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Authors: Ross MacDonald
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driveway to the road. I let it go. I couldn’t leave George with Leonard.
They were sitting up in front of the house, exchanging dim looks of hatred across the flagstone walk. George was bleeding from the mouth. The flesh around one of his eyes was changing color. Leonard was unmarked, but I saw when he got to his feet that there was a change in him.
He had a hangdog air, a little furtive, as if I’d jarred him back into his past. He kept running his fingers over his nose and mouth.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “you’re still gorgeous.”
“Funny boy. You think it’s funny? I kill you, it wasn’t for this.” He displayed his swollen right hand.
“You offered me a sucker punch, remember. Now we’re even. Where did she go?”
“You
can go to hell.”
“What’s her address?”
“Go to hell.”
“You might as well give me her address. I got her license number. I can trace her.”
“Go right ahead.” He gave me a superior look, which probably meant that the Jaguar was his.
“What did she change her mind about? Why did she want out?”
“I can’t read minds. I dunno nothin’ about her. I service plenty of women, see? They ask me for it, I give ’em a bang sometimes. Does that mean I’m responsible?”
I reached for him. He backed away, his face sallow and pinched. “Keep your hands off of me. And drag your butt off of my property. I’m warning you, I got a loaded shotgun in the house.”
He went as far as the door, and turned to watch us. George was on his hands and knees now. I got one of his armsdraped over my shoulders and heaved him up to his feet. He walked like a man trying to balance himself on a spring mattress.
When I turned for a last look at the house, Leonard was on the doorstep, combing his hair.
chapter
9
I DROVE down the long grade to Beverly Hills, slowly, because I was feeling accident-prone. There were days when you could put your finger on the point of stress and everything fell into rational patterns around you. And there were the other days.
George bothered me. He sat hunched over with his head in his hands, groaning from time to time. He had a fine instinct, even better than mine, for pushing his face in at the wrong door and getting it bloodied. He needed a keeper: I seemed to be elected.
I took him to my own doctor, a G.P. named Wolfson who had his office on Santa Monica Boulevard. Wolfson laid him out on a padded metal table in a cubicle, went over his face and skull with thick, deft fingers, flashed a small light in his eyes, and performed other rituals.
“How did it happen?”
“He fell down and hit his head on a flagstone walk.”
“Who pushed him? You?”
“A mutual friend. We won’t go into that. Is he all right?”
“Might be a slight concussion. You ever hurt your head before?”
“Playing football, I have,” George said.
“Hurt it bad?”
“I suppose so. I’ve blacked out a couple of times.”
“I don’t like it,” Wolfson said to me. “You ought to take him to the hospital. He should spend a couple of days in bed, at least.”
“No!” George sat up, forcing the doctor backward. His eyes rolled heavily in their swollen sockets. “A couple of days is all I’ve got. I have to see her.”
Wolfson raised his eyebrows. “See who?”
“His wife. She left him.”
“So what? It happens every day. It happened to you. He’s still got to go to bed.”
George swung his legs off the table and stood up shakily. His face was the color of newly poured cement. “I refuse to go to the hospital.”
“You’re making a serious decision,” Wolfson said coldly. He was a fat doctor who loved only medicine and music.
“I can put him to bed at my house. Will that do?”
Wolfson looked at me dubiously. “Could you keep him down?”
“I think so.”
“Very well,” George stated solemnly, “I accept the compromise.”
Wolfson shrugged. “If that’s the best we can do. I’ll give him a shot to relax him, and I’ll want to see him
They were sitting up in front of the house, exchanging dim looks of hatred across the flagstone walk. George was bleeding from the mouth. The flesh around one of his eyes was changing color. Leonard was unmarked, but I saw when he got to his feet that there was a change in him.
He had a hangdog air, a little furtive, as if I’d jarred him back into his past. He kept running his fingers over his nose and mouth.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “you’re still gorgeous.”
“Funny boy. You think it’s funny? I kill you, it wasn’t for this.” He displayed his swollen right hand.
“You offered me a sucker punch, remember. Now we’re even. Where did she go?”
“You
can go to hell.”
“What’s her address?”
“Go to hell.”
“You might as well give me her address. I got her license number. I can trace her.”
“Go right ahead.” He gave me a superior look, which probably meant that the Jaguar was his.
“What did she change her mind about? Why did she want out?”
“I can’t read minds. I dunno nothin’ about her. I service plenty of women, see? They ask me for it, I give ’em a bang sometimes. Does that mean I’m responsible?”
I reached for him. He backed away, his face sallow and pinched. “Keep your hands off of me. And drag your butt off of my property. I’m warning you, I got a loaded shotgun in the house.”
He went as far as the door, and turned to watch us. George was on his hands and knees now. I got one of his armsdraped over my shoulders and heaved him up to his feet. He walked like a man trying to balance himself on a spring mattress.
When I turned for a last look at the house, Leonard was on the doorstep, combing his hair.
chapter
9
I DROVE down the long grade to Beverly Hills, slowly, because I was feeling accident-prone. There were days when you could put your finger on the point of stress and everything fell into rational patterns around you. And there were the other days.
George bothered me. He sat hunched over with his head in his hands, groaning from time to time. He had a fine instinct, even better than mine, for pushing his face in at the wrong door and getting it bloodied. He needed a keeper: I seemed to be elected.
I took him to my own doctor, a G.P. named Wolfson who had his office on Santa Monica Boulevard. Wolfson laid him out on a padded metal table in a cubicle, went over his face and skull with thick, deft fingers, flashed a small light in his eyes, and performed other rituals.
“How did it happen?”
“He fell down and hit his head on a flagstone walk.”
“Who pushed him? You?”
“A mutual friend. We won’t go into that. Is he all right?”
“Might be a slight concussion. You ever hurt your head before?”
“Playing football, I have,” George said.
“Hurt it bad?”
“I suppose so. I’ve blacked out a couple of times.”
“I don’t like it,” Wolfson said to me. “You ought to take him to the hospital. He should spend a couple of days in bed, at least.”
“No!” George sat up, forcing the doctor backward. His eyes rolled heavily in their swollen sockets. “A couple of days is all I’ve got. I have to see her.”
Wolfson raised his eyebrows. “See who?”
“His wife. She left him.”
“So what? It happens every day. It happened to you. He’s still got to go to bed.”
George swung his legs off the table and stood up shakily. His face was the color of newly poured cement. “I refuse to go to the hospital.”
“You’re making a serious decision,” Wolfson said coldly. He was a fat doctor who loved only medicine and music.
“I can put him to bed at my house. Will that do?”
Wolfson looked at me dubiously. “Could you keep him down?”
“I think so.”
“Very well,” George stated solemnly, “I accept the compromise.”
Wolfson shrugged. “If that’s the best we can do. I’ll give him a shot to relax him, and I’ll want to see him
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