“I don’t have the fingers to count.”
“One thing for sure, Constance wanted you to hand ’em over. Was she jealous?”
“Constance? You got road rage in the streets, she had bed rage. Wanted to grab all my lovelies, whoever in hell they were, and stomp, tear, and burn them. Go on. Finish the wine. I got things to do.”
“Like what?”
But he was rethreading the film clips in the projector, fascinated by a thousand and one nights past.
I moved along the wall and scribbled furiously, writing down the names under all of the pictures, and then said:
“If Constance comes back, will you let me know?”
“For the pictures? I’ll throw her downstairs.”
“Someone else said that. Only it was to hell instead of the second balcony. Why would you throw her?”
“There’s gotta be a reason, right? Don’t recollect! And why did you say you climbed up here? And what was it you called me?”
“Clyde Rustler.”
“Oh, yeah. Him. It just came to me. Did you know I am Constance’s father?”
“What!?”
“Constance’s father. I thought I told you before. Now you can leave. Good night.”
I went out and shut the door on whoever that was and the pictures on the wall, whoever they were.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Downstairs, I edged to the front of the theater and stared down. Then I stepped into the orchestra pit, and edged to the back wall and peered though a door into a long hall that diminished into complete night and a night inside that night, where all the old abandoned dressing rooms were.
I was tempted to call a name.
But what if she answered?
Far off down that black corridor, I thought I heard the sound of a hidden sea, or a river flowing somewhere in the dark.
I put one foot forward and pulled back.
I heard that dark ocean heave on an endless shore again.
Then I turned, and went away up through the great darkness, out of the pit into the aisles with everyone gone, rushing toward the doors leading out to an evening sky most dearly welcome.
I carried Rattigan’s incredibly small shoes over to her footprints and placed them neatly down to fit.
At which instant I felt my guardian angel touching my shoulder.
“You’re back from the dead,” said Crumley. “You can say that again,” I said, staring at the wide red doorway of Grauman’s Chinese with all those film creatures swimming in the dark.
“She’s in there,” I murmured. “I wish I knew a way to get her out.”
“Dynamite tied to a bundle of cash might do it.”
“Crumley!”
“Sorry, I forgot we were talking about Florence Nightingale.”