Bye." And he slammed his eyes shut. "Sir," I said.
"I'm busy," he murmured. "What's my name?" "Fagin, 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 oceanfront 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!
"Hello, Fritz," I yelled, "you stupid goddamn son of a bitch, you! Come in!"
"I am!"
As if wearing heavy military boots, Fritz Wong clubbed the carpet. His heels cracked as he seized his monocle to hold it in the air and focus on me. "You're getting old!" he cried with relish.
"You already are!" I cried.
"Insults?"
"You get what you give!"
"Voice down, please."
"You first!" I yelled. "You hear what you called me?"
"Is Mickey Spillane better?"
"Out!"
"John Steinbeck?"
"Okay! Lower your voice."
"Is this okay?" he whispered.
"I can still hear you."
Fritz Wong barked a great laugh.
"That's my good bastard son."
"That's my two-timing illegitimate pa!"
We embraced with arms of steel in paroxysms of laughter.
Fritz Wong wiped his eyes. "Now that we've done the formalities," he rumbled. "How are you.?"
"Alive. You?"
"Barely. Why the delay in delivering provender?"
I brought out Crumley's beer.
"Pig swill," said Fritz. "No wine? But..." He drank deep and grimaced. "Now." He sat down heavily in my only chair. "How can I help?"
"What makes you think I need help?"
"You always will! Wait! I can't stand this." He stomped out into the rain and lunged back with a bottle of Le Gorton, which, silently, he opened with a fancy bright silver corkscrew that he pulled from his pocket.
I brought out two old but clean jelly jars. Fritz eyed them with scorn as he poured.
"1949!" he said. "A great year. I expect loud exclamations!"
I drank.
"Don't chugalug!" Fritz shouted. "For Christ's sake, inhale! Breathe!"
I inhaled. I swirled the wine. "Pretty good."
"Jesus Christ! Good?"
"Let me think."
"Goddammit. Don't think! Drink with your nose! Exhale through your ears!"
He showed me how, eyes shut.
I did the same. "Excellent."
"Now sit down and shut up."
"This is my place, Fritz."
"Not now it isn't."
I sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, and he stood over me like Caesar astride an ant farm.
"Now," he said, "spill the beans."
I lined them up and spilled them.
When I finished, Fritz refilled my jelly glass reluctantly.
"You don't deserve this," he muttered, "but yours was a fair performance drinking the vintage. Shut up. Sip."
"If anyone can solve Rattigan," he said, sipping, "it's me. Or should I say, I? Quiet."
He opened the front door on the lovely endless rain. "You like this?"
" Love it."
"Sap!" Fritz screwed his monocle in for a long glance up-shore.
"Rattigan's place up there, eh? Not home for seven days? Maybe dead? Empress of the killing ground, yes, but she will never be caught dead. One day she will simply disappear and no one will know what happened. Now, shall I spill my beans?"
He poured the last of the Le Gorton, hating the jelly glass, loving the wine.
He was at liberty, he said, unemployed. No films for two years. Too old, they said.
"I'm the youngest acrobat in any bed on three continents!" he protested. "Now I have got my hands on Bernard Shaw's play Saint Joan. But how do you cast that incredible play? So, meanwhile I have a Jules Verne novel in the public domain, free and clear, with a dumb-cluck fly-by-night producer who says nothing and steals much, so I need a second-rate science-fiction writer—you—to work for scale on this half-ass masterwork. Say yes."
Before I could speak . . .
There was a huge deluge of rain and a crack of fire and
"I'm busy," he murmured. "What's my name?" "Fagin, 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 oceanfront 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!
"Hello, Fritz," I yelled, "you stupid goddamn son of a bitch, you! Come in!"
"I am!"
As if wearing heavy military boots, Fritz Wong clubbed the carpet. His heels cracked as he seized his monocle to hold it in the air and focus on me. "You're getting old!" he cried with relish.
"You already are!" I cried.
"Insults?"
"You get what you give!"
"Voice down, please."
"You first!" I yelled. "You hear what you called me?"
"Is Mickey Spillane better?"
"Out!"
"John Steinbeck?"
"Okay! Lower your voice."
"Is this okay?" he whispered.
"I can still hear you."
Fritz Wong barked a great laugh.
"That's my good bastard son."
"That's my two-timing illegitimate pa!"
We embraced with arms of steel in paroxysms of laughter.
Fritz Wong wiped his eyes. "Now that we've done the formalities," he rumbled. "How are you.?"
"Alive. You?"
"Barely. Why the delay in delivering provender?"
I brought out Crumley's beer.
"Pig swill," said Fritz. "No wine? But..." He drank deep and grimaced. "Now." He sat down heavily in my only chair. "How can I help?"
"What makes you think I need help?"
"You always will! Wait! I can't stand this." He stomped out into the rain and lunged back with a bottle of Le Gorton, which, silently, he opened with a fancy bright silver corkscrew that he pulled from his pocket.
I brought out two old but clean jelly jars. Fritz eyed them with scorn as he poured.
"1949!" he said. "A great year. I expect loud exclamations!"
I drank.
"Don't chugalug!" Fritz shouted. "For Christ's sake, inhale! Breathe!"
I inhaled. I swirled the wine. "Pretty good."
"Jesus Christ! Good?"
"Let me think."
"Goddammit. Don't think! Drink with your nose! Exhale through your ears!"
He showed me how, eyes shut.
I did the same. "Excellent."
"Now sit down and shut up."
"This is my place, Fritz."
"Not now it isn't."
I sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, and he stood over me like Caesar astride an ant farm.
"Now," he said, "spill the beans."
I lined them up and spilled them.
When I finished, Fritz refilled my jelly glass reluctantly.
"You don't deserve this," he muttered, "but yours was a fair performance drinking the vintage. Shut up. Sip."
"If anyone can solve Rattigan," he said, sipping, "it's me. Or should I say, I? Quiet."
He opened the front door on the lovely endless rain. "You like this?"
" Love it."
"Sap!" Fritz screwed his monocle in for a long glance up-shore.
"Rattigan's place up there, eh? Not home for seven days? Maybe dead? Empress of the killing ground, yes, but she will never be caught dead. One day she will simply disappear and no one will know what happened. Now, shall I spill my beans?"
He poured the last of the Le Gorton, hating the jelly glass, loving the wine.
He was at liberty, he said, unemployed. No films for two years. Too old, they said.
"I'm the youngest acrobat in any bed on three continents!" he protested. "Now I have got my hands on Bernard Shaw's play Saint Joan. But how do you cast that incredible play? So, meanwhile I have a Jules Verne novel in the public domain, free and clear, with a dumb-cluck fly-by-night producer who says nothing and steals much, so I need a second-rate science-fiction writer—you—to work for scale on this half-ass masterwork. Say yes."
Before I could speak . . .
There was a huge deluge of rain and a crack of fire and
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