Poodle Springs

33

Linda was pacing in the living room past the Hammond organ built into the bar, past the glass wall with the butterflies and back, past the oversized fireplace. The nude picture of Muriel Blackstone was on the bar. Nobody was looking at it.

"I admit I am astonished," Linda said. "I had no idea that Muffy Blackstone…" She shook her head. – "Maybe most women lead lives of quiet desperation, too," I said.

"Maybe they do, but I must say I don't see why my husband has to be the one to dig that up. I mean, really, Philip," she nodded at the picture, "aren't you embarrassed?"

"It's been a long time," I said, "since I got embarrassed."

"Well, you should be. I am."

"I'm a detective, lady. You knew that when you married me."

"I guess I didn't think you'd always be a detective."

"Or you thought I'd grow a thin moustache and drink port and figure out who killed Mrs. Posselthwait's cousin Sue Sue in Count Boslewick's castle garden, without ever getting bark mulch on my shoes," I said. "And maybe we'd dine occasionally with an amusing inspector of police."

"Damn you, Marlowe, can't you see how it is for me? Can't you budge even a little bit?"

"Depends what you need me to budge on," I said. "I can budge on where we live, or who we entertain, or where we go for our honeymoon. But you want me to budge on who I am. On what I am. And I can't. This is what I am, a guy who ends up with dirty pictures in his possession."

"And two murders," Linda said, "and some story about bigamy?"

"And murder and bigamy, and probably a lot worse to come," I said. "It's the way I make my living. It's the way I got to be the guy you wanted to marry in the first place."

"And if I were poor?"

"You're not poor. I'm poor and you're not," I said. "There's no point talking about things that aren't so."

"What are you going to do with that picture of Muffy?" Linda said.

"I don't know," I said. "I didn't understand this case before and now I understand it a lot less."

Linda stepped to the bar and picked up the picture.

"I could tear it up right now," she said.

"Sure," I said, "but I've made copies."

"You think of everything, don't you," she said.

"Everything that doesn't matter," I said. "I haven't thought of who killed Lola Faithful or Lippy. I haven't thought of where Les Valentine is. I haven't thought of a way to keep the cops from tearing up my license, which I don't have copies made of."

Linda dropped the picture back on the bar.

"Perhaps she had Les take it, you know, just for them," she said.

"Maybe."

"Darling," Linda said, "let's go to Mexico again. Today, right now. I could be packed in an hour."

"You could be packed in two," I said. "And you'd pay for the trip and when we got back I'd still have to make a living."

"Damn you," Linda said. "Goddamn you." She walked to the picture window that looked out onto the -patio and pressed her forehead against it.

"I'm embarrassed with my friends about what you're doing. Can you imagine the talk at the club when I had to get you out of jail? I'm terrified when you're not home and I'm humiliated when there are social occasions and I have to go alone, and I don't even know where you are."

There was nothing to be said. So I said it.

"I know it seems so terribly snobbish and petty to you," Linda said. Her forehead was still against the glass. "But it is my life, the only one I've known. And my life matters to me too."

"I know," I said.

She turned from the window and stared at me.

"So what are we to do?" she said.

"You have to live your life," I said. "I have to live mine."

"And we can't seem to do that together," Linda said.

"No, we can't seem to," I said.

We were silent for a long time.

"I'll ask my attorney to draw up divorce papers," Linda said finally. "I want you to have something."

"No," I said. "I'll never touch it. It's not mine."

"I know," Linda said.

We were silent again. Through the plate glass two swallows darted into the bougainvillaea and disappeared in the leaves.

"I'll stay in the guest room tonight," I said. "Tomorrow I'll move back to L.A."

She nodded. There were tears on her face.

"Damn it, Marlowe," she said. "We love each other."

"I know," I said. "It's what makes it so hard."