“You?”
“Middle of the night, last night, I heard voices, thought I was dreaming. That voice, it had to be her. Maybe what she yelled at that poor damn priest, she yelled at me. Wanna hear?”
“I’m waiting.”
“Oh, yeah. She yelled, ‘How do I get back, where’s the next place, how do I get back?’”
“Get back to where?”
There was a quick spin of thought behind Quickly’s eyelids. He snorted.
“Her brother told her where to go and she went. And at last she said, ‘I’m lost, show me the way.’ Constance wants to be found. That it?”
“Yes. No. God, I don’t know.”
“Neither does she. Maybe that’s why she yelled. But my house is built of bricks. It never fell.”
“Others did.”
“Her old husband, Califia, her brother?”
“It’s a long story.”
“And you have miles to go before you sleep?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t wind up like this old mad hen that lays eggs any color you place me on. Red scarf. Red eggs. Blue rug. Blue. Purple camisole. Purple. That’s me. Notice the plaid sheet here?”
It was all white and I told him so.
“You got bad eyes.” He surveyed me. “You sure talk a lot. I’m pooped. Bye.” And he slammed his eyes shut.
“Sir,” I said.
“I’m busy,” he murmured. “What’s my name?”
“Fa
gin, Othello, Lear, O’Casey, Booth, Scrooge.”
“Oh, yeah.”
And then he snored.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I taxied out to the sea, back to my little place. I needed to think.
And then: there was a blow against my ocean-front door like a sledgehammer. Wham!
I jumped to get it before it fell in.
A flash of light blinded me from a single bright round crystal tucked in a mean eye.
“Hello, Edgar Wallace, you stupid goddamn son of a bitch, you!” a voice cried.
I fell back, aghast that he would call me Edgar Wallace, that dime-a-dance el cheapo hack!