Chapter 3 long farewell (3)

"I'm in big trouble, Detective." That's the first time he's called me, Detective.But it matched the way he broke in, what he was wearing, the gun in his hand. "Today is going to be a nice day. It's breezy. You can hear the old eucalyptus trees across the street whispering to each other about the days when wallabies jumped from branch to branch and koalas rode each other's shoulders. Yes , I generally think you're in trouble. We'll talk after I've had a couple of coffees. I'm always a little dizzy when I first wake up. Let's talk it over with Mr. Hudgens and Mr. Young."

"Look, Marlowe, this is not the time to--" "Don't be afraid, man. Mr. Hudgens and Mr. Young are two brilliant men. They make Hudgens-Young coffee. It's their pride and joy that's been their life's work. I'll see them get Well deserved. So far they've just made money. They won't be content with that." I gossip as I go to the back kitchen.I turned on the hot water, took the coffee pot off the rack, dampened the ruler, and measured some coffee into the top shelf.At this time the water boiled.I filled the lower half of the measure, put it on the fire, and put the upper half on and twisted it securely.

By this time he had followed in, poked his head in the doorway, and slid across the breakfast area into a chair.He was still shaking.I picked up a bottle of "Grandpa" from the shelf and poured him a large glass.I know he needs a big glass.Even so, he still had to hold it with both hands before delivering it to his mouth.He gulps down, sets the glass down with a thud, and falls back on the back of his chair. "Nearly fucked up," he murmured. "Like a week without sleep. Last night." The coffee pot is about to roll.I turned the heat down and watched the water rise, pausing for a moment at the bottom of the glass tube.I turned the heat back up to let the water overflow the hump, then turned the heat back down quickly.I stir the coffee and cover it.The timer is set at three minutes.Method guy, Marlowe.Even the falling sky couldn't interfere with his coffee making.Even a desperate man with a gun in his hand doesn't care.

I poured him another glass of wine. "Just sit there," I said, "don't talk. Just sit." He held the second cup with one hand.I did a quick shower in the bathroom, and the timer rang just as I got back.I turned off the fire and put the coffee pot on a straw mat on the table.Why do I have to go into such detail?Because the tension makes every little thing feel like a performance, like an obvious and important action.It was an extremely sensitive moment, and all your unconscious actions, no matter how familiar and habitual, became separate behaviors under the will.You're like a man learning to walk after having polio.Nothing is logical, absolutely nothing.

The coffee melted into the water, the air rushed in as usual, the coffee frothed, and then it was quiet.I removed the top of the coffee pot and set it on the drip plate in the recess of the hood. I poured two cups of coffee and added a little wine to his glass. "You have no sugar in your coffee, Terry." Mine has two sugar cubes and some creamer.By this time I was drowsy.I don't know how I opened the fridge and pulled out the creamer box. I sit across from him.He didn't move, leaning against the corner of the breakfast area, his whole body stiff, and then suddenly, without warning, he fell on the table and began to cry.

I reached for the gun in his pocket and he didn't even notice.It's a Mauser ① 7.65mm, and it's beautiful.I sniffed and pulled the magazine away.The magazine is full.Not fired. He looked up to see the coffee and drank it slowly without looking at me. "I didn't shoot anyone," he said. "Oh -- at least it hasn't been fired lately. This gun is long overdue. I don't think you're likely to hit anyone with it." "I'll tell you," he said. "Wait a minute." The coffee is hot, I finish it as fast as I can, and refill it. "Well," I said, "you have to be very careful when you report to me. If you really want me to drive you to Tijuana, there are two things you must never tell me. The first--have you Listen?"

He nodded slightly, staring blankly at the wall behind my head.The scars on his face were black and blue this morning, and his skin was almost dead white, but the scars were still shiny and obvious. "First," I said slowly, "if you commit a crime or do what is legally called a crime--I mean serious crime--you can't tell me; You can't tell me about such a crime. If you want me to send you to Tijuana, don't tell me. Got it?" He looked into my eyes.His eyes were focused, but lifeless.He drank the coffee, his face was pale, but his spirit was stable. "I just said I was in trouble," he said.

"I hear it. I don't want to know what kind of hardship it is. I have to earn a living and protect my license." "I'd probably hold you at gunpoint," he said. I grinned and pushed the gun across the table.He looked down, without reaching to touch it. "Terry, there's no way you'd take me to Tijuana with a gun. No way over the border, no way to get on a plane. I'm an occasional gun guy. We put guns behind us. I told the police I was scared As hell, I have to do what you say, and I should look like it. Assuming, of course, I don't know what to report to the police."

"Listen," he said, "there won't be a knock at the door until noon or later. The servant is very sensible and won't bother her when she's up late. But around noon her maid will knock and come in. She Not in the house." I sipped my coffee and said nothing. "The maid will find out she's not home sleeping," he went on, "and will look elsewhere. There's a big guest house far from the main house, with a detached garage, etc. Sylvia Spend the night there. The maid will find her there at last." I frown. "Terry, be very careful what I ask you. Couldn't she be staying overnight?"

