The first time I saw Terry Lennox, he was drunk, sitting in a silver Rolls-Royce Wraith outside the patio of the Dancer Bar.The parking lot attendant pulled the car out and waited with the open door, because Terry Lennox's left foot dangled out of the car, as if he had forgotten he had one.He looks young, but born with less gray hair.You could tell by his eyes that he was pretty darn drunk, but other than that he was one of those nice young men in dinner attire who spend a lot of money in a gold den. Beside him was a girl with charming dark red hair and an indifferent smile who wore a blue ermine fur that nearly overshadowed a Rolls-Royce on her shoulders.Of course not.It is also impossible.

The waiters were the usual half-baked punks in white coats with the restaurant's name stitched on the chest in red.He looked like he had had enough. "Look, sir," he said sharply, "can you put your feet in the car so I can close the door? Or should I just open the door and let you roll out?" The girl gave him a look long enough to poke into him and poke four inches out of his back.He didn't take it to heart at all, and didn't panic at all.If you think spending big bucks on golf makes you look good, the Dancer's Bar has someone who specializes in dispelling that illusion.

A foreign convertible sports car slowed down and turned into the parking lot. A man got out of the car and lit a long cigarette with a lighter.Wearing a plaid pullover shirt, yellow trousers and riding boots, he walked slowly away in the curling smoke circle, without even looking at the Rolls-Royce, which might have seemed unremarkable.Before the steps leading to the terrace, he paused to put on a monocular. The girl said suddenly and charmingly, "Honey, I've got a great idea. Why don't we take a taxi to your place and get your convertible out? It would be a great drive down the coast to Monticetto tonight. I'm in Some acquaintances over there are having a poolside dance."

The white-haired young man said politely: "I'm sorry, that car doesn't belong to me anymore. I have to sell it." Judging from his tone and tone of voice, you would think that he only drank orange water and never drank alcohol. . "Sold, dear? What do you mean?" She moved away slightly, sitting far away from him, but her voice seemed to move further away. "I mean had to sell," he said, "for food." "Oh, I see." His tone was so cold that he couldn't even melt a slice of Italian ice cream on her body. The waiter listed the gray-haired youth as a low-income class in which he could live. "Hey, man," he said, "I've got to park a car. I'll see you another day—if I get the chance."

He let go and let the door swing open.The drunk immediately slid off his seat and fell onto the asphalt road.So I went over and reached out just in time.I guess dealing with alcoholics is always a mistake.Even if he knows you and likes you, he will still punch you in the mouth at any time.I put my hands under his armpits and helped him stand up. "Thank you so much," he said politely. The girl moved to the front of the steering wheel. "He has a fucking British accent when he's drunk." Her voice sounded like stainless steel. "Thank you for helping him." "I'll help him into the back seat," I said.

"Sorry, I'm late for my appointment." She hit the gas and the Rolls began to roll.She smiled calmly and said, "He's just a lost dog. Maybe you can help him find a home. He can spot urinating - so to speak." The Rolls Royce drove down the driveway onto Sunset Boulevard, turned right, and disappeared.I was watching her off when the waiter came back.I'm still supporting the man, he's fast asleep now. "This is also a practice." I said to the white coat. "Of course," he said sarcastically, "why worry about a drunkard? They're all in as hell."

"You know him?" "I heard the lady call him Terry, or I wouldn't know him in the cattle cart. And I've only been here two weeks." "Bring me my car, thanks." I handed him the parking ticket. When he brought my Oldsmore over I felt like I was carrying a sack of lead.The white coat helped me get him into the front seat.The honored guest thanked us with one eye open, and fell asleep again. "He's the most polite drunk I've ever met," I said to the white coat. He said, "There are alcoholics of every shape, look and manner. They're all bums. Looks like this one has had plastic surgery."

"Yeah." I tipped him a dollar and he thanked me.He had a good point about plastic surgery.The right side of my new friend's face is stiff and fair, with a few thin scars, and the skin next to the scars is shiny.He's had plastic surgery, and it's been a major one. "What are you going to do with him?" "Take him home, sober him up, and tell me where he lives." The white coat grinned at me and said, "Okay, you unlucky guy. If it were me, I'd throw him in the gutter and go. The wine putty is just giving other people trouble. I'm good at these guys." Set. Now that the competition is so fierce, people have to save some energy and protect themselves at critical moments."

"I can tell you got a lot out of it," I said.He looked puzzled at first, then lost his temper, but by then I had already got in the car and started it. Of course what he said made sense.Terry Lennox got me into a lot of trouble.But it's my job after all. I lived that year in a small hillside house on Yaka Avenue in Laurel Valley at the end of a cul-de-sac with long redwood steps to the front door and a small eucalyptus grove across the street.The house is furnished and owned by a woman who is currently staying with her widowed daughter in Idaho.The rent was cheap, partly because the owner wanted to move back in at any moment and partly because of the steps.She was getting older and couldn't bear to face long steps every time she went home.

