Росс Макдональд - The Barbarous Coast

“Close to fifteen million,” Frost said in the tone of a priest revealing a mystery. “A huge investment. And you know what its safety depends on?”

“Sun spots?”

“It isn’t sun spots,” he said gently. “The subject isn’t funny, fifteen million dollars isn’t funny. I’ll tell you what it depends on. You know it, but I’ll tell you anyway.” His fingers formed a Gothic arch a few inches in front of his nose. “Number one is glamour, and number two is goodwill. The two things are interdependent and interrelated. Some people think the public will swallow anything since the war – any stinking crud – but I know different. I’m a student of the problem. They swallow just so much, and then we lose them. Especially these days, when the industry’s under attack from all sides. We got to keep our glamour dry for the public. We got to hold on to our strategic goodwill. It’s psychological warfare, Lew, and I’m on the firing line.”

“So you send your troopers out to push citizens around. You want a testimonial from me?”

“You’re not just any old ordinary citizen, Lew. You get around so fast and you make so many mistakes. You go bucketing up to Lance Leonard’s house and invade his privacy and throw your weight around. I was on the phone to Lance just now. It wasn’t smart what you did, and it wasn’t ethical, and nobody’s going to forget it.”

“It wasn’t smart,” I admitted.

“But it was brilliant compared with the rest of it. Merciful God, Lew, I thought you had some feeling for situations. When we get to the payoff – you trying to force your way into the house of a lady who shall be nameless–” He spread his arms wide and dropped them, unable to span the extent of my infamy.

“What goes on in that house?” I said.

He munched the inside corner of his mouth, watching my face. “If you were smart, as smart as I used to think, you wouldn’t ask that question. You’d let it lie. But you’re so interested in facts, I’ll tell you the one big fact. The less you know, the better for you. The more you know, the worse for you. You got a reputation for discretion. Use it.”

“I thought I was.”

“Uh-uh, you’re not that stupid, kiddo. Nobody is. Your neck’s out a mile, and you know it. You follow the thought, or do I have to spell it out in words of one syllable?”

“Spell it out.”

He got up from behind the desk. His sick yellow glance avoided mine as he moved around me. He leaned on the back of my chair. His allusive little whisper was scented with some spicy odor from his hair or mouth: “A nice fellow like you that percolates around where he isn’t wanted – he could stop percolating period.”

I stood up facing him. “I was waiting for that one, Frost. I wondered when we were getting down to threats.”

“Call me Leroy. Hell, I wouldn’t threaten you.” He repudiated the thought with movements of his shoulders and hands. “I’m not a man of violence, you know that. Mr. Graff doesn’t like violence, and I don’t like it. That is, when I can prevent it. The trouble with a high-powered operation like this one, sometimes it runs over people by accident when they keep getting in the way. It’s our business to make friends, see, and we got friends all over, Vegas, Chicago, all over. Some of them are kind of rough, and they might get an idea in their little pointed heads – you know how it is.”

“No. I’m very slow on the uptake. Tell me more.”

He smiled with his mouth; his eyes were dull yellow flint. “The point is, I like you, Lew. I get a kick out of knowing that you’re in town, in good health and all. I wouldn’t want your name bandied about on the long-distance telephone.”

“It’s happened before. I’m still walking around, and feeling pretty good.”

“Let’s keep it that way. I owe it to you to be frank, as one old friend to another. There’s a certain gun that would blast you in a minute if he knew what you been up to. For his own reasons he’d do it, in his own good time. And it could be he knows now. That’s a friendly warning.”

“I’ve heard friendlier. Does he have a name?”

“You’d know it, but we won’t go into that.” Frost leaned forward across the back of the chair, his fingers digging deep into the leather. “Get wise to yourself, Lew. You trying to get yourself killed and drag us down with you, or what?”

“What’s all the melodrama about? I was looking for a woman. I found her.”

“You found her? You mean you saw her – you talked to her?”

“I didn’t get to talk to her. Your goon stopped me at the door.”

“So you didn’t actually see her?”

“No,” I lied.

“You know who she is?”

“I know her name. Hester Campbell.”

“Who hired you to find her? Who’s behind this?”

“I have a client.”

“Come on now, don’t go fifth-amendment on me. Who hired you, Lew?”

I didn’t answer.

“Isobel Graff? Did she sick you onto the girl?”

“You’re way off in left field.”

“I used to play left field. Let me tell you something, just in case it’s her. She’s nothing but trouble – schizzy from way back. I could tell you things about Isobel you wouldn’t believe.”

“Try me.”

“Is she the one?”

“I don’t know the lady.”

“Scout’s honor?”

“Eagle Scout’s honor.”

“Then where’s the trouble coming from? I got to know, Lew. It’s my job to know. I got to protect the Man and the organization.”

“What do you have to protect them against?” I said experimentally. “A murder rap?”

The experiment got results. Fear crossed Leroy Frost’s face like a shadow chased by shadows. He said very mildly and reasonably: “Nobody said a word about murder, Lew. Why bring up imaginary trouble? We got enough real ones. The trouble I’m featuring just this minute is a Hollywood peeper name of Archer who is half smart and half stupid and who has been getting too big for his goddam breeches.” While he spoke, his fear was changing to malice. “You going to answer my question, Lew? I asked you who’s your principal and why.”

“Sorry.”

“You’ll be sorrier.”

He came around the chair and looked me up and down and across like a tailor measuring me for a suit of clothes. Then he turned his back on me, and flipped the switch on his intercom.

“Lashman! Come in here.”

I looked at the door. Nothing happened. Frost spoke into the intercom again, on a rising note: “Lashman! Marfeld!”

No answer. Frost looked at me, his yellow eyes dilating. “I wouldn’t slug a sick old man,” I said.

He said something in a guttural voice which I didn’t catch. Outside the window, like his echo vastly amplified, men began to shout. I caught some words: “He’s comin’ your way.” And further off: “I see him.”

A pink-haired man in a dark suit ran under the window, chasing his frenzied shadow across the naked ground. It was George Wall. He was running poorly, floundering from side to side and almost falling. Close behind him, like a second bulkier shadow struggling to make contact with his heels, Marfeld ran. He had a gun in his hand.

Frost said: “What goes on?”

He cranked open the casement window and shouted the same question. Neither man heard him. They ran on in the dust, up Western Street, through the fake tranquillity of Midwestern Town. George’s legs were pumping weakly, and Marfeld was closing up the distance between them. Ahead of George, in South Sea Village, Lashrnan jumped into sight around the corner of a palm-thatched hut.

George saw him and tried to swerve. His legs gave under him. He got up, swaying in indecision as Lashman and Marfeld converged on him. Marfeld’s shoulder took him in the side, and he went down again. Lashman dragged him up to his feet, and Marfeld’s dark bulk blotted out his face.