You can leave me alone, understand? You’re not getting me mixed up in no murder. Any murder.”
“Did you ever hear of a man named Anthony Galton?”
“No.”
“John Brown?”
“No.”
I could see the bitter forces of her will gathering in her face. She exerted them, and got up, and walked away from me and her fear.
chapter
8
I WENT back to the telephone booths and looked up the name Chad Bolling in the Bay Area directories. I didn’t expect to find it, after more than twenty years, but I was still running in luck. Bolling had a Telegraph Hill address. I immured myself in one of the booths and called him.
A woman’s voice answered: “This is the Bolling residence.”
“Is Mr. Bolling available?”
“Available for what?” she said abruptly.
“It has to do with magazine publication of a poem. The name is Archer,” I added, trying to sound like a wealthy editor.
“I see.” She softened her tone. “I don’t know where Chad is at the moment. And I’m afraid he won’t be home for dinner. I do know he’ll be at The Listening Ear later this evening.”
“The Listening Ear?”
“It’s a new night club. Chad’s giving a reading there tonight. If you’re interested in poetry, you owe it to yourself to catch it.”
“What time does he go on?”
“I think ten.”
I rented a car and drove it up Bayshore to the city, where I parked it under Union Square. Above the lighted towers of the hotels, twilight had thickened into darkness. A damp chill had risen from the sea; I could feel it through my clothes. Even the colored lights around the square had a chilly look.
I bought a pint of whisky to ward off the chill and checked in at the Salisbury, a small side-street hotel where I usually stayed in San Francisco. The desk clerk was new to me. Desk clerks are always moving up or down. This one was old and on his way down; his sallow face drooped in the pull of gravity. He handed me my key reluctantly:
“No luggage, sir?”
I showed him my bottle in its paper bag. He didn’t smile.
“My car was stolen.”
“That’s too bad.” His eyes were sharp and incredulous behind fussy little pince-nez. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to pay in advance.”
“All right.” I gave him the five dollars and asked for a receipt.
The bellhop who took me up in the old open ironwork elevatorhad been taking me up in the same elevator for nearly twenty years. We shook hands. His was crumpled by arthritis.
“How are you, Coney?”
“Fine, Mr. Archer, fine. I’m taking a new pill, phenyl-buta-something. It’s doing wonders for me.”
He stepped out and did a little soft-shoe step to prove it. He’d once been half of a brother act that played the Orpheum circuit. He danced me down the corridor to the door of my room.
“What brings you up to the City?” he said when we were inside. To San Franciscans, there’s only one city.
“I flew up for a little entertainment.”
“I thought Hollywood was the world’s center of entertainment.”
“I’m looking for something different,” I said. “Have you heard of a new club called The Listening Ear?”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t like it.” He shook his white head. “I hope you didn’t come all the way up here for
that.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“It’s a culture cave. One of these bistros where guys read poems to music. It ain’t your speed at all.”
“My taste is becoming more elevated.”
His grin showed all his remaining teeth. “Don’t kid an old man, eh?”
“Ever hear of Chad Bolling?”
“Sure. He promotes a lot of publicity for himself.” Coney looked at me anxiously. “You really going in for the poetry kick, Mr. Archer? With music?”
“I have long yearned for the finer things.”
Such as a good French dinner at a price I could pay. I took a taxi to the Ritz Poodle Dog, and had a good French dinner. When I finished eating, it was nearly ten o’clock.
The Listening Ear was full of dark blue light and
“Did you ever hear of a man named Anthony Galton?”
“No.”
“John Brown?”
“No.”
I could see the bitter forces of her will gathering in her face. She exerted them, and got up, and walked away from me and her fear.
chapter
8
I WENT back to the telephone booths and looked up the name Chad Bolling in the Bay Area directories. I didn’t expect to find it, after more than twenty years, but I was still running in luck. Bolling had a Telegraph Hill address. I immured myself in one of the booths and called him.
A woman’s voice answered: “This is the Bolling residence.”
“Is Mr. Bolling available?”
“Available for what?” she said abruptly.
“It has to do with magazine publication of a poem. The name is Archer,” I added, trying to sound like a wealthy editor.
“I see.” She softened her tone. “I don’t know where Chad is at the moment. And I’m afraid he won’t be home for dinner. I do know he’ll be at The Listening Ear later this evening.”
“The Listening Ear?”
“It’s a new night club. Chad’s giving a reading there tonight. If you’re interested in poetry, you owe it to yourself to catch it.”
“What time does he go on?”
“I think ten.”
I rented a car and drove it up Bayshore to the city, where I parked it under Union Square. Above the lighted towers of the hotels, twilight had thickened into darkness. A damp chill had risen from the sea; I could feel it through my clothes. Even the colored lights around the square had a chilly look.
I bought a pint of whisky to ward off the chill and checked in at the Salisbury, a small side-street hotel where I usually stayed in San Francisco. The desk clerk was new to me. Desk clerks are always moving up or down. This one was old and on his way down; his sallow face drooped in the pull of gravity. He handed me my key reluctantly:
“No luggage, sir?”
I showed him my bottle in its paper bag. He didn’t smile.
“My car was stolen.”
“That’s too bad.” His eyes were sharp and incredulous behind fussy little pince-nez. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to pay in advance.”
“All right.” I gave him the five dollars and asked for a receipt.
The bellhop who took me up in the old open ironwork elevatorhad been taking me up in the same elevator for nearly twenty years. We shook hands. His was crumpled by arthritis.
“How are you, Coney?”
“Fine, Mr. Archer, fine. I’m taking a new pill, phenyl-buta-something. It’s doing wonders for me.”
He stepped out and did a little soft-shoe step to prove it. He’d once been half of a brother act that played the Orpheum circuit. He danced me down the corridor to the door of my room.
“What brings you up to the City?” he said when we were inside. To San Franciscans, there’s only one city.
“I flew up for a little entertainment.”
“I thought Hollywood was the world’s center of entertainment.”
“I’m looking for something different,” I said. “Have you heard of a new club called The Listening Ear?”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t like it.” He shook his white head. “I hope you didn’t come all the way up here for
that.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“It’s a culture cave. One of these bistros where guys read poems to music. It ain’t your speed at all.”
“My taste is becoming more elevated.”
His grin showed all his remaining teeth. “Don’t kid an old man, eh?”
“Ever hear of Chad Bolling?”
“Sure. He promotes a lot of publicity for himself.” Coney looked at me anxiously. “You really going in for the poetry kick, Mr. Archer? With music?”
“I have long yearned for the finer things.”
Such as a good French dinner at a price I could pay. I took a taxi to the Ritz Poodle Dog, and had a good French dinner. When I finished eating, it was nearly ten o’clock.
The Listening Ear was full of dark blue light and
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