mechanical and preaimed, he went behind the bar and opened a drawer and took out a heavy revolver.
“What goes on?” I asked him.
He gave no answer, but I didn’t like the look of inert cold anger on his face. I followed him out to the front of the house, letting him know I was there. A rather wild-eyed young man with soot on his forehead was waiting at the front door.
Kilpatrick showed him the gun. “Get out of here. I don’t have to put up with this kind of nonsense.”
“You call it nonsense, do you?” the young man said. “I lost my house and my furniture. My family’s clothes. Everything. And I’m holding you responsible, Mr. Kilpatrick.”
“How am I responsible?”
“I talked to a fireman after my house burned down—too bad he wasn’t there when it burned, but he wasn’t—and he said that canyon should never have been built in, with thehigh fire hazard. You never even mentioned that when you sold it to me.”
“It’s a risk we all run,” Kilpatrick said. “I could be burned out tonight or tomorrow myself.”
“I hope you are. I hope your house burns down.”
“Is that what you came here to tell me?”
“Not exactly.” The young man sounded a little ashamed. “But I’ve got no place to spend the night.”
“You’re not going to spend it here.”
“No. I realize that.”
He ran out of words. With a parting look at the gun in Kilpatrick’s hand, he walked quickly to a station wagon which was parked beside my taxicab. A number of children peered out through the back windows of the wagon, like prisoners wondering where they might be taken next. A woman sat in the front seat, looking straight ahead.
I said to Kilpatrick: “I’m glad you didn’t shoot him.”
“I had no intention of shooting him. But you should have heard the names he was calling me. I don’t have to take—”
I cut in: “What area did he live in?”
“Canyon Estates. I’m the developer.”
“Did the canyon go?”
“Not all of it. But several houses burned, including his.” Kilpatrick jerked his angry head toward the departing station wagon. “He isn’t the only one who took a beating. I’m still paying interest on some of those houses, and I’ll never be able to move them now.”
“Do you know what happened to Elizabeth Broadhurst’s house?”
“The last I heard it was still standing. Those old Spanish-type structures were built to resist fire.”
The dark-haired woman came up behind Kilpatrick. She had put on a light coat over her bikini and she looked quite sober, but sick.
“For heaven’s sake,” she said to him, “put that gun away. It scares the living hell out of me when you wave that gun around.”
“I’m not waving it around.” But he shoved it down out of sight in his pocket.
The three of us stepped out onto the asphalt pad. The cabdriver was watching us like an observer from Mars.
Kilpatrick wet his finger in his mouth and held it up. A cool wind was blowing up the canyon.
“That’s sea air,” he said. “If it keeps blowing from that direction we’re going to be A-O.K.”
I hoped he was right. But the eastern edges of the sky were still burning like curtains.
chapter
13
It cost me fifty dollars, paid in advance, to be driven to Northridge, where I’d left my car in Stanley Broadhurst’s garage. The driver wanted to talk, but I shut him off and caught an hour’s sleep.
I woke up with a pounding head when we left the Ventura Freeway. I told the driver to stop at a public pay phone. He found one and gave me change for a dollar. I dialed Lester Crandall’s number.
A woman’s voice which sounded as if it was being kept under strict control said: “This is the Crandall residence.”
“Is Mr. Crandall home?”
“I’m afraid he isn’t. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Where is he?”
“On the Strip.”
“Looking for Susan?”
Her voice became more personal. “Yes, he is. Are you a friend of Lester’s?”
“No. But I’ve seen your
“What goes on?” I asked him.
He gave no answer, but I didn’t like the look of inert cold anger on his face. I followed him out to the front of the house, letting him know I was there. A rather wild-eyed young man with soot on his forehead was waiting at the front door.
Kilpatrick showed him the gun. “Get out of here. I don’t have to put up with this kind of nonsense.”
“You call it nonsense, do you?” the young man said. “I lost my house and my furniture. My family’s clothes. Everything. And I’m holding you responsible, Mr. Kilpatrick.”
“How am I responsible?”
“I talked to a fireman after my house burned down—too bad he wasn’t there when it burned, but he wasn’t—and he said that canyon should never have been built in, with thehigh fire hazard. You never even mentioned that when you sold it to me.”
“It’s a risk we all run,” Kilpatrick said. “I could be burned out tonight or tomorrow myself.”
“I hope you are. I hope your house burns down.”
“Is that what you came here to tell me?”
“Not exactly.” The young man sounded a little ashamed. “But I’ve got no place to spend the night.”
“You’re not going to spend it here.”
“No. I realize that.”
He ran out of words. With a parting look at the gun in Kilpatrick’s hand, he walked quickly to a station wagon which was parked beside my taxicab. A number of children peered out through the back windows of the wagon, like prisoners wondering where they might be taken next. A woman sat in the front seat, looking straight ahead.
I said to Kilpatrick: “I’m glad you didn’t shoot him.”
“I had no intention of shooting him. But you should have heard the names he was calling me. I don’t have to take—”
I cut in: “What area did he live in?”
“Canyon Estates. I’m the developer.”
“Did the canyon go?”
“Not all of it. But several houses burned, including his.” Kilpatrick jerked his angry head toward the departing station wagon. “He isn’t the only one who took a beating. I’m still paying interest on some of those houses, and I’ll never be able to move them now.”
“Do you know what happened to Elizabeth Broadhurst’s house?”
“The last I heard it was still standing. Those old Spanish-type structures were built to resist fire.”
The dark-haired woman came up behind Kilpatrick. She had put on a light coat over her bikini and she looked quite sober, but sick.
“For heaven’s sake,” she said to him, “put that gun away. It scares the living hell out of me when you wave that gun around.”
“I’m not waving it around.” But he shoved it down out of sight in his pocket.
The three of us stepped out onto the asphalt pad. The cabdriver was watching us like an observer from Mars.
Kilpatrick wet his finger in his mouth and held it up. A cool wind was blowing up the canyon.
“That’s sea air,” he said. “If it keeps blowing from that direction we’re going to be A-O.K.”
I hoped he was right. But the eastern edges of the sky were still burning like curtains.
chapter
13
It cost me fifty dollars, paid in advance, to be driven to Northridge, where I’d left my car in Stanley Broadhurst’s garage. The driver wanted to talk, but I shut him off and caught an hour’s sleep.
I woke up with a pounding head when we left the Ventura Freeway. I told the driver to stop at a public pay phone. He found one and gave me change for a dollar. I dialed Lester Crandall’s number.
A woman’s voice which sounded as if it was being kept under strict control said: “This is the Crandall residence.”
“Is Mr. Crandall home?”
“I’m afraid he isn’t. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“Where is he?”
“On the Strip.”
“Looking for Susan?”
Her voice became more personal. “Yes, he is. Are you a friend of Lester’s?”
“No. But I’ve seen your
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