Chapter 8 long farewell (8)

I look at the first page, the unwrinkled one.There is a short typescript on it that reads: I don't like to be self-pitying, no one else to love anymore. Roger (F. Scott Fitzgerald) Wade Other: So I keep writing. "Can you understand, Mrs. Wade?" "Just posturing. He always admired Scott Fitzgerald. He said Fitzgerald was the greatest alcoholic writer since Coleridge and took drugs. Read this, Mr. Marlowe." .clear, even, and error-free." "I noticed. Most people can't write their names when they're drunk." I opened the crumpled one.It's also a typescript, and there's nothing wrong or messy about it.This one reads:

Doctor V, I don't like you.But now you are exactly what I'm looking for. No matter how smart you think you are, there's always a place to start your research: name, area of ​​residence, background, environment, or some kind of reference.All I had in my hand was a crumpled piece of yellow paper that said, "Dr. V, I don't like you. But now you're the one I'm looking for." That allowed me to focus on the Pacific Ocean, Spend a month looking up every member of the medical association in five or six counties and get nowhere.Quacks breed like guinea pigs here.There are eight counties within a hundred miles of City Hall, and there are doctors in every town in every county, some are real medics, some are just mail order mechanics with a ticket to cut corn or jump up and down on your back license.Some real doctors are rich and some are poor, some are moral, and some can't afford it.A rich first-time alcoholic can take a lot of money out of his family and give it to a cranky old man who's behind on vitamins and antibiotics.But there is no way to find out if there is no clue.I don't have a clue, Erin Wade may not have, or may have and don't know.Even if I find someone who fits the bill and whose name starts with a V, as far as Roger Wade is concerned, it might as well be nothing.That sentence might just be a thought that just happened to flash through his mind when he was drunk.As he mentioned Scott Fitzgerald was just kind of an unconventional goodbye.

In this case, the little man has no choice but to steal the brainchild of the big man.So I called an acquaintance at Kahn's agency.Based in Beverly Hills, this trendy agency specializes in protecting wealthy clients -- and by protection, that includes almost any move with one foot within the law.A guy I know named George Peters told me to hurry up and he only gave me ten minutes. They occupy half of the second floor of a pink four-story building. The elevator door opens and closes automatically with electronic eyes. The corridor is cool and quiet. Every parking space in the parking lot has a name. The pharmacist outside the lobby fills sleeping pills in bottles My wrists are cramping.

The outside of the door is light gray, with raised metal letters, clean and sharp as a new knife. "The Kahn Institute, President Gerald C. Kahn" with the words "Entrance" in fine print below it.People would think it was an investment trust company. There was a small ugly reception room, but the ugliness was deliberate and expensive.The furniture was scarlet and dark green, the walls were painted a dull Brunswick green, and the hanging pictures were "set in green frames about three shades darker," showing several men in red suits on big horses, and the horses Going mad to jump over the high hurdles.There are two frameless mirrors in a sickly rose red.On a table of shiny white mahogany were the latest issues of magazines, each in a clear plastic sleeve.The guy who furnished this room wasn't afraid to go overboard with color.He might wear a chili-red shirt, mulberry-purple trousers, zebra-striped shoes, and vermilion underpants with orange initials embroidered on them.

It's just a window display.Clients of Kahn's agency pay at least a hundred dollars a day, and they count on receiving services at home, not sitting in reception rooms.Kahn was a former gendarmerie colonel, big, rosy-skinned, and hard as a board.He asked me to take a job, but I haven't gotten there yet.There are one hundred and ninety ways to be a jerk, and Kahn knows them all. A frosted glass door opened, and a receptionist poked his head out to see me.Her smile is rigid, and her eyes are so sharp that she can count how much money is in your wallet. "Good morning. Can I help you?"

