Росс Макдональд - The Three Roads

Taylor was as meek as a kitten and didn’t say a word until they were inside the apartment. Then he asked where the bathroom was and made a run for it. While Taylor was retching and cawing into the toilet bowl, Larry took his collection of autographed nudes off the wall and shut them up in a drawer. As long as things were sort of vague like this between them, he figured he might as well concentrate on making a good impression. The way things were going he and Taylor might end up as bosom pals. And that would be a belly laugh of the first water. He was a card, all right, a real wag out of the top drawer with bells on. In a way he regretted he didn’t have an audience for this, but naturally there was nobody he could trust. He was so slick he barely trusted himself.

When Taylor came out of the bathroom, he looked ready for nothing but bed. Because there was no blood in his face his tan was a dirty jaundice yellow. His forehead was shining with sweat, and his eyes were still watering from the nausea. He was walking straighter though, and that was a good sign.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah. I had some stuff to get rid of. I’m not used to drinking whisky.”

“How’s your head?”

“Not so bad. It doesn’t seem to be bleeding.”

“You’re lucky the bottle didn’t break.”

“I suppose I am. Well, I’ll be shoving off–”

“Don’t do that, Lieutenant. Where do you want to go?”

“By the way, my name’s Taylor.” He shook Larry’s hand. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Forget it. You’re in no shape to go out again right away. You got a place to stay?”

“No, not exactly. But I couldn’t possibly take up any more of your time.”

“Hell, stay here. You can sleep in the other bed. Give me a reason why not.”

“It’s very good of you–”

“Nuts. I’d do the same for anybody, for any veteran, that is. The way I look at it we all owe something to you guys that fought the war.” Jesus, what corn! But he certainly put some real sincerity into the lines.

“If you’re certain it wouldn’t put you out in any way. I admit I don’t feel much like looking for a room tonight.”

“Consider the question closed, Lieutenant. You can stay here as long as you like. You can even wear a suit of my pajamas – we’re about the same size, eh? And don’t say another word. Your bed’s right in here.”

By ten thirty Bret was sleeping again, and Larry slipped out quietly to keep his appointment with Paula West.

Bret’s mind resisted the clarity of the morning. He half woke and half opened his eyes, painfully conscious of the shining razors of light that slid through the openings of the Venetian blinds. He closed his eyes again, groping for the severed ends of his dreams. But the shadows of the dream evaded him, fleeing backward down the tunnel of sleep like insubstantial ghosts. Consciousness took hold of him like an obstetrical forceps and pulled him into life by the head. The pressure of reality clamped on his skull was painful and somehow humiliating. He sat up in bed to shake it off, but the pain and humiliation hung on. The pain became distinctly localized in the back of his head, and the humiliation sank to the pit of his stomach and turned to nausea. He swallowed, with a throat as dry as sandpaper.

The memory of what he had to do came back in a rush, and he looked at his wristwatch. Nearly nine o’clock. He had wasted a whole night in drinking and brawling and sleeping, and was no nearer to the man who killed his wife than he had been before. He jumped out of bed and began to dress quickly.

He became aware that someone was watching him from the twin bed on the other side of the room. He half turned to see his roommate leaning on one elbow, smiling wryly in his direction. What was the man’s name? Mill? No, Milne. Harry Milne. Their conversation of the night before came to him from a long way back, echoing against the hollow walls of his hangover.

“Good morning,” the man in the bed said. “Have a good sleep?”

“Very. I’ve got to thank you for the use of your bed.”

“Hell, that’s all right. Use it as long as you want. I only sleep in one bed at a time.”

“Will you let me pay you something?”

For some reason that seemed funny to Harry Milne. He laughed boyishly. “Christ, no! This isn’t a rooming house I run. I do things for my friends that I wouldn’t do for money.” That was funny too, and he laughed again. “You’re my friend because I like you. I make friends just like that–” he snapped his fingers “–and I drop ’em just as fast when the spirit moves me. Speaking of which, the spirit moved you pretty fast for a while last night. Hangover?”

“I’m as dry as a chip.”

“Just a minute. I’ll get you some milk in the icebox.”

“Please don’t bother.”

“It’s no bother.” He bounced out of bed and padded across the room. Bret disliked that feline way of walking, but he repressed the feeling. The man was treating him like a brother, and he had no right to dislike him.

Larry saw that something was wrong. Did the guy know him after all? Had he made a slip? No, that was impossible. It was probably something very simple, like the guy not liking to be talking to somebody half in and half out of his underwear. The guy had nothing to be ashamed of though. He had shoulders like an ox. A little too heavy for a perfect figure (like his own) but he was fast too, a good, fast light heavy. Larry had a desire to fight the man, not that he had anything against him at the moment, but just because it would be interesting. Interesting for about thirty seconds, that is. With his ring experience he’d cut the guy to ribbons in six punches. And that would be kind of fun, too. Come to think of it, it would be a hell of a lot of fun.

Taylor picked up his blue trousers and started to put them on.

“Hey,” Larry said from the doorway. “You can’t wear those.” He pointed at the triangular rip in the right leg. Even apart from that the whole uniform was streaked with dirt that wouldn’t brush off.

“Damn it! These are the only clothes I have with me.”

It didn’t occur to him that he could go to Paula for his things. He didn’t want to see her again until he had done what he had to do. For that matter, she’d probably phoned the hospital and told them he’d broken his parole, so to speak. Maybe they were already looking for him. The idea churned his stomach and made him angry.

“Look here,” the other man was saying. “We’re about the same size. You should be able to wear one of my suits. I’ll take your uniform to the tailor around the corner. You can get it back today.”

“No, I can wear the uniform.”

“Don’t be crazy. It’s a mess. Here, try this.” He tossed Bret a loose camel’s-hair sports coat. “I got a wardrobe I hate to see going to waste. These slacks ought to fit you. They’re a little too big for me. Go on, try ’em on.”

Bret put them on out of sheer curiosity. He hadn’t had civilian clothes on for years, and he’d never at any time worn a camel’s-hair coat with a pair of light-tan gabardine slacks. “I feel like a sheep in wolf’s clothing,” he said.

“Say, that’s pretty good.” Larry laughed again. Bret didn’t like his laugh any better than he liked his walk. There was something phony about all this pleasantness, and he didn’t like to be put under an obligation by it. Still, it couldn’t be helped unless he wanted to waste a lot more time.

Larry handed him a knitted brown tie and watched him tie it. “You look sharp.” He went on talking as he dressed. “Pretty smooth coat, eh? It set me back eighty of them. Don’t you go and get yourself into another barroom brawl, now. You wouldn’t do that to me and my coat, now would you?”