Auto Court. The sea was a hollow presence with a voice. I hiked down the access road to the court, not using the flashlight that I carried with me.
The office was lighted and had a neon “Vacancy” sign above the door. Avoiding the spill of light from it, I went straight to cottage number seven. It was dark. I knocked, and got no answer. I let myself in with the key I had and closed the self-locking door behind me.
Mrs. Brown was waiting. I stumbled over her foot and almost fell on top of her before I switched on my flashlight. She lay in her winking sequined gown under the jittery beam. Blood was tangled like tar in her bright hair. Her face was mottled with bruises, and misshappen. She looked as though she had been beaten to death.
I touched her hand. She was cold. I turned the light away from her lopsided grin.
The beam jumped around the green walls, the newspaper-littered floor. It found a large strapped canvas suitcase standing at the foot of the bed with two paper bags beside it. One of the bags contained a bottle of cheap wine, the other sandwiches that were drying out.
I unstrapped the suitcase and opened it. An odor rose from its contents like sour regret. Men’s and women’s things were bundled indiscriminately together, dirty shirts and soiled slips, a rusting safety razor and a dabbled jar of cold cream and a bottle of mascara, a couple of dresses and some lingerie, a man’s wornblue suit with a chain-store label and nothing in the pockets but tobacco powder and, tucked far down in the outer breast pocket, a creased yellow business card poorly printed on cheap paper:
H AROLD “H AR ” H ARLEY
Application Photos Our Specialty
I found the woman’s imitation snakeskin purse on a chair by the side window. It contained a jumble of cosmetics and some frayed blue chip stamps. No wallet, no identification, no money except for a single silver dollar in the bottom of the bag. There were also a pack of cards, slick with the oil of human hands, and a dice which came up six all three times I rolled it.
I heard a car approaching, and headlights swept the window on the far side. I switched off my flashlight. The wheels of the car crunched in the gravel and came to a halt directly in front of the cottage. Someone got out of the car and turned the cottage doorknob. When the door refused to open, a man’s voice said:
“Let me in.”
It was the slightly wheezing, whining voice I’d heard that afternoon on Hillman’s phone. I moved toward the door with the dark flashlight raised in my hand. The man outside rattled the knob.
“I know you’re in there, I saw the light. This is no time to carry a grudge, hon.”
The woman lay in her deep waiting silence. I stepped around her and stood against the wall beside the door. I shifted the flash to my left hand and fumbled for the spring lock with my right.
“I hear you, damn you. You want another taste of what you had today?” He waited, and then said: “If you won’t open the door, I’ll shoot the lock out.”
I heard the click of a hammer. I stayed where I was beside the door, holding the flashlight like a club. But he didn’t fire.
“On the other hand,” he said, “there’s nothing in there I need, including you. You can stay here on your can if you want to. Make up your mind right now.”
He waited. He couldn’t outwait her.
“This is your last chance. I’ll count to three. If you don’t open up, I’m traveling alone.” He counted, one, two, three, but it would take bigger magic to reach her. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he said.
His footsteps moved away on the stones. The car door creaked. I couldn’t let him go.
I snapped back the lock and opened the door and rushed him. His shadowy hatted figure was halfway into his car, with one foot on the ground. He whirled. The gun was still in his hand. It gave out a hot little flame. I could feel it sear me.
I staggered across the gravel and got hold of his twisting body. He hammered my
The office was lighted and had a neon “Vacancy” sign above the door. Avoiding the spill of light from it, I went straight to cottage number seven. It was dark. I knocked, and got no answer. I let myself in with the key I had and closed the self-locking door behind me.
Mrs. Brown was waiting. I stumbled over her foot and almost fell on top of her before I switched on my flashlight. She lay in her winking sequined gown under the jittery beam. Blood was tangled like tar in her bright hair. Her face was mottled with bruises, and misshappen. She looked as though she had been beaten to death.
I touched her hand. She was cold. I turned the light away from her lopsided grin.
The beam jumped around the green walls, the newspaper-littered floor. It found a large strapped canvas suitcase standing at the foot of the bed with two paper bags beside it. One of the bags contained a bottle of cheap wine, the other sandwiches that were drying out.
I unstrapped the suitcase and opened it. An odor rose from its contents like sour regret. Men’s and women’s things were bundled indiscriminately together, dirty shirts and soiled slips, a rusting safety razor and a dabbled jar of cold cream and a bottle of mascara, a couple of dresses and some lingerie, a man’s wornblue suit with a chain-store label and nothing in the pockets but tobacco powder and, tucked far down in the outer breast pocket, a creased yellow business card poorly printed on cheap paper:
H AROLD “H AR ” H ARLEY
Application Photos Our Specialty
I found the woman’s imitation snakeskin purse on a chair by the side window. It contained a jumble of cosmetics and some frayed blue chip stamps. No wallet, no identification, no money except for a single silver dollar in the bottom of the bag. There were also a pack of cards, slick with the oil of human hands, and a dice which came up six all three times I rolled it.
I heard a car approaching, and headlights swept the window on the far side. I switched off my flashlight. The wheels of the car crunched in the gravel and came to a halt directly in front of the cottage. Someone got out of the car and turned the cottage doorknob. When the door refused to open, a man’s voice said:
“Let me in.”
It was the slightly wheezing, whining voice I’d heard that afternoon on Hillman’s phone. I moved toward the door with the dark flashlight raised in my hand. The man outside rattled the knob.
“I know you’re in there, I saw the light. This is no time to carry a grudge, hon.”
The woman lay in her deep waiting silence. I stepped around her and stood against the wall beside the door. I shifted the flash to my left hand and fumbled for the spring lock with my right.
“I hear you, damn you. You want another taste of what you had today?” He waited, and then said: “If you won’t open the door, I’ll shoot the lock out.”
I heard the click of a hammer. I stayed where I was beside the door, holding the flashlight like a club. But he didn’t fire.
“On the other hand,” he said, “there’s nothing in there I need, including you. You can stay here on your can if you want to. Make up your mind right now.”
He waited. He couldn’t outwait her.
“This is your last chance. I’ll count to three. If you don’t open up, I’m traveling alone.” He counted, one, two, three, but it would take bigger magic to reach her. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he said.
His footsteps moved away on the stones. The car door creaked. I couldn’t let him go.
I snapped back the lock and opened the door and rushed him. His shadowy hatted figure was halfway into his car, with one foot on the ground. He whirled. The gun was still in his hand. It gave out a hot little flame. I could feel it sear me.
I staggered across the gravel and got hold of his twisting body. He hammered my
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