"George Peters, please. My name is Marlowe." She put a green book on the table and said, "Mr. Marlowe, is he expecting you? I don't see your name in the appointment book." "It's a personal matter. I just spoke to him on the phone." "I see. How do you spell your last name, Mr. Marlowe? And your first name, thank you." I told her.She writes on a long, narrow form and tucks the edges into a time clock. "For whom?" I asked her. "Attention to detail here," she said coldly, "Colonel Kahn said that no one knows when the smallest trifle can mean the difference between life and death."

"Maybe the other way around," I said, but she didn't understand.After she finished registering, she looked up and said, "I'll report you to Mr. Peters." I say I am deeply honored.A moment later, a door to the compartment opened, and Peters beckoned me into a corridor of ship gray lined with small offices, like a prison cell.His office has a soundproofed ceiling, a steel-gray desk with two chairs, a gray gramophone on a gray shelf, a telephone and pen set the same color as the walls and floor.There are two framed photos on the wall, one is a photo of Kahn wearing a snowflake helmet in military uniform, and the other is a photo of Kahn sitting behind a desk dressed as a civilian, which looks unpredictable.There was also a framed picture on the wall, with a steel letter of instruction printed on a gray background.The content is as follows:

Kahn's staff dress and behave like gentlemen anytime and anywhere.There are no exceptions to this rule. Peters strode across the room in two strides, pushing away one of the photographs.A gray microphone receiver is embedded in the wall behind.He pulled it out, unplugged a wire connector, put it back in, and moved the photo back in front of the receiver. "Now I'm free," he said, "just that jerk went out to solve a drunk driving case for an actor. All the mic switches are in his office. He wired up the whole black shop. The other day I suggested He put an infrared microfilm camera behind the light-transmitting glass in the reception room, and he didn't approve of it. Maybe someone else installed it."

He sat down on a hard gray chair.I stared at him.He was clumsy and long-legged, with a thin face and high temple-lines; his skin was haggard, as if he had been out of doors, exposed to the sun and rain.His eyes were deep-set and his upper lip was almost as long as his nose.When he smiled, the lower half of his face disappeared, leaving only two large grooves running from the nostrils to the end of the wide mouth. "How do you accept that?" I asked him. "Sit down, buddy. Breathe quietly, keep the volume down, and don't forget that the Kahn crew is like Toscanini to an organ monkey compared to cheap detectives like you." He paused , grinning, "I accept it because I don't care. The pay is good here. If one day Kahn thinks I'm still serving time in the maximum security prison he ran in England during the war, with a bad attitude, I'll just pick up the check and leave .What difficulties do you have? I heard that you suffered a lot not long ago."

"Nothing to complain about. I wanted to see your files on unruly people. I know you have. Eddie Dorst told me after he left." He nodded and said, "Eddie is a little too sensitive for the Kahn facility. The files you mentioned are top secret. Under no circumstances should confidential information be disclosed to outsiders. I'll look for it right away." He walked out, and I stared at the gray wastebasket, the gray floor, the gray corners of the desktop blotter.Peters came back with the gray file in his hand, put it down and opened it. "Jesus, do you have anything here that isn't gray?"

