Read Online Umney's Last Case by Stephen King - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen King
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`Ì junked all the various drafts of the novel I'd started two months after my wife's
death,'' Landry said. `Ìt was
easy--poor crippled things that they were. And then I started a new one. I called it .
. . can you guess, Clyde?''
``Sure,'' I said, and swung around. It took all my strength, but what I suppose this
geek would call my ``motivation''
was good. Sunset Strip isn't exactly the Champs Elysees or Hyde Park, but it's my
world. I didn't want to watch him
tear it apart and rebuild it the way he wanted it. `Ì suppose you called it Umney's
Last Case.''
He looked faintly surprised. ``You suppose right.''
I waved my hand. It was an effort, but I managed. `Ì didn't win the Shamus of the
Year Award in 1934 and '35 for
nothing, you know.''
He smiled at that. ``Yes. I always did like that line.''
Suddenly I hated him--hated him like poison. If I could have summoned the strength to
lunge across the desk and choke
the life out of him, I would have done it. He saw it, too. The smile faded.
``Forget it, Clyde--you wouldn't have a chance.''
``Why don't you get out of here?'' I grated at him. ``Just get out and let a working
stiff alone?''
``Because I can't. I couldn't even if I wanted to . . . and I don't.'' He looked at me
with an odd mixture of anger and
pleading. ``Try to look at it from my point of view, Clyde--''
``Do I have any choice? Have I ever?''
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He ignored that. ``Here's a world where I'll never get any older, a year where all the
clocks are stopped at just about
eighteen months before World War II, where the newspapers always cost three cents,
where I can eat all the eggs and
red meat I want and never have to worry about my cholesterol level.''
`Ì don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about.''
He leaned forward earnestly. ``No, you don't! And that's exactly the point, Clyde!
This is a world where I can really do
the job I dreamed about doing when I was a little boy--I can be a private eye. I can
go racketing around in a fast car at
two in the morning, shoot it out with hoodlums--knowing they may die but I won't--and
wake up eight hours later
next to a beautiful chanteuse with the birds twittering in the trees and the sun
shining in my bedroom window. That
clear, beautiful California sun.''
``My bedroom window faces west,'' I said.
``Not anymore,'' he replied calmly, and I felt my hands curl into strengthless fists
on the arms of my chair. ``Do you see
how wonderful it is? How perfect? In this world, people don't go half-mad with itching
caused by a stupid, undignified
disease called shingles. In this world, people don't go gray, let alone bald.''
He looked at me levelly, and in his gaze I saw no hope for me. No hope at all.
`Ìn this world, beloved sons never die of AIDS and beloved wives never take overdoses
of sleeping pills. Besides, you
were always the outsider here, not me, no matter how it might have felt to you. This
is my world, born in my
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
imagination and maintained by my effort and ambition. I loaned it to you for awhile,
that's all . . . and now I'm taking
it back.''
``Finish telling me how you got in, will you do that much? I really want to hear.''
`Ìt was easy. I tore it apart, starting with the Demmicks, who were never much more
than a lousy imitation of Nick and
Nora Charles, and rebuilt it in my own image. I took away all the beloved supporting
characters, and now I'm removing
all the old landmarks. I'm pulling the rug out from under you a strand at a time, in
other words, and I'm not proud of it,
but I am proud of the sustained effort of will it's taken to pull it off.''
`What's happened to you back in your own world?'' I was still keeping him talking, but
now it was nothing but habit,
like an old milk-horse finding his way back to
`Ì junked all the various drafts of the novel I'd started two months after my wife's
death,'' Landry said. `Ìt was
easy--poor crippled things that they were. And then I started a new one. I called it .
. . can you guess, Clyde?''
``Sure,'' I said, and swung around. It took all my strength, but what I suppose this
geek would call my ``motivation''
was good. Sunset Strip isn't exactly the Champs Elysees or Hyde Park, but it's my
world. I didn't want to watch him
tear it apart and rebuild it the way he wanted it. `Ì suppose you called it Umney's
Last Case.''
He looked faintly surprised. ``You suppose right.''
I waved my hand. It was an effort, but I managed. `Ì didn't win the Shamus of the
Year Award in 1934 and '35 for
nothing, you know.''
He smiled at that. ``Yes. I always did like that line.''
Suddenly I hated him--hated him like poison. If I could have summoned the strength to
lunge across the desk and choke
the life out of him, I would have done it. He saw it, too. The smile faded.
``Forget it, Clyde--you wouldn't have a chance.''
``Why don't you get out of here?'' I grated at him. ``Just get out and let a working
stiff alone?''
``Because I can't. I couldn't even if I wanted to . . . and I don't.'' He looked at me
with an odd mixture of anger and
pleading. ``Try to look at it from my point of view, Clyde--''
``Do I have any choice? Have I ever?''
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
He ignored that. ``Here's a world where I'll never get any older, a year where all the
clocks are stopped at just about
eighteen months before World War II, where the newspapers always cost three cents,
where I can eat all the eggs and
red meat I want and never have to worry about my cholesterol level.''
`Ì don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about.''
He leaned forward earnestly. ``No, you don't! And that's exactly the point, Clyde!
This is a world where I can really do
the job I dreamed about doing when I was a little boy--I can be a private eye. I can
go racketing around in a fast car at
two in the morning, shoot it out with hoodlums--knowing they may die but I won't--and
wake up eight hours later
next to a beautiful chanteuse with the birds twittering in the trees and the sun
shining in my bedroom window. That
clear, beautiful California sun.''
``My bedroom window faces west,'' I said.
``Not anymore,'' he replied calmly, and I felt my hands curl into strengthless fists
on the arms of my chair. ``Do you see
how wonderful it is? How perfect? In this world, people don't go half-mad with itching
caused by a stupid, undignified
disease called shingles. In this world, people don't go gray, let alone bald.''
He looked at me levelly, and in his gaze I saw no hope for me. No hope at all.
`Ìn this world, beloved sons never die of AIDS and beloved wives never take overdoses
of sleeping pills. Besides, you
were always the outsider here, not me, no matter how it might have felt to you. This
is my world, born in my
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
imagination and maintained by my effort and ambition. I loaned it to you for awhile,
that's all . . . and now I'm taking
it back.''
``Finish telling me how you got in, will you do that much? I really want to hear.''
`Ìt was easy. I tore it apart, starting with the Demmicks, who were never much more
than a lousy imitation of Nick and
Nora Charles, and rebuilt it in my own image. I took away all the beloved supporting
characters, and now I'm removing
all the old landmarks. I'm pulling the rug out from under you a strand at a time, in
other words, and I'm not proud of it,
but I am proud of the sustained effort of will it's taken to pull it off.''
`What's happened to you back in your own world?'' I was still keeping him talking, but
now it was nothing but habit,
like an old milk-horse finding his way back to
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