Ivan Wade's lecture began promptly at 1 p.m. in a small conference room on the second floor.Sitting with Wade on the long podium were two men, both collectors and experts on ghost stories and thrillers.There were more than 150 people sitting in the whole room.Jim Boannon, Bert Prakosas, and Waldo Ramsey sit with Lloyd Underwood in the back of the room; Frank Colodeny sits nearby, distracted Ning fiddled with a corncob pipe and looked as preoccupied as last night, while Sybil Wade sat in the first row on the right, across the aisle from Kelly and me, and looked exactly like Colade. Ni is also preoccupied.
Kelly and I ate sandwiches at the cafe and talked for a while, but came to no conclusion.Assuming her mother brought a . 38 to the meeting for a reason other than a demonstration, some reason Kelly didn't know and couldn't guess; It is true that neither of us could answer the series of questions connected with the theft.Was there something else missing that Sybil didn't want to mention?Was the intruder going specifically for the pistol?If the pistol was what he was aiming for, how did he know Sybil had one?What is he going to do with this gun?
And then the key question arises: Is he an outsider, or someone connected to the conference?
I tried to convince Kelly not to worry, but it sounded hollow.I have an irritable feeling: Below the surface, the facts are bubbling, building up pressure, and perhaps soon storing up enough power to suddenly burst.It's hard to explain this feeling, but I've been through so much over the years that I definitely notice it when it happens.
Once the lecture started, though, I stopped thinking about the missing pistol and immersed myself in the world of pulp fiction.Wade is a very good public speaker. His witty and dry humor firmly attracted everyone's attention and won a lot of laughter and applause.He also displayed a talent I didn't know existed: juggling.As if to prove a point he just made, he suddenly conjured a book of "Scary Stories" out of thin air while speaking.This move was very casual, and the technique was very skillful. There was silence in the room for a while, and then there was a wave of applause.
I leaned over to Kelly: "When did your father become an amateur magician?"
"Oh, for as long as I can remember. He's into stage magic and has written half a dozen books on the subject. Great, isn't it?"
"Excellent."
Pulp fiction anecdotes are also pretty darn good in their own right: historical facts, anecdotes about authors and editors, and inside tidbits.I've learned a lot about Ghost Stories, and I've learned a lot about sexually abused thrillers, such as Very Mysterious, Thrilling Stories, and Thrilling Mysteries, popular thirties genre stories. Fiction magazine covers often depicted half-naked young women being whipped, clubbed, soaked in acid or refined metal, or tortured by various other instruments.
The lecture lasted for an hour and a half.Everyone found the lecture fascinating, except Frank Colodny.Two-thirds of the way through the lecture, he seemed agitated, his muscles trembling, and he got up to leave.Eventually, Wade wrapped up the lecture with another trick: turning a pulp fiction magazine into a book of his own.This ending was clean and perfect, and the audience burst into applause again.
We walked out of the conference room and into the lobby."I've got to call the office. They're giving me the day off, but they still want me to check in," Kelly said.
"I'm here waiting for you to attend Jim Boannon's lecture?"
"What time? Three fifteen? I should be back by then." She frowned at me critically, "Why don't you straighten your tie?"
I looked down, "What's wrong?"
"There's nothing a dry cleaner can't do. Your tie looks like some blue dead animal lying on top of your shirt."
"Thank you very much for pointing it out."
"You're welcome." She smiled at me and turned to leave.
I found the bathroom and checked my tie in front of the mirror.It's a little wrinkled and dirty, but it has a dark blue base so it's hard to see the stain on it - maybe.I took off my tie, stuffed it in my coat pocket, and unbuttoned the collar of my shirt.
Damn, but she has a knack for making me feel confident.
I walked down the stairs into the lobby, out of the hotel, into the warm afternoon sun, and walked to the place where I parked my car.I put the book I bought at the bookstore and the tie in the trunk.On the way back to the hotel, the sun was shining on me, and I felt very thirsty.It's a good choice to have a glass of cold beer, and there are still twenty minutes before Boannon's lecture starts.
The Continental's bar is located off the lobby, but is accessed through a fairly long corridor lined with Victorian antiques in glass cases.As soon as I entered the corridor, I heard a commotion erupting inside: chairs were knocked over with a thud, and several people shouted loudly at the same time.The loudest of them, drunk and angry, was Rose Dencel.
