Росс Макдональд - The Way Some People Die

I brought the revolver out of my jacket pocket. “Put it away, Mosquito.”

His small black eyes watched me uncertainly, looked down at the knife and crossed slightly, focused on its point. I swung the gun on him, cutting the wrist of his knife hand with the muzzle. The knife dropped to the floor. I stepped on it and moved in closer to Mosquito. He tried to scratch my face. Since it was necessary to hit him, I hit him: a short right hook under the ear. He slid down the wall like a rag doll.

I crunched the hypodermic needle into the carpet with my heel, stooped for the knife, which I closed and dropped into my pocket. Mosquito was out, quick adenoidal breathing his only sign of life, his eyeballs under the heavy lids as blank-white as a statue’s. His head was jammed against the wall, and I lifted him away from it so he wouldn’t choke. His narrow black suede shoes pointed to opposite corners of the ceiling.

The bathroom door clicked behind me. I straightened up quickly and turned. The door creaked inward slowly, opening on darkness. It was the girl Ruth who emerged from the darkness, moving like a sleepwalker. She had on pajamas that were much too big for her, yellow nylon piped with red. Thin soft hanging folds obscured her lines and enhanced the dreaminess of her walk. Her eyes were dark craters in her smooth blanched face.

“Hello hello hello,” she said. “Hello hello.” She noticed the gun in my hand, without fear or curiosity: “Don’t shoot, cowboy, I give up.” Her hands jerked upward in a token gesture of surrender, then hung limp from her wrists again. “I absolutely give up.” She stood swaying.

I put the gun away and took her by the elbow. Her face didn’t change. I identified its look of frozen expectancy. I had seen it on the face of a man who had just been struck by a bullet, mortally.

“Unhand me villain,” she said without rancor; pulled away from me and crossed to the end of the bed where she sat down. She didn’t notice Mosquito until then, though he was lying practically at her feet. She nudged his leg with a red-tipped toe: “What happened to the nasty little man?”

“He fell and hurt himself. Too bad.”

“Too bad,” she echoed. “Too bad he isn’t dead. He’s still breathing. Look, he bit me.” She pulled the pajama collar to one side to show me the red tooth-marks on her shoulder. “He couldn’t hurt me, though. I was a thousand miles away. Ten thousand miles away. A hundred thousand miles away.” She was chanting.

I cut in: “Where were you, Ruth?”

“On my island, the island I go to. My little white island in the deep dark blue ocean.”

“All alone?”

“All alone.” She smiled. “I shut the door and lock it with a key and bar the door and fasten the chains and sit in my chair and no one can touch me. No one. I sit and listen to the water on the beach and never open the door until my father comes. Then we go down to the water and look for shells. We find the prettiest shells, pink and red and purple, great big ones. I keep them in my house, in a special room. Nobody knows where it is, I’m the only one that knows.” Her voice trailed off. She drew her knees up to her chin and sat with her eyes closed, rocking gently back and forth on a remote inward surge.

The breathing of the man on the floor had changed for the better, easing and slowing down. His eyes were closed now. I went to the bathroom for a glass of water: Ruth’s clothes were scattered on the bathroom floor: and poured the water over Mosquito’s face. The little eyes snapped open. He gasped and sputtered.

“Upsadaisy,” I said, and dragged him to a sitting position against the walls. His head hung sideways but he was conscious, his eyes pointed with malice. “You won’t get away with this, old man,” he whispered.

I disregarded him, turned to the girl on the bed: “Have you seen Speed?”

“Speed?” she repeated from a great distance. Her face was closed and smooth as a shell listening to its own murmurings.

Mosquito struggled up onto his knees: “Don’t tell him anything, he’s a heister.” Which told me that Mosquito had something to tell.

I bunched his tie and shirt-collar in both hands and lifted him against the wall. He hung limp, afraid to resist.

“You tell me where Speed is, then.”

He twisted his wet head back against the plaster, his eyes watching me from their corners. “Never heard of him.” His voice was thin, almost a rodent squeak.

“Take your dirty hands – off me.” His face was purpling again, and the breath piped in his throat.

“There’s no way out of this one.” I loosened the pressure of my fingers slightly. “I want Speed.”

He tried to spit in my face. The bubbly white saliva ran down his chin. I tightened the pressure, carefully. He invited death, like a soft and loathsome insect.

He struggled feebly, gasping. “Turn me loose.”

I released him. He dropped onto his hands and knees, coughing and shaking his head from side to side.

“Where is Speed?” I said.

“I don’t know.” He crouched like a dog at my feet.

“Listen to me, Mosquito. I don’t like you. I don’t like your business. Just give me a slight excuse, and I’ll give you the beating of your life. Then I’ll call the feds to cart you away. You won’t be back for a long time if I do.”

He looked up at me through a rat’s nest of hair. “You’re talking big for a hood.”

“No. It’s what I’m going to do if you don’t take me to Speed.” I showed him my Special Deputy’s badge to clinch it.

“I guess you win,” he said to the threadbare carpet. Slowly he got to his feet.

I held my gun on him while he combed his hair and put on a green tweed coat. He blew out the alcohol lamp, replacing it in the drawer.

The girl was still balanced on the end of her spine, rocking blindly. I gave her a shove as I passed her. She tumbled sideways onto the bed and lay as she had fallen, with her knees up to her chin, waiting to be born into the world or out of it. Mosquito locked the door. I took his key away before he could pocket it. He backed against the door, the malice on his face canceled by fear into a kind of stupidity. The red corridor light shone down on him like a dirty little sun, sailed to the world in his head. His outstretched hand was questioning.

“You won’t speak to the night clerk, you won’t even look at him. Is it far to Speed?”

“He’s at Half Moon Bay, in a cabin. Don’t take me there. He’ll kill me.”

“Worry about him,” I said, “unless you’re lying to me.”

Behind one or another of the numbered doors, a woman cried out sorrowfully. A man laughed. Down the corridor, in the elevator, across the lobby, up the steep street to the empty square, I stuck to Mosquito like a brother. He walked as if every step he took had to be willed in advance.

There were clouds in the hills along the skyline route, obscuring the winding road and spraying my windshield with fine droplets of water. I used my yellow foglights and kept the wipers metron-oming, but it was a long slow drive. Between the San Francisco limits and the bay, we passed no lighted houses and few cars. The city with all its lights had sunk behind us as if it had never existed.

The man beside me was quiet. Occasionally he uttered a little moan. Once he said: “He’ll kill me. Speed will kill me.”

“Small loss if he did,” I said to cheer him up.

“He’ll kill you too!” he cried. “I hope he does kill you.”

“Naturally. Is he alone?”

“Far as I know he is.”

“You’ll go up to the door. You’ll do the talking.”

“I can’t. I’m sick. You hurt me.”

“Buck up. I hate a whiner.”

He was quiet again, though he still moaned occasionally to himself. We crept on under the smothering gray sky, through the gray cloud-drowned hills. The sun and the other stars had burned out long ago, and Mosquito and I were journeying for our sins through a purgatory of gray space.