A Graveyard for Lunatics (Crumley Mysteries 2)

“Where’s Clarence?” he said.

I talked fast. I raved, maundered, and described all of 1934 and 1935 and me rambling on my roller skates, pursued by a maniac cane-wielding W. C. Fields and kissed on the cheek by Jean Harlow in front of the Vendome restaurant. With the kiss, the ball bearings popped from my skates. I limped home, blind to traffic, deaf to my school chums.

“All right, all right, I get the picture!” The old man glared around the room. “You don’t look like sneaks. But Clarence lives as if a mob of photo snatchers might rape him. So—”

Crumley handed over his card. The old man blinked at it and gripped his false teeth with his gums.

“I don’t want no trouble here!” he whined.

“Don’t worry. Clarence called us, afraid. So we came.”

Crumley glanced around.

“Have Sopwith call me. Okay?”

The old man squinted at the card. “Venice police? When will they clean ’em up?”

“What?”

“The canals! Garbage. The canals!”

Crumley steered me out.

“I’ll look into it.”

“Into what?” the old man wondered.

“The canals,” said Crumley. “Garbage.”

“Oh, yeah,” said the old man.

And we were gone.

46

We stood on the sidewalk watching the apartment house as if it might suddenly roll down a runway, like a ship sliding into the sea.

Crumley didn’t look at me. “Same old lopsided relationship. You’re a wreck because you saw a body. I’m one because I didn’t. Crud. I suppose we could wait around for Clarence to come back?”

“Dead?”

“You want to file a missing-person report? What you got to go on?”

“Two things. Someone stomped Roy’s miniature animals and destroyed his clay sculpture. Someone else cleaned the mess. Someone scared or strangled Clarence to death. Someone else cleaned up. So two groups, or two individuals: The one who destroys; the one who brings the trunks, brooms, and vacuum cleaners. Right now all I can figure is the Beast came over the wall, kicked Roy’s stuff to death on his own, and ran off, leaving things to be found, cleaned away, or hid. Same thing here. The Beast climbed down off Notre Dame—”

“Climbed down?”

“I saw him face to face.”

For the first time, Crumley looked a little pale.

“You’re going to get yourself killed, god damn it. Stay off high places. For that matter, should we be standing here in broad daylight, gabbing? What if those mop-up guys come back?”

“Right.” I began to move.

“You want a lift?”

“It’s only a block to the studio.”