A Graveyard for Lunatics (Crumley Mysteries 2)

“He ain’t called in yet,” snapped Ma.

“Called in?” I glanced up.

“He calls on that phone across the street about this time, to see has so-and-so arrived, come out, stuff like that,” said Charlotte. “Saves time. He sleeps late, cause he’s usually out front restaurants midnights.”

“I know.” I finished the last signature, glowing with an inadmissible elation. I still could not look at my new admirers, who smiled at me as if I had just leaped Galilee in one stride.

Across the street the glass-booth phone rang.

“That’s Clarence now!” said Ma.

“Excuse me—” Charlotte started off.

“Please,” I touched her elbow. “It’s been years. Surprise?” I looked from Charlotte to her Ma and back. “Yes? ”

“Oh, all right,” grumped Ma.

“Go ahead,” said Charlotte.

The phone rang. I ran to lift the receiver.

“Clarence?” I said.

“Who’s this!? ” he cried, instantly suspicious.

I tried to explain in some detail, but wound up with the old metaphor, “the Crazy.”

That buttered no bread for Clarence. “Where’s Charlotte or Ma? I’m sick.”

Sick, I wondered, or, like Roy, suddenly afraid.

“Clarence,” I said, “where do you live?”

“Why?!”

“Give me your phone number, at least—”

“No one has that! My place would be robbed! My photos. My treasures!”

“Clarence,” I pleaded, “I was at the Brown Derby last night.” Silence.

“Clarence?” I called. “I need your help to identify someone.”

I swear I could hear his little rabbity heart race down line. I could hear his tiny albino eyes jerk in their sockets.

“Clarence,” I said, “please! Take my name and phone numbers.” I gave them. “Call or write the studio. I saw that man almost hit you last night. Why? Who … ?”

Click. Hum.

Clarence, wherever he was, was gone.

I moved across the street like a sleepwalker.

“Clarence won’t be here.”

“What d’ya mean?” accused Charlotte. “He’s always here!”

“What’d you say to him!?” Charlotte’s Ma showed me her left, her evil, eye.