crazy shit.”
“Don’t like it at all,” he agreed, clapping me on the back. He reached into his vest pocket and came out with a little notebook, which he flipped open to the first page and read:
“Time is running out. One clock. One painting. Last chance. ‘Look where he ate the sardine.’”
He closed the notebook, returned it to his vest pocket and buttoned it.
“Now,” he said. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Beyond the window a Mirador crowd was gathering. A crowd in Mirador was somewhere between two and six people. This crowd included two girls around ten, the kid from the gas station where I had used the phone book, and a vacant-looking fat man in overalls whose palms and nose were pressed to the window the way they had been pressed against the antique shop window when I had driven down Main Street about an hour ago. Another car pulled up at the curb. The crowd turned and a man about seventy got out of a black Ford coupe. He came to the door of the sheriffs office, opened it and saw Rangley.
“Two doors over, Doc,” said Rangley, pointing past me. “Melvin’s in there.”
Doc was wearing a wrinkled long-sleeved blue shirt and suspenders, no tie. He was carrying one of those black doctor bags. Doc looked at me.
“Don’t hit him again, Beau,” the doctor said and left the office, closing the door behind him.
“Doc’s a humanitarian,” Rangley confided. “But Doc doesn’t have to talk to many living people during business hours. Easy to be a humanitarian when you don’t have to meet humanity.”
“Trooper,” I said. “You’re a philosopher.”
“And you’re one hell of a fool if you think what the doc said and those village half-wits out there watching are going to stop me from ripping what’s left of your nose off if you smart off.”
The punch was low, short, and hard. It caught me about where my kidney must be.
“I didn’t kill him,” I said, trying to keep the pain from my voice.
I knew the next question and my next answer. I considered throwing an elbow into Trooper Beau Rangley’s throat. It might work, but what then? A run for L.A. in my Crosley? I tightened my muscles, those that would still pay attention, and waited.
“Who you working for, Peters?”
I looked at the retarded man with his face against the window. He grinned at me. It was a nice friendly grin. He pulled his left hand from the window. It left a bloody handprint.
“I can’t tell you that without the client’s permission,” I said, forcing myself to look at Rangley and not at the window.
The outer door to the sheriff’s office came open before Rangley could throw the punch, and his brother came in with Sheriff Nelson.
“Doc wants to see you, Beau,” Mel Rangley said.
Beau smiled and stood up. He straightened the creases in his brown uniform and gently slapped my cheek. He got blood on his palm.
“We’ll talk again in a few minutes,” he said, moving to the cell door and opening it.
I kept my mouth shut until Beau and Mel were out the door. The crowd, except for the retarded man, followed them in the direction of the Old California Antique Shop.
“You see,” said Nelson, pointing his hat at me.
I wasn’t sure what it was I was supposed to see, but I doubted Nelson planned to explain and I knew I didn’t care. He sat in his chair and swiveled so that his back was to me again. He looked up at the retarded man and shouted, “Martin Sawyer, you are, as you have been for the past thirty-five years, looking through the wrong window.”
Nelson pointed to his right; the retarded man watched with curiosity and no understanding.
“Nelson,” I said. “I didn’t do it.”
Nelson swung around and looked at me.
“Well,” he said with a deep sigh. “I am relieved. Why did you not make that clear to me when I first found you, gun in hand? I think I’ll just let you out and apologize.”
“I want a lawyer,” I said.
“You will have to take that up
“Don’t like it at all,” he agreed, clapping me on the back. He reached into his vest pocket and came out with a little notebook, which he flipped open to the first page and read:
“Time is running out. One clock. One painting. Last chance. ‘Look where he ate the sardine.’”
He closed the notebook, returned it to his vest pocket and buttoned it.
“Now,” he said. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Beyond the window a Mirador crowd was gathering. A crowd in Mirador was somewhere between two and six people. This crowd included two girls around ten, the kid from the gas station where I had used the phone book, and a vacant-looking fat man in overalls whose palms and nose were pressed to the window the way they had been pressed against the antique shop window when I had driven down Main Street about an hour ago. Another car pulled up at the curb. The crowd turned and a man about seventy got out of a black Ford coupe. He came to the door of the sheriffs office, opened it and saw Rangley.
“Two doors over, Doc,” said Rangley, pointing past me. “Melvin’s in there.”
Doc was wearing a wrinkled long-sleeved blue shirt and suspenders, no tie. He was carrying one of those black doctor bags. Doc looked at me.
“Don’t hit him again, Beau,” the doctor said and left the office, closing the door behind him.
“Doc’s a humanitarian,” Rangley confided. “But Doc doesn’t have to talk to many living people during business hours. Easy to be a humanitarian when you don’t have to meet humanity.”
“Trooper,” I said. “You’re a philosopher.”
“And you’re one hell of a fool if you think what the doc said and those village half-wits out there watching are going to stop me from ripping what’s left of your nose off if you smart off.”
The punch was low, short, and hard. It caught me about where my kidney must be.
“I didn’t kill him,” I said, trying to keep the pain from my voice.
I knew the next question and my next answer. I considered throwing an elbow into Trooper Beau Rangley’s throat. It might work, but what then? A run for L.A. in my Crosley? I tightened my muscles, those that would still pay attention, and waited.
“Who you working for, Peters?”
I looked at the retarded man with his face against the window. He grinned at me. It was a nice friendly grin. He pulled his left hand from the window. It left a bloody handprint.
“I can’t tell you that without the client’s permission,” I said, forcing myself to look at Rangley and not at the window.
The outer door to the sheriff’s office came open before Rangley could throw the punch, and his brother came in with Sheriff Nelson.
“Doc wants to see you, Beau,” Mel Rangley said.
Beau smiled and stood up. He straightened the creases in his brown uniform and gently slapped my cheek. He got blood on his palm.
“We’ll talk again in a few minutes,” he said, moving to the cell door and opening it.
I kept my mouth shut until Beau and Mel were out the door. The crowd, except for the retarded man, followed them in the direction of the Old California Antique Shop.
“You see,” said Nelson, pointing his hat at me.
I wasn’t sure what it was I was supposed to see, but I doubted Nelson planned to explain and I knew I didn’t care. He sat in his chair and swiveled so that his back was to me again. He looked up at the retarded man and shouted, “Martin Sawyer, you are, as you have been for the past thirty-five years, looking through the wrong window.”
Nelson pointed to his right; the retarded man watched with curiosity and no understanding.
“Nelson,” I said. “I didn’t do it.”
Nelson swung around and looked at me.
“Well,” he said with a deep sigh. “I am relieved. Why did you not make that clear to me when I first found you, gun in hand? I think I’ll just let you out and apologize.”
“I want a lawyer,” I said.
“You will have to take that up
Similar Books
