Chapter 12 long goodbye (12)

I said, "Good cynical rhetoric. But hot crimes need money." "Where's the money coming from, man? It's not going to come from the robbers who robbed the liquor store. Bye. See you another time." At ten minutes to eleven one Thursday night, Wade called me.His throat was muffled, almost rattling, but I could tell who it was.Rapid, labored breathing can be heard on the phone. "Marlowe, I'm in a bad situation. I can't take it anymore. Can you come here quickly?" "Okay—but first let me talk to Mrs. Wade." He didn't answer.There was a thud from the phone, and then there was a dead silence, followed by another thump.I yelled at the phone for a while, but no one answered.Time passed by every minute and every second.Finally the microphone clicked back into place and it became a disconnected hum.

I hit the road in five minutes and arrived in a little over half an hour, and I still don't know how I did it.I sped through the pass, headed up Ventura Boulevard toward the light, turned left, dodged among the big trucks, made a fool of myself.I'm driving through Encino at nearly sixty miles an hour, with spotlights on the outer edges of parked cars in case someone suddenly steps out.I've been lucky, the only way I can be so lucky is if I don't care.No cops, no sirens, no red flashing lights.All the while I was thinking only of what might happen to the Wade family, and it wasn't going to be too pleasant.She's home alone with a drunken madman; she's lying at the foot of the stairs with a broken neck; she's locked in a room, and someone's screaming outside trying to break in; she's running barefoot across a moonlit road, a big black man with a butcher's knife chasing her??

It turned out not to be the case at all.I pulled into his driveway, the house was brightly lit, and she was standing in the open doorway, a cigarette in her mouth.I got out of the car and walked towards her on the flagstones.She was wearing baggy trousers and an open-necked shirt, looking at me calmly.If there was any sign of excitement, I brought it too. I said a stupid thing, and my subsequent actions were also stupid. "I thought you didn't smoke." "What? No, I don't usually smoke." She took the cigarette out of her mouth, looked at it, then threw it away to extinguish it. "It's been a long time since. He called Dr. Wellinger."

The voice was distant and calm, as if it came from across the water.Very very easy. "No," I said. "Dr. Wellinger doesn't live there anymore. He's calling me." "Oh, really? I heard him calling to come quickly. I thought it must be Dr. Wellinger." "Where is he now?" "He fell over," she said. "The chair must have been thrown back too much. It's happened before. Hit his head on something. A little blood, not much." "Oh, that's all right," I said. "There won't be much blood. Let me ask you where he is now."

She looked at me seriously, then pointed, and said, "Somewhere over there. By the side of the road or in the bushes by the fence." I leaned over to look at her. "My God, you didn't even look at it?" At this point I decided she was petrified, and looked back at the lawn.Nothing was seen, but there was a thick shadow around the wall. "No, I didn't," she said quite calmly. "You go to him. I'll take as much as I can. I can't take it anymore. You go to him." She turned and walked back into the house, with the door still open; she hadn't gone far when, within a yard or so of the door, she suddenly collapsed and lay there.There is a large sofa on each side of the light-colored long wine table in the room. I lifted her up and laid her flat on one of them. I felt her pulse. It seemed that it was not too weak, and there was no sign of instability.Her eyes were closed and her lips were blue.I left her there and went back outside.

She was right, and Wade was there, lying on his side in the shadow of the hibiscus; pulse racing, breathing unnaturally, the back of his head sticky.I talked to him, shook him a little, and slapped him twice.He grunted, but didn't wake up.I dragged him into a sitting position, pulled him over and put it on my shoulders, then turned my back to him and lifted his body vigorously, reaching out to grab one of his legs.I missed it, he was as heavy as a cement block.The two of us sat down on the grass and I rested and tried again; finally I pulled him into a fireman's support position and dragged him across the grass toward the open front door.A section of the road seems as long as a trip back and forth to Siam.The two flights of steps to the porch seemed to be ten feet high.I stumbled over to the couch, got on my knees, and let him roll off.When I stood up straight again, my spine seemed to be broken in at least three places.

Erin Wade is no more.I was alone in the house.At that moment I was exhausted and in no mood to care who was where.I sat and watched him, waited for him to breathe in and out, and then looked into his head.The whole head was covered with blood, and the hair was also sticky with blood.It doesn't look serious, but the head injury is hard to tell. At this time Erin Wade came to me and quietly looked down at him with a nonchalant expression. "Sorry, I passed out," she said, "I don't know why." "I thought it best to call a doctor." "I called Dr. Lorraine. He's my doctor, you know, and he doesn't want to come."