"My boy, the colors of the school. The spirit of this institution. Yes, I have one thing that isn't gray." He opened the drawer and took out a cigar about eight inches long. He said, "Upmann 30. Gifted to me by an old gentleman from England who lived in California for forty years and called the radio a radio. When he was sober he was just an old hipster with superficial charm, and I Not annoying, because most people don't even have superficial charm, including Kahn - he is as boring as the lining of a steel furnace. The old customer has a strange habit of driving things that have nothing to do with him. A check from a bank with no business dealings. He always pays compensation, and with my assistance, he has not been in prison so far. He sent me this cigar. Do you want to smoke together, like two Indian chiefs planning a massacre ?" "I can't smoke cigars." Peters looked sadly at the giant cigar. "Me too," he said, "I'd like to give it to Kahn. But it's not a real solitaire, not even a Kahn character." He frowned. "You know what? I talk too much about Kahn. I must be nervous." He put the cigar back in the drawer and looked at Kai's file. "What exactly are we looking for?" "I'm looking for an alcoholic with expensive hobbies and money. So far he hasn't had a habit of bouncing tickets. At least I haven't heard of it. He's a bit violent and his wife is worried about him. Think he might be hiding somewhere A place to sober up, but she's not sure. The only clue is a note mentioning Dr. V. Only initials. The man I'm looking for has been missing for three days." Peters stared at me thoughtfully. "Not too long," he said. "What's there to worry about?" He looked at me a few more times, then shook his head and said, "I don't understand, but that's okay. Let's look it up." He started the file. "It's not easy," he said. "These people come and go. A single letter doesn't give a clue." He drew a page from a folder, then another, and finally a third.He said, "Three of them. Dr. Amos Valli, bone setter. Big clinic in Altadena. Fifty bucks for night visits. Two RNs. Talked to State Narcotics two years ago. People have had disputes and been forced to hand over their prescription book. It's not up to date." I wrote down the name and his address in Altadena. "There is also a Mr. Lester Ukanich. Otolaryngologist. Stockwell Building, Hollywood Blvd. This one is an excellent doctor. Probably an outpatient, seems to be well versed in chronic sinusitis. Routine nothing Suspicious. You go in and say you have a sinus headache and he washes your sinus cavities. Of course he has to anesthetize first. But if he likes you, he doesn't necessarily have to use anesthesia. Understand?" "Of course." I wrote this one down. "That's good," said Peters, continuing to look at the file. "Obviously his problem is with the supply side. It turns out that our Dr. Vukanich used to go fishing off Al Nada and fly there in his own plane." "I don't think he would last long if he brought in the drugs himself," I said. Peters thought about it, shook his head, and said, "I don't agree. As long as he's not too greedy, he can go on like this forever. His only big danger is dissatisfied customers—sorry, I mean patients—but he probably knows to How to deal with it. He's been practicing medicine in the same office for fifteen years." "Where did you get these materials?" I asked him. "Dude, we're an agency, not a lone wolf like you. Some of the material is provided by the client himself, and some comes from within. Kahn isn't afraid to spend money. He's very gregarious when he wants to be." "He must have liked that." "Fuck him. The last one was named Wellinger. The staff who had him on file is gone. Looks like a poetess committed suicide on Wellinger's ranch in Sepulveda Canyon. He runs an arts village or something for writers and Wants to live in seclusion and seeks people of the same kind. The fee is reasonable. Doesn't sound illegal. He claims to be a doctor, but he doesn't practice medicine. It may be a doctor. Frankly, I don't know why his information is included here .unless it had anything to do with the suicide." He picked up a newspaper clipping taped to a white paper. "Yes, a morphine overdose. There is no indication that Verringer knew." I said, "I like Verringer. Very nice." Peters closed the file and put it down with a snap. "Just pretend you haven't seen this," he said, standing up and walking out of the room.When he came back, I was getting up to go.I thanked him, but he said no need. "Listen," he said, "there are probably hundreds of places where the person you're looking for will go." I said I know. "By the way, I heard something about your friend Lennox that might be of interest to you. One of our colleagues met a guy in New York five or six years ago who fit him perfectly. But he said the guy It's not Lennox, it's Marstone. Of course he could be mistaken. The man was drunk all the time, so it's hard to be sure." I said, "I doubt it's the same person. Why did he change his surname? There are war records to check." "I don't know. Our colleague is currently in Seattle. If you feel it is necessary, you can talk to him when he