God, what's wrong?As I thought about it, I trotted into the bar.The bar is dark, with dark wood paneled furniture, high shadowy ceilings, and barely visible lighting.It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, and then I saw Denzel.He and Frank Kolodny stood by the same wall, fists firmly on the collar of Kolodny's shirt, noses almost on each other's noses, yelling some incoherent sentences.Waldo Ramsey was there too, telling Denzel to let go and tugging at his arm, but to no avail.There were five or six people in the room, including the bartender, who looked at them stupidly and did nothing.
I hurried forward, took Denzel's other arm, and joined Ramsay in urging him to let go.Kolodny raised a hand, rubbed his throat, and grunted a few times.His whole body was shaking, but it was from the same anger Denther had, not fear.
"Let go of me, fuck me!" Denzel yelled, "I'm gonna get the son of a bitch, I'm gonna get him!"
I said to him: "You don't need to clean up anyone." He turned his head, as if he had just seen me.Some of the anger left his face, he stuck out his tongue and licked his lips, muttered something silently, and glared at Kolodny.
"What's going on here?" I asked Ramsay.
"Damn it, I don't know. He came here a minute ago and yanked Frank out of his chair and called him a big liar."
"He's a big liar," Denzel said, "and he's not bad at all."
It was clear that Kolodny was struggling to control his emotions.He glared at Denzel. "You're a crazy drunk, you know that? You should go to jail."
"And you too, bastard. Fucking San Quentin."
"Stop it, Ross," I told him. "If you don't want to get in trouble, keep your temper and your mouth in check. It's a public place."
"He's the one causing trouble, not me."
"What's wrong? Why are you so angry?"
"He was behind that scam, for that."
Ramsay stared at him in astonishment.Kolodny said, "You liar."
"I'll die if I lie. You slipped this note into my pocket, that's all. Upstairs, when you bumped into me in the hall a few minutes ago."
I asked, "What note?"
"Let go of my arm and I'll show you."
I loosened the strength on my hand a little, to see if he would make any reckless moves, and let go only after making sure he had no such intentions.He took a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and handed it over, still staring at Kolodny.There were three sentences printed on the paper, which were not in the same font as the previous letter and manuscript, and there was no signature.
"Writing what?" Ramsay asked me.
"Now it's all right, I know you're the man. My price has gone up: $10,000, pay by midnight on Sunday. Otherwise, your evidence of plagiarism will be public on Monday morning."
"I didn't write it," said Kolodny. "It's nonsense."
I looked at Denzel: "Are you sure he put the note in your pocket?"
"Of course I'm sure. Not just now, I've never been close to anyone but him. Definitely fucking him."
"Insanity caused by alcoholism," Kolodney said, "this guy is crazy."
"Do you know anything about this blackmail, Mr. Colodny?" I asked him.
"I don't know." His anger seemed to disappear, and he began to fidget again, "I don't need to answer any of your questions, and I don't need to endure more insults." He propped himself up against the wall, stood up straight, and carefully He bypassed Denzel and walked towards the bar.There was no one else around when he got there and the other customers had disappeared.
Dencel said to me, "You just let him go?"
"What else can I do? There is no evidence that there is something wrong with him, only what you said."
His mood became very depressed.You could see it in his face despite the dim lighting in the bar. "He won't be able to run away next time, I tell you. Not like this time."
I told him to relax and not be stupid, but he walked away.For a moment it seemed as though he wanted to fight Kolodny to the death, but he turned and disappeared down the hallway with strides.
"God, he's drunk," Ramsay said, shaking his head.
"You don't think it's true what he said about Kolodny?"
"I doubt it. I don't see what Frank would write or anything like that. It's full of convoluted overtones, and the author is probably half-crazy himself. Colodney may be a bad guy, but he's not Crazy."
"You haven't had contact with him for a long time, have you?"
"Yes. He hasn't changed much though, I'm sure. The subject matter isn't his style."
"And where do you think Denzel got the note?"
"I don't know," Ramsay said, "people who drink too much tend to be less focused, and you can't trust their memory, and their sense of time. I think anyone, anytime, can Give him the note."
"You may be right."