"Then try someone else." "Oh, he'll come," she said. "He doesn't want to come, but he'll come as soon as he can." "Where's Candy?" "He's off today. Thursday. Cook and Candy off on Thursday. That's the routine. Can you put him to bed." "Can't do without a helper. Better get a rug or blanket. It's warm tonight, but pneumonia is easy in this case." She said she would go get the blanket, which I thought was very nice of her.But my mind is not clear.It was too tiring to carry him. We covered him with a steamer lounger blanket and fifteen minutes later Dr. Lorraine showed up with rimless glasses and a starched collar and the look of a sick dog being asked to clean up like.

He inspected Wade's head and said, "Skin cuts and bruises, no concussion. I think his breathing is showing him fairly well." He reached for his hat and lifted his purse. "Don't let him catch a cold," he said. "You might as well wash his hair gently to get the blood off. He'll be all right when he sleeps." "Doctor, I can't help him upstairs by myself," I said. "Then let him stay where he is." He looked at me indifferently. "Good night, Mrs. Wade. You know I don't treat alcoholics. Even if I did, your husband wouldn't be my patient. I trust you Get that."

"Nobody wants you to heal him," I said, "I want you to help move him into the room so I can undress him." "Who are you?" Doctor Lorraine asked coldly. "My name is Marlowe. I was here last week. Your wife introduced me." "Interesting," he said, "how did you meet my wife?" "What does that matter? I just thought--" "I'm not interested in what you're thinking." He cut me off, turned to Erin, nodded and walked out.I stand between him and the door, with my back to the door. "Wait a minute, doctor. It must have been a long time since you read that article called "The New Practitioner's Pledge". This man called me. Come on, I violated the traffic rules of this state many times along the way. I found him on the ground and I carried him in. Please believe me, he is not a bundle of feathers. He is dead. The servant is not here, and there is no one here who can help me Wade goes upstairs. How do you feel?"