I finally helped the drunkard up the steps.He wanted to help, but his legs were like rubber, and he fell asleep in the middle of saying sorry.I opened the door and dragged him inside.He slumped on the couch and I threw a blanket over him and let him sleep on.For an hour he snored like a dolphin.Then he woke up suddenly and needed to go to the toilet.After coming out of the toilet, he peeked at me sideways, wondering where he was.I told him.He called himself Terry Lennox, lived in Westwood, and had no one to hold the door for him.His voice was loud and clear. He wants a cup of coffee without sugar.I bring it out, and he holds the tray and coffee cup carefully.

"Why am I here?" He looked around. "You passed out in a Rolls-Royce outside the Dancer's Bar. Girlfriend left you." "That's right," he said, "she's 100 percent right." "you are British?" "I've lived there, but I wasn't born there. If I can get a cab, I'll be going." "There is a ready car waiting." He walked down the steps by himself.He didn't say much on the way to Westwood, just thanked me and apologized for being such a nuisance.He may have said this to many people many times, and slipped out of it. His apartment was small and stuffy, not at all cozy, and it would be fair to assume he had only moved in that afternoon.On the coffee table in front of the hard green sofa was a half-empty scotch bottle, a bowl of melted ice, three empty soda bottles, two glasses, and glass ashtrays piled high with cigarette butts, some stained with lipstick, some not.There are no photos or any personal items in the house.This house should be a hotel room rented for meetings or farewells, a few drinks, chatting, and sleeping, not like a place where people live for a long time. He offered me a drink, which I declined.I didn't stay long.Before I left, he thanked me a few more times. The level of gratitude was neither like I had done anything for him, nor like I had done nothing for him. Not obvious.He was a little trembling, a little shy, but deadly polite.He stood by the open door, waiting for the elevator to come up, and I got in.Whatever his flaws, he was at least polite. He didn't mention the girl again, he didn't have a job, he didn't have a future, the last bill was paid for a high-class slut at the dancer's bar, and she couldn't linger a little longer to make sure he didn't get patrolled The police were locked in cells, or swept away by a rough taxi driver and thrown into the open space outside. When I took the elevator down, I wanted to go back upstairs and snatch his bottle of Scotch.But it's none of your business, and it won't work.A drunkard wants to drink and will always find a way to get it. I bit my lip and drove home.I'm a tough guy, but there's something about this guy that fascinates me.I don't know what it is but gray hair, scarred face, loud voice, and good manners.Perhaps these few points will suffice.It is unlikely that I will see him again.As the girl said, he was just a lost dog. I saw him again, the week after Thanksgiving.Shops along Hollywood Boulevard were already stocking up with overpriced Christmas presents, and the newspapers were declaring that things would be dire if you didn't buy your Christmas merchandise early.In fact, it's scary no matter what.It has always been like this. A few blocks from my office building, I saw a police car parked side by side with two cops staring at something on the sidewalk next to a shop window.The target turned out to be Terry Lennox--or rather his body--and he looked really indecent. He leaned against the facade of a shop.He had to lean on something.His shirt was smudged and half hung open at the neck of his jacket.He hadn't shaved for four or five days, his nose was wrinkled, his skin was pale, the long thin scars on his face were barely visible, and his eyes were like two holes in a snowdrift.The two cops in the patrol car were obviously about to grab him, so I walked over quickly and grabbed his arm. "Stand up straight and move forward." I made a rough look and winked at him sideways. "Can it be done? Are you drunk?" He gives me a blank look, his characteristic half-smile, and takes a breath and says, "I was just drunk. I guess I'm just a little bit—empty." "Okay, get on your feet. You're going to be in a drunk cell." He struggled to get his feet up and let me help him through the homeless people on the sidewalk to the fence.There was a taxi parked there, and I opened the door. "He goes first." The driver pointed to the taxi ahead with his thumb.He turned his head and saw Terry. "If he will," he said. "It's urgent. My friend is sick." "That's right," said the driver, "he'll be fine when he goes to other places." "Five dollars," I said, "let's see that beautiful smiling face." "Okay, then," he said, shoving a magazine with a Martian on the cover behind the mirror.I reached in and opened the door from the inside and got Terry Lennox into the car, the shadow of the police patrol car covering the other window.A white-haired police officer got out of the car and came over.I bypassed the taxi and stepped forward. "Wait a minute, Mike. What the hell is going on? Is this filthy gentleman really a close friend of yours?" "Close enough for me, I know he needs friends. He's not drunk." "It must be for the money," said the policeman.He held