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Umney's Last Case


by Stephen King
_______________________________________________________________________

  The rains are over. The hills are still green and in the 
  valley across the Hollywood hills you can see snow on 
  the high mountains. The fur stores are advertising their 
  annual sales.  The call houses that specialize in sixteen-
  year-old virgins are doing a land-office business. And in 
  Beverly Hills the jacaranda trees are beginning to bloom. 

Raymond Chandler, The Little Sister 

_______________________________________________________________________

I. The News from Peoria. 

It was one of those spring mornings so L.A.-perfect you
keep expecting to see that little trademark
symbol--(R)--stamped on it somewhere. The exhaust of the
vehicles passing on Sunset smelled faintly of oleander,
the oleander was lightly perfumed with exhaust, and the
sky overhead was as clear as a hardshell Baptist's
conscience. Peoria Smith, the blind paperboy, was
standing in his accustomed place on the corner of Sunset
and Laurel, and if that didn't mean God was in His
heaven and all was jake with the world, I didn't know
what did. 

Yet since I'd swung my feet out of bed that morning at
the unaccustomed hour of 7:30 a.m., things had felt a
little off-kilter, somehow; a tad woozy around the
edges. It was only as I was shaving --or at least
showing those pesky bristles the razor in an effort to
scare them into submission--that I realized part of the
reason why. Although I'd been up reading until at least
two, I hadn't heard the Demmicks roll in, squiffed to
the earlobes and trading those snappy one-liners that
apparently form the basis of their marriage. 

Nor had I heard Buster, and that was maybe even odder.
Buster, the Demmicks' Welsh Corgi, has a high-pitched 
bark that goes through your head like slivers of glass,
and he uses it as much as he can. Also, he's the jealous
type. He lets loose with one of his shrill barking
squalls every time George and Gloria clinch, and when
they aren't zinging each other like a couple of
vaudeville comedians, George and Gloria usually are
clinching. I've gone to sleep on more than one occasion
listening to them giggle while that mutt prances around
their feet going yarkyarkyark and wondering how difficult it
would be to strangle a muscular, medium-sized dog with a
length of piano-wire. Last night, however, the Demmicks'
apartment had been as quiet as the grave. It was passing
strange, but a long way from earth-shattering; the
Demmicks weren't exactly your perfect
life-on-a-timetable couple at the best of times. 

Peoria Smith was all right, though--chipper as a
chipmunk, just as always, and he'd recognized me by my
walk even though it was at least an hour before my usual
time. He was wearing a baggy CalTech sweatshirt that
came down to his thighs and a pair of corduroy knickers
that showed off his scabby knees. His hated white cane
leaned casually against the side of the card-table he
did business on. 

``Say, Mr. Umney! Howza kid?'' 

Peoria's dark glasses glinted in the morning sunlight,
and as he turned toward the sound of my step with my
copy of the L.A. Times held up in front of him, I had a
momentary unsettling thought: it was as if someone had
drilled two big black holes into his face. I shivered
the thought off my back, thinking that maybe the time
had come to cut out the before-bedtime shot of rye.
Either that or double the dose. 

Hitler was on the front of the Times, as he so often was
these days. This time it was something about Austria. I
thought, and not for the first time, how at home that
pale face and limp forelock would have looked on a
post-office bulletin board. 

``The kid is just about okay, Peoria,'' I said. ``In
fact, the kid is as fine as fresh paint on an outhouse
wall.'' 

I dropped a dime into the Corona box resting atop
Peoria's stack of newspapers. The Times is a
three-center, and over-priced at that, but I've been
dropping that same chip into Peoria's change-box since
time out of mind. He's a good kid, and making good
grades in school--I took it on myself to check that last
year, after he'd helped me out on the Weld case. If
Peoria hadn't shown up on Harris Brunner's houseboat
when he did, I'd still be trying to swim with my feet
cemented into a kerosene drum, somewhere off Malibu. To
say I owe him a lot is an understatement. 

In the course of that particular investigation (Peoria
Smith, not Harris Brunner and Mavis Weld), I even found
out the kid's real name, although wild horses wouldn't
have dragged it out of me. Peoria's father took a
permanent coffee-break out a ninth-floor office window
on Black Friday, his mother's the only white frail
working in that goofy Chinese laundry down on La Punta,
and the kid's blind. With all that, does the world need
to know they hung Francis on him when he was too young
to fight back? The defense rests. 

If anything really juicy happened the night before, you
almost always find it on the front page of the Times,
left side, just below the fold. I turned the newspaper
over and saw that a bandleader of the Cuban persuasion
had suffered a heart attack while dancing with his
female vocalist at The Carousel in Burbank. He died an
hour later at L.A. General. I had some sympathy for the
maestro's widow, but none for the man himself. My
opinion is that people who go dancing in Burbank deserve
what they get. 

I opened to the sports section to see how Brooklyn had
done in their doubleheader with the Cards the day
before. ``How about you, Peoria? Everyone holding their
own in your castle? Moats and battlements all in good
repair?'' 

``I'll say, Mr. Umney! Oh, boy!'' 

Something in his voice caught my attention, and I
lowered the paper to take a closer look at him. When I
did, I saw what a gilt-edged shamus like me should have
seen right away: the kid was all but busting with
happiness. 

``You look like somebody just gave you six tickets to
the first game of the World Series,'' I said. ``What's
the buzz, Peoria?'' 

``My mom hit the lottery down in Tijuana!'' he said.
``Forty thousand bucks! We're rich, brother! Rich!'' 

I gave him a grin he couldn't see and ruffled his hair.
It popped his cowlick up, but what the hell. ``Whoa,
hold the phone. How old are you, Peoria?'' 

``Twelve in May. You know that, Mr. Umney, you gave me a
polo-shirt. But I don't see what that has to do with--''

``Twelve's old enough to know that sometimes people get
what they want to happen mixed up with what actually does
happen. That's all I meant.'' 

``If you're talkin about daydreams, you're right--I do
know all about em,'' Peoria said, running his hands over
the back of his head in an effort to make his cowlick
lie down again, ``but this ain't no daydream, Mr. Umney.
It's real! My Uncle Fred went down and picked up the
cash yest'y afternoon. He brought it back in the
saddlebag of his Vinnie! I smelled it! Hell, I rolled in
it! It was spread all over my mom's bed! Richest feeling
I ever had, let me tell you-- forty-froggin-thousand
smackers!'' 

``Twelve may be old enough to know the difference
between daydreams and what's real, but it's not old
enough for that kind of talk,'' I said. It sounded
good--I'm sure the Legion of Decency would have approved
two thousand per cent--but my mouth was running on
automatic pilot, and I barely heard what was coming out
of it. I was too busy trying to get my brain wrapped
around what he'd just told me. Of one thing I was
absolutely positive: he'd made a mistake. He must have
made a mistake, because if it was true, then Peoria
wouldn't be standing here anymore when I came by on my
way to my office in the Fulwider Building. And that just
couldn't be. 

I found my mind returning to the Demmicks, who for the
first time in recorded history hadn't played any of
their big-band records at full volume before retiring,
and to Buster, who for the first time in recorded
history hadn't greeted the sound of George's latchkey
turning in the lock with a fusillade of barks. The
thought that something was off-kilter returned, and it
was stronger this time. 

Meanwhile, Peoria was looking at me with an expression
I'd never expected to see on his honest, open face:
sulky irritation mixed with exasperated humor. It was
the way a kid looks at a windbag uncle who's told all
his stories, even the boring ones, three or four times. 

``Ain't you picking up on this newsflash, Mr. Umney?
We're rich! My mom ain't going to have to press shirts for
that damned old Lee Ho anymore, and I ain't going to
have to sell papers on the corner anymore, shiverin when
it rains in the winter and havin to suck up to those
nutty old bags who work down at Bilder's. I can quit
actin like I died and went to heaven every time some
blowhard leaves me a nickel tip.'' 

I started a little at that, but what the hell--I wasn't
a nickel man. I left Peoria seven cents, day in and day
out. Unless I was too broke to afford it, of course, but
in my business an occasional stony stretch comes with
the territory. 

``Maybe we ought to go up to Blondie's and have a cup of
java,'' I said. ``Talk this thing over.'' 

``Can't. It's closed.'' 

``Blondie's? The hell you say!'' 

But Peoria couldn't be bothered with such mundane stuff
as the coffee shop up the street. ``You ain't heard the
best, Mr. Umney! My Uncle Fred knows a doctor up in
Frisco--a specialist--who thinks he can do something
about my eyes.'' He turned his face up to mine. Below
the cheaters and his too-thin nose, his lips were
trembling. ``He says it might not be the optic nerves
after all, and if it's not, there's an operation . . . I
don't understand all the technical stuff, but I could
see again, Mr. Umney!'' He reached out for me blindly .
. . well, of course he did. How else could he reach out?
``I could see again!'' 

He clutched at me, and I gripped his hands and squeezed
them briefly before pushing them gently away. There was
ink on his fingers, and I'd been feeling so good when I
got up that I'd put on my new chalk worsted. Hot for
summer, of course, but the whole city is air-
conditioned these days, and besides, I was feeling
naturally cool. I didn't feel so cool now. Peoria was
looking up at me, his thin and somehow perfect newsboy's
face troubled. A little breeze--scented with oleander
and exhaust--ruffled his cowlick, and I realized that I
could see it because he wasn't wearing his tweed cap. He
looked somehow naked without it, and why not? Every
newsboy should wear a tweed cap, just like every
shoeshine boy should wear a beanie cocked way back on
his head. 

``What's the matter, Mr. Umney? I thought you'd be
happy. Jeepers, I didn't have to come out here to this
lousy corner today, you know, but I did--I even got here
early, because I kinda had an idea you'd get here early.
I thought you'd be happy, my mom hittin the lottery and
me gettin a chance at an operation, but you ain't.'' Now
his voice trembled with resentment. ``You ain't!'' 

``Yes I am,'' I said, and I wanted to be happy--part of
me did, anyway--but the bitch of it was that he was
mostly right. Because it meant things would change, you
see, and things weren't supposed to change. Peoria Smith
was supposed to be right here, year in and year out,
with that perfect cap of his tilted back on hot days and
pulled down low on rainy ones, so that the raindrops
dripped off the bill. He was always supposed to be
smiling, was never supposed to say ``hell'' or
``frogging,'' and most of all, he was supposed to be 
blind. 

``You ain't!'' he said, and then, shockingly, he pushed
his card- table over. It fell into the street, papers
flapping everywhere. His white cane rolled into the
gutter. Peoria heard it go and bent down to get it. I
could see tears coming out from beneath his dark glasses
and go rolling down his pale, thin cheeks. He started
groping for the cane, but it had fallen near me and he
was going the wrong way. I felt a sudden strong urge to
haul off and kick him in his blind newsboy's ass. 

Instead, I bent over, got his stick, and tapped him
lightly on the hip with it. 