"Get out of the way," he said through gritted teeth, "or I'll call the police station and tell them to send an officer. As a professional—" "As a professional, you're worse than a handful of flea ashes." I said and moved away. He flushed—slowly, but noticeably.He was too angry to speak, just opened the door and walked out, then closed the door carefully.When the door closed he looked in at me deliberately.I have never seen such a fierce face and such a fierce look. When I turned around from the door, Irene was smiling. "What's so funny?" I growled. "You. You don't care what you say, don't you? Don't you know who Dr. Lorraine is?" "I know--I know what kind of man he is." She looked at her watch and said, "Candy should be home now. I'll go check it out. His room is behind the garage." She went out through the arch and I sat down to watch Wade.The big writers continue to snore.He was sweating, but I didn't take the blanket off him.Erin returned a minute or two later, with Candy at her side. I stopped outside Irene's room and listened carefully. I didn't hear any movement in the room, so I didn't knock on the door.If she wants to know how her husband is doing, she will handle it herself.The downstairs living room was brightly lit, but empty.I turn off some lights.Standing by the front door, I look up to the second-floor balcony.The middle part of the living room is hollow, at the same height as the wall of the house, with exposed beams on it, and the balcony is also supported by those beams.The balcony was wide, with solid railings on both sides, and seemed to be about three and a half feet high.The top and upright columns are cut boxy to match the girders.The living room is separated by a square arch with double shutters.I guess the upstairs of the restaurant is the servants' room.This part of the second floor is separated by a wall, and there should be another staircase leading up from the kitchen.Wade's room was in a corner above his study.I could see the reflection of the light from his open door onto the ceiling, and the ceiling of the doorway. I turned off all the lights except a floor lamp, and went to the study.The door of the study room is closed, but there are two lights on, one is a floor lamp at the end of the leather sofa, and the other is a table lamp with a lampshade.The typewriter was on a shelf under the lamp, and the desk next to it was a mess of yellow paper.I sat in a padded chair and looked at the furnishings.I want to know how he knocked his head off.I went over and sat in the chair by his desk with the phone to the left.The spring force is not that strong.If I tilted my head too far back, it might hit the corner of the table.I wet my handkerchief and wipe the wood.No blood, nothing.There are many things on the table, including two green elephants with a row of books between them, and an old-fashioned square glass inkwell.I touched the ink bottle, it was clean.It's useless anyway, if someone else hit him, the murder weapon might not be in the house.And no one else was around to do it.I stood up, turned on the cornice lamp, and the light shone into the dark corner. It turned out that the answer was so simple.A square metal wastebasket was lying on its side against the wall, spilling paper.The wastebasket can't walk, it must have been pushed or kicked over.I try the sharp corners with a damp handkerchief.This time there was reddish-brown blood.There is no mystery at all.Wade fell, hitting his head on the sharp corner of the wastebasket—scratched it, probably—and picked himself up, kicking the damn thing across the room.It's very simple. Then he probably had another quick drink.The wine was on the table in front of the sofa: there was an empty bottle, a wine bottle three-quarters full, a thermos, and a silver bowl of water that should have been ice.There is only one glass and it is a large economy cup. After he drank, he felt better, found the receiver hanging from the cradle, and probably couldn't remember what he'd done with it.So he went over and put the phone back on the base.The times roughly match.The phone feels compulsive, and those of us who are tormented by gadgets love, hate, and dread the mention of the phone.But he has always been respectful to the phone, even drunk.The phone is a fetish. A normal person will say "Hello" to the microphone first, and then hang up after confirming that there is no generalist.A man who is drunk and stumbles is not necessarily so.No big deal anyway.Or maybe it was his wife who came to the study hearing the sound of falling and the sound of the wastebasket hitting the wall.About this time the energy of the last drink was on, and he staggered outside, across the front lawn, and passed out where I found him.Someone is coming for him.At this time, he no longer knew who it was.Maybe it's good old Dr. Wellinger. Makes sense so far.What would his wife do?She couldn't handle him, couldn't reason with him, probably didn't dare try.Then she will call for help.The employer is absent, so I have to make a phone call.Well, she called someone.She had called Dr. Lorraine.I thought she called him after I arrived.Although she didn't say so. It's a bit unreasonable to go any further.It stands to reason that she will take care of him, look for him, and make sure he is not injured.There's nothing wrong with lying out on the ground for a while on a warm summer night.She can't move him.I did it with all my might.But no one expected that she was standing at the door smoking a cigarette, not quite sure where he was.Can you imagine it?I don't know what she's been through, how dangerous he was in that situation, and how afraid she was to come near him.When I arrived, she said to me: "I can bear it if I can. You go to him." Then she went into the house and passed out. I'm still scratching my head about this, but I can only let it go for now.I have to assume she's faced with this situation a lot and knows there's nothing she can do about it but just go with the flow.That's it.Let nature take its course.Let him lie on the ground and wait for someone to bring medical tools to deal with him. Still nerve-wracking.Candy and I helped him upstairs to bed, and I was disturbed when she retired to her room.She said she loved that man.He was her husband, the two had been married for five years, and he was fine when he was sober—she said it herself.He changes completely when drunk and becomes very dangerous, so avoid him.Well Well.But I still feel uneasy.If she was really scared, she wouldn't be standing at the door smoking.If she was just embarrassed, lonely, and sick, she wouldn't pass out. There are other things.Maybe another woman is involved.She just found out about it.Is that Linda Lorraine?Maybe.Dr. Lorraine thought so, and said it openly. I stopped thinking and lifted the cover of the typewriter.What's still there are some yellow typescripts that I've been ordered to destroy so