‘Bull,’ I said, but I whispered the word.
‘See the picture on the wall to the left of the door, Clyde?’
I glanced at it, but hardly had to; it was Washington crossing the Delaware, and it had been there since . . . well, since Hector was a pup.
Landry had taken his plastic Buck Rogers steno machine back onto his lap, and was bending over it.
‘Don’t do that!’ I shouted, and tried to reach for him. I couldn’t do it. My arms had no strength, it seemed, and I could summon no resolve. I felt lethargic, drained, as if I had lost about three pints of blood and was losing more all the time.
He rattled the keys again. Turned the machine toward me so I could read the words in the window. They read: On the wall to the left of the door leading out to Candy-Land, Our Revered Leader hangs . . . but always slightly askew. That’s my way of keeping him in perspective.
I looked back at the picture. George Washington was gone, replaced by a photo of Franklin Roosevelt. F.D.R. had a grin on his face and his cigarette holder jutting upward at that angle his supporters think of as jaunty and his detractors as arrogant. The picture was hanging slightly askew.
‘I don’t need the laptop to do it,’ he said. He sounded a little embarrassed, as if I’d accused him of something. ‘I can do it just by concentrating — as you saw when the numbers disappeared from your blotter — but the laptop helps. Because I’m used to writing things down, I suppose.
And then editing them. In a way, editing and rewriting are the most fascinating parts of the job, because that’s where the final changes — usually small but often crucial — take place and the picture really comes into focus.’
I looked back at Landry, and when I spoke, my voice was dead. ‘You made me up, didn’t you?’
He nodded, looking strangely ashamed, as if what he had done was something dirty.
‘When?’ I uttered a strange, croaky little laugh. ‘Or is that the right question?’
‘I don’t know if it is or isn’t,’ he said, ‘and I imagine any writer would tell you about the same.
It didn’t happen all at once — that much I’m sure of. It’s been an ongoing process. You first showed up in Scarlet Town, but I wrote that back in 1977 and you’ve changed a lot since then.’
1977, I thought. A Buck Rogers year for sure. I didn’t want to believe this was happening, wanted to believe it was all a dream. Oddly enough, it was the smell of his cologne that kept me from being able to do that — that familiar smell I’d never smelled in my life. How could I have?
It was Aramis, a brand as unfamiliar to me as Toshiba.
But he was going on.
‘You’ve grown a lot more complex and interesting. You were pretty one-dimensional to start with.’ He cleared his throat and smiled down at his hands for a moment. ‘What a pisser for me.’
He winced a little at the anger in my voice, but made himself look up again, just the same.
‘Your last book was How Like a Fallen Angel. I started that one in 1990, but it took until 1993 to finish. I’ve had some problems in the interim. My life has been . . . interesting.’ He gave the word an ugly, bitter twist. ‘Writers don’t do their best work during interesting times, Clyde. Take my word for it.’
I glanced at the baggy way his hobo clothes hung on him and decided he might have a point there. ‘Maybe that’s why you screwed up in such a big way on this one,’ I said. ‘That stuff about the lottery and the forty thousand dollars was pure guff — they pay off in pesos south of the border.’
‘I knew that,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m not saying I don’t goof up from time to time — I may be a kind of God in this world, or to this world, but in my own I’m perfectly human — but when I do goof up, you and your fellow characters never know it, Clyde, because my mistakes and continuity lapses are part of your truth. No, Peoria was lying. I knew it, and I wanted you to know it.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged, again looking uneasy and a little ashamed. ‘To prepare you for my coming a little, I suppose. That’s what all of it was for, starting with the Demmicks. I didn’t want to scare you any more than I had to.’
Any private eye worth his salt has a pretty good idea when the person in the client’s chair is lying and when he’s telling the truth; knowing when the client is telling the truth but purposely leaving gaps is a rarer talent, and I doubt if even the geniuses among us can tap it all the time.
Maybe I was only tapping it now because my brainwaves and Landry’s were marching in lock-step, but I was tapping it. There was stuff he wasn’t telling me. The question was whether or not I should call him on it.
What stopped me was a sudden, horrible intuition that came waltzing out of nowhere, like a ghost oozing out of the wall of a haunted house. It had to do with the Demmicks. The reason they’d been so quiet last night was because dead people don’t engage in marital spats — it’s one
of those rules, like the one that says crap rolls downhill, that you can pretty much count on through thick and thin. >From almost the first moment I’d met him, I’d sensed there was a violent temper under George’s urbane top layer, and that there might be a sharp-clawed bitch lurking in the shadows behind Gloria Demmick’s pretty face and daffy demeanor. They were just a little too Cole Porter to be true, if you see what I mean. And now I was somehow sure that George had finally snapped and killed his wife . . . probably their yappy Welsh Corgi, as well. Gloria might be sitting propped up in the bathroom corner between the shower and the toilet right now, her face black, her eyes bulging like old dull marbles, her tongue protruding between her blue lips.
The dog was lying with its head in her lap and a wire coathanger twisted around its neck, its shrill bark stilled forever. And George? Dead on the bed with Gloria’s bottle of Veronals — now empty — standing beside him on the night-table. No more parties, no more jitterbugging at Al Arif, no more frothy upper-class murder cases in Palm Desert or Beverly Glen. They were cooling off now, drawing flies, growing pale under their fashionable poolside tans.
George and Gloria Demmick, who had died inside this man’s machine. Who had died inside this man’s head.
‘You did one lousy job of not scaring me,’ I said, and immediately wondered if it would have been possible for him to do a good one. Ask yourself this: how do you get a person ready to meet God? I’ll bet even Moses got a little hot under the robe when he saw that bush start to glow, and I’m nothing but a shamus who works for forty a day plus expenses.
‘ How Like a Fallen Angel was the Mavis Weld story. The name, Mavis Weld, is from a novel called The Little Sister By Raymond Chandler.’ He looked at me with a kind of troubled uncertainty that had some small whiff of guilt in it. ‘It’s an hommage.’ He said the first syllable so it rhymed with Rome.
‘Bully for you,’ I said, ‘but the guy’s name rings no bells.’
‘Of course not. In your world — which is my version of L.A., of course — Chandler never existed. Nevertheless, I’ve used all sorts of names from his books in mine. The Fulwider Building is where Chandler’s detective, Philip Marlowe, had his office. Vernon Klein . . . Peoria Smith . . . and Clyde Umney, of course. That was the name of the lawyer in Playback.’
‘And you call those things hommages?’
‘That’s right.’
‘If you say so, but it sounds like a fancy word for plain old copying to me.’ But it made me feel funny, knowing that my name had been made up by a man I’d never heard of in a world I’d never dreamed of.
Landry had the good grace to flush, but his eyes didn’t drop.
‘All right; perhaps I did do a little pilfering. Certainly I adopted Chandler’s style for my own, but I’m hardly the first; Ross Macdonald did the same thing in the fifties and sixties, Robert Parker did it in the seventies and eighties, and the critics decked them with laurel leaves for it.
Besides, Chandler learned from Hammett and Hemingway, not to mention pulp-writers like — ‘