comes back. His name is Ashtelfelt." "Thanks for the help, George. Ten minutes is a long time." "Maybe someday I'll need your help." I said, "The Kahn Institute doesn't need anyone's help to do anything." He made an impolite gesture with his thumb.I leave the small iron-gray office and walk across the reception room.The reception room looks fine now.Out of the small cell, the bright colors make sense. Off the road, there are two square yellow gateposts at the bottom of the Sepulveda valley, and a gate with five iron bars is open.There is a sign hanging on a wire on the door: private road, no trespassing allowed.The air was warm and quiet, full of the foul smell of eucalyptus. I turned in, followed a gravel road around the shoulder of the mountain and slowly went uphill, crossed a ridge, and entered a shallow valley from the other side.It was hot in the valley, about ten or fifteen degrees warmer than on the road.Now I could see that the gravel path ended in a circle around a lawn bordered with whitewashed stones.To my left is an empty swimming pool, and nothing seems emptier than an empty swimming pool.The three sides of the pool were supposed to be turf, on which there were mahogany deck chairs, the cushions of which were badly faded, and they should have been blue, green, yellow, orange, rusty red, all kinds of colors.The trim is frayed in places, the buttons are undone, and the padding is bulging.On the other side of the pool is the high wire fence of the tennis court.The diving board of the empty swimming pool is warped and tired.The outer padding was tattered, and the hardware was rusty. I drove to the circle and parked in front of a mahogany house with a shingled roof and a wide front porch.The entrance has two screen doors.The big black fly dozed off on the gauze.There are winding paths among the evergreen and ever-gray California oaks, and in the oak groves are scattered cottages on the hillside, some almost entirely hidden in their shadow.The few buildings that can be seen are all desolate in the off-season.The doors were closed, and the windows were covered with net cotton or something.You can almost feel the thick dust on the window sills. I turned off the ignition, sat with my hands on the steering wheel and listened.Nothing happened.The place was as dead as the remains of an ancient pharaoh, except for the double screened doors that were open, and something was shaking in the dark room.That's when I heard a soft but precise whistle, and a man appeared inside the screen door, opened it, and walked slowly down the steps.He was such a wonderful person. He wore a flat black shepherd's hat with a strap tied under his chin; a spotless white silk shirt with an open neck, puffed sleeves, and tight wrists; Scarf with fringe, one end is short and the other end is long to the waist.He also wore a broad black belt, and black trousers, tightly fitted at the hips, as black as coal, with gold thread sewn on the sides to the slit, which had gold buttons on either side.On the feet are patent leather dancing shoes. He stopped at the bottom of the steps, looking at me, still whistling.The movement is as flexible as a whip.I have never seen such empty smoky eyes in my life, and the long eyelashes are as bright as silk; the body is slender, but not weak; the bridge of the nose is straight, not too thin, the mouth is pouty, the chin has dimples, and the small ears are elegant The ground is close to the head; the skin is pale, as if it has never been exposed to the sun. He put his left hand on his hip, and drew a graceful arc in the air with his right hand, pretending to be pretentious. "Hello," he said, "it's a beautiful day, isn't it?" "I think it's hot in here." "I like hot weather." He said flatly and decisively, leaving no room for discussion.He is dismissive of what I like.He sat down on the steps, took out a long file, and began to file his nails. "You're from the bank?" he asked without looking up. "I'm looking for Dr. Wellinger." He stopped filing his nails, looked into the warm distance, and said, "Who is he?" "He's the proprietor here. Pretty straightforward, huh? Pretending not to know." He went on manicuring his nails with the file. "You heard me wrong, honey. The owner here is the bank. They forfeited the collateral, or it's in temporary deposit for transfer or something. I forgot the details." He looked up at me with an expression of indifference to details.I got out of the car, leaned against the hot door, then moved away and stood in a more ventilated place. "Which bank is it?" "You don't know, then you ain't from there. You ain't from there, there's nothing to do. Come on, baby. Get out of here." "I must find Dr. Wellinger." "This place's closed, honey. The sign says it's a private road. One of the runners forgot to lock the gate." "Are you the manager?" "Almost. Stop asking, baby. I'm not very reliable in my temper." "What do you do when you're angry—dance with a weasel?" He stood up suddenly and gracefully, and smiled, a very empty smile. "Looks like I'll have to throw you back in that little old convertible of yours." "Wait a minute. Where can I find Dr. Wellinger now?"