Death Is a Lonely Business (Crumley Mysteries 1)

I plowed off with him running after in utter confusion, almost tugging at my elbows for attention. “Right, right. I almost killed you a year ago. But then you made those sales to magazines and then you met that woman and I decided to just follow you and collect people, yes, that was it. And it really began that night on the Venice train, in the storm, and me drunk. You were so close to me that night on the train, I could have reached out and touched. And the rain came down and if you had just turned, but you didn’t, you would have seen me and known me, but you didn’t and—”

We were off th

e pier and in the dark street by the canal now and moving swiftly over the bridge. The boulevard was empty. I saw no cars, no lights. I rushed.

In the middle of the bridge over the canal, by the lion cages, Shrank stopped and caught hold of the railing.

“Why don’t you understand me, help me!” he wailed. “I wanted to kill you, I did! But it would have been like killing Hope, and there has to be some of that in the world, doesn’t there, even for people like me?”

I stared at him. “Not after tonight.”

“Why?” he gasped, “why?” looking at the cold oily water.

“Because you’re utterly and completely insane,” I said.

“I’ll kill you now.”

“No,” I said, with immense sadness. “There’s only one person left to kill. One last Lonely. The empty one. You.”

“Me?” shrieked the little man.

“You.”

“Me?” he screamed. “Damn, damn, damn you!”

He spun. He grabbed the rails. He leaped.

His body went down in darkness.

He sank in waters as oiled and scummy as his coat, as terrible and dark as his soul, to be covered and lost.

“Shrank!” I yelled.

He did not rise.

Come back, I wanted to yell.

But then, suddenly, I was afraid he would.

“Shrank,” I whispered. “Shrank.” I bent over the bridge rail, staring at the green scum and the gaseous tide. “I know you’re there.”

It just couldn’t be over. It was too simple. He was somewhere out of the light, brooding like a dark toad, under the bridge, maybe, eyes up, waiting, face green, sucking air, very quietly. I listened. Not a drip. Not a ripple. Not a sign.

“Shrank,” I whispered.

Shrank, echoed the timbers under the bridge.

Off along the shore, the great oil beasts lifted their heads up at my summons, sank them down again, in time to a long sighing roll of water on the coast.

Don’t wait, I thought I heard Shrank murmuring. It’s nice down here. Quiet at last. I think I’ll stay.

Liar, I thought. You’ll come up when I least expect it.

The bridge creaked. I whirled.

Nothing. Nothing but fog sifting across the empty boulevard.

Run, I thought. Run telephone. Call Crumley. Why isn’t he here? Run. But no. If I did. Shrank might go free.