Ross Thomas - No Questions Asked

“You could do that almost anywhere, couldn’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“Why don’t you do it here?”

“You mean in L.A.?”

“You know what I mean. I mean here — on the beach. With me.”

“You’re not talking about marriage, are you?”

“You know I’m not talking about that. I like you. I think I’d like living with you for a while. You seem to like the beach and the ocean. You even seem to like me. So why don’t we like each other together for a while? It’ll probably be six months before I have to give up this place. After that, if it’s working, maybe we can find another place down the road. Or maybe we’ll just move on — separately. What do you think?”

I smiled. “I think it’s an interesting idea.”

“That’s not a yes or a no. It’s not even a maybe.”

“What it is,” I said, “is a ‘this is so sudden.’ ”

“You mean you’d like to think about it?”

“Uh-huh, I’d like to think about it.”

“You’re not hung up on this male aggressiveness thing, are you?” she said. “I mean, it doesn’t bother you that I did the asking?”

“Not in the least,” I said. “It happens all the time.”

Later, after the lamb chops, and the wine, and more lovemaking, which turned out to be far more gentle and less frantic than the first time, I got quietly up from the large bed, picked up my clothes, and moved into the living room. I had left Maude Goodwater asleep, her mouth slightly open, her breathing deep and regular.

I put on my clothes, found the Scotch, poured myself a drink, and stood by the big glass windows looking out at the dark ocean. The tide seemed to be coming in and the big waves rolled over and slapped themselves down on the sand and then hissed as they slid back into the sea. I liked the sound that the sea made and I wondered why I had never lived beside it in the past. I considered the invitation that I had to live beside it. It was really more of a proposition than an invitation and it was the second one that I had received within a week. I looked at my watch and saw that it was one-fifteen. That meant it was four-fifteen in New York and I wondered if Mary Frances Ogletree, the gambler-doctor, was sleeping as deeply as Maude Goodwater was.

I thought about my two invitations to share bed and board and decided that it was the times and not my winning ways that had prompted them. The times were indeed changing and I suppose I was changing along with them, but not quite quickly enough. The problem was that although I would indeed like to move in with Maude Goodwater and share her Malibu beach, I would also like to move in with Dr. Mary Frances Ogletree and let her teach me how to play no-lose five-card stud.

Both invitations had been, as far as I could tell, sincere and well-meaning and prompted by good intentions, which, as everyone knows, pave the way to hell. And no doubt each woman thought that I would be nice to have around the house, probably not much more bother than a well-mannered cat. My back would be nice and warm against their feet at night and during the day I could provide a giggle or two and once or twice or perhaps three times a year I could go out and do something clever to get back something that had been stolen and thus earn a whole bunch of money that would enable me to come up with my half of the rent and the grocery bill.

It would be a very adult arrangement, but spiced with a bit of wickedness because of my occasional consorting with thieves, and there would probably be nothing but jolly times until the day came, as I know it must come, when my nerve went.

It may not be this year, or next year, or even the year after that, but one of these nights when I’m all dressed up in my Southwick suit, my pebble-grained loafers, my regimental striped tie, and my airline flight bag stuffed with a couple of hundred thousand dollars or so, I’ll be walking down a black alley toward its center where the dark danger lies and I’ll stop, and stare, and turn around, and go back toward where the lights are. After that I will no longer be what I am now, which is a go-between. I will not be less than I am now, I will simply be something else. I’m not sure what. Older, I suspect.

And so because of this and, although I protested it, a certain amount of pride, I knew that I would not move in and play house with either woman. I was flattered, but not flattered so much that I could pretend that it wouldn’t end badly. I didn’t even want to think about how it might end because I had gone through all that once before and once should be enough for any sensible man.

So I stopped thinking about that and started thinking about what I would have to do at three o’clock that morning, which is when I would start earning my money. I was thinking very hard about it and I didn’t hear her until she said, “What time is it?”

I looked at my watch. “Two o’clock.”

“Have you been up long?”

“No. Not long.”

“What’re you thinking about?”

“About what I’m going to do.”

“You mean about us?”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too, but right now I’m thinking about what I’m going to have to do at three o’clock.”

“Are you scared?”

“A little.”

“Are you always scared?”

“Yes.”

“Can I do anything for you?”

“No.”

“I’d be scared,” she said, “having to go out and do what you do without even knowing who’s going to be out there waiting for you.”

“It’s not quite like that this time,” I said.

“Why?”

“I know who’s going to be out there waiting for me.”

It started to rain at 2:25 A.M., just before I left. Maude Goodwater went to a closet, rummaged around, and brought out a tan raincoat. She held it out to me.

“It belonged to him,” she said.

“Jack Marsh?”

She nodded. I took the raincoat and slipped it on. It was a little big, but not enough to bother about.

“Well,” I said. “I’m off.” I pulled her close to me and kissed her.

“Call me,” she said. “Call me as soon as it’s over.”

“All right.”

I went out to the Ford and got in. I took the flashlight and the .38 from the glove compartment and slipped them into the raincoat’s pocket. I made sure that I had the fishing line. After that I started the car and drove east on Malibu Road until I got to the Pacific Coast Highway.

There was almost no traffic on the highway. The rain fell steadily, a hard, soaking April rain that would make things green. The windshield wipers ticked and tocked back and forth and I kept the Ford at the speed limit, a steady 45 miles per hour.

It took twenty minutes to reach Santa Monica. I took a ramp-like road up to Ocean Avenue and turned right. Everyone seemed to have gone to bed in Santa Monica. From what I had seen of the place, they probably had been there for several hours.

I drove slowly, checking my rear-view mirror. There was no one behind me. At five minutes until three I parked the Ford not far from the Colorado Avenue entrance to the Santa Monica pier. I got out and went around to the trunk, unlocked it, and took out the cheap attaché case.

The rain still fell steadily as I turned up the collar of the coat that had belonged to the late Jack Marsh, shifted the attaché case to my left hand, wrapped my right one around the butt of the .38 in the raincoat pocket, and started walking.

I walked over the viaduct that led to the pier. A row of lights, like street lamps, lined each side of the pier and shined weakly through the steady rain. The pier, as far as I could tell, was deserted.

I walked slowly through the rain, swiveling my head on my neck, trying to see into the dark recesses that were formed by the hot dog stands and the shooting gallery and the souvenir stand and the pinball emporium. All I saw were a lot of wet, dark places that could hide anything from a small thief to a large elephant.