kid, kid!” yelled Crumley, shaking me, slapping my face, massaging my neck, now down on his knees, yanking at my head and cheeks and arms, not knowing where to grab or shake me. “Now, kid, now, for Christ’s sake, now!”

“Gah!” I shrieked and flailed a final time, and floundered straight up, staring about, falling into the grave with the terrible meat, as the train ran over me and the rain showered into the tomb, with Crumley slapping me and a great gout of sour food jetting from my mouth.

Crumley stood me outside in the garden air, made sure I was breathing right, cleaned up, then went inside to mop up and came back.

“Jesus,” he said, “it worked. We got more than we wanted, yes?

“Yes,” I said, weakly. “I heard his voice. And he said just what I thought he would say. The title I put on your book. But I heard his voice clearly, and I almost know him now. Next time I meet him, wherever it is, I’ll know. We’re close, Cram, we’re close. He won’t escape now. But now I’ll know him an even better way.”

“How?”

“He smells like a corpse. I didn’t notice that night, or if I did I was so nervous I forgot. But now it’s back. He’s dead, or next to dead. Dogs killed in the street smell like him. His shirt, his pants, his coat, are moldy and old. His flesh is worse. So—”

I wandered into the house and found myself at Crumley’s desk.

“At last, I have a new title for my own book,” I said.