Peoria turned, quick as a snake, and snatched it. Out of
the corner of my eye I could see pictures of Hitler and
the recently deceased Cuban bandleader flapping all over
Sunset Boulevard--a bus bound for Van Ness snored
through a little drift of them, leaving a bitter tang of
diesel fumes behind. I hated the way those newspapers
looked, fluttering here and there. They looked messy.
Worse, they looked wrong. Utterly and completely wrong. I
fought another urge, as strong as the first one, to grab
Peoria and shake him. To tell him he was going to spend
the morning picking up those newspapers, and I wasn't
going to let him go home until he'd gotten every last
one. 

It occurred to me that less than ten minutes ago, I'd
been thinking that this was the perfect L.A. morning--so
perfect it deserved a trademark symbol. And it had been,
dammit. So where had things gone wrong? And how had it
happened so fast? 

No answers came, only an irrational but powerful voice
from inside, telling me that the kid's mother couldn't
have won the lottery, that the kid couldn't stop selling
newspapers, and that, most of all, the kid couldn't see.
Peoria Smith was supposed to be blind for the rest of
his life. 

Well, it's got to be something experimental, I thought. 
Even if the doctor up in Frisco isn't a quack, and he 
probably is, the operation's bound to fail. 

And, bizarre as it sounds, the thought calmed me down. 

``Listen,'' I said, ``we got off on the wrong foot this
morning, that's all. Let me make it up to you. We'll go
down to Blondie's and I'll buy you breakfast. What do
you say, Peoria? You can dig into a plate of bacon and
eggs and tell me all ab--'' 

``Fuck you!'' he shouted, shocking me all the way down
to my shoes. ``Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,
you cheap gumshoe! You think blind people can't tell
when people like you are lying through their teeth? Fuck
you! And keep your hands off me from now on! I think
you're a faggot!'' 

That did it--no one calls me a faggot and gets away with
it, not even a blind newsboy. I forgot all about how
Peoria had saved my life during that Mavis Weld
business; I reached for his cane, meaning to take it
away from him and whack him across the keister with it a
few times. Teach him some manners. 

Before I could get it, though, he hauled off and slammed
the cane's tip into my lower belly--and I do mean lower.
I doubled up in agony, but even while I was trying to
keep from howling with pain, I was counting my
blessings; two inches lower still and I could have quit
peeping for a living and gotten a job singing soprano in
the Palace of the Doges. 

I made a quick, reflexive grab for him anyway, and he
brought the cane down on the back of my neck. Hard. It
didn't break, but I heard it crack. I figured I could
finish the job when I caught him and ran it into his
right ear. I'd show him who was a faggot. 

He backed away from me as if he'd caught my brainwave,
and threw the cane into the street. 

``Peoria,'' I managed. Maybe it still wasn't too late to
catch sanity by the shirttail. ``Peoria, what the hell's
wrong with--'' 

``And don't call me that!'' he screamed. ``My name's 
Francis! Frank!  You're the one who started calling me 
Peoria! You started it and now everyone calls me that and 
I hate it!'' 

My watering eyes doubled him as he turned and fled
across the street, heedless of traffic (of which there
was currently none, luckily for him), hands held out in
front of him. I thought he would trip over the far
curb--was looking forward to it, in fact--but I guess
blind people must keep a pretty good set of
topographical survey maps in their heads. He jumped onto
the sidewalk as nimbly as a goat, then turned his dark
glasses back in my direction. There was an expression of
crazed triumph on his tear-streaked face, and the dark
lenses looked more like holes than ever. Big ones, as if
someone had hit him with two large-caliber shotgun
rounds. 

``Blondie's is gone, I toldja!'' he screamed. ``My mom 
says he upped and ran away with that redhead floozy he 
hired last month!  You should be so lucky, you ugly prick!'' 

He turned and went running up Sunset in that strange way
of his, with his splayed fingers held out in front of
him. People stood in little clusters on both sides of
the street, looking at him, looking at the papers
fluttering in the street, looking at me. 

Mostly looking at me, it seemed. 

This time Peoria--well, okay, Francis--made it as far as
Derringer's Bar before turning to deliver one final
salvo. 

``Fuck you, Mr. Umney!'' he screamed, and ran on. 

_______________________________________________________________________

II. Vernon's Cough. 

I managed to pull myself erect and make my way across
the street. Peoria, aka Francis Smith, was long gone,
but I wanted to put those blowing newspapers behind me,
too. Looking at them was giving me a headache that was
somehow worse than the ache in my groin. 

On the far side of the street I stared into Felt's
Stationery as if the new Parker ball-point pen in the
window was the most fascinating thing I'd ever seen in
my life (or maybe it was those sexy imitation- leather
appointment books). After five minutes or so--time
enough to commit every item in the dusty show-window to
memory--I felt capable of resuming my interrupted voyage
up Sunset without listing too noticeably to port. 

Questions circled in my mind the way mosquitoes circle
your head at the drive-in in San Pedro when you forget
to bring along an insect stick or two. I was able to
ignore most of them, but a couple got through. First,
what the hell had gotten into Peoria? Second, what the
hell had gotten into me? I kept slapping at these
uncomfortable queries until I got to Blondie's City
Eats, Open 24 Hrs, Bagels Our Specialty, on the corner
of Sunset and Travernia, and when I got that far, they
were driven out in a single wallop. Blondie's had been
on that corner for as long as I could remember--the
sharpies and the hustlers and the hipsters and the hypes
going in and going out, not to mention the debs, the
dykes, and the dopes. A famous silent-movie star was
once arrested for murder as he was coming out of
Blondie's, and I myself had concluded a nasty piece of
business there not so long ago, shooting a coked-up
fashion-plate named Dunninger who had killed three
hopheads in the aftermath of a Hollywood dope party. It
was also the place where I'd said goodbye to the
silver-haired, violet-eyed Ardis McGill. I'd spent the
rest of that lost night walking in a rare Los Angeles
fog which might have only been behind my eyes . . . and
trickling down my cheeks, by the time the sun came up. 

Blondie's closed? Blondie's gone? Impossible, you would
have said-- more likely that the Statue of Liberty
should have disappeared from her barren lick of rock in
New York Harbor. 

Impossible but true. The window which had once held a
mouth-watering selection of pies and cakes was soaped
over, but the job had been done indifferently, and I
could see a nearly empty room through the stripes. The
lino looked filthy and barren. The grease-darkened
blades of the overhead fans hung down like the
propellers of crashed airplanes. There were a few tables
left, and six or eight of the familiar red-upholstered
chairs piled on them with the legs sticking up, but that
was all . . . except for a couple of empty sugar-
shakers tumbled in one corner. 

I stood there trying to get it into my head, and it was
like trying to get a big sofa up a narrow flight of
stairs. All that life and excitement, all that
late-night hustle and surprise--how could it be ended?
It didn't seem like a mistake; it seemed like a
blasphemy. For me Blondie's had summed up all the
glittering contradictions that surround L.A.'s
essentially dark and loveless heart; I had sometimes
thought Blondie's was L.A. as I had known it over the
last fifteen or twenty years, only drawn small. Where
else could you see a mobster eating breakfast at 9:00
p.m. with a priest, or a diamond-decked glamorpuss
sitting on a counter-stool next to a grease-monkey
celebrating the end of his shift with a hot cup of java?
I suddenly found myself thinking of the Cuban bandleader
and his heart attack again, this time with considerably
more sympathy. 

All that fabulous starry City of Lost Angels life--do you
get it, chum? Are you picking up this newsflash? 

The sign hung in the door read CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS,
REOPENING SOON, but I didn't believe it. Empty
sugar-shakers lying in the corner do not, in my
experience, indicate renovations in progress. Peoria had
been right: Blondie's was history. I turned away and
went on up the street, but now I walked slowly and had
to consciously order my head to stay up. As I approached
the Fulwider Building, where I've kept an office for
more years than I like to think about, an odd certainty
gripped me. The handles of the big double doors would be
wrapped up in a thick tow-chain and held with a padlock.
The glass would be soaped over in indifferent stripes.
And there would be a sign reading CLOSED FOR
RENOVATIONS, REOPENING SOON. 

By the time I reached the building, this nutty idea had
taken over my mind with the force of a compulsion, and
not even the sight of Bill Tuggle, the rummy CPA from
the third floor, going inside could quite dispel it. But
seeing is believing, they say, and when I got to 2221, I
saw no chain, no sign, and no soap on the glass. It was
just the Fulwider, the same as ever. I went into the
lobby, smelled the familiar odor--it reminds me of the
pink cakes they put in the urinals of public men's rooms
these days--and glanced around at the same ratty palm
trees overhanging the same faded red tile floor. 

Bill was standing next to Vernon Klein, world's oldest
elevator operator, in Car 2. In his frayed red suit and
ancient pillbox hat, Vernon looks like a cross between
the Philip Morris bellboy and a rhesus monkey which has
fallen into an industrial steam-cleaning machine. He
looked up at me with his mournful basset-hound eyes,
which were watering from the Camel pasted in the middle
of his mouth. His peepers should have gotten used to the
smoke years ago; I couldn't remember ever having seen
him without a Camel parked in that same position. 

Bill moved over a little, but not far enough. There
wasn't room enough in the car for him to move far
enough. I'm not sure there would have been room in Rhode
Island for him to move far enough. Delaware, maybe. He
smelled like bologna which has spent a year or so
marinating in cheap bourbon. And just when I thought it
couldn't get any worse, he belched. 

``Sorry, Clyde.'' 

``Well, you certainly ought to be,'' I said, waving the
air in front of my face as Vern slid the gate across the
front of the car and prepared to fly us to the moon . .
. or at least to the seventh floor. ``What drainpipe did
you spend the night in, Bill?'' 

Yet there was something comforting about that smell--I'd
be lying if I said there wasn't. Because it was a familiar
smell. It was just Bill Tuggle, odoriferous, hung over,
and standing with his knees slightly bent, as if someone
had filled the crotch of his underpants with chicken
salad and he'd just realized it. Not pleasant, nothing
about that morning's elevator ride was pleasant, but it
was at least known. 

Bill gave me a sick smile as the elevator began to
rattle upward but said nothing. 

I swung my head in Vernon's direction, mostly to get
away from the smell of overbaked accountant, but
whatever small talk I'd been meaning to make died in my
throat. The two pictures which had hung over Vern's
stool since the beginning of time--one of Jesus walking
on the Sea of Galilee while his boatbound disciples
gawped at him and the other of Vern's wife in a
buckskin-fringed Sweetheart of the Rodeo outfit and a
turn-of-the-century hairdo--were both gone. What had
replaced them shouldn't have been shocking, especially
in light of Vernon's age, but it hit me like a
barge-load of bricks just the same. 

It was a card, that's all--a simple card showing the
silhouette of a man fishing on a lake at sunset. It was
the sentiment printed below the canoe that floored me:
HAPPY RETIREMENT! 