An antique chime clock on the Queen Anne fireplace in the drawing room suddenly clanged three times.It's three o'clock.After this turn of events I didn't feel like drinking beer any more, so I said good-bye to Ramsay and went out.Kolodny held the wine glass in one hand and played with the few hairs on the top of his head with the other, watching me from the mirror on the bar.Perhaps it was an illusion caused by the lighting, but he looked terrified sitting there, even cowering, as if he wanted to shrink into the shadows that enveloped the entire room.
In the lobby, I saw Dencer again, standing near the registration desk with Sybil Wade.He stuck his head forward and talked to Sybil with great enthusiasm.From where I stood I couldn't see his face, but I could see the outline of Sybil.Her face was completely expressionless, like the face of a dimpled plastic doll.
I walked towards them.Densel is in the current state, he can say anything, he can do anything, I am afraid that there will be another accident.But as soon as I took two steps, he raised his head and walked towards the elevator with heavy steps.Then I caught a glimpse of his face: he was smiling, but there was not much joy in that smile, half malicious laughter, half painful relief.When a man laughs like that, there's always something deep inside that's being torn apart.
Sybil was still standing there, watching his back, completely oblivious to me.I walked up to her and asked, "What's the matter, Mrs. Wade?" The brown eyes blinked in amazement, looked at me, and there was expression on his face again.
"Oh," she said, "hello."
"Are you ok?"
"Yes, very well. Excuse me."
"Okay, okay."
She hurried across the lobby and disappeared into another elevator.I was left standing there, staring at the empty room, thinking about her, about Denzel, about Kolodney, about the second blackmail letter, about everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.
It's only Friday afternoon, and I'm gloomily wondering: What's going to happen with two full days of the convention going on?
At seven o'clock, Kelly and I go to dinner.
Nothing happened for the previous four hours.I met her in a conference room to hear a lecture by Jim Boannon.I didn't show her the new note or tell her what happened in the bar.She was already very anxious, and there was no need to add more wood to the fire.Also, she is smiling sweetly at me, and I don't want that smile to go away.
Frank Kolodny didn't show up, and neither did Denzel and Ozzie Meeker.But Sybil was there, sitting with her husband, not looking as absent-minded as she had been downstairs, looking composed.After the lecture started, more than 150 people in the conference room enjoyed a good time together.I should be one of them too, but I'm not.It wasn't Boannon's fault, nor the two adventure and western collectors who sat on the podium with him.Boannon is quieter and more entertaining when he speaks, and while he doesn't have the theatrical talent of Ivan Wade, he's just as experienced.For me, the stories that happen in the world of popular fiction are very fascinating: historical perspectives on, "Grand Merchant," "Blue Book," "Wild West Weekly," "Western Stories," stories about Leo Margulis, Rogers Turrell, and other anecdotes about popular fiction editors.But I still can't fully commit.I've been thinking, my mind wandering through the chain of events from last night until today.I feel like these things are like a deck of cards, a messy deck of mismatched cards that don't seem to come together.
After the lecture, Kelly and I went to the book market for a tour.I bought two more copies of "Ten Detective" and a copy of her father's autobiography on stage magic.That's when Lloyd Underwood showed up, reminding us that there was a six o'clock cocktail party in the M Suite.
The reception was held on time.I got a beer and Kelly got a vodka Jim Ray and we mixed the two.After a while, Denzel arrives, with Ozzie Meeker, looking even more drunk than ever.I stopped bartending and kept an eye on him.He is in good spirits and seems to have forgotten the unhappiness with Kolodny.Kolodny was absent, the only absent member of the Pulp Fiction Gang.Dencer was rowdy as usual, but he didn't bother Sybil or anyone else.
More and more people came in one after another, and finally, the room was crowded and overcrowded.I figured I wouldn't have to keep an eye on the crowd today, so I reminded Kelly of the postponed dinner.She said, "Well, great idea. I'm hungry." We went to her parents and told them we were leaving first.Evan Wade gave me a suspicious look, as if wondering what I had in mind for his daughter.But he didn't say anything to me.
We chose an English pub called The Coachman because it wasn't too far away, on the other side of Nob Hill, and Kelly said it was one of her favorite restaurants.We walked two blocks, across Union Square, and caught the Powell-Mason Line streetcar, which took about twenty minutes.Another twenty minutes later we were sitting at the table, ordering pints of Bass beer and ordering steak and kidney pie.