out his hand and I put the license in his hand.He looked at it and handed it back. "Oh-oh," he said, "it's a private detective looking for clients." His tone became unfriendly. "Mr. Marlowe, there's something about you on the license. What about him?" "His name is Terry Lennox, and he works for a movie company." "Not bad." He poked his head into the taxi and looked carefully at Terry who was sitting in a corner. "I dare say he hasn't worked in any time; I dare say he hasn't slept in the house lately; I'd even say he's a rascal. We ought to arrest him." "You haven't caught a few people, have you?" I said. "That's impossible in Hollywood." Still looking at Terry in the car, he asked, "What's your friend's name, man?" Terry said slowly, "Philip Marlowe. He lives on Yaka Avenue in Laurel Valley." The policeman withdrew his head from the window, turned and gestured, "Maybe you just told him." "It's possible, but I don't." He stared at me for a second or two, and said, "I'll trust you once this time. But you get him away, don't hang out on the street." He got into the police car and drove away. I got in a taxi and walked the three blocks to the parking lot to get my car.I handed the five-dollar bill to the taxi driver.He gave me a stiff look and shook his head. "According to the meter is enough. If you want, you can give a round number of one yuan. I have also been down and out. In Fanshi. No taxi will take me. A city with a hard heart." "San Francisco." I said involuntarily. "I call it Fanshi," he said. "Fuck his minority. Thanks." He took the dollar bill and drove away. We went to a drive-thru that didn't make burgers like other places that dogs won't eat.I fed Terry Lennox two hamburgers and a beer and took him home.He still struggled to climb the steps, but he grinned and climbed out of breath.An hour later, he was shaved, showered, and looking normal again.We sat down and drank a very weak concoction. "Thank you for remembering my name." I said. "I remembered it on purpose." He said, "I also checked your information. I can still do this." "Why don't you give me a call? I've been living here. I have an office." Chapter 5: The Long Farewell (5) "Why should I bother you?" "It seems that you need to disturb others. It seems that you don't have many friends." He said, "Oh, I have friends, some kind." He turned the glass on the coffee table. "It's not easy to ask for help—and it's all your own fault." He looked up with a weary smile. "Maybe one day I'll quit drinking. That's what they all say, right?" "It will take about three years." "Three years?" He looked shocked. "Usually. It's a different world. You have to get used to the colors dimming and the voices fading. You have to allow room for relapse. All the people you used to know will feel a little strange. You won't even like it." Most of the old friends, they don't like you very much either." "That's not much of a change," he said, looking back at the clock. "I have a suitcase worth two hundred dollars at the Hollywood bus stop. If it can be secured, I can buy a bargain and pawn the one I have now for a ride to Las Vegas. I You can find work there." I didn't say a word, just nodded and sat by and sipped my drink slowly. "You're thinking I should have thought that earlier," he said quietly. "I'm thinking there must be articles in it, but it's none of my business. Is the job guaranteed, or is it just hope?" "Certainly. My buddy in the Army has a big club there, the Mud Turtle Club. Of course, he's probably a hooligan, and they're all--and nice guys on the other hand." "I can finance the car and other expenses. But I'm hoping for something safer. Better give him a call and talk." "Thank you, no need. Randy Starr won't let me down. Never has. That suitcase is fifty bucks. I have experience." "Listen," I said, "I'll give you the money you need. I'm not some soft-hearted fool. So you take what I give you, sweetheart. I hope you don't bother me anymore, because I treat you There's a hunch." "Really?" He looked down at the glass, taking only small sips. "We've only met twice, and you've been very interesting both times. What kind of premonition?" "Always feel like you're going to be in big trouble next time, but I can't save you. I don't know why I feel that way, but I do." He gently touched the right half of his face with two fingertips. "It could be this. I guess the scar makes me look a bit sinister. But it's an honorable scar—at least the result of an honorable injury." "Not that. Scars don't even bother me. I'm a private detective. You're a puzzle I don't have to answer. But there's a puzzle. Premonitions, to put it mildly, personality cognition. Maybe it wasn't just because you were drunk that your girlfriend left you in front of the dancer's bar. Maybe she had a hunch, too." He smiled slightly and said, "I married her. Her name is Sylvia Lennox. I married her for money." I stood up and frowned at him and said, "I'll get you some scrambled eggs. You need something to eat." "Wait a minute, Marlowe. You can't figure out why I don't ask her for a couple of pennies if I'm broke and Sylvia is rich. Have you ever heard of this thing called pride?" "You're killing me, Lennox." "Really? My self-esteem is different. The self-esteem of a man who has nothing but self-esteem. I'm sorry to annoy you."