You could have doubled the way I felt when Peoria told
me he might see again and still have come up short.
Memories flickered through my mind with the speed of
cards being shuffled by a riverboat gambler. There was
the time Vern broke into the office next to mine to call
an ambulance when that nutty dame, Agnes Sternwood,
first tore my phone out of the wall and then swallowed
what she swore was drain-cleaner. The ``drain-cleaner''
turned out to be nothing but crystals of raw sugar, and
the office Vern broke into turned out to be a high-class
horse parlor. So far as I know, the guy who leased the
place and slapped MacKenzie Imports on the door is still
receiving his annual Sears Roebuck catalogue in San
Quentin. Then there was the guy Vern cold-conked with
his stool just before he could ventilate my guts; that
was the Mavis Weld business again, of course. Not to
mention the time he brought his daughter to me--what a
babe she was!--when she got involved with that
dirty-picture racket. 

Vern retiring? 

It wasn't possible. It just wasn't. 

``Vernon,'' I asked, ``what kind of joke is this?'' 

``No joke, Mr. Umney,'' he said, and as he brought the
elevator car to a stop on Three, he began to hack a deep
cough I'd never heard in all the years I'd known him. It
was like listening to marble bowling balls rolling down
a stone alley. He took the Camel out of his mouth, and I
was horrified to see the end of it was pink, and not
with lipstick. He looked at it for a moment, grimaced,
then replaced it and yanked back the accordion grille.
``Thuh-ree, Mr. Tuggle.'' 

``Thanks, Vern,'' Bill said. 

``Remember the party on Friday,'' Vernon said. His words
were muffled; he'd taken a handkerchief spotted with
brown stains out of his back pocket and was wiping his
lips with it. ``I sure would admire for you to come.''
He glanced at me with his rheumy eyes, and what was in
them scared the bejabbers out of me. Something was
waiting for Vernon Klein just around the next bend in
the road, and that look said Vernon knew all about it.
``You too, Mr. Umney--we been through a lot together,
and I'd be tickled to raise a glass with you.'' 

``Wait a minute!'' I shouted, grabbing Bill as he tried
to step out of the elevator. ``You wait just a God
damned minute, both of you! What party? What's going on
here?'' 

``Retirement,'' Bill said. ``It usually happens at some
point after your hair turns white, in case you've been
too busy to notice. Vernon's party is going to be in the
basement on Friday afternoon. Everybody in the
building's going to be there, and I'm going to make my
world-famous Dynamite Punch. What's the matter with you,
Clyde? You've known for a month that Vern was finishing
up on May thirtieth.'' 

That made me angry all over again, the way I'd been when
Peoria called me a faggot. I grabbed Bill by the padded
shoulders of his double-breasted suit and gave him a
shake. ``The hell you say!'' 

He gave me a small, pained smile. ``The hell I don't,
Clyde. But if you don't want to come, fine. Stay away.
You've been acting poco loco for the last six months,
anyhow.'' 

I shook him again. ``What do you mean, poco loco?'' 

``Crazy as a loon, nutty as a fruitcake, two wheels off
the road, out to lunch, playing without a full deck--any
of those ring a bell? And before you answer, just let me
inform you that if you shake me one more time, even a 
little shake, my guts are going to explode straight out
through my chest, and not even dry-cleaning will get that
mess off your suit.'' 

He pulled away before I could do it again even if I'd
wanted to and started down the hall with the seat of his
pants hanging somewhere down around the level of his
knees, as per usual. He glanced back just once, while
Vernon was sliding the brass gate across. ``You need to
take some time off, Clyde. Starting last week.'' 

``What's gotten into you?'' I shouted at him. ``What's
gotten into all of you?'' But by then the inner door was
closed and we were headed up again--this time to Seven.
My little slice of heaven. Vern dropped his cigarette
butt into the bucket of sand that squats in the corner,
and immediately stuck a fresh one in his kisser. He
popped a wooden match alight with his thumbnail, set the
fag on fire, and immediately started coughing again. Now
I could see fine drops of blood misting out from between
his cracked lips. It was a gruesome sight. His eyes had
dropped; they stared vacantly into the far corner,
seeing nothing, hoping for nothing. Bill Tuggle's B.O.
hung between us like the Ghost of Binges Past. 

``Okay, Vern,'' I said. ``What is it and where are you
going?'' 

Vernon had never been one to wear out the English
language, and that at least hadn't changed. ``It's Big
C,'' he said. ``On Saturday I catch the Desert Blossom
to Arizona. I'm going to live with my sister. I don't
expect to wear out my welcome, though. She might have to
change the bed twice.'' He brought the elevator to a
stop and rattled the gate back. ``Seven, Mr. Umney. Your
little slice of heaven.'' He smiled at that just as he
always did, but this time it looked like the kind of
smile you see on the candy skulls down in Tijuana, on
the Day of the Dead. 

Now that the elevator door was open, I smelled something
up here in my little slice of heaven that was so out of
place it took a moment for me to recognize it: fresh
paint. Once it was noted, I filed it. I had other fish
to fry. 

``This isn't right,'' I said. ``You know it isn't,
Vern.'' 

He turned his frightening vacant eyes on me. Death in
them, a black shape flapping and beckoning just beyond
the faded blue. ``What isn't right, Mr. Umney?'' 

``You're supposed to be here, damn it! Right here! Sitting
on your stool with Jesus and your wife over your head.
Not this!'' I reached up, grabbed the card with the
picture of the man fishing on the lake, tore it in two,
put the pieces together, tore it in four, and then gave
them the toss. They fluttered to the faded red rug on
the floor of the elevator car like confetti. 

``S'posed to be right here,'' he repeated, those
terrible eyes of his never leaving mine. Beyond us, two
men in paint-splattered coveralls had turned to look in
our direction. 

``That's right.'' 

``For how long, Mr. Umney? Since you know everything
else, you can probably tell me that, can'tcha? How long
am I supposed to keep drivin this damned car?'' 

``Well . . . forever,'' I said, and the word hung
between us, another ghost in the cigarette-smokey
elevator car. Given a choice of ghosts, I guess I would
have picked Bill Tuggle's B.O. . . . but I wasn't given
a choice. Instead, I said it again. ``Forever, Vern.'' 

He dragged on his Camel, coughed out smoke and a fine
spray of blood, and went on looking at me. ``It ain't my
place to give the tenants advice, Mr. Umney, but I guess
I'll give you some, anyway--it being my last week and
all. You might consider seeing a doctor. The kind that
shows you ink-pitchers and you say what they look
like.'' 

``You can't retire, Vern.'' My heart was beating harder
than ever, but I managed to keep my voice level. ``You
just 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 quiz-kid 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. 

``If 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?'' 

``Our 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--'' 

``It 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. 

I waved it away, suddenly tired. ``Who in the name of
Christ would want to paint this place, anyway?'' 

It wasn't them I was asking, but the painter who'd
offered me the business card answered just the same.
``Well, it brightens the place up,'' he said cautiously.
``You gotta admit that.'' 

``Son,'' I asked, taking a step toward him, ``did your
mother ever have any kids that lived, or did she just
produce the occasional afterbirth like you?'' 

``Hey, whatever, whatever,'' he said, taking a step
backward. I followed his worried gaze down to my own
balled-up fists and forced them open again. He didn't
look very relieved, and I actually didn't blame him very
much. ``You don't like it--you're coming through loud
and clear on that score. But I gotta do what the boss
tells me, don't I? I mean, hell, that's the American
way.'' 

He glanced at his partner, then back to me. It was a
quick glance, really no more than a flick, but in my
line of work I'd seen it more than once, and it's the
kind of look you file away. Don't bother this guy, it 
said. Don't bump him, don't rattle him. He's nitro. 

``I mean, I've got a wife and a little kid to take care
of,'' he went on. ``There's a Depression going on out
there, you know.'' 

Confusion came over me then, drowning my anger the way a
downpour drowns a brushfire. Was there a Depression
going on out there? Was there? 

``I know,'' I said, not knowing anything. ``Let's just
forget it, what do you say?'' 

``Sure,'' the painters agreed, so eager they sounded
like half of a barbershop quartet. The one I'd
mistakenly tabbed as half-bright had his left hand
buried deep in his right armpit, trying to get that
nerve to go back to sleep. I could have told him he had
an hour's work ahead of him, maybe more, but I didn't
want to talk to them anymore. I didn't want to talk to
anyone or see anyone--not even the delectable Candy
Kane, whose humid glances and smooth, subtropical curves
have been known to send seasoned street-brawlers reeling
to their knees. The only thing I wanted to do was to get
across the outer office and into my inner sanctum. There
was a bottle of Robb's Rye in the bottom lefthand
drawer, and right now I needed a shot in the worst way. 

I walked down toward the frosted-glass door marked CLYDE
UMNEY PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR, restraining a renewed urge
to see if I could drop-kick a can of Dutch Boy Oyster
White through the window at the end of the hall and out
onto the fire-escape. I was actually reaching for my
doorknob when a thought struck me and I turned back to
the painters . . . but slowly, so they wouldn't believe
I was being gripped by some new seizure. Also, I had an
idea that if I turned too fast, I'd see them grinning at
each other and twirling their fingers around their
ears--the looney-gesture we all learned in the
schoolyard. 

They weren't twirling their fingers, but they hadn't
taken their eyes off me, either. The half-smart one
seemed to be gauging the distance to the door marked
STAIRWELL. Suddenly I wanted to tell them that I wasn't
such a bad guy when you got to know me; that there were,
in fact, a few clients and at least one ex-wife who
thought me something of a hero. But that wasn't a thing
you could say about yourself, especially not to a couple
of bozos like these. 

``Take it easy,'' I said. ``I'm not going to jump you. I
just wanted to ask another question.'' 

They relaxed a little. A very little, actually. 

``Ask it,'' Painter Number Two said. 

``Either of you ever played the numbers down in
Tijuana?'' 

``La lotería?'' Number One asked. 

``Your knowledge of Spanish stuns me. Yeah. La lotería.'' 

Number One shook his head. ``Mex numbers and Mex call
houses are strictly for suckers.'' 

Why do you think I asked you? I thought but didn't say. 

``Besides,'' he went on, ``you win ten or twenty
thousand pesos, big deal. What's that in real money?
Fifty bucks? Eighty?'' 

My mom hit the lottery down in Tijuana, Peoria had said, 
and I had known something about it wasn't right even then.
Forty thousand bucks . . . My Uncle Fred went down and 
picked up the cash yest'y afternoon. He brought it back 
in the saddlebag of his Vinnie! 

``Yeah,'' I said, ``something like that, I guess. And
they always pay off that way, don't they? In pesos?'' 

He gave me that look again, as if I was crazy, then
remembered I really was and readjusted his face. ``Well,
yeah. It is the Mexican lottery, you know. They couldn't
very well pay off in dollars.'' 

``How true,'' I said, and in my mind I saw Peoria's
thin, eager face, heard him saying, It was spread all over my
mom's bed! Forty-froggin- thousand smackers! 

Except how could a blind kid be sure of the exact
amount. . . or even that it really was money he was
rolling around in? The answer was simple: he couldn't.
But even a blind newsboy would know that la lotería paid off
in pesos rather than in dollars, and even a blind
newsboy had to know you couldn't carry forty thousand
dollars' worth of Mexican lettuce in the saddlebag of a
Vincent motorcycle. His uncle would have needed a City
of Los Angeles dump truck to transport that much dough. 