We talked about drinks, about dinner, about after-dinner coffee - very comfortable, leisurely, relaxed conversation, as if we had known each other for two years, not two.Every now and then, though, there would be brief moments of silence, during which she seemed to study me with those blunt green eyes, drawing me to my appearance, my posture, the age gap between us.There have only been a handful of women in my life with whom I have felt perfectly comfortable, and none of them have ever made me feel so embarrassed.She also realizes this.She seemed to find it amusing, innocuously funny, as if that was part of my attraction to her, too.
She told me that she was thirty-eight years old and had been divorced for four years.At first she was married to—as she puts it—"a bastard named Ray Danston."The man was in Los Angeles, a criminal lawyer, and they had been married for eleven years.She's very candid about the marriage: It started out great, got worse every year, and ended up being cold and uninteresting.She suspects that he's been dating other women behind her back from the start, and that's what makes him a jerk.She later confirmed it, left him, sued for divorce, and applied for a job with Bates and Carpenter—she had previously worked at an advertising agency in Los Angeles for five years.So now she stays here.no kids.There should have been kids if that idiot had wanted to.No ties, no responsibilities.She liked San Francisco very much, and started to enjoy freedom and enjoy life again.And me?What is my life story like?
I told her that I had grown up with pulp fiction and had always wanted to emulate the detectives I'd spent countless hours with.I told her I had served as a military policeman in the South Pacific, and after the war I had passed the civil service exam and gone to the Police Academy.I told her about my days in the SPD, and about that brutal ax murder in the Sunset District.This incident gave me a reason to leave the police force and start my own practice.I told her about Erica Coates, and about another woman I loved, or thought I loved, Cheryl Rosemond.I told her about my lung problems and my struggles to avoid possible cancer.
Speaking of this, it seemed a bit cruel, so I changed the topic back to the conference, but it didn't get any better.We both agreed that the next topics should be neutral—books, movies, sports.We chatted until it was time to pay the bill.
Standing outside, I said, "It's a nice evening. Why don't we walk back?"
"it is good."
"We can stop somewhere for a drink if you want."
"How is your house?"
I was stunned, and then I was taken aback: "Are you serious?"
"Of course. I'm interested in your popular novels."
"Not interested in my prints, eh?"
She smiled: "I bet you don't have six thousand five hundred books."
"Yeah. All I have is a messy apartment. I better tell you now before I scare you later."
"No. Besides, I'm guessing your apartment is a mess."
"why?"
"It can be seen from your clothes." She said, smiling at me, "Okay. Come on, take me to read your popular novels."
We walked back to the hotel, got into my car, and took her to my pulp novel.I opened the door and turned on the light, and a cloud of dust from the furniture began to dance.Her eyes widened a bit, but she quickly accepted everything in front of her and said, "You can apply for disaster relief, you know?" After she finished speaking, she went straight to the bookcase next to the window, which was listed in alphabetical order by year and title There are rows and rows of detective novels.
She marvels from time to time.I drew the curtains.The Pacific Heights community is expensive primarily because of the views.On a night like today, it's all there: the majestic Golden Gate Bridge, the brilliant lights of Marien County, the spinning lighthouse on Alcatraz, and the strings of dotted lights in the East Bay.Very romantic view - I probably shouldn't have thought romantic, but I did.If Evan Wade knew what was going on in my head right now, he'd knock my nose out of the way, and I wouldn't blame him too much.
I found brandy in the kitchen and poured her a small glass, and poured myself a little.We sat on the sofa, looked at the scenery outside the window, and chatted about popular novels.After a while we stopped discussing and drained the brandy.Then we sat there and looked at each other.
"Huh?" she said.
"how?"
"Aren't you going to take off my clothes?"
"what?"
"Take off my clothes. Isn't that what private investigators and a woman do when they're home alone?"
"This private eye is not."
"No? Then what are you doing?"
"Routine matters, that's all."
"Let's not stick to the routine, I hope."
"So……"
"So," she said, "do something routine first."
So I kissed her. "Well, you smell good," she said.I replied, "You too." Then I kissed her again, this time a long, passionate kiss.After the kiss she leaned back and looked at me, and I felt even hotter.
"Huh?" she said.
"how?"
"Oh, for God's sake! Ask me if I want sex."
"Do you want to go to bed?"
"I thought you'd never ask again," she said, pulling the tough detective, the last lone ranger, the gentle lover who seduced beautiful women, by the hand like a child, and pulled him led into his own bedroom.
Notes:
Notes: