at them with his chilly hazel eyes and demanded to know what the fuck they were talking about. If he’d had a drink or two and was feeling expansive, he might even have tried to explain how you can’t get old until you’ve got it made. Until then, you just can’t afford old age. This was Drew Made's faith, his dogma, his creed. It kept him young.
They called the bus to Los Angeles just as Meade finished his last gumdrop. He rose and headed for the bus, a six-foot-two, wide-shouldered man with a shambling gait of deceptive quickness. Because he was also a totally suspicious creature, Meade turned his lined, big-jawed face up toward the destination sign on the front of the bus to make sure it really was going to Los Angeles. Satisfied, he used his 223-pound frame to shoulder a smaller, younger man out of the way and entered the bus, heading toward the rear and, if possible, a seat all to himself.
Meade now had $19.47 in his pocket, which meant he couldn’t afford to feel any older than thirty-three. He was on his way to Los Angeles to seek his fortune, a quest that had taken him almost around the world. When he pulled this deal off, he could afford to feel older—asmuch as forty-five or so. But until then, thirty-three. Maybe thirty-four tops.
He took a slip of paper from his pocket and studied the address again. It was in Beverly Hills on the wrong side of Wilshire—down in the flats where the original planners had intended the servants and tradesmen to live. Beverly Hills, he thought. Queen of the candy-ass towns.
CHAPTER 11
Morgan Citron waited until a little after 5:00 P . M . before placing his call to Singapore, where he estimated the time to be around 8:00 in the morning. The call went through with surprising ease, and less than five minutes after he picked up the phone, Citron was listening to the ripe Cambridge tones of Lionel Lo of the Singapore CID.
“Morgan! It's been years. I read in one of our local rags how you’d been eaten by cannibals or something equally bizarre. Didn’t believe it for a second, of course.”
“How’ve you been, Lionel?”
“Mustn’t grumble, can’t complain. What’re you working on?— something naughty, I trust.”
“I’m just fooling around with a piece that may or may not pan out.”
Lo giggled. It was the only incongruous thing Citron had ever noticed about the man. It was a high-pitched giggle that sometimes turned into a titter.
“I think,” Lo said, “no, in fact, I’m almost positive that was exactly what you said to me—when? ten years ago?—after they kicked you out of Saigon and you wound up here on my doorstep with all of those oh-so-innocent questions. What a lot of bother the answers turned out to be.”
“You got promoted, Lionel.”
“How kind of you to remind me.”
“I need to ask you about someone.”
“Ask away.”
“What, if anything, can you tell me about a guy called Drew Meade?”
There was only silence. Citron could picture Lo sitting at his well-ordered metal desk with the tape running; the phone clamped to one neat ear, the left; the thick black hair precisely parted—two inches long on the right, three on the left; two pens and one pencil in the pocket of the short-sleeved white shirt that was starched and ironed just so: the dark tie; the carefully pressed, very dark gray slacks; the oval face with its wide nose, thin, dubious lips, and those black eyes that seemed to snap at you. Forty-five now at least, Citron estimated, and maybe even a touch of gray in the hair, but probably not. And that mind, that slippery remarkable mind that made even the quick and the clever feel dull. That mind was working now, Citron knew, because there was only silence. Citron was about to say something when he heard Lo sigh.
“You Americans.”
“Think of me as French, if it’ll help any.”
“I don’t like the French either.” Lo sighed again. “What long ears you have, Grand-pere” “Tell me about it.”
“Where are you
They called the bus to Los Angeles just as Meade finished his last gumdrop. He rose and headed for the bus, a six-foot-two, wide-shouldered man with a shambling gait of deceptive quickness. Because he was also a totally suspicious creature, Meade turned his lined, big-jawed face up toward the destination sign on the front of the bus to make sure it really was going to Los Angeles. Satisfied, he used his 223-pound frame to shoulder a smaller, younger man out of the way and entered the bus, heading toward the rear and, if possible, a seat all to himself.
Meade now had $19.47 in his pocket, which meant he couldn’t afford to feel any older than thirty-three. He was on his way to Los Angeles to seek his fortune, a quest that had taken him almost around the world. When he pulled this deal off, he could afford to feel older—asmuch as forty-five or so. But until then, thirty-three. Maybe thirty-four tops.
He took a slip of paper from his pocket and studied the address again. It was in Beverly Hills on the wrong side of Wilshire—down in the flats where the original planners had intended the servants and tradesmen to live. Beverly Hills, he thought. Queen of the candy-ass towns.
CHAPTER 11
Morgan Citron waited until a little after 5:00 P . M . before placing his call to Singapore, where he estimated the time to be around 8:00 in the morning. The call went through with surprising ease, and less than five minutes after he picked up the phone, Citron was listening to the ripe Cambridge tones of Lionel Lo of the Singapore CID.
“Morgan! It's been years. I read in one of our local rags how you’d been eaten by cannibals or something equally bizarre. Didn’t believe it for a second, of course.”
“How’ve you been, Lionel?”
“Mustn’t grumble, can’t complain. What’re you working on?— something naughty, I trust.”
“I’m just fooling around with a piece that may or may not pan out.”
Lo giggled. It was the only incongruous thing Citron had ever noticed about the man. It was a high-pitched giggle that sometimes turned into a titter.
“I think,” Lo said, “no, in fact, I’m almost positive that was exactly what you said to me—when? ten years ago?—after they kicked you out of Saigon and you wound up here on my doorstep with all of those oh-so-innocent questions. What a lot of bother the answers turned out to be.”
“You got promoted, Lionel.”
“How kind of you to remind me.”
“I need to ask you about someone.”
“Ask away.”
“What, if anything, can you tell me about a guy called Drew Meade?”
There was only silence. Citron could picture Lo sitting at his well-ordered metal desk with the tape running; the phone clamped to one neat ear, the left; the thick black hair precisely parted—two inches long on the right, three on the left; two pens and one pencil in the pocket of the short-sleeved white shirt that was starched and ironed just so: the dark tie; the carefully pressed, very dark gray slacks; the oval face with its wide nose, thin, dubious lips, and those black eyes that seemed to snap at you. Forty-five now at least, Citron estimated, and maybe even a touch of gray in the hair, but probably not. And that mind, that slippery remarkable mind that made even the quick and the clever feel dull. That mind was working now, Citron knew, because there was only silence. Citron was about to say something when he heard Lo sigh.
“You Americans.”
“Think of me as French, if it’ll help any.”
“I don’t like the French either.” Lo sighed again. “What long ears you have, Grand-pere” “Tell me about it.”
“Where are you
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