Read Online The Far Side of the Dollar by Ross MacDonald - Free Book Online

tamale parlors and pool halls and rummage stores and bars. The wet pavements were almost empty of people, as they always were when it rained in California.
    I parked and locked my car in front of a surplus and sporting goods store and asked the proprietor where The Barroom Floor was. He pointed west, toward the ocean:
    “I don’t think they’re open, in the daytime. There’s lots of other places open.”
    “What about Ringo’s auto yard?”
    “Three blocks south on Sanger Street, that’s the first stoplight below the railroad tracks.” I thanked him.
    “You’re welcome, I’m sure.” He was a middle-aged man with a sandy moustache, cheerfully carrying a burden of unsuccess. “I can sell you a rainproof cover for your hat.”
    “How much?”
    “Ninety-eight cents. A dollar-two with tax.”
    I bought one. He put it on my hat. “It doesn’t do much for the appearance, but—”
    “Beauty is functional.”
    He smiled and nodded. “You took the words out of my mouth. I figured you were a smart man. My name’s Botkin, by the way, Joseph Botkin.”
    “Lew Archer.” We shook hands.
    “My pleasure, Mr. Archer. If I’m not getting too personal, why would a man like you want to do your drinking at The Barroom Floor?”
    “What’s the matter with The Barroom Floor?”
    “I don’t like the way they handle their business, that’s all. It lowers the whole neighborhood. Which is low enough already, God knows.”
    “How do they handle their business?”
    “They let young kids hang out there, for one thing—I’m not saying they serve them liquor. But they shouldn’t let them in at all.”
    “What do they do for another thing?”
    “I’m talking too much.” He squinted at me shrewdly. “And you ask a lot of questions. You wouldn’t be from the Board of Equalization by any chance?”
    “No, but I probably wouldn’t tell you if I was. Is The Barroom Floor under investigation?”
    “I wouldn’t be surprised. I heard there was a complaint put in on them.”
    “From a man named Hillman?”
    “Yeah. You are from the Board of Equalization, eh? If you want to look the place over for yourself, it opens at five.”
    It was twenty past four. I wandered along the street, looking through the windows of pawnshops at the loot of wrecked lives. The Barroom Floor was closed all right. It looked as if it was never going to reopen. Over the red-checked half-curtains at the windows, I peered into the dim interior. Red-checked tables and chairs were grouped around a dime-size dance floor; and farther back in the shadows was a bandstand decorated with gaudy paper. It looked so deserted you’d have thought all the members of the band had hocked their instruments and left town years ago.
    I went back to my car and drove down Sanger Street to Ringo’s yard. It was surrounded by a high board fence on which his name was painted in six-foot white letters. I pushed in through the gate. A black German shepherd glided out of the open door of a shack and delicately grasped my right wrist between his large yellow teeth. He didn’t growl or anything. He merely held me, looking up brightly at my face.
    A wide fat man, with a medicine ball of stomach badly concealed under his plaid shirt, came to the door of the shack.
    “That’s all right, Lion.”
    The dog let go of me and went to the fat man.
    “His teeth are dirty,” I said. “You should give him bones to chew. I don’t mean wristbones.”
    “Sony. We weren’t expecting any customers. But he won’t hurt you, will you, Lion?”
    Lion Tolled his eyes and let his tongue hang out about a foot.
    “Go ahead, pet him.”
    “I’m a dog lover,” I said, “but is he a man lover?”
    “Sure. Go ahead and pet him.”
    I went ahead and petted him. Lion lay down on his back with his feet in the air, grinning up at me with his fangs.
    “What can I do you for, mister?” Ringo said.
    “I want to look at a car.”
    He waved his hand toward the yard. “I got hundreds of them.