Confusion, confusion--nothing but dark clouds of
confusion. 

``Thanks,'' I said, and headed for my office. 

I'm sure that was a relief for all three of us. 

_______________________________________________________________________

IV. Umney's Last Client. 

``Candy, honey, I don't want to see anybody or take any
ca--'' 

I broke off. The outer office was empty. Candy's desk in
the corner was unnaturally bare, and after a moment I
saw why: the IN/OUT tray had been dumped into the trash
basket and her pictures of Errol Flynn and William
Powell were both gone. So was her Philco. The little
blue stenographer's stool, from which Candy had been
wont to flash her gorgeous gams, was unoccupied. 

My eyes returned to the IN/OUT tray sticking out of the
trash can like the prow of a sinking ship, and for a
moment my heart leaped. Perhaps someone had been in
here, tossed the place, kidnapped Candy. Perhaps it was
a case, in other words. At that moment I would have
welcomed a case, even if it meant some mug was tying
Candy up at this very moment . . . and adjusting the
rope over the firm swell of her breasts with particular
care. Any way out of the cobwebs that seemed to be
falling around me sounded just peachy to me. 

The trouble with the idea was simple: the room hadn't
been tossed. The IN/OUT was in the trash, true enough,
but that didn't indicate a struggle; in fact, it was
more as if . . . 

There was just one thing left on the desk, placed
squarely in the center of the blotter. A white envelope.
Just looking at it gave me a bad feeling. My feet
carried me across the room just the same, however, and I
picked it up. Seeing my name written across the front of
the envelope in Candy's wide loops and swirls was no
surprise; it was just another unpleasant part of this
long, unpleasant morning. 

I ripped it open and a single slip of note-paper fell
out into my hand. 

Dear Clyde, I have had all of the groping and sneering 
I'm going to take from you, and I am tired of your ridiculous 
and childish jokes about my name. Life is too short to be 
pawed by a middle-aged divorce detective with bad breath. 
You did have your good points Clyde but they are getting 
drownded out by the bad ones, especially since you started 
drinking all the time. Do yourself a favor and grow up. 
Yours truely, Arlene Cain 
P.S.: I'm going back to my mother's in Idaho. Do not try 
to get in touch with me. 

I held the note a moment or two longer, looking at it
unbelievingly, then dropped it. One phrase from it
recurred as I watched it seesaw lazily down toward the
already occupied trash basket: I am tired of your ridiculous and
childish jokes about my name. But had I ever known her name was
anything other than Candy Kane? I searched my mind as the
note continued its lazy--and seemingly endless--swoops
back and forth, and the answer was an honest and
resounding no. Her name had always been Candy Kane, we'd
joked about it many a time, and if we'd had a few rounds
of office slap-and-tickle, what of that? She'd always
enjoyed it. We both had. 

Did she enjoy it? a voice spoke up from somewhere deep inside
me. Did she really, or is that just another little fairytale 
you've been telling yourself all these years? 

I tried to shut that voice out, and after a moment or
two I succeeded, but the one that replaced it was even
worse. That voice belonged to none other than Peoria
Smith. I can quit actin like I died and went to heaven every 
time some blowhard leaves me a nickel tip, he said. Ain't 
you picking up on this newsflash, Mr. Umney? 

``Shut up, kid,'' I said to the empty room. ``Gabriel
Heatter you ain't.'' I turned away from Candy's desk,
and as I did, faces passed in front of my mind's eye
like the faces of some lunatic marching band from hell:
George and Gloria Demmick, Peoria Smith, Bill Tuggle,
Vernon Klein, a million-dollar blonde who went under the
two-bit name of Arlene Cain . . . even the two painters
were there. 

Confusion, confusion, nothing but confusion. 

Head down, I trudged into my office, closed the door
behind me, and sat at the desk. Dimly, through the
closed window, I could hear the traffic out on Sunset. I
had an idea that, for the right person, it was still a
spring morning so L.A.-perfect you expected to see that
little trademark symbol stamped on it somewhere, but for
me all the light had gone from the day . . . inside as
well as out. I thought about the bottle of hooch in the
bottom drawer, but all of a sudden even bending down to
get it seemed like too much work. It seemed, in fact, a
job akin to climbing Mount Everest in tennis shoes. 

The smell of fresh paint had penetrated all the way into
my inner sanctum. It was a smell I ordinarily liked, but
not then. At that moment it was the smell of everything
that had gone wrong since the Demmicks hadn't come into
their Hollywood bungalow bouncing wisecracks off each
other like rubber balls and playing their records at top
volume and throwing their Corgi into conniptions with
their endless billing and cooing. It occurred to me with
perfect clarity and simplicity--the way I'd always
imagined great truths must occur to the people they
occur to--that if some doctor could cut out the cancer
that was killing the Fulwider Building's elevator
operator, it would be white. Oyster white. And it would
smell just like fresh Dutch Boy paint. 

This thought was so tiring that I had to put my head
down with the heels of my palms pressed against my
temples, holding it in place . . . or maybe just keeping
what was inside from exploding out and making a mess on
the walls. And when the door opened softly and footsteps
entered the room, I didn't look up. It seemed like more
of an effort than I was able to make at that particular
moment. 

Besides, I had the strange idea that I already knew who
it was. I couldn't put a name to my knowledge, but the
step was somehow familiar. So was the cologne, although
I knew I wouldn't be able to name it even if someone had
put a gun to my head, and for a very simple reason: I'd
never smelled it before in my life. How could I
recognize a scent I'd never smelled before, you ask? I
can't answer that one, bud, but I did. 

Nor was that the worst of it. The worst of it was this:
I was scared nearly out of my mind. I've faced blazing
guns in the hands of angry men, which is bad, and
daggers in the hands of angry women, which is a thousand
times worse; I was 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. 

``I 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. 

``I don't exactly know what that word means, but by all
means, let's say it,'' I agreed. ``And 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?'' 

``I 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.
``In 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 he was calling himself
or how old he looked, he was me. Had I thought his voice
sounded familiar? Sure. The way your own voice sounds
familiar--although not quite the way it sounds inside
your own head--when you hear it on a recording. 

He picked my limp hand up off the desk, shook it with
the briskness of a real-estate agent on the make, then
dropped it again. It hit the desk-blotter with a plop,
landing on Mavis Weld's telephone number. When I raised
my fingers, I saw that Mavis's number was gone. In fact,
all the numbers I'd scratched on the blotter over the
years were gone. It was as clear as . . . well, as clear
as a hardshell Baptist's conscience. 

``Jesus,'' I croaked. ``Jesus Christ.'' 

``Not at all,'' the older version of me sitting in the
client's chair on the other side of the desk said.
``Landry. Samuel D. Landry. At your service.'' 

_______________________________________________________________________

V. An Interview with God. 

Even as rattled as I was, it only took me two or three
seconds to place the name, probably because I'd heard it
such a short time ago. According to Painter Number Two,
Samuel Landry was the reason why the long dark hall
leading to my office was soon going to be oyster white.
Landry was the owner of the Fulwider Building. 

A crazy idea suddenly occurred to me, but its patent
craziness did nothing to dim the sudden blaze of hope
which accompanied it. They-- whoever they are--say that
everyone on the face of the earth has a double. Maybe
Landry was mine. Maybe we were identical twins,
unrelated doubles who had somehow been born to different
parents and ten or fifteen years out of step in time
with each other. The idea did nothing to explain the
rest of the day's high weirdness, but it was something
to hang onto, damn it. 

``What can I do for you, Mr. Landry?'' I asked. I was
trying like hell, but my voice was no longer quite
steady. ``If it's about the lease, you'll have to give
me a day or two to get squared around. It seems my
secretary just discovered she had pressing business back
home in Armpit, Idaho.'' 

Landry paid absolutely no attention to this feeble
effort on my part to shift the focus of the
conversation. ``Yes,'' he said in a musing tone of
voice, ``I imagine it's been the granddaddy of bad days
. . . and it's my fault. I'm sorry, Clyde--really.
Meeting you in person has been . . . well, not what I
expected. Not at all. For one thing, I like you quite a
bit better than I expected to. But there's no going back
now.'' And he fetched a deep sigh. I didn't like the
sound of it very much. 

``What do you mean by that?'' My voice was trembling
worse than ever now, and the blaze of hope was dying.
Lack of oxygen inside the cave- in site which had once
been my brain seemed to be the cause. 

He didn't answer right away. He leaned over instead, and
grasped the handle of the slim leather case leaning
against the front leg of the client's chair. The
initials stamped on it were S.D.L., and I deduced that
my weird visitor had brought it in with him. I didn't
win the Shamus of the Year Award in 1934 and '35 for
nothing, you know. 

I had never seen a case quite like it in my life--it was
too small and too slim to be a briefcase, and it was
fastened not with buckles and straps but with a zipper.
I'd never seen a zipper quite like this one, either, now
that I thought about it. The teeth were extremely tiny,
and they hardly looked like metal at all. 

But the oddities only began with Landry's luggage. Even
setting aside his uncanny older-brother resemblance to
me, Landry looked like no businessman I'd ever seen in
my life, and certainly not one prosperous enough to own
the Fulwider Building. It's not the Ritz, granted, but
it is in downtown L.A., and my client (if that was what
he was) looked like an Okie on a good day, one which had
included a bath and a shave. 

He was wearing blue jeans pants, for one thing, and a
pair of sneakers on his feet . . . except they didn't
look like any sneakers I'd ever seen before. They were
great big clumpy things. What they really looked like were
the shoes Boris Karloff wears as part of his
Frankenstein get-up, and if they were made of canvas,
I'd eat my favorite Fedora. The word written up the
sides in red script looked like the name of a dish on a
Chinese carry-out menu: REEBOK. 

I looked down at the blotter which had once been covered
with a tangle of telephone numbers, and suddenly
realized that I could no longer remember Mavis Weld's,
although I must have called it a billion times only this
past winter. That feeling of dread intensified. 

``Mister,'' I said, ``I wish you'd state your business
and get out of here. Come to think of it, why don't you
skip the talking and just go right to the getting-out
part?'' 

He smiled . . . tiredly, I thought. That was the other
thing. The face above the plain open-collared white
shirt looked terribly tired. Terribly sad, as well. It
said the man who owned it had been through things I
couldn't even dream of. I felt some sympathy for my
visitor, but what I mostly felt was fear. And anger.
Because it was my face, too, and the bastard had
apparently gone a long way toward wearing it out. 

``Sorry, Clyde,'' he said. ``No can do.'' 

He put his hand on that tiny, cunning zipper, and all at
once Landry opening that case was the last thing in the
world I wanted. To stop him I said, ``Do you always go
visiting your tenants dressed like a guy who makes his
living following the cabbage crop? What are you, one of
those eccentric millionaires?'' 

``I'm eccentric, all right,'' he said. ``And it won't do
you any good to draw this business out, Clyde.'' 

``What gave you that ide--'' 

Then he said the thing I'd been dreading, and put out
the last tiny flicker of hope at the same time. ``I know
all your ideas, Clyde. After all, I'm you.'' 

