harbor. The black scene was barely relieved by a few white gulls with dirty feet.
It was too early, and the front door of Blanche’s place was locked. There were violent noises somewhere in the back which sounded to my recently sensitized ears like somebody beating somebody else to death.
It turned out to be a man in the kitchen pounding abalonewith a wooden mallet. I asked him through the screen door if Blanche was there.
“Blanche never comes in this time in the a.m. She’s generally here by ten.”
“Where does she live?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Don’t ask me. She likes to keep it a secret. She doesn’t give out her telephone number, either. Is it important?”
I didn’t know. It had looked from where I sat the night before as if the younger man accompanying the man in the tweed suit had asked Blanche a question, and she had pointed south along the beach. Possibly she could tell me where they had intended to go.
I thanked the man and turned back toward land. Two cars had stopped in the restaurant parking lot, and several men got out. They wore business suits and hard hats, and they looked like engineers, or like publicity men trying to look like engineers.
One of them was Captain Somerville. His face was closed and harried. I lifted my hand to him, but he didn’t notice me, let alone recognize me. The Captain and his entourage headed past the restaurant to the landing area, where a truck was unloading heavy drums.
On the way to Santa Monica, I listened to the morning news and learned that Lennox Oil was bringing in a wild-well team from Houston and preparing a major attempt to stop the spill. I switched off the radio and enjoyed the silence, broken only by the sounds of my own and other cars.
Traffic was still fairly light, and the day was clear enough to see the mountains rising in the east like the boundaries of an undiscovered country. I lapsed for a while into my freeway daydream: I was mobile and unencumbered, young enough to go where I had never been and clever enough to do new things when I got there.
The fantasy snapped in my face when I got to Santa Monica. It was just another part of the megalopolis which stretchedfrom San Diego to Ventura, and I was a citizen of the endless city.
I found Joseph Sperling’s tailor shop in a side street off Lincoln Boulevard. I remembered it as a pleasant street of shops, but the flow of time and traffic had eroded it. A real-estate office next to the tailor shop was standing empty, with photographs of unsold houses gathering dust in the window.
The door of Joseph Sperling’s shop was locked. A cardboard clock with a movable hand hung inside the window and indicated that he would be in at eight. It was a few minutes before eight. I locked my car and went to a drive-in around the corner for breakfast. With the second cup of coffee, I finally warmed up and stopped shivering.
When I went back to the tailor shop, Joseph Sperling was there. He was a small gentle-looking man with curly gray hair and bright eyes behind rimless spectacles. He looked at me as if he was estimating my measurements and planning a suit.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Do you know Ralph P. Mungan?”
His eyes widened as if to register trouble, and narrowed down again in defense against it. “I used to know him quite well. Is Ralph in some kind of a jam?”
“The worst kind.”
He leaned on a table, supporting himself on a bolt of fabric. “What does that mean, the worst kind?”
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, very sorry.”
“Were you close to him, Mr. Sperling?”
He was shocked into reminiscence. “We haven’t been close in a long time—not really what you could call close. But I knew Ralph in Fresno, where we grew up. I was a few years older than Ralph and Martha, and I came down here to the big city first. By the time they made the move, I owned the building next door as well as this one, and I rented it to them.” He looked a little afraid
It was too early, and the front door of Blanche’s place was locked. There were violent noises somewhere in the back which sounded to my recently sensitized ears like somebody beating somebody else to death.
It turned out to be a man in the kitchen pounding abalonewith a wooden mallet. I asked him through the screen door if Blanche was there.
“Blanche never comes in this time in the a.m. She’s generally here by ten.”
“Where does she live?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Don’t ask me. She likes to keep it a secret. She doesn’t give out her telephone number, either. Is it important?”
I didn’t know. It had looked from where I sat the night before as if the younger man accompanying the man in the tweed suit had asked Blanche a question, and she had pointed south along the beach. Possibly she could tell me where they had intended to go.
I thanked the man and turned back toward land. Two cars had stopped in the restaurant parking lot, and several men got out. They wore business suits and hard hats, and they looked like engineers, or like publicity men trying to look like engineers.
One of them was Captain Somerville. His face was closed and harried. I lifted my hand to him, but he didn’t notice me, let alone recognize me. The Captain and his entourage headed past the restaurant to the landing area, where a truck was unloading heavy drums.
On the way to Santa Monica, I listened to the morning news and learned that Lennox Oil was bringing in a wild-well team from Houston and preparing a major attempt to stop the spill. I switched off the radio and enjoyed the silence, broken only by the sounds of my own and other cars.
Traffic was still fairly light, and the day was clear enough to see the mountains rising in the east like the boundaries of an undiscovered country. I lapsed for a while into my freeway daydream: I was mobile and unencumbered, young enough to go where I had never been and clever enough to do new things when I got there.
The fantasy snapped in my face when I got to Santa Monica. It was just another part of the megalopolis which stretchedfrom San Diego to Ventura, and I was a citizen of the endless city.
I found Joseph Sperling’s tailor shop in a side street off Lincoln Boulevard. I remembered it as a pleasant street of shops, but the flow of time and traffic had eroded it. A real-estate office next to the tailor shop was standing empty, with photographs of unsold houses gathering dust in the window.
The door of Joseph Sperling’s shop was locked. A cardboard clock with a movable hand hung inside the window and indicated that he would be in at eight. It was a few minutes before eight. I locked my car and went to a drive-in around the corner for breakfast. With the second cup of coffee, I finally warmed up and stopped shivering.
When I went back to the tailor shop, Joseph Sperling was there. He was a small gentle-looking man with curly gray hair and bright eyes behind rimless spectacles. He looked at me as if he was estimating my measurements and planning a suit.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Do you know Ralph P. Mungan?”
His eyes widened as if to register trouble, and narrowed down again in defense against it. “I used to know him quite well. Is Ralph in some kind of a jam?”
“The worst kind.”
He leaned on a table, supporting himself on a bolt of fabric. “What does that mean, the worst kind?”
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, very sorry.”
“Were you close to him, Mr. Sperling?”
He was shocked into reminiscence. “We haven’t been close in a long time—not really what you could call close. But I knew Ralph in Fresno, where we grew up. I was a few years older than Ralph and Martha, and I came down here to the big city first. By the time they made the move, I owned the building next door as well as this one, and I rented it to them.” He looked a little afraid
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