feel about my taking the job?”
“Oh, I don't have any objections, long as everybody understands his position. The more good men you have working on something, the better your chances of finding what you're looking for.”
“I won't step on your toes,” I said.
“I didn't think you would,” he said mildly. “I guess I'll be the first to hear if you find out anything interesting.”
I said he would be. Then I passed along, for what it was worth, the guesswork I had done about the old woman's peacocks, and we rang off, and I went back into the Gold Rush Room and slid in opposite Kayabalian again.
“Okay,” I said.
“No problems or reservations?”
“None.”
He gave me a wan smile. “Welcome to the hunt.”
“Thanks. How long will you be here at the hotel?”
“Until tomorrow morning; I don't have any reason or inclination to drive back to San Francisco tonight.”
“Will you be leaving before ten, say?”
“I can stay as long as necessary.”
“Well, suppose I come in and see you again around ten-thirty? I should know by then how things stand with my time.”
“Good. I'll give you a retainer check then, if you like. And I'll also have a list of pertinent names and addresses, along with anything else I can think of that you might need.”
We shook hands and said a parting, and I went outside into the dying day. It was after six now, no cooler, still windless; the sky to the west had a bloody look. In front of a restaurant down the block, near where my car was parked, somebody was ringing an old-fashioned dinner bell mounted on a wooden frame, and it was a pretty clever stunt judging by the number of tourists who were heading in that direction. But the thought of food did not appeal to me at all; I still had a touch of heartburn from those noontime sandwiches, and the business with Knox had knocked the rest of my appetite into a dusty corner.
I walked down the side street to where the Rambler wagon was and looked in through one of the windows. Knox was still there and still out; he was lying on his stomach now, with his knees drawn up and one arm hooked across his eyes. His clothing was stained in half a dozen places by dark patches of sweat.
When I turned away a small brown mongrel dog drifted over to the car and sniffed at the rear tire and then lifted a leg and cut loose like a water pistol. I thought that maybe there was a certain small irony in that, but I did not feel much like pursuing it. Wearily, I started through the heat toward the hollow pealing of the dinner bell.
Eleven
When I got back to the camp, Jerrold's Caddy was slewed in at an angle between the jeep and Walt Bascomb's Ford. I went over to it and looked in through the open driver's window, but there was nothing to see except an empty pint bottle of gin lying on the seat The upholstery reeked of alcohol.
Too damned much drinking going on around here, I thought, not for the first time. It's like pouring oil on burning waters.
I walked to Harry's cabin, started to call out for him, and then heard the buzzing of an electric drill cut through the stillness from around where the shed was. Harry was inside there, working over part of an outboard engine clamped in a vise; but he shut the drill off quickly when he saw me. His expression had relief in it, the tentative kind—you think things are going to be okay but you're still not quite certain of it.
He said, “Jerrold agreed to leave; the two of them are packing out in the morning.”
“She tell you that?”
“Yeah. Jerrold came back about an hour ago, and she hit him with it right away; then she came over to tell me.”
“She say what his reaction was, exactly?”
“Just that he seemed to think going back to L.A. was a good idea. She sounded a little surprised herself. I just hope he doesn't change his goddamn mind when he sobers up.”
“You see him when he got back?”
“Just for a minute.”
“Talk to him?”
“I tried, but it didn't do much
“Oh, I don't have any objections, long as everybody understands his position. The more good men you have working on something, the better your chances of finding what you're looking for.”
“I won't step on your toes,” I said.
“I didn't think you would,” he said mildly. “I guess I'll be the first to hear if you find out anything interesting.”
I said he would be. Then I passed along, for what it was worth, the guesswork I had done about the old woman's peacocks, and we rang off, and I went back into the Gold Rush Room and slid in opposite Kayabalian again.
“Okay,” I said.
“No problems or reservations?”
“None.”
He gave me a wan smile. “Welcome to the hunt.”
“Thanks. How long will you be here at the hotel?”
“Until tomorrow morning; I don't have any reason or inclination to drive back to San Francisco tonight.”
“Will you be leaving before ten, say?”
“I can stay as long as necessary.”
“Well, suppose I come in and see you again around ten-thirty? I should know by then how things stand with my time.”
“Good. I'll give you a retainer check then, if you like. And I'll also have a list of pertinent names and addresses, along with anything else I can think of that you might need.”
We shook hands and said a parting, and I went outside into the dying day. It was after six now, no cooler, still windless; the sky to the west had a bloody look. In front of a restaurant down the block, near where my car was parked, somebody was ringing an old-fashioned dinner bell mounted on a wooden frame, and it was a pretty clever stunt judging by the number of tourists who were heading in that direction. But the thought of food did not appeal to me at all; I still had a touch of heartburn from those noontime sandwiches, and the business with Knox had knocked the rest of my appetite into a dusty corner.
I walked down the side street to where the Rambler wagon was and looked in through one of the windows. Knox was still there and still out; he was lying on his stomach now, with his knees drawn up and one arm hooked across his eyes. His clothing was stained in half a dozen places by dark patches of sweat.
When I turned away a small brown mongrel dog drifted over to the car and sniffed at the rear tire and then lifted a leg and cut loose like a water pistol. I thought that maybe there was a certain small irony in that, but I did not feel much like pursuing it. Wearily, I started through the heat toward the hollow pealing of the dinner bell.
Eleven
When I got back to the camp, Jerrold's Caddy was slewed in at an angle between the jeep and Walt Bascomb's Ford. I went over to it and looked in through the open driver's window, but there was nothing to see except an empty pint bottle of gin lying on the seat The upholstery reeked of alcohol.
Too damned much drinking going on around here, I thought, not for the first time. It's like pouring oil on burning waters.
I walked to Harry's cabin, started to call out for him, and then heard the buzzing of an electric drill cut through the stillness from around where the shed was. Harry was inside there, working over part of an outboard engine clamped in a vise; but he shut the drill off quickly when he saw me. His expression had relief in it, the tentative kind—you think things are going to be okay but you're still not quite certain of it.
He said, “Jerrold agreed to leave; the two of them are packing out in the morning.”
“She tell you that?”
“Yeah. Jerrold came back about an hour ago, and she hit him with it right away; then she came over to tell me.”
“She say what his reaction was, exactly?”
“Just that he seemed to think going back to L.A. was a good idea. She sounded a little surprised herself. I just hope he doesn't change his goddamn mind when he sobers up.”
“You see him when he got back?”
“Just for a minute.”
“Talk to him?”
“I tried, but it didn't do much
Similar Books