I licked my lips and forced myself to speak; anything to
keep him from yanking that zipper. Anything at all. My
voice came out husky, but at least it did come out. 

``Yeah, I noticed the resemblance. I'm not familiar with
the cologne, though. I'm an Old Spice man, myself.'' 

His thumb and finger remained pinched on the zipper, but
he didn't pull it. At least not yet. 

``But you like this,'' he said with perfect assurance,
``and you'd use it if you could get it down at the
Rexall on the corner, wouldn't you? Unfortunately, you
can't. It's Aramis, and it won't be invented for another
forty years or so.'' He glanced down at his weird, ugly
basketball shoes. ``Like my sneakers.'' 

``The devil you say.'' 

``Well, yes, I suppose the devil might come into it
somewhere,'' Landry said, and he didn't smile. 

``Where are you from?'' 

``I thought you knew.'' Landry pulled the zipper,
revealing a rectangular gadget made of some smooth
plastic. It was the same color the seventh-floor hall
was going to be by the time the sun went down. I'd never
seen anything like it. There was no brand name on it,
just something that must have been a serial number:
T-1000. Landry lifted it out of its carrying case,
thumbed the catches on the sides, and lifted the hinged
top to reveal something that looked like the telescreen
in a Buck Rogers movie. ``I come from the future,''
Landry said. ``Just like in a pulp magazine story.'' 

``You come from Sunnyland Sanitarium, more like it,'' I
croaked. 

``But not exactly like a pulp science-fiction story,'' he
went on, ignoring what I'd said. ``No, not exactly.'' He
pushed a button on the side of the plastic case. There
was a faint whirring sound from inside the gadget,
followed by a brief, whistling beep. The thing sitting
on his lap looked like some strange stenographer's
machine . . . and I had an idea that that wasn't far
from the truth. 

He looked up at me and said, ``What was your father's
name, Clyde?'' 

I looked at him for a moment, resisting an urge to lick
my lips again. The room was still dark, the sun still
behind some cloud that hadn't even been in sight when I
came in off the street. Landry's face seemed to float in
the gloom like an old, shrivelled balloon. 

``What's that got to do with the price of cucumbers in
Monrovia?'' I asked. 

``You don't know, do you?'' 

``Of course I do,'' I said, and I did. I just couldn't
come up with it, that was all--it was stuck there on the
tip of my tongue, like Mavis Weld's phone number, which
had been BAyshore something-or-other. 

``How about your mother's?'' 

``Quit playing games with me!'' 

``Here's an easy one--what high school did you go to?
Every red- blooded American man remembers what school he
went to, right? Or the first girl he ever went all the
way with. Or the town he grew up in. Was yours San Luis
Obispo?'' 

I opened my mouth, but this time nothing came out. 

``Carmel?'' 

That sounded right . . . and then felt all wrong. My
head was whirling. 

``Or maybe it was Dusty Bottom, New Mexico.'' 

``Cut the crap!'' I shouted. 

``Do you know? Do you?'' 

``Yes! It was--'' 

He bent over. Rattled the keys of his strange steno
machine. 

``San Diego! Born and raised!'' 

He put the machine on my desk and turned it around so I
could read the words floating in the window above the
keyboard. 

``San Diego! Born and raised!'' 

My eyes dropped from the window to the word stamped into
the plastic frame surrounding it. 

``What's a Toshiba?'' I asked. ``Something that comes on
the side when you order a Reebok dinner?'' 

``It's a Japanese electronics company.'' 

I laughed dryly. ``Who're you kidding, mister? The Japs
can't even make wind-up toys without getting the springs
in upside down.'' 

``Not now,'' he agreed, ``and speaking of now, Clyde,
when is now? What year is it?'' 

``1938,'' I said, then raised a half-numb hand to my
face and rubbed my lips. 

``Wait a minute--1939.'' 

``It might even be 1940. Am I right?'' 

I said nothing, but I felt my face heating up. 

``Don't feel bad, Clyde; you don't know because I don't
know. I always left it vague. The time-frame I was
trying for was actually more of a feel . . . call it
Chandler American Time, if you like. It worked like
gangbusters for most of my readers, and it made things
simpler from a copy-editing standpoint as well, because
you can never exactly pinpoint the passage of time.
Haven't you ever noticed how often you say things like
`for more years than I can remember' or `longer ago than
I like to think about' or `since Hector was a pup'?'' 

``Nope--can't say that I have.'' But now that he
mentioned it, I did notice. And that made me think of the
L.A. Times. I read it every day, but exactly which days
were they? You couldn't tell from the paper itself,
because there was never a date on the masthead, only
that slogan which reads ``America's Fairest Newspaper in
America's Fairest City.'' 

``You say those things because time doesn't really pass
in this world. It is . . .'' He paused, then smiled. It
was a terrible thing to look at, that smile, full of
yearning and strange greed. ``It is one of its many
charms,'' he finished. 

I was scared, but I've always been able to bite the
bullet when I felt it really needed biting, and this was
one of those times. ``Tell me what the hell's going on
here.'' 

``All right . . . but you're already beginning to know,
Clyde. Aren't you?'' 

``Maybe. I don't know my dad's name or my mom's name or
the name of the first girl I ever went to bed with
because you don't know them. Is that it?'' 

He nodded, smiling the way a teacher would smile at a
pupil who's made a leap of logic and come up with the
right answer against all odds. But his eyes were still
full of that terrible sympathy. 

``And when you wrote San Diego on your gadget there and
it came into my head at the same time . . .'' 

He nodded, encouraging me. 

``It isn't just the Fulwider Building you own, is it?''
I swallowed, trying to get rid of a large blockage in my
throat that had no intention of going anywhere. ``You
own everything.'' 

But Landry was shaking his head. ``Not everything. Just Los
Angeles and a few surrounding areas. This version of Los
Angeles, that is, complete with the occasional
continuity glitch or made-up addition.'' 

``Bull,'' I said, but I whispered the word. 

``See the picture on the wall to the left of the door,
Clyde?'' 

I glanced at it, but hardly had to; it was Washington
crossing the Delaware, and it had been there since . . .
well, since Hector was a pup. 

Landry had taken his plastic Buck Rogers steno machine
back onto his lap, and was bending over it. 

``Don't do that!'' I shouted, and tried to reach for
him. I couldn't do it. My arms had no strength, it
seemed, and I could summon no resolve. I felt lethargic,
drained, as if I had lost about three pints of blood and
was losing more all the time. 

He rattled the keys again. Turned the machine toward me
so I could read the words in the window. They read: On the
wall to the left of the door leading out to Candy-Land, 
Our Revered Leader hangs . . . but always slightly askew. 
That's my way of keeping him in perspective. 

I looked back at the picture. George Washington was
gone, replaced by a photo of Franklin Roosevelt. F.D.R.
had a grin on his face and his cigarette holder jutting
upward at that angle his supporters think of as jaunty
and his detractors as arrogant. The picture was hanging
slightly askew. 

``I don't need the laptop to do it,'' he said. He
sounded a little embarrassed, as if I'd accused him of
something. ``I can do it just by concentrating--as you
saw when the numbers disappeared from your blotter--but
the laptop helps. Because I'm used to writing things
down, I suppose. And then editing them. In a way,
editing and rewriting are the most fascinating parts of
the job, because that's where the final changes--usually
small but often crucial--take place and the picture
really comes into focus.'' 

I looked back at Landry, and when I spoke, my voice was
dead. ``You made me up, didn't you?'' 

He nodded, looking strangely ashamed, as if what he had
done was something dirty. 

``When?'' I uttered a strange, croaky little laugh. ``Or
is that the right question?'' 

``I don't know if it is or isn't,'' he said, ``and I
imagine any writer would tell you about the same. It
didn't happen all at once--that much I'm sure of. It's
been an ongoing process. You first showed up in Scarlet
Town, but I wrote that back in 1977 and you've changed a
lot since then.'' 

1977, I thought. A Buck Rogers year for sure. I didn't
want to believe this was happening, wanted to believe it
was all a dream. Oddly enough, it was the smell of his
cologne that kept me from being able to do that--that
familiar smell I'd never smelled in my life. How could I
have? It was Aramis, a brand as unfamiliar to me as
Toshiba. 

But he was going on. 

``You've grown a lot more complex and interesting. You
were pretty one-dimensional to start with.'' He cleared
his throat and smiled down at his hands for a moment.
``What a pisser for me.'' 

He winced a little at the anger in my voice, but made
himself look up again, just the same. ``Your last book
was How Like a Fallen Angel. I started that one in 1990, but it
took until 1993 to finish. I've had some problems in the
interim. My life has been . . . interesting.'' He gave
the word an ugly, bitter twist. ``Writers don't do their
best work during interesting times, Clyde. Take my word
for it.'' 

I glanced at the baggy way his hobo clothes hung on him
and decided he might have a point there. ``Maybe that's
why you screwed up in such a big way on this one,'' I
said. ``That stuff about the lottery and the forty
thousand dollars was pure guff--they pay off in pesos
south of the border.'' 

``I knew that,'' he said mildly. ``I'm not saying I
don't goof up from time to time--I may be a kind of God
in this world, or to this world, but in my own I'm
perfectly human--but when I do goof up, you and your
fellow characters never know it, Clyde, because my
mistakes and continuity lapses are part of your truth.
No, Peoria was lying. I knew it, and I wanted you to know
it.'' 

``Why?'' 

He shrugged, again looking uneasy and a little ashamed.
``To prepare you for my coming a little, I suppose.
That's what all of it was for, starting with the
Demmicks. I didn't want to scare you any more than I had
to.'' 

Any private eye worth his salt has a pretty good idea
when the person in the client's chair is lying and when
he's telling the truth; knowing when the client is
telling the truth but purposely leaving gaps is a rarer
talent, and I doubt if even the geniuses among us can
tap it all the time. Maybe I was only tapping it now
because my brainwaves and Landry's were marching in
lock-step, but I was tapping it. There was stuff he
wasn't telling me. The question was whether or not I
should call him on it. 

What stopped me was a sudden, horrible intuition that
came waltzing out of nowhere, like a ghost oozing out of
the wall of a haunted house. It had to do with the
Demmicks. The reason they'd been so quiet last night was
because dead people don't engage in marital spats--it's
one of those rules, like the one that says crap rolls
downhill, that you can pretty much count on through
thick and thin. >From almost the first moment I'd met
him, I'd sensed there was a violent temper under
George's urbane top layer, and that there might be a
sharp-clawed bitch lurking in the shadows behind Gloria
Demmick's pretty face and daffy demeanor. They were just
a little too Cole Porter to be true, if you see what I
mean. And now I was somehow sure that George had finally
snapped and killed his wife . . . probably their yappy
Welsh Corgi, as well. Gloria might be sitting propped up
in the bathroom corner between the shower and the toilet
right now, her face black, her eyes bulging like old
dull marbles, her tongue protruding between her blue
lips. The dog was lying with its head in her lap and a
wire coathanger twisted around its neck, its shrill bark
stilled forever. And George? Dead on the bed with
Gloria's bottle of Veronals--now empty--standing beside
him on the night-table. No more parties, no more
jitterbugging at Al Arif, no more frothy upper-class
murder cases in Palm Desert or Beverly Glen. They were
cooling off now, drawing flies, growing pale under their
fashionable poolside tans. 

