Death Is a Lonely Business (Crumley Mysteries 1)

“Moroccan fort by an Arabian sea.”

Shrank’s little lizard tongue made a tiny whiplash along his thirsty lips.

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nbsp; One bottle of Rattigan’s champagne, shelved behind us, leaning on De Quincey in his dope, Hardy in his gloom.

A wind rose.

I shuddered, for suddenly I sensed that ten dozen candy wrappers, all mine, were blowing along after Shrank and me, ghost rodent hungers from other days, rustling along the night pier.

And at last I had to say and could not say but finally made myself say the terrible final sad words that broke my tongue even as something burst in my chest.

“Midnight tenement. Full icebox. Tosca.”

Like a black discus hurled across the town, the first side of Tosca struck, rolled, and slid under A. L. Shrank’s midnight door.

The list had been long. I was poised on the near rim of hysteria, panic, terror, delight at my own perception, my own revulsion, my own sadness. I might dance, strike, or shriek at any moment.

But Shrank spoke first, eyes dreaming, the whispered arias of Puccini turning and turning in his head.

“The fat woman’s at peace now. She needed peace. I gave it to her.”

I hardly remember what happened next.

Somebody yelled. Me. Someone else yelled. Him.

My arms thrust up, Henry’s cane in it.

Murder, I thought. Kill.

Shrank fell back only in time as the cane chopped down. Instead of him, it struck the pier and was shocked from my grip. It fell, rattled, and was kicked by Shrank so it sailed over the edge of the pier and down into the sand.

Now I could only lunge at the little man with empty fists and lurch to a halt as he stepped aside because a final thing had broken in me.

I gagged, I wept. Days ago, the crying in the shower was only a start. Now the full flood came. My bones began to crumble. I stood weeping and Shrank, astounded, almost reached out to touch me and murmur, there, there.

“It’s all right,” he said at last. “She’s at peace. You should thank me for that.”

The moon went behind a great bank of fog and gave me time to recover. I was all slow motion now. My tongue dragged and I could hardly see.

“What you mean is,” I said, at last, underwater, “they’re all gone and I should thank you for all of them. Yes?”

It must have been a terrible relief for him, having waited all these months or years to tell someone, no matter who, no matter where, no matter how. The moon came out again. His lips trembled with the renewed light and the need for release.

“Yes. I helped them all.”

“My God,” I gasped. “Helped? Helped?”

I had to sit down. He helped me to do that and stood over me, astonished at my weakness, in charge of me and the night’s future, the man who could bless people with murder, keep them from suffering, put off their loneliness, sleep them from their private dooms, save them from life. Benefit them with sunsets.

“But you helped, too,” he said, reasonably. “You’re a writer. Curious. All I had to do was follow, collecting your candy wrappers as you went. Do you know how easy it is to follow people? They never look back. Never. You never did. Oh dear, you never knew. You were my good dog of death, for more times than you guess. Over a year. You showed me the people you were collecting for your books. All the gravel on the path, chaff in the wind, empty shells on the shore, dice with no spots, cards with no pips. No past, no present. So I gave them no future.”

I looked up at him. My strength was coming back. The sadness was just about over for now. My anger built a slow pressure.

“You admit it all, do you?”

“Why not? It’s all sour breath on the wind. If when we finish here and I actually walk you to the police station, which I will, you have no proof of what I’ve said. It’s all lost hot air.”