"Her clothes were always piled all over the room. She never hung them up properly. The maid knew she had a robe over her pajamas and just walked out. So she could only go to the guest room." "Not necessarily." I said. "Must go to the guest room. Damn, you think they don't know what's going on in the guest room? The servants always know." "Let's not talk about that." I said. He touched the unscarred half of his face with his fingers, leaving a red mark.He went on slowly: "In the guest house the maid will find--" I said sharply, "Sylvia is completely drunk, her whole body is paralyzed, she looks very embarrassed, and her whole body is cold to the tip of her eyebrows."

"Oh." He thought about it.Think for a long time. "Of course," he added, "it might be. Sylvia isn't a drinker. When she drinks too much, it's terrible." I said, "That's the end of the story. It's almost there. Let me make it up. You probably remember that the last time we were drinking together, I was a little rude to you and walked away and ignored you. You really Drives me nuts. On hindsight, I see you were just trying to laugh at yourself and get rid of the feeling of impending doom. You said you had a passport and a visa. It takes a while to get a Mexican visa. They don't just let people in. It turns out you've been planning to leave for a while. I'm wondering how long you can take it." "I feel vaguely obligated to be by her side, and feel that she probably needs me more than just as a cover to keep her from messing around. By the way, I called you in the middle of the night." "I was fast asleep. I didn't hear." "Then I went to a Turkish bath and spent two hours with steam baths, body soaks, spray showers, massages, and two phone calls. I left the car at Labria and Fountain Streets. I Came from there. No one saw me turn into your street." "Do those two phone calls have anything to do with me?" "Called Harlan Potter. The old man flew down to Pasadena yesterday with business. He didn't come home. I had a hard time finding him. But he finally spoke to me. I told him I was sorry, I Gonna go." As he said these words, he squinted at the window above the sink and the fuchsia shrub that caressed the screen. "How did he feel after hearing that?" "He was upset. He wished me luck. And asked me if I needed money." Terry laughed gruffly. "Money. The first word in his dictionary is money. I said I had a lot of money. Then I called Sylvia's sister. That's about it." "I want to ask one thing," I said, "did you ever find her in that guest house with a man?" He shook his head. "I haven't tried. It shouldn't be too hard to find out. It never was." "Your coffee is cold." "I don't want to drink any more." "Lots of men, huh? But you go back and marry her again. I know she's a beauty, but still—" "I told you I was useless. Why the hell did I leave her the first time? Why did I get so drunk every time I saw her afterwards? Why would I rather fall in the gutter than ask her for money? She was married five times , not including me. Any ex-husband would come back to her if she just tickled her fingers. Not just for millions of dollars." "She's gorgeous," I said, and looked at my watch. "Why do you have to board at Tijuana at 10:15?" "There are always seats available on that flight. Passengers from Los Angeles can take the "Connie" ① and get to Mexico City in seven hours. Who wants to take the DC-5 Mountain Crossing? And "Connie" is not where I want to go stop." I stood up and leaned against the sink. "Now let's wrap it up, please don't interrupt me. You came to me this morning, very emotional, and asked me to take you to Tijuana to catch a morning flight. You have a gun in your pocket, but I may not see it. You told me you tried to bear it, but last night you finally lost your temper. You found your wife half-drunk with a man by her side. You came out and went to a Turkish bath to pass the time until morning when you called Wife's two closest family members, tell them what you're doing. Where you go is none of my business. You have the necessary paperwork to enter Mexico, and it's none of my business how you got in. We're friends, I did what you asked without thinking about it. You're an emotional guy, badly wounded in wartime. I figured I'd go get your car and find a garage to store it." He reached into his clothes, took out a leather key holder and pushed it across the table. "Does that make sense?" he asked. "That depends on who's listening. I'm not done yet. You didn't bring anything except your clothes and a little money from your father-in-law. You kept everything she gave you, including the That nice car at the corner of Labria and Fountain. You gotta get on as clean as you can. All right. I believe it. Now I'll shave and change." "Why are you doing this, Marlowe?" "Go get a drink while I shave." I walk out, leaving him sitting on his back in the corner of the breakfast area.He was still wearing a hat and a light overcoat, but he looked much livelier. When I went into the bathroom to shave and go back to the bedroom to put on my tie, he came and stood in the doorway."I washed the cup just in case. But I kept thinking maybe you better call the police," he said. "Call them yourself. I have nothing to say to them." "You want me to fight?" I turned around sharply and gave him a hard look. "Fuck!" I almost yelled at him, "for Christ's sake, can you just stop talking?" "Feel sorry." "You are sorry. People like you are always sorry and never regret it." He turned and walked down the porch to the living room. I get dressed and lock the back of the house.When I walked into the living room, he had already fallen asleep on the chair, his head was tilted to one side, his face was bloodless, and his whole body was slack with fatigue.He looked so pathetic.I touched his shoulder and he woke up slowly, as if it was a long way from where he was to where I was. When he noticed me, I quickly