George and Gloria Demmick, who had died inside this
man's machine. Who had died inside this man's head. 

``You did one lousy job of not scaring me,'' I said, and
immediately wondered if it would have been possible for
him to do a good one. Ask yourself this: how do you get
a person ready to meet God? I'll bet even Moses got a
little hot under the robe when he saw that bush start to
glow, and I'm nothing but a shamus who works for forty a
day plus expenses. 

``How Like a Fallen Angel was the Mavis Weld story. The name,
Mavis Weld, is from a novel called The Little Sister By
Raymond Chandler.'' He looked at me with a kind of
troubled uncertainty that had some small whiff of guilt
in it. ``It's an hommage.'' He said the first syllable so
it rhymed with Rome. 

``Bully for you,'' I said, ``but the guy's name rings no
bells.'' 

``Of course not. In your world--which is my version of
L.A., of course --Chandler never existed. Nevertheless,
I've used all sorts of names from his books in mine. The
Fulwider Building is where Chandler's detective, Philip
Marlowe, had his office. Vernon Klein . . . Peoria Smith
. . . and Clyde Umney, of course. That was the name of
the lawyer in Playback.'' 

``And you call those things hommages?'' 

``That's right.'' 

``If you say so, but it sounds like a fancy word for
plain old copying to me.'' But it made me feel funny,
knowing that my name had been made up by a man I'd never
heard of in a world I'd never dreamed of. 

Landry had the good grace to flush, but his eyes didn't
drop. 

``All right; perhaps I did do a little pilfering.
Certainly I adopted Chandler's style for my own, but I'm
hardly the first; Ross Macdonald did the same thing in
the fifties and sixties, Robert Parker did it in the
seventies and eighties, and the critics decked them with
laurel leaves for it. Besides, Chandler learned from
Hammett and Hemingway, not to mention pulp-writers
like--'' 

I held up my hand. ``Let's skip the lit class and get
down to the bottom line. This is crazy, but--'' My eyes
drifted to the picture of Roosevelt, from there they
went to the eerily blank blotter, and from there they
went back to the haggard face on the other side of the
desk. ``--but let's say I believe it. What are you doing
here? What did you come for?'' 

Except I already knew. I detect for a living, but the
answer to that one came from my heart, not my head. 

``I came for you.'' 

``For me.'' 

``Sorry, yes. I'm afraid you'll have to start thinking
of your life in a new way, Clyde. As . . . well . . . a
pair of shoes, let's say. You're stepping out and I'm
stepping in. And once I've got the laces tied, I'm going
to walk away.'' 

Of course. Of course he was. And I suddenly knew what I
had to do . . . the only thing I could do. 

Get rid of him. 

I let a big smile spread across my face. A tell-me-more
smile. At the same time I coiled my legs under me,
getting them ready to launch me across the desk at him.
Only one of us could leave this office, that much was
clear. I intended to be the one. 

``Oh, really?'' I said. ``How fascinating. And what
happens to me, Sammy? What happens to the shoeless
private eye? What happens to Clyde--'' 

Umney, the last word was supposed to be my last name, the
last word this interloping, invading thief would ever
hear in his life. The minute it was out of my mouth I
intended to leap. The trouble was, that telepathy
business seemed to work both ways. I saw an expression
of alarm dawn in his eyes, and then they slipped shut
and his mouth tightened with concentration. He didn't
bother with the Buck Rogers machine; I suppose he knew
there was no time for it. 

`` `His revelations hit me like some kind of
debilitating drug,' '' he said, speaking in the low but
carrying tone of one who recites rather than simply
speaking. `` `All the strength went out of my muscles,
my legs felt like a couple of strands of al dente
spaghetti, and all I could do was flop back in my chair
and look at him.' '' 

I flopped back in my chair, my legs uncoiling beneath
me, unable to do anything but look at him. 

``Not very good,'' he said apologetically, ``but rapid
composition has never been a strong point of mine.'' 

``You bastard,'' I rasped weakly. ``You son of a
bitch.'' 

``Yes,'' he agreed. ``I suppose I am.'' 

``Why are you doing this? Why are you stealing my
life?'' 

His eyes flickered with anger at that. ``Your life? You
know better than that, Clyde, even if you don't want to
admit it. It isn't your life at all. I made you up,
starting on one rainy day in January of 1977 and
continuing right up to the present time. I gave you your
life, and it's mine to take away.'' 

``Very noble,'' I sneered, ``but if God came down here
right now and started yanking your life apart like bad
stitches in a scarf, you might find it a little easier
to appreciate my point of view.'' 

``All right,'' he said, ``I suppose you've got a point.
But why argue it? Arguing with one's self is like
playing solitaire chess--a fair game results in a
stalemate every time. Let's just say I'm doing it
because I can.'' 

I felt a little calmer, all of a sudden. I had been down
this street before. When they got the drop on you, you
had to get them talking and keep them talking. It had
worked with Mavis Weld and it would work here. They said
stuff like Well, I suppose it won't hurt you to know now or What harm can it
do? 

Mavis's version had been downright elegant: I want you to
know, Umney--I want you to take the truth to hell with you. 
You can pass it on to the devil over cake and coffee. It 
really didn't matter what they said, but if they were 
talking, they weren't shooting. 

Always keep em talking, that was the thing. Keep em
talking and just hope the cavalry would show up from
somewhere. 

``The question is, why do you want to?'' I asked. ``It's
hardly the usual thing, is it? I mean, aren't you writer
types usually content to cash the checks when they come,
and go about your business?'' 

``You're trying to keep me talking, Clyde. Aren't you?''

That hit me like a sucker-punch to the gut, but playing
it down to the last card was the only choice I had. I
grinned and shrugged. ``Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I
really do want to know.'' And there was no lie in that. 

He looked unsure for a moment longer, bent over and
touched the keys inside that strange plastic case (I
felt cramps in my legs and gut and chest as he stroked
them), then straightened up again. 

``I suppose it won't hurt you to know now,'' he said
finally. ``After all, what harm can it do?'' 

``Not a bit.'' 

``You're a clever boy, Clyde,'' he said, ``and you're
perfectly right --writers very rarely plunge all the way
into the worlds they've created, and when they do I
think they end up doing it strictly in their heads,
while their bodies vegetate in some mental asylum. Most
of us are content simply to be tourists in the country
of our imaginations. Certainly that was the case with
me. I'm not a fast writer--composition has always been
torture for me, I think I told you that--but I managed
five Clyde Umney books in ten years, each more
successful than the last. In 1983 I left my job as
regional manager for a big insurance company and started
to write full-time. I had a wife I loved, a little boy
that kicked the sun out of bed every morning and put it
to bed every night--that's how it seemed to me,
anyway--and I didn't think life could get any better.'' 

He shifted in the overstuffed client's chair, moved his
hand, and I saw the cigarette burn Ardis McGill had put
in the over-stuffed arm was also gone. He voiced a
bitterly cold laugh. 

``And I was right,'' he said. ``It couldn't get any
better, but it could get a whole hell of a lot worse. And
did. About three months after I started How Like a Fallen
Angel, Danny--our little boy--fell out of a swing in the
park and bashed his head. Cold-conked himself, in your
parlance.'' 

A brief smile, every bit as cold and bitter as the laugh
had been, crossed his face. It came and went at the
speed of grief. 

``He bled a lot--you've seen enough head-wounds in your
time to know how they are--and it scared the crap out of
Linda, but the doctors were good and it did turn out to
be only a concussion; they got him stabilized and gave
him a pint of blood to make up for what he'd lost. Maybe
they didn't have to--and that haunts me--but they did.
The real problem wasn't with his head, you see; it was
with that pint of blood. It was infected with AIDS.'' 

``Come again?'' 

``It's something you can thank your God you don't know
about,'' Landry said. ``It doesn't exist in your time,
Clyde. It won't show up until the mid-seventies. Like
Aramis cologne.'' 

``What does it do?'' 

``Eats away at your immune system until the whole thing
collapses like the wonderful one-hoss shay. Then every
bug circling around out there, from cancer to chicken
pox, rushes in and has a party.'' 

``Good Christ!'' 

His smile came and went like a cramp. ``If you say so.
AIDS is primarily a sexually transmitted disease, but
every now and then it pops up in the blood supply. I
suppose you could say my kid won big in a very unlucky
version of la lotería.'' 

``I'm sorry,'' I said, and although I was scared to
death of this thin man with the tired face, I meant it.
Losing a kid to something like that . . . what could be
worse? Probably something, yeah--there's always
something--but you'd have to sit down and think about
it, wouldn't you? 

``Thanks,'' he said. ``Thanks, Clyde. It went fast for
him, at least. He fell out of the swing in May. The
first purple blotches-- Kaposi's sarcoma--showed up in
time for his birthday in September. He died on March 18,
1991. And maybe he didn't suffer as much as some of them
do, but he suffered. Oh yes, he suffered.'' 

I didn't have the slightest idea what Kaposi's sarcoma
was, either, and decided I didn't want to ask. I knew
more than I wanted to already. 

``You can maybe understand why it slowed me down a
little on your book,'' he said. ``Can't you, Clyde?'' 

I nodded. 

``I pushed on, though. Mostly because I think
make-believe is a great healer. Maybe I have to believe
that. I tried to get on with my life, too, but things
kept going wrong with it--it was as if How Like a Fallen Angel
was some kind of weird bad-luck charm that had turned me
into Job. My wife went into a deep depression following
Danny's death, and I was so concerned with her that I
hardly noticed the red patches that had started breaking
out on my legs and stomach and chest. And the itching. I
knew it wasn't AIDS, and at first that was all I was
concerned with. But as time went on and things got worse
. . . have you ever had shingles, Clyde?'' 

Then he laughed and clapped the heel of his hand to his
forehead in a what-a-dunce-I-am gesture before I could
shake my head. 

``Of course you haven't--you've never had more than a
hangover. Shingles, my shamus friend, is a funny name
for a terrible, chronic ailment. There's some pretty
good medicine available to help alleviate the symptoms
in my version of Los Angeles, but it wasn't helping me
much; by the end of 1991 I was in agony. Part of it was
general depression over what had happened to Danny, of
course, but most of it was the agony and the itching.
That would make an interesting book title about a
tortured writer, don't you think? The Agony and the Itching, or,
Thomas Hardy Faces Puberty.'' He voiced a harsh, distracted
little laugh. 

``Whatever you say, Sam.'' 

``I say it was a season in hell. Of course it's easy to
make light of it now, but by Thanksgiving of that year
it was no joke--I was getting three hours of sleep a
night, tops, and I had days when it felt like my skin
was trying to crawl right off my body and run away like
The Gingerbread Man. And I suppose that's why I didn't
see how bad it was getting with Linda.'' 

I didn't know, couldn't know . . . but I did. ``She killed
herself.'' 

