Poodle Springs

40

The cops turned me loose in the middle of the afternoon. They didn't want to, but there was nothing to hold me for, except being a lousy detective, and they had their own problems with that. As I drove down the coast highway toward Venice I tried to sort out how bad a detective I'd been. By the time I reached Santa Monica I had decided I couldn't sort it out and might as well think I'd been a good detective for all the difference it made.

I parked behind the restaurant where Angel worked and went and said, "Tell the boss there's an emergency, and come with me."

Her eyes widened, but she didn't ask questions. In five minutes we were in my Olds heading for Hollywood.

"There's no emergency," I said in the car. "I made that up to get you away."

"Have you found Larry?"

"Yeah, I have," I said. "I'm taking you to him."

"Oh my God," she said. "Is he all right?"

"Sure," I said. Though I wasn't sure Larry Victor would ever be all right.

We drove in silence then. The rain had tapered to a drizzle, just enough to engage the wipers.

"About being married to another woman," I said.

"I know that's not true," she said.

"Yeah, that's right," I said. "I was wrong about that."

By the time we pulled up in front of the motel where Larry was stashed the rain had stopped altogether.

The motel was one of those two-story affairs with each door painted a different color and a balcony running across the second floor. There were stairs at each end of the balcony. The office at the far end jutted out at right angles and was faced with some sort of artificial stone.

Angel and I went up the stairs to Victor's room. I knocked on the door.

"It's Marlowe," I said.

And in a moment I heard footsteps and then the door opened about three inches and Victor peeked out. I stepped aside and he saw Angel.

"Larry," she said. "Larry, it's me."

He closed the door, took the chain off and opened it again, and Angel seemed to elevate into his arms.

"Larry," she said. "Oh my God, Larry."

I leaned against the wall outside the door for a few minutes and smoked a cigarette and looked at the movement of the rain clouds as they began to break up. Then I went into the room. Angel and Larry were sitting on the bed holding hands. She was looking at him as if he were King of all the Persians.

I said, "Muriel Blackstone is dead. So is her father. Being who he was there's going to be a mess. How you handle it is your problem."

"How?" Victor said. "Who?"

"Doesn't matter," I said. "Wasn't you, and it wasn't me."

"That's the woman you said Larry was married to," Angel said.

"I was deceived by appearances," I said.

"Yeah, that's right," Victor said. "Appearances will deceive you sometimes."

"I don't know you're here," I said. "I don't know where you are."

I took the remaining four hundreds that Blackstone had given me out of my wallet and laid them on the cheap desk by the door.

"Don't call me up," I said. "Don't come see me."

I turned and went out the door. Victor followed me.

"Wait a minute," he said and came out on the balcony. "What if the cops come?"

"They will," I said. "If they can find you."

"But what should I do?"

"Stay away from me," I said. "And take care of that girl. If I ever hear you weren't good to her, I will track you down and stomp on your face."

"Hey, Marlowe, no need to talk like that. Hell, we've been through a lot together."

"Yeah," I said. "Remember what I told you."

I turned and went. Behind me I heard Victor say, "Marlowe? For chrissake, Marlowe."

I kept going.

I heard Angel say, "Good-bye, Mr. Marlowe. Thank you."

I waved without looking back. Then I was in my car and out on Wilcox Ave.