Death Is a Lonely Business (Crumley Mysteries 1)

“Henry?”

I stepped through, and the small apartment was neat, incredibly neat and clean and filed, everything in place, everything fresh—but empty.

“Henry?”

His cane lay in the middle of the floor, and by it a dark string, a black twine with knots in it.

It all looked scattered and impromptu, as if Henry had lost these in a fight, or left behind when he ran …

Where?

“Henry?”

I handled the twine, and looked at the knots. In a line, two knots, a space, three knots, a long space, then a series of three, six, four, and nine knots.

“Henry!” Louder.

I ran to knock on Mrs. Gutierrez’s door.

When she opened it and saw me, she welled over. Tears dropped from her eyes as she saw my face. She put her tortilla-scented hand out to touch my cheeks. “Aw, poor, poor. Come in, oh, poor, sit down. Sit. You wanta eat? I bring something. Sit, no, no, sit. Coffee, yes?” She brought me coffee and wiped her eyes. “Poor Fannie. Poor man. What?”

I unfolded the newspaper and held it out for her to see.

“No read inglés,” she said, backing off.

“Don’t have to read,” I said. “Did Fannie ever come up to phone and bring this paper with her?”

“No, no!” Her face changed color with memory. “Estúpido! Sí. She came. But I don’t know who she call.”

“Did she talk a long while, a long time?”

“Long time?’ She had to translate my words for a few seconds, then she nodded vigorously. “Sí. Long. Long she laugh. Oh, how she laugh and talk, talk and laugh.”

While she was inviting Mr. Night and Time and Eternity to come over, I thought.

“And she had this paper with her?”

Mrs. Gutierrez turned the paper over like it was a Chinese puzzle. “Maybe sí, maybe no. This one, some other. I dunno. Fannie is with God.”

I turned, weighing 380 pounds, and leaned toward the door, the folded newspaper in my hands.

“I wish I were,” I said. “Please, may I use your phone?”

On a hunch I did not dial the Green Envy number. Instead, counting the knots, I dialed the numbers of blind Henry’s twine.

“Janus Publications,” said a nasal voice. “Green Envy. Hold.”

The phone was dropped to the floor. I heard heavy feet shuffling through wintry mounds of crumpled paper.

“It fits!” I yelled, and scared Mrs. Gutierrez, who jumped back. “The number fits.” I yelled at the Green Envy paper in my hand. For some reason Henry had knotted the Janus publications number onto his remembrance twine.

“Hello, hello!” I shouted.

Far off in the Green Envy office I could hear some maniac shrieking because he was trapped and electrocuted by a bin of wildly berserk guitars. A rhinoceros and two hippos were dancing a fandango in the latrine to rebut the music. Someone typed during the cataclysm. Someone else was playing a harmonica to a different drummer.

I waited four minutes, then jammed the phone down and stormed out of Mrs. Gutierrez’s, raving.

“Mister,” said Mrs. Gutierrez, “why you so upset?”