He nodded. ``In March of 1992, on the anniversary of
Daniel's death. Over two years ago now.'' 

A single tear tracked down his wrinkled, prematurely
aged cheek, and I had an idea that he had gotten old in
one hell of a hurry. It was sort of awful, realizing I
had been made by such a bush-league version of God, but
it also explained a lot. My shortcomings, mainly. 

``That's enough,'' he said in a voice which was blurred
with anger as well as tears. ``Get to the point, you'd
say. In my time we say cut to the chase, but it comes to
the same. I finished the book. On the day I discovered
Linda dead in bed--the way the police are going to find
Gloria Demmick later today, Clyde--I had finished one
hundred and ninety pages of manuscript. I was up to the
part where you fish Mavis's brother out of Lake Tahoe. I
came home from the funeral three days later, fired up
the word-processor, and got started right in on page
one-ninety-one. Does that shock you?'' 

``No,'' I said. I thought about asking him what a
word-processor might be, then decided I didn't have to.
The thing in his lap was a word-processor, of course.
Had to be. 

``You're in a decided minority,'' Landry said. ``It
shocked what few friends I had left, shocked them
plenty. Linda's relatives thought I had all the emotion
of a warthog. I didn't have the energy to explain that I
was trying to save myself. Frog them, as Peoria would
say. I grabbed my book the way a drowning man would grab
a life-ring. I grabbed you, Clyde. My case of the
shingles was still bad, and that slowed me down--to some
extent it kept me out, or I might have gotten here
sooner--but it didn't stop me. I started getting a
little better--physically, at least--right around the
time I finished the book. But when I had finished, I fell
into what I suppose must have been my own state of
depression. I went through the edited script in a kind
of daze. I felt such a feeling of regret . . . of loss . . .''
He looked directly at me and said, ``Does any of this
make any sense to you?'' 

``It makes sense,'' I said. And it did. In a crazy sort
of way. 

``There were lots of pills left in the house,'' he said.
``Linda and I were like the Demmicks in a lot of ways,
Clyde--we really did believe in living better
chemically, and a couple of times I came very close to
taking a couple of double handfuls. The way the thought
always came to me wasn't in terms of suicide, but in
terms of wanting to catch up to Linda and Danny. To
catch up while there was still time.'' 

I nodded. It was what I'd thought about Ardis McGill
when, three days after we'd said toodle-oo to each other
in Blondie's, I'd found her in that stuffy attic room
with a small blue hole in the center of her forehead.
Except it had been Sam Landry who had really killed her,
and who had accomplished the deed with a kind of
flexible bullet to the brain. Of course it had been. In
my world Sam Landry, this tired- looking man in the
hobo's pants, was responsible for everything. The idea
should have seemed crazy, and it did . . . but it was
getting saner all the time. 

I found I had just energy enough to swivel my chair and
look out my window. What I saw somehow did not surprise
me in the least: Sunset Boulevard and all that
surrounded it had frozen solid. Cars, buses,
pedestrians, all stopped dead in their tracks. It was a
Kodak snapshot world out there, and why not? Its creator
could not be bothered with animating much of it, at
least for the time being; he was still caught in the
whirlpool of his own pain and grief. Hell, I was lucky
to still be breathing myself. 

``So what happened?'' I asked. ``How did you get here,
Sam? Can I call you that? Do you mind?'' 

``No, I don't mind. I can't give you a very good answer,
though, because I don't exactly know. All I know for
sure is that every time I thought of the pills, I
thought of you. What I thought specifically was, `Clyde
Umney would never do this, and he'd sneer at anyone who
did. He'd call it the coward's way out.' '' 

I considered that, found it fair enough, and nodded. For
someone staring some horrible ailment in the
face--Vernon's cancer, or the misbegotten nightmare that
had killed this man's son--I might make an exception,
but take the pipe just because you were depressed? That
was for pansies. 

``Then I thought, `But that's Clyde Umney, and Clyde is
make-believe . . . just a figment of your imagination.'
That idea wouldn't live, though. It's the dumbbells of
the world--politicians and lawyers, for the most
part--who sneer at imagination, and think a thing isn't
real unless they can smoke it or stroke it or feel it or
fuck it. They think that way because they have no
imagination themselves, and they have no idea of its
power. I knew better. Hell, I ought to-- my imagination
has been buying my food and paying the mortgage for the
last ten years or so. 

``At the same time, I knew I couldn't go on living in
what I used to think of as `the real world,' by which I
suppose we all mean `the only world.' That's when I
started to realize there was only one place left where I
could go and feel welcome, and only one person I could
be when I got there. The place was here--Los Angeles, in
1930-something. And the person was you.'' 

I heard that faint whirring sound coming from inside his
gadget again, but I didn't turn around. 

Partly because I was afraid to. 

And partly because I no longer knew if I could. 

_______________________________________________________________________

VI. Umney's Last Case. 

On the street seven stories below, a man was frozen with
his head half-turned to look at the woman on the corner,
who was climbing up the step of the eight-fifty bus
headed downtown. She had exposed a momentary length of
beautiful leg, and this was what the man was looking at.
A little farther down the street a boy was holding out
his battered old baseball glove to catch the ball frozen
in mid-air just above his head. And, floating six feet
above the street like a ghost called up by a third-rate
swami at a carnival seance, was one of the newspapers
from Peoria Smith's overturned table. Incredibly, I
could see the two photographs on it from up here: Hitler
above the fold, the recently deceased Cuban bandleader
below it. 

Landry's voice seemed to come from a long way off. 

``At first I thought that meant I'd be spending the rest
of my life in some nut-ward, thinking I was you, but
that was all right, because it would only be my physical
self locked up in the funny-farm, do you see? And then,
gradually, I began to realize that it could be a lot
more than that . . . that maybe there might be a way I
could actually . . . well . . . slip all the way in. And
do you know what the key was?'' 

``Yes,'' I said, not looking around. That whir came
again as something in his gadget revolved, and suddenly
the newspaper frozen in mid-air flapped off down the
frozen Boulevard. A moment or two later an old DeSoto
rolled jerkily through the intersection of Sunset and
Fernando. It struck the boy wearing the baseball glove,
and both he and the DeSoto sedan disappeared. Not the
ball, though. It fell into the street, rolled halfway to
the gutter, then froze solid again. 

``You do?'' He sounded surprised. 

``Yeah. Peoria was the key.'' 

``That's right.'' He laughed, then cleared his
throat--nervous sounds, both of them. ``I keep
forgetting that you're me.'' 

It was a luxury I didn't have. 

``I was fooling around with a new book, and not getting
anywhere. I'd tried Chapter One six different ways to
Sunday before realizing a really interesting thing:
Peoria Smith didn't like you.'' 

That made me swing around in a hurry. ``The hell you
say!'' 

``I didn't think you'd believe it, but it's the truth,
and I'd somehow known it all along. I don't want to
convene the lit class again, Clyde, but I'll tell you
one thing about my trade--writing stories in the first
person is a funny, tricky business. It's as if
everything the writer knows comes from his main
character, like a series of letters or dispatches from
some far-off battle zone. It's very rare for the writer
to have a secret, but in this case I did. It was as if
your little part of Sunset Boulevard were the Garden of
Eden--'' 

``I never heard it called that before,'' I remarked. 

``--and there was a snake in it, one I saw and you
didn't. A snake named Peoria Smith.'' 

Outside, the frozen world that he'd called my Garden of
Eden continued to darken, although the sky was
cloudless. The Red Door, a nightclub reputedly owned by
Lucky Luciano, disappeared. For a moment there was just
a hole where it had been, and then a new building filled
it--a restaurant called Petit Déjeuner with a window
full of ferns. I glanced up the street and saw that
other changes were going on--new buildings were
replacing old ones with silent, spooky speed. They meant
I was running out of time; I knew this. Unfortunately, I
knew something else, as well--there was probably not
going to be any nick in this bundle of time. When God
walks into your office and tells you He's decided he
likes your life better than His own, what the hell are
your options? 

``I junked all the various drafts of the novel I'd
started two months after my wife's death,'' Landry said.
``It was easy--poor crippled things that they were. And
then I started a new one. I called it . . . can you
guess, Clyde?'' 

``Sure,'' I said, and swung around. It took all my
strength, but what I suppose this geek would call my
``motivation'' was good. Sunset Strip isn't exactly the
Champs Elysees or Hyde Park, but it's my world. I didn't
want to watch him tear it apart and rebuild it the way 
he wanted it. ``I suppose you called it Umney's Last Case.'' 

He looked faintly surprised. ``You suppose right.'' 

I waved my hand. It was an effort, but I managed. ``I
didn't win the Shamus of the Year Award in 1934 and '35
for nothing, you know.'' 

He smiled at that. ``Yes. I always did like that line.'' 

Suddenly I hated him--hated him like poison. If I could
have summoned the strength to lunge across the desk and
choke the life out of him, I would have done it. He saw
it, too. The smile faded. 

``Forget it, Clyde--you wouldn't have a chance.'' 

``Why don't you get out of here?'' I grated at him.
``Just get out and let a working stiff alone?'' 

``Because I can't. I couldn't even if I wanted to . . .
and I don't.'' He looked at me with an odd mixture of
anger and pleading. ``Try to look at it from my point of
view, Clyde--'' 

``Do I have any choice? Have I ever?'' 

He ignored that. ``Here's a world where I'll never get
any older, a year where all the clocks are stopped at
just about eighteen months before World War II, where
the newspapers always cost three cents, where I can eat
all the eggs and red meat I want and never have to worry
about my cholesterol level.'' 

``I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking
about.'' 

He leaned forward earnestly. ``No, you don't! And that's
exactly the point, Clyde! This is a world where I can 
really do the job I dreamed about doing when I was a
little boy--I can be a private eye. I can go racketing
around in a fast car at two in the morning, shoot it out
with hoodlums--knowing they may die but I won't--and
wake up eight hours later next to a beautiful chanteuse
with the birds twittering in the trees and the sun
shining in my bedroom window. That clear, beautiful
California sun.'' 

``My bedroom window faces west,'' I said. 

``Not anymore,'' he replied calmly, and I felt my hands
curl into strengthless fists on the arms of my chair.
``Do you see how wonderful it is? How perfect? In this
world, people don't go half-mad with itching caused by a
stupid, undignified disease called shingles. In this
world, people don't go gray, let alone bald.'' 

He looked at me levelly, and in his gaze I saw no hope
for me. No hope at all. 

``In this world, beloved sons never die of AIDS and
beloved wives never take overdoses of sleeping pills.
Besides, you were always the outsider here, not me, no
matter how it might have felt to you. This is my world,
born in my imagination and maintained by my effort and
ambition. I loaned it to you for awhile, that's all . .
. and now I'm taking it back.'' 

``Finish telling me how you got in, will you do that
much? I really want to hear.'' 

``It was easy. I tore it apart, starting with the
Demmicks, who were never much more than a lousy
imitation of Nick and Nora Charles, and rebuilt it in my
own image. I took away all the beloved supporting
characters, and now I'm removing all the old landmarks.
I'm pulling the rug out from under you a strand at a
time, in other words, and I'm not proud of it, but I am
proud of the sustained effort of will it's taken to pull
it off.'' 

