I parked near the Santa Monica pier and jogged south along the promenade, a stretch of asphalt walk that parallels the beach. I trotted past the old men bent over their chess games, past thin black boys roller-skating with incredible grace, boogeying to the secret music of their padded headphones, past guitar players, dopers, and loiterers whose eyes followed me with scorn. This stretch of pavement is the last remnant of the sixties’ drug culture — the barefoot, sag-eyed, and scruffy young, some looking thirty-seven now instead of seventeen, still mystical and remote. A dog took up company with me, running along beside me, his tongue hanging out, eyes rolling up at me now and then happily. His coat was thick and bristly, the color of caramel corn, and his tail curled up like a party favor. He was one of those mutant breeds with a large head, short body, and little bitty short legs, but he seemed quite selfpossessed. Together, we trotted beyond the promenade, past Ozone, Dudley, Paloma, Sunset, Thornton, and Park; by the time we reached Wave Crest, he’d lost interest, veering off to participate in a game of Frisbee out on the beach. The last I saw of him, he had made an incredible leap, catching a Frisbee midflight, mouth turned up in a grin. I smiled back. He was one of the few dogs I’d met in years that I really liked.
At Venice Boulevard I turned back, running most of the way and then slowing to a walk as I reached the pier again. The ocean breeze served as a damper to my body heat. I found myself winded but not sweating much. My mouth felt dry and my cheeks were aflame. It hadn’t been a long run but I’d pushed myself a little harder than I normally did and my lungs were burning: liquid combustion in my chest. I run for the same reasons I learned to drive a car with a stick shift and drink my coffee black, imagining that a day might come when some amazing emergency would require such a test. This run was for “good measure,” too, since I’d already decided to take a day off for good behavior. Too much virtue has a corrupting effect. I got back in my car when I’d cooled down and I drove east on Wilshire, back to my motel.
As I unlocked the door to my room, the phone began to ring. It was my Las Vegas buddy with Sharon Napier’s address.
“Fantastic,” I said. “I really appreciate this. Let me know how to get in touch when I get down there and I’ll pay you for your time.”
“General delivery is fine. I never know where I’ll be.”
“You got it. How much?”
“Fifty bucks. A discount. For you. She’s strictly unlisted and it wasn’t easy.”
“Let me know when I can return the service,” I said, knowing full well that he would.
“Oh, and Kinsey,” he said, “she’s dealing blackjack at the Fremont but she’s also hustling some on the side, so I hear. I watched her operate last night. She’s very sharp but she’s not fooling anyone.”
“Is she stepping on someone’s toes?”
“Not quite, but she’s comin’ close. You know, in this town no one cares what you do as long as you don’t cheat. She shouldn’t call attention to herself.”
“Thanks for the information,” I said.
“For sure,” he said and hung up.
I showered and put on a pair of slacks and a shirt, then went across the street and ate fried clams drowned in ketchup with an order of french fries on the side. I got two cups of coffee to go and went back to my room. As soon as the door shut behind me, the phone began to ring. This time it was Charlie Scorsoni.
“How’s Denver?” I asked as soon as he identified himself.
“Not bad. How’s L.A.?
“Fair. I’m driving up to Las Vegas tonight.”
“Gambling fever?”
“Not a bit. I got a line on Sharon.”
“Terrific. Tell her to pay me back my six hundred bucks.
“Yeah. Right. With interest. I’m trying to find out what she knows about a murder and you want me to hassle her about a bad debt.”
“I’ll never have occasion to, that’s for sure. When will you be back in Santa Teresa?”
“Maybe Saturday. When I come back through L.A. on Friday, I want to see some boxes that belong to Libby Glass. But I don’t think it will take long. What makes you ask?”
“I want to buy you a drink,” he said. “I’m leaving Denver day after tomorrow, so I’ll be in town before you. Will you call me when you get back?”
I hesitated ever so slightly. “Okay.”
“I mean, don’t put yourself out, Millhone,” he said wryly.
I laughed. “I’ll call. I swear.”
“Great. See you then.”
After I hung up, I could feel a silly smile linger on my face long after it should have. What was it about that man?
Las Vegas is about six hours from L.A. and I decided I might as well hit the road. It was just after 7:00 and not dark yet, so I threw my things in the backseat of my car and told Arlette I’d be gone for a couple of days.
“You want me to refer calls or what?” she said.
“I’ll call you when I get there and let you know how I can be reached,” I said.
I headed north on the San Diego Freeway, picking up the Ventura, which I followed east until it turned into the Colorado Freeway, one of the few benign roads in the whole of the L.A. freeway system. The Colorado is broad and sparsely traveled, cutting across the northern boundary of metropolitan Los Angeles. It is possible to change lanes on the Colorado without having an anxiety attack and the sturdy concrete divider that separates east-and westbound traffic is a comforting assurance that cars will not wantonly drift over and crash into your vehicle head-on. From the Colorado, I doglegged south, picking up the San Bernardino Freeway, taking 15 northeast on a long irregular diagonal toward Las Vegas. With any luck, I could talk to Sharon Napier and then head south to the Salton Sea, where Greg Fife was living. I could complete the circuit with a swing up to Claremont on my way back for a brief chat with his sister, Diane. At this point, I wasn’t sure what the journey would net me but I needed to complete the basics of my investigation. And Sharon Napier was bound to prove interesting.
I like driving at night. I’m not a sightseer at heart and in travels across the country, I’m never tempted by detours to scenic wonders. I’m not interested in hundred-foot rocks shaped like crookneck squash. I’m not keen on staring down into gullies formed by rivers now defunct and I do not marvel at great holes in the ground where meteors once fell to earth. Driving anywhere looks much the same to me. I stare at the concrete roadway. I watch the yellow line. I keep track of large trucks and passenger vehicles with little children asleep in the backseat and I keep my foot pressed flat to the floor until I reach my destination.
CHAPTER 12
By the time Las Vegas loomed up, twinkling on the horizon, it was well after midnight and I felt stiff. I was anxious to avoid the Strip. I would have avoided the whole town if I could. I don’t gamble, having no instincts for the sport and even less curiosity. Life in Las Vegas exactly suits my notion of some eventual life in cities under the sea. Day and night mean nothing. People ebb and surge aimlessly as though pulled by invisible thermal currents that are swift and disagreeably close. Everything is made of plaster of paris, imitative, larger than life, profoundly impersonal. The whole town smells of $1.89 fried shrimp dinners.
I found a motel near the airport, on the outskirts of town. The Bagdad looked like a foreign legion post made of marzipan. The night manager was dressed in a gold satin vest and an orange satin shirt with full puffed sleeves. He wore a fez with a tassel. His breathing had a raspy quality that made me want to clear my throat.
“Are you an out-of-state married couple?” he asked, not looking up.
“No.”
“There’s fifty dollars worth of coupons with a double if you’re an out-of-state married couple. I’ll put it down. Nobody checks.”
I gave him my credit card, which he ran off while I filled out the registration form. He gave me my key and a small paper cup full of nickels for the slot machines near the door. I left them on the counter.
I parked in the space outside my door and left the car, taking a cab into town through the artificial daylight of Glitter Gulch. I paid the cabbie and took a moment to orient myself. There was a constant stream of traffic on East Fremont, the sidewalks crowded with tourists, hot yellow sips, and flashing lights — THE MINT, THE FOUR QUEENS — illuminating a complete catalogue of hustlers: pimps and prostitutes, pickpockets, corn-fed con artists from the Midwest who flock to Vegas with the conviction that the system can be beaten with sufficient cunning and industry. I went into the Fremont.