Росс Макдональд - The Barbarous Coast

“I let the research department know them for me. Division of labor. Will you cut it short now, boy? Any other time. I’m fighting script, and the mimeographers are hounding me.” His voice was hurried, in time with a rapid metronome clicking inside his head.

“What’s the big project?”

“I’m flying to Italy with a production unit next week. Graff’s doing a personal on the Carthage story.”

“The Carthage story?”

“Salammbô, the Flaubert historical. Where you been?”

“In geography class. Carthage is in Africa.”

“It was, not any more. The Man is building it in Italy.”

“I hear he’s doing some building in Vegas, too.”

“The Casbah, you mean? Yeah.”

“Isn’t it kind of unusual for a big independent producer to put his money in a slot-machine shop?”

“Everything the Man does is unusual. And moderate your language, Lew.”

“You bugged?”

“Don’t be silly,” he said uncertainly. “Now, what’s your problem? If you think you’re broke, I’m broker, ask my broker.”

“No problem. I want to get in touch with a new actor you have. Lance Leonard?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him around. Why?”

I improvised. “A friend of mine, newspaperman from the east, wants an interview.”

“About the Carthage story?”

“Why, is Leonard in it?”

“Minor role, his first. Don’t you read the columns?”

“Not when I can help it. I’m illiterate.”

“So are the columns. So’s Leonard, but don’t let your friend print that. The kid should do all right as a North African barbarian. He’s got prettier muscles than Brando, used to be a fighter.”

“How did he get into pictures?”

“The Man discovered him personally.”

“And where does he board his pretty muscles?”

“Coldwater Canyon, I think. My secretary can get you the address. Don’t let on you got it from me, though. The kid is afraid of the press. But he can use the publicity.” Sammy caught his breath. He liked to talk. He liked anything that interrupted his work. “I hope this isn’t one of your fast ones, Lew.”

“You know better than that. I lost my fast one years ago. I’m down to my slider.”

“So are we all, boy. With bursitis yet. See you.”

I got the address in Coldwater Canyon, and went out to the street. The sun shimmered on the car roof. George Wall was slumped in the front seat with his head thrown back. His face was flushed and wet. His eyes were closed. The interior was oven-hot.

The starting engine woke him. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“Not we. I’ll drop you off at your hotel. Which one?”

“But I don’t want to be dropped off.” He took hold of my right arm. “You found out where she is, haven’t you? You don’t want me to see her.”

I didn’t answer. He tugged at my arm, causing the car to swerve. “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

I pushed him away, into the far corner of the seat. “For God’s sake, George, relax. Take a sedative when you get back to the hotel. Now, where is it?”

“I’m not going back to the hotel. You can’t force me.”

“All right, all right. If you promise to stay in the car. I have a lead that may pan out and it may not. It won’t for sure, if you come barging in.”

“I won’t. I promise.” After a while he said: “You don’t understand how I feel. I dreamed of Hester just now when I was asleep. I tried to talk to her. She wouldn’t answer, and then I saw she was dead. I touched her. She was as cold as snow–”

“Tell it to your head-shrinker,” I said unpleasantly. His self-pity was getting on my nerves.

He withdrew into hurt silence, which lasted all the way to the Canyon. Lance Leonard lived near the summit, in a raw new redwood house suspended on cantilevers over a steep drop. I parked above the house and looked around. Leonard had no close neighbors, though several other houses dotted the further slopes. The hills fell away from the ridge in folds like heavy drapery trailing in the horizontal sea.

I nailed George in place with one of my masterful looks, and went down the slanting asphalt drive to the house. The trees in the front yard, lemons and avocados, were recently planted: I could see the yellow burlap around their roots. The garage contained a dusty gray Jaguar two-door and a light racing motorcycle. I pressed the button beside the front door, and heard chimes in the house softly dividing the silence.

A young man opened the door. He was combing his hair with a sequined comb. His hair was black, curly on top and straight at the sides. The height of the doorstep brought his head level with mine. His face was darkly handsome, if you overlooked the spoiled mouth and slightly muddy eyes. He had on blue nylon pajamas, and his brown feet were bare. He was the central diver in Bassett’s photograph.

“Mr. Torres?”

“Leonard,” he corrected me. Having arranged the curls low on his forehead to his satisfaction, he dropped the comb in his pajama pocket. He smiled with conscious charm. “Got a new name to go with my new career. What’s the mission, cap?”

“I’d like to see Mrs. Wall.”

“Never heard of her. You got the wrong address.”

“Her maiden name was Campbell. Hester Campbell.”

He stiffened. “Hester? She ain’t married – isn’t married.”

“She’s married. Didn’t she tell you?”

He glanced over his shoulder into the house, and back at me. His movements were lizard-quick. He took hold of the knob and started to shut the door. “Never heard of her. Sorry.”

“Who does the comb belong to? Or do you merely adore bright things?”

He paused in indecision, long enough for me to get my foot in the door. I could see past him through the house to the sliding glass wall at the rear of the living-space, and through it the outside terrace which overhung the canyon. A girl was lying on a metal chaise in the sun. Her back was brown and long, with a breathtaking narrow waist from which the white hip arched up. Her hair was like ruffled silver feathers.

Leonard stepped outside, forcing me back onto the flag-one walk, and shut the front door behind him. “Drag ’em back into their sockets, cousin. No free shows today. And get this, I don’t know any Hester what’s-her-name.”

“You did a minute ago.”

“Maybe I heard the name once. I hear a lot of names. What’s yours, for instance?”

“Archer.”

“What’s your business?”

“I’m a detective.”

His mouth went ugly, and his eyes blank. He’d come up fast out of a place where cops were hated and feared: the hatred was still in him like a chronic disease. “What you want with me, cop?”

“Not you. Hester.”

“Is she in a jam?”

“She probably is if she’s shacked up with you.”

“Naw, naw. She gave me the brush-off, frankly.” He brushed his nylon flanks illustratively. “I haven’t seen the chick for a long time.”

“Have you tried looking on your terrace?”

His hands paused and tightened on his hips. He leaned forward from the waist, his mouth working like a red bivalve: “You keep calling me a liar. I got a public position to keep up, so I stand here and take it like a little gentleman. But you better get off my property or I’ll clobber you, cop or no cop.”

“That would go good in the columns. The whole set-up would.”

“What set-up? What do you mean?”

“You tell me.”

He squinted anxiously up toward the road where my car was parked. George’s face hung at the window like an ominous pink moon.

“Who’s your sidekick?”

“Her husband.”

Leonard’s eyes blurred with thought “What is this, a shakedown? Let’s see your buzzer.”