`What's happened to you back in your own world?'' I was
still keeping him talking, but now it was nothing but
habit, like an old milk-horse finding his way back to
the barn on a snowy morning. 

He shrugged. ``Dead, maybe. Or maybe I really have left
a physical self--a husk--sitting catatonic in some
mental institution. I don't think either of those things
is really the case, though--all of this feels too real.
No, I think I made it all the way, Clyde. I think that
back home they're looking for a missing writer . . .
with no idea that he's disappeared into the storage
banks of his own word-processor. And the truth is I
really don't care.'' 

``And me? What happens to me?'' 

``Clyde,'' he said, ``I don't care about that, either.''

He bent over his gadget again. 

``Don't!'' I said sharply. 

He looked up. 

``I . . .'' I heard the quiver in my voice, tried to
control it, and found I couldn't. ``Mister, I'm afraid.
Please leave me alone. I know it's not really my world
out there anymore--hell, in here, either--but it's the
only world I'll ever come close to knowing. Let me have
what's left of it. Please.'' 

``Too late, Clyde.'' Again I heard that merciless regret
in his voice. ``Close your eyes. I'll make it as fast as
I can.'' 

I tried to jump him--I tried as hard as I could. I
didn't move so much as an iota. And as far as closing my
eyes went, I discovered I didn't need to. All the light
had gone out of the day, and the office was as dark as
midnight in a coalsack. 

I sensed rather than saw him lean over the desk toward
me. I tried to draw back and discovered I couldn't even
do that. Something dry and rustly touched my hand and I
screamed. 

``Take it easy, Clyde.'' His voice, coming out of the
darkness. Coming not just from in front of me but from
everywhere. Of course, I thought. After all, I'm a figment of his
imagination. ``It's only a check.'' 

``A . . . check?'' 

``Yes. For five thousand dollars. You've sold me the
business. The painters will scratch your name off the
door and paint mine on before they leave tonight.'' He
sounded dreamy. ``Samuel D. Landry, Private Detective.
It's got a great ring, doesn't it?'' 

I tried to beg and found I couldn't. Now even my voice
had failed me. 

``Get ready,'' he said. ``I don't know exactly what's
coming, Clyde, but it's coming now. I don't think it'll
hurt.'' But I don't really care if it does--that was the part he
didn't say. 

That faint whirring sound came out of the blackness. I
felt my chair melt away beneath me, and suddenly I was
falling. Landry's voice fell with me, reciting along
with the clicks and taps of his fabulous futuristic
steno machine, reciting the last two sentences of a
novel called Umney's Last Case. 

`` `So I left town, and as to where I finished up . . .
well, mister, I think that's my business. Don't you?' ''

There was a brilliant green light below me. I was
falling toward it. Soon it would consume me, and the
only feeling I had was one of relief. 

`` `THE END,' '' Landry's voice boomed, and then I fell
into the green light, it was shining through me, in me,
and Clyde Umney was no more. 

So long, shamus. 

_______________________________________________________________________

VII. The Other Side of the Light. 

All that was six months ago. 

I came to on the floor of a gloomy room with a humming
in my ears, pushed myself to my knees, shook my head to
clear it, and looked up into the bright green glare I'd
fallen through, like Alice through the looking glass. I
saw a Buck Rogers machine that was the big brother of
the one Landry had brought into my office. Green letters
shone on it and I pushed myself to my feet so I could
read them, absently running my fingernails up and down
over my lower arms as I did so: 

So I left town, and as to where I finished up . . . 
well, mister, I think that's my business. Don't you? 

And below that, capitalized and centered, two more
words: THE END. 

I read it again, now running my fingers over my stomach.
I was doing it because there was something wrong with my
skin, something that wasn't exactly painful but was
certainly bothersome. As soon as it rose to the fore in
my mind, I realized that weird sensation was going on
everywhere--the nape of my neck, the backs of my thighs,
in my crotch. 

Shingles, I thought suddenly. I've got Landry's shingles. 
What I'm feeling is itching, and the reason I didn't 
recognize it right away is because-- 

``Because I've never had an itch before,'' I said, and
then the rest of it clicked into place. The click was so
sudden and so hard that I actually swayed on my feet. I
walked slowly across to a mirror on the wall, trying not
to scratch my weirdly crawling skin, knowing I was going
to see an aged version of my face, a face cut with lines
like old dry washes and topped with a shock of
lackluster white hair. 

Now I knew what happened when writers somehow took over
the lives of the characters they had created. It wasn't
exactly theft after all. 

More of a swap. 

I stood staring into Landry's face--my face, only aged
fifteen hard years--and felt my skin tingling and
buzzing. Hadn't he said his shingles had been getting
better? If this was better, how had he endured worse
without going completely insane? 

I was in Landry's house, of course--my house, now--and
in the bathroom off the study, I found the medication he
took for his shingles. I took my first dose less than an
hour after I came to on the floor below his desk and the
humming machine on it, and it was as if I had swallowed
his life instead of medicine. 

As if I'd swallowed his whole life. 

These days the shingles are a thing of the past, I'm
happy to report. Maybe it just ran its course, but I
like to think that the old Clyde Umney spirit had
something to do with it--Clyde was never sick a day in
his life, you know, and although I seem to always have
the sniffles in this run-down Sam Landry body, I'll be
damned if I'll give in to them . . . and since when did
it hurt to turn on a little of that positive thinking? I
think the correct answer to that one is ``since never.''

There have been some pretty bad days, though, the first
one coming less than twenty-four hours after I showed up
in the unbelievable year of 1994. I was looking through
Landry's fridge for something to eat (I'd pigged out on
his Black Horse Ale the night before and felt it
couldn't hurt my hangover to eat something) when a
sudden pain knifed into my guts. I thought I was dying.
It got worse, and I knew I was dying. I fell to the
kitchen floor, trying not to scream. A moment or two
later, something happened, and the pain eased. 

Most of my life I've been using the phrase ``I don't
give a shit.'' All that has changed, starting that
morning. I cleaned myself up, then climbed the stairs,
knowing what I'd find in the bedroom: wet sheets in
Landry's bed. 

My first week in Landry's world was spent mostly in
toilet-training myself. In my world, of course, nobody
ever went to the bathroom. Or to the dentist, for that
matter, and my first trip to the one listed in Landry's
Rolodex is something I don't even want to think about,
let alone discuss. 

But there's been an occasional rose in this nest of
brambles. For one thing, there's been no need to go
job-hunting in Landry's confusing, jet-propelled world;
his books apparently continue to sell very well, and I
have no problem cashing the checks that come in the
mail. My signature and his are, of course, identical. As
for any moral compunctions I might have about doing
that, don't make me laugh. Those checks are for stories
about me. Landry only wrote them; I lived them. Hell, I
deserved fifty thou and a rabies shot just for getting
within scratching distance of Mavis Weld's claws. 

I expected to have problems with Landry's so-called
friends, but I suppose a heavy-duty shamus like me
should have known better--would a guy with any real
friends want to disappear into a world he'd created on
the soundstage of his own imagination? Not likely.
Landry's friends were his son and his wife, and they
were dead. There are acquaintances and neighbors, but
they seem to accept me as him. The woman across the
street throws me puzzled glances from time to time, and
her little girl cries when I come near even though I
used to baby-sit for them every now and then (the woman 
says I did, anyway, and why would she lie?), but that's
no big deal. 

I have even spoken to Landry's agent, a guy from New
York named Verrill. He wants to know when I'm going to
start a new book. 

Soon, I tell him. Soon. 

Mostly I stay in. I have no urge to explore the world
Landry pushed me into when he pushed me out of my own; I
see more than I want to on my once-weekly trip to the
bank and the grocery store, and I threw a bookend
through his awful television machine less than two hours
after I figured out how to use it. It doesn't surprise
me that Landry wanted to leave this groaning world with
its freight of disease and senseless violence--a world
where naked women dance in nightclub windows, and sex
with them can kill you. 

No, I spend my time inside, mostly. I have re-read each
of his novels, and each one is like leafing through the
pages of a well-loved scrapbook. And I've taught myself
to use his word-processing machine, of course. It's not
like the television machine; the screen is similar, but
on the word-processor, you can make whatever pictures you
want to see, because they all come from inside your own
head. 

I like that. 

I've been getting ready, you see--trying sentences and
discarding them the way you try pieces in a jigsaw
puzzle. And this morning I wrote a few that seem right .
. . or almost right. Want to hear? Okay, here goes: 

When I looked toward the door, I saw a very chastened, 
very downcast Peoria Smith standing there. ``I guess 
I treated you pretty bad the last time I saw you, Mr. Umney,''
he said. ``I came to say I'm sorry.'' It had been 
over six months, but he looked the same as ever. And 
I do mean the same. 

``You're still wearing your cheaters,'' I said. 

``Yeah. We tried the operation, but it didn't work.'' 
He sighed, then grinned and shrugged. In that moment 
he looked like the Peoria I'd always known. ``What the hey,
Mr. Umney--bein blind ain't so bad.'' 

It isn't perfect; sure, I know that. I started out as a
detective, not a writer. But I believe you can do just
about anything, if you want to bad enough, and when you
get right down to where the cheese binds, this is a kind
of keyhole-peeping, too. The size and shape of the
word-processor keyhole are a little different, but it's
still looking into other people's lives and then
reporting back to the client on what you saw. 

I'm teaching myself for one very simple reason: I don't
want to be here. You can call it L.A. in 1994 if you
want to; I call it hell. It's awful frozen dinners you
cook in a box called a ``microwave,'' it's sneakers that
look like Frankenstein shoes, it's music that comes out
of the radio sounding like crows being steamed alive in
a pressure-cooker, it's-- 

Well, it's everything. 

I want my life back, I want things the way they were,
and I think I know how to make that happen. 

You're one sad, thieving bastard, Sam--may I still call
you that?-- and I feel sorry for you . . . but sorry
only stretches so far, because the operant word here is 
thieving. My original opinion on the subject hasn't changed
at all, you see--I still don't believe that the ability
to create conveys the right to steal. 

What are you doing right this minute, you thief? Eating
dinner at that Petit Déjeuner restaurant you made up?
Sleeping beside some gorgeous honey with perfect no-sag
breasts and murder up the sleeve of her negligee?
Driving down to Malibu with carefree abandon? Or just
kicking back in the old office chair, enjoying your
painless, odorless, shitless life? What are you doing? 

I've been teaching myself to write, that's what I've been
doing, and now that I've found my way in, I think I'll
get better in a hurry. Already I can almost see you. 

Tomorrow morning, Clyde and Peoria are going to go down
to Blondie's, which has re-opened for business. This
time Peoria's going to take Clyde up on that breakfast
offer. That will be step two. 

Yes, I can almost see you, Sam, and pretty soon I will.
But I don't think you'll see me. Not until I step out
from behind my office door and wrap my hands around your
throat. 

This time nobody goes home.
_______________________________________________________________________