said, "How about a suitcase? That white pigskin suitcase is still on the top shelf of my closet." "It's empty, and it's too obvious," he said dully. "Better without a suitcase." I went back to the bedroom, stood on the wardrobe steps, and pulled the white pigskin case off the top shelf.The square ceiling trap was just above my head, and I pushed it up, reached in as far as I could, and dropped his leather key behind some gray post. I climbed down with the suitcase, dusted it off, and stuffed a few things in it: a pair of pajamas I never wore, toothpaste, a spare toothbrush, two cheap towels and washcloths, a pack of cotton handkerchiefs, a ten Shaving cream for five cents, along with razors bought in packs.Nothing was used, nothing was marked, nothing stood out, although it would have been better if it had been his own.I put another eighth-gallon bottle of bourbon still in its wrapper.I locked the suitcase, put the key in a lock, and carried it to the front.He fell asleep again.Without waking him, I opened the door and took the suitcase straight to the garage and put it behind the front seat of the convertible.I got the car out, locked the garage, and climbed the steps back inside to wake him up.All the doors and windows that should be locked were locked, and we set off. I was driving fast, but not fast enough to get a ticket.We barely spoke or stopped to eat along the way.Not that much time. The people at the border didn't say anything to us.On the windy mesa where the Tijuana airport is located, I parked near the airport office and sat while Terry bought his ticket. The DC-3's propellers had slowly turned to heat up.A tall, dream-like pilot in a gray uniform was talking to four people.One was about 6ft 4in tall and wore a gun holster.Beside him was a girl in trousers, a small, middle-aged man, and a white-haired woman so tall that she made her male companion look even weaker.There were three or four others who were clearly Mexicans standing nearby.It seems that these people are on board the plane.The boarding escalator has been set up at the door of the cabin, but no one seems to be in a hurry to get on the plane. At this time, a Mexican flight attendant walked down the escalator and stood waiting.It seems that there is no amplification equipment.The Mexican boarded the plane, but the pilot was still chatting with the Americans. There was a big Packard parked next to me.I stuck my head out and glanced at the license plate of the car.Maybe one day I'll learn to stay out of my own business.As I stuck my head out, I saw the tall woman looking at me. Then Terry came across the gray gravel. "It's all over," he said, "and I say goodbye." "Get on board," I said, "I know you didn't kill her. That's why I'm here." He pulled himself together, his whole body became very stiff, he turned around slowly, and looked back. He said quietly, "Sorry. You're wrong about that. I'm going to get on the plane slowly. You have plenty of time to stop me." he walked over.I look at him.The guy in the office is waiting, but in no rush.Mexicans rarely lose patience.He patted the pigskin suitcase, grinned at Terry, and stepped aside to let Terry pass through the door.After a while Terry came out through the gate on the customs side.He walked very slowly across the gravel to the escalator and stopped there, looking my way.He didn't signal or wave.I do not have either.Then he got on the plane and the escalator was taken away. I got in the Oldsmobile, started, reversed, turned around, and drove across the parking lot.The tall woman and the short man were still on the tarmac.The woman held out a handkerchief and waved it.The plane began taxiing to the end of the tarmac, kicking up a cloud of dust.The fuselage turned at that end, the motor accelerated, roared like thunder, and the plane began to accelerate slowly. There was dust and smoke behind, and then the plane lifted off.I watched it slowly fly into the typhoon and disappear into the blue sky in the southeast. Then I get out of there.No one at the border gate looked at me as if my face was as ordinary as the hands of a clock. It was two o'clock when I got home, and they were waiting for me in a dark car with no police badges, no red lights, and only two antennas -- not only police cars have antennas.Halfway up the stairs, they got out of the car and yelled at me. The two of them wore normal uniforms as usual, and their movements were lazy as usual, as if the whole world was quietly waiting for their orders with lowered voices. "Your name is Marlowe? We need to talk to you." He flashed his badge to me.I didn't see what it was, so it wouldn't be an exaggeration to think that he was an epidemic prevention officer.He was a white guy with ash-blonde hair and he looked nasty.The other partner was tall, handsome and neat, with a sort of refined obscenity, like an educated thug.Their eyes are full of waiting, patience and alertness, coldness and disdain, which is what the police have.It was there from the police school graduation parade. "I'm Officer Green, of the Central Homicide Unit. This is Detective Dayton." I went up and opened the door.You don't shake hands with cops in a metropolis.It was so intimate. They are sitting in the living room.I open the window.The breeze came slowly.It was Green who spoke. "There's a guy named Terry Lennox, you know him, don't you?" "We had a drink once in a while. He lived in Encino and married a rich man. I never went where he lived." "Occasionally?" Green said. "How often does that mean?" "That's a vague statement. Occasionally. Maybe once a week, maybe once every two months." "Meet his wife?" "A quick meeting, before they got married." "When and where was the last time you saw him?" I took a pipe from the side table and filled it with tobacco.Green leaned toward me.The tall one sits in the back with a ballpoint pen and a red-edged notepad, waiting to take notes.