Read Online The Last Good Kiss by James Crumley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Crumley
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fat girl and all those
old men . . .
"
"You remember the name of it?"
"Animal . . . something or other. Lust or Passion,
54
something like that. I can't remember, it was so
horrid," he moaned, then began to weep.
"And so exciting," I said, and he nodded. "That's all
you had to tell me?" I asked, and he nodded again.
It didn't sound right, but I didn't know what sounded
wrong. I did know that I couldn't push him anymore. I
didn't have the stomach for it. The only interrogation I
had seen in Vietnam had made me sick, but I didn't
remember if I had vomited because of the tiny Viet
Cong's pain, the Vietnamese Ranger captain's pleasure, or my own fatigue. I had been in the bush for twenty-three days, and I could sleep standing up with
my eyes open , which was good, because I couldn't sleep
lying down with them shut. A few days later, I made
the mistake that got me out of Nam and two years later
out of the Army. Those times seemed far away,
usually, but listening to Gleeson sob into the clear
sunlight, they seemed too close.
"Hey," I said, "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Oh, I understand," he blubbered, "that horrid war
twisted so many of you boys."
"I left Nam nine years ago," I said, "and I'm no boy,
so don't make excuses for me."
"Of course," he said as sincerely as he could, "of
course. " Then he took his hands away from his face and
wiped at the tears. "Will you do me one small favor?"
"What's that?"
"If you find her, will you call me? Please. I'll pay
anything you ask. Please."
"You might have thought of that ten years ago . "
''Ha," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Ten years ago I was
still in my thirties, instead of nearly fifty, and I had no
idea that I was going to be here ten more years, no idea
that the peak of my career was going to be some little
high school actress. No idea at all. I didn't know what
she meant to me then. I do now. I'd just like to see her,
talk to her again. Please. "
55
"I won't find her," I said.
"But if you do . . .
"
"I'll let you know for free," I said. "Sorry about your
wrist, and thanks for the beers."
"My pleasure," he answered, a slight smile curling
his lip, then his head dropped into his hands again.
I left him there on the sun deck, his huge head
cradled in his arms like that of a grotesque baby. As I
stepped out the front door, a young girl wearing a
halter and cut-offs took that as her cue to push her
ten-speed bike up the walk. I wanted to tell her that
Gleeson wasn't home, but her greeting and smile were
shy and polite with wonder, her slim, tanned thighs
downy with sweat.
"Hello," she said. "Isn't it a lovely day?"
"Stay me with flagons," I said, "comfort me with
apples, for I am sick of love."
"What's that?" she asked, sweetly bewildered.
"Poetry, I think. "
Instead of taking her in my arms to protect her,
instead of sending her home with a lecture, I walked
past her toward my El Camino. Youth endures all
things , kings and poetry and love. Everything but time.
56
s ••••
SINCE IT WAS GEITING ON INTO SATURDAY AFTERNOON ,
and since I didn't feel like Christian charity on the hoof,
I hoped Albert Griffith wouldn't answer his telephone.
No such luck. After I explained what I wanted, he
agreed to meet me in his office at five. He even sounded
anxious to talk to me. I drove to Petaluma and found an
anonymous motel bar and dirge of a Giants game on
the television with which to slay foul time until five.
After a couple of deadly dull innings and slow,
carefully paced beers, the bartender drifted by and I
asked him for a drink.
"Stay me with CC ditches, my friend, for I am bored
shitless by all this."
"Hey, fella, take it easy, huh," he said, then walked
away.
"That's Canadian Club and water, you turd," I
shouted at his back. "But I'll have it someplace else. "
"That's fine with me, buddy," he said.
For a tip, I left him the remains of a stale beer. When
even the bartenders lose their romantic
old men . . .
"
"You remember the name of it?"
"Animal . . . something or other. Lust or Passion,
54
something like that. I can't remember, it was so
horrid," he moaned, then began to weep.
"And so exciting," I said, and he nodded. "That's all
you had to tell me?" I asked, and he nodded again.
It didn't sound right, but I didn't know what sounded
wrong. I did know that I couldn't push him anymore. I
didn't have the stomach for it. The only interrogation I
had seen in Vietnam had made me sick, but I didn't
remember if I had vomited because of the tiny Viet
Cong's pain, the Vietnamese Ranger captain's pleasure, or my own fatigue. I had been in the bush for twenty-three days, and I could sleep standing up with
my eyes open , which was good, because I couldn't sleep
lying down with them shut. A few days later, I made
the mistake that got me out of Nam and two years later
out of the Army. Those times seemed far away,
usually, but listening to Gleeson sob into the clear
sunlight, they seemed too close.
"Hey," I said, "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Oh, I understand," he blubbered, "that horrid war
twisted so many of you boys."
"I left Nam nine years ago," I said, "and I'm no boy,
so don't make excuses for me."
"Of course," he said as sincerely as he could, "of
course. " Then he took his hands away from his face and
wiped at the tears. "Will you do me one small favor?"
"What's that?"
"If you find her, will you call me? Please. I'll pay
anything you ask. Please."
"You might have thought of that ten years ago . "
''Ha," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Ten years ago I was
still in my thirties, instead of nearly fifty, and I had no
idea that I was going to be here ten more years, no idea
that the peak of my career was going to be some little
high school actress. No idea at all. I didn't know what
she meant to me then. I do now. I'd just like to see her,
talk to her again. Please. "
55
"I won't find her," I said.
"But if you do . . .
"
"I'll let you know for free," I said. "Sorry about your
wrist, and thanks for the beers."
"My pleasure," he answered, a slight smile curling
his lip, then his head dropped into his hands again.
I left him there on the sun deck, his huge head
cradled in his arms like that of a grotesque baby. As I
stepped out the front door, a young girl wearing a
halter and cut-offs took that as her cue to push her
ten-speed bike up the walk. I wanted to tell her that
Gleeson wasn't home, but her greeting and smile were
shy and polite with wonder, her slim, tanned thighs
downy with sweat.
"Hello," she said. "Isn't it a lovely day?"
"Stay me with flagons," I said, "comfort me with
apples, for I am sick of love."
"What's that?" she asked, sweetly bewildered.
"Poetry, I think. "
Instead of taking her in my arms to protect her,
instead of sending her home with a lecture, I walked
past her toward my El Camino. Youth endures all
things , kings and poetry and love. Everything but time.
56
s ••••
SINCE IT WAS GEITING ON INTO SATURDAY AFTERNOON ,
and since I didn't feel like Christian charity on the hoof,
I hoped Albert Griffith wouldn't answer his telephone.
No such luck. After I explained what I wanted, he
agreed to meet me in his office at five. He even sounded
anxious to talk to me. I drove to Petaluma and found an
anonymous motel bar and dirge of a Giants game on
the television with which to slay foul time until five.
After a couple of deadly dull innings and slow,
carefully paced beers, the bartender drifted by and I
asked him for a drink.
"Stay me with CC ditches, my friend, for I am bored
shitless by all this."
"Hey, fella, take it easy, huh," he said, then walked
away.
"That's Canadian Club and water, you turd," I
shouted at his back. "But I'll have it someplace else. "
"That's fine with me, buddy," he said.
For a tip, I left him the remains of a stale beer. When
even the bartenders lose their romantic
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