once tied to the wheel of a Packard automobile that had been parked on the tracks of a busy freight line; I have even
been tossed out a third-story window. It’s been an eventful life, all right, but
nothing in it had ever scared me the way
the smell of that cologne and that soft footstep scared me.
My head seemed to weigh at least six hundred pounds.
“Clyde,” a voice said. A voice I’d never heard before, a voice I nevertheless knew as well as my own. Just that one
word and the weight of my head went up to an even ton.
“Get outta here, whoever you are,” I said without looking up. “Joint’s closed.”
And something made me add, “For
renovations.”
“Bad day, Clyde?’
Was there sympathy in that voice? I thought maybe there was, and somehow that made things worse. Whoever this mug
was, I didn’t want his sympathy. Something told me that his sympathy would be more dangerous than his hate.
“Not so bad,” I said, supporting my heavy, aching head with the palms of my hands
and looking down at my
desk-blotter for all I was worth. Written in the upper lefthand corner was Mavis
Weld’s number. I sent my eyes tracing
over it again and again–BEverley 6-4214. Keeping my eyes on the blotter seemed like a good idea. I didn’t know who
my visitor was, but I knew I didn’t want to see him. Right then it was the only thing I did know.
`Ì think maybe you’re being a little . . . disingenuous, shall we say?” the voice asked, and it was sympathy, all right; the
sound of it made my stomach curl up into something that felt like a quivering fist soaked with acid. There was a creak
as he dropped into the client’s chair.
`Ì don’t exactly know what that word means, but by all means, let’s say it,” I
agreed. `Ànd now that we have, why
don’t you rise up righteous, Moggins, and shift on out of here. I’m thinking of taking a sick day. I can do that without
much argument, you see, because I’m the boss. Neat, the way things work out sometimes, isn’t it?’
`Ì suppose so. Look at me, Clyde.”
My heart stuttered but my head stayed down and my eyes kept tracing over BEverley 6-4214. Part of me wondered if
hell was hot enough for Mavis Weld. When I spoke, my voice came out steady. I was surprised but grateful. `Ìn fact, I
might take a whole year of sick days. In Carmel, maybe. Sit out on the deck with the American Mercury in my lap and
watch the big ones come in from Hawaii.”
“Look at me.”
I didn’t want to, but my head came up just the same. He was sitting in the client’s chair where Mavis had once sat, and
Ardis McGill, and Big Tom Hatfield. Even Vernon Klein had sat there once, when he got those pictures of his daughter
wearing nothing but an opium grin and her birthday suit. Sitting there with the same patch of California sun slanting
across his features–features I most certainly had seen before. The last time had been less than an hour ago, in my
bathroom mirror. I’d been scraping a Gillette Blue Blade over them.
The expression of sympathy in his eyes–in my eyes–was the most hideous thing I’d ever seen, and when he held out
his hand–held outmy hand–I felt a sudden urge to wheel around in my swivel chair, get to my feet, and go running
straight out my seventh-floor office window. I think I might even have done it, if I hadn’t been so confused, so totally
lost. I’ve read the word unmanned plenty of times–it’s a favorite of the pulp-smiths and sob-sisters–but this was the
first time I’d ever actually felt that way.
Suddenly the office darkened. The day had been perfectly clear, I would have sworn to
that, but a cloud had crossed the
sun just the same. The man on the other side of the desk was at least ten years older than I was, maybe fifteen, his hair
almost completely white while mine was still almost all black, but that didn’t change the simple fact–no matter what