can’t.”
“No?’ He took his cigarette out of his mouth–fresh blood was already soaking into the tip–and then looked back at
me. His smile was ghastly. “The way it looks to me, I ain’t exactly got a choice, Mr.
Umney.”
_______________________________________________________________________
III. Of Painters and Pesos.
The smell of fresh paint seared my nose, overpowering both the smell of Vernon’s smoke and Bill Tuggle’s armpits.
The men in the coveralls were currently taking up space not far from my office door.
They had put down a dropcloth,
and the tools of their trade were spread out all along it–tins and brushes and turp.
There were two step-ladders as
well, flanking the painters like scrawny bookends. What I wanted to do was to run down the hall, kicking the whole
works every whichway as I went. What right had they to paint these old dark walls that glaring, sacrilegious white?
Instead, I walked up to the one who looked as if it might take a two- digit number to express his IQ and politely asked
what he and his fellow mug thought they were doing. He glanced around at me. “Hellzit look like? I’m givin Miss
America a finger-frig and Chick there’s puttin rouge on Betty Grable’s nippy-nips.”
I’d had enough. Enough of them, enough of everything. I reached out, grabbed the quizkid under the armpit, and used
my fingertips to engage a particularly nasty nerve that hides up there. He screamed and dropped his brush. White paint
splattered his shoes. His partner gave me a timid doe-eyed look and took a step
backward.
`Ìf you try taking off before I’m done with you,” I snarled, “you’re going to find the handle of your paint-brush so far
up your ass you’ll need a boathook to find the bristles. You want to try me and see if I’m lying?’
He stopped moving and just stood there on the edge of the dropcloth, eyes darting from side to side, looking for help.
There was none to be had. I half-expected Candy to open my door and look out to see what the fracas was, but the door
stayed firmly closed. I turned my attention back to the quiz-kid I was holding onto.
“The question was simple enough, bud–what the hell are you doing here? Can you
answer it, or do I give you another
blast?’
I twiddled my fingers in his armpit just to refresh his memory and he screamed again.
“Paintin the hall! Jeezis, can’t
you see?’
I could see, all right, and even if I’d been blind, I could smell. I hated what both
of those senses were telling me. The
hallway wasn’t supposed to be painted, especially not this glaring, light- reflecting white. It was supposed to be dim
and shadowy; it was supposed to smell like dust and old memories. Whatever had started with the Demmicks’
unaccustomed silence was getting worse all the time. I was mad as hell, as this
unfortunate fellow was discovering. I
was also scared, but that was a feeling you get good at hiding when carrying a heater in a clamshell holster is part of the
way you make your living.
“Who sent you two dubs down here?”
`Òur boss,” he said, looking at me as if I were crazy. “We work for Challis Custom Painters, on Van Nuys. The boss is
Hap Corrigan. If you want to know who hired the cump’ny, you’ll have to ask h–”
`Ìt was the owner,” the other painter said quietly. “The owner of this building. A guy named Samuel Landry.”
I searched my memory, trying to put the name of Samuel Landry together with what I knew of the Fulwider Building
and couldn’t do it. In fact, I couldn’t put the name of Samuel Landry together with anything . . . yet for all that it
seemed almost to chime in my head, like a church- bell you can hear from miles away on a foggy morning.
“You’re lying,” I said, but with no real force. I said it simply because it was
something to say.
“Call the boss,” the other painter said. Appearances could be deceiving; he was apparently the brighter of the two, after
all. He reached inside his grimy, paint-smeared coverall and brought out a little card.