Irene won't see them.I took it to the couch and decided to have a look over my drink.There is a half bath off the den.I rinsed the goblet, poured a glass of wine, sat and watched, and drank.The things I saw were incoherent. There are still four days to the full moon, and there is a moonlight on the wall, looking at me blankly like a cloudy eye.joke.This metaphor is so fucking stupid.writer.Everything has to be like something else.My pate was as fluffy as whipped cream, yet not at all sweet.Another metaphor.I spit up just thinking about this mess.I'll vomit anyway.Might throw up.Don't push me.give me some time.The worm in my heart crawls and crawls.I'm better off lying on the bed, but there's going to be a black beast under the bed, crawling around, jumping up, hitting the bottom of the bed, and I'm going to let out a roar that no one can hear but me.A roar in a dream, a roar in a nightmare.There was nothing to be afraid of, I was not afraid because there was nothing to be afraid of, but once I got into bed I lay like that, and the black beast still tortured me, hit the bottom of the bed, and I had an orgasm.This disgusts me more than anything nasty I've ever done. My body is dirty.I need to shave.My hands are shaking.I sweat.I feel like I stink all over.The underarms, chest and back of the shirt were wet.The elbow folds of the sleeves were also wet.The glasses on the table are empty.Now you have to use your hands to pour the wine.I might as well pour another glass to refresh myself.The smell of that stuff is disgusting.It won't help me.In the end I couldn't sleep at all, my nerves were tormented, and the whole world groaned.Wine, uh, Wade?A little more. It was okay for the first two or three days, but then it became negative.You suffer, you take a drink, feel good for a while, but the cost gets higher and higher, the effect gets less and less, and one day you get nothing but nausea.So you call Verringer.Well, Verringer, here I come.Now there is no Verringer.He went to Cuba or died.That stunner killed him.Poor old Verringer, it was a miserable life to die in bed with a stunner--a sissy stunner.Come on, Wade, let's get up and go somewhere else.We have never been to a place where we will never come back.Does this sentence make sense?No way.Well, there is no fee for writing.A short break after a long commercial. Well, I will do so.I'm up.What a man.I went to the sofa, knelt down by the sofa, put my hands on it, buried my face in them, and cried bitterly.Then I prayed and looked down on myself for praying.Level 3 alcoholics look down on themselves.What the hell are you praying to, fool?Healthy people pray is faith.The sick prayed only to panic.Pray to hell.This is the world you make, and you make it alone, with even a little help from outside -- you make it.Stop praying, you idiot.Stand up and get your drink.It's too late for anything else now. OK, I'll take it.Using both hands, pour it into a glass.Almost nothing leaked.If only I could hold the cup without spitting up.Better to add some water.Take it up slowly.Take your time and don't pour too much at once.It's getting warmer.It's getting hotter.It would be great if I stopped sweating.The wine glass is empty.Back to the table again. The moonlight was shrouded in mist, but I still put down the wine glass, very carefully, like a rose in a tall vase.Rose nodded with dew.Maybe I'm a rose, brother, I've got dew.Now go upstairs, maybe another glass of pure before we hit the road.don't want?Well, listen to you.Take it with you when you go upstairs.If I get there, there are good things to look forward to.If you can go upstairs, you are entitled to compensation.Symbolizes that I greet myself.I love myself - the good part - and have no rivals. Double the space.up and down.Didn't like upstairs.The height makes my heart skip a beat.But I kept pounding on the keys of the typewriter.The subconscious is truly a magician.If only it could commute to and from get off work on time.There is also moonlight upstairs.Probably the same moon.The moon does not change and changes, like the milkman who comes and goes periodically, and the milk of the moonlight is always the same.Milk moon forever -- shut up, friend.You cross your feet.This is not the time to get involved in the case of the Moon.There are plenty of cases for you to take care of throughout the valley. She fell asleep on her side, without sound, her knees raised.I think it's too quiet.There will always be a little noise when sleeping.Maybe not asleep, maybe trying to fall asleep.I knew it when I got closer.Maybe it will fall off.She has one eye open -- is it?She looks at me, doesn't she?No.Should have sat up and said, you're sick, baby?Yes, I'm sick, baby, but don't take it to heart, baby, it's me that's sick, not yours, you're still going to sleep quietly, beautifully, never think of anything, nothing sticky comes from me When it comes to you, nothing hideous, dark, or ugly will come near you. What a scumbag you are, Wade.Three adjectives, you poor writer.scum you can't stream of consciousness without three adjectives oh my godI leaned on the railing and went downstairs again.Five viscera and six viscera? With the footsteps soaring, I make a promise to barely call it dirty? Don't split.I stepped on the floor, I walked to the study, I walked to the sofa, and I waited for my heart to slow down.The bottle is close at hand.One thing that is certain about Wade's arrangement is that the bottle is always at hand.No one hides it, no one locks it up.No one said, baby, don't you think you've had enough?Baby, you'll get sick from drinking.No one said that.Just lying on its side as tender as a rose. I gave Candy way too much money.Big mistake.It should start with a bag of peanuts, work its way up to bananas, and then the real little changes, slow and easy, that will always make him crave.You start giving him big swigs and he gets the big jackpot in no time.He can live in Mexico for a month on a day's expenses here, free and dirty.So what does he do when he gets the big jackpot?Hey, if people think they can get more, do they think they have enough money?Maybe I should kill that bright-eyed bastard.A good man died for me, why not a cockroach in a white jacket? Forget about Candy, there's always a way to defeat a needle.Another I will never forget, etched on my liver with green fire. Better make a phone call.I can't control it.I think they dance and dance.Better call someone before those pink things get on my face.Better call, call, call.Call "Sue of Sioux City".Hello, operator, take me long distance.Hey, long-distance station, pick up "Su from Sioux City" for me.What is her phone number?No number, just name, operator.You'll find her walking down Tenth Street, on the shaded side, under tall corn with long ears... Well, operator, well.The whole cancellation, let me tell you something, I mean, ask you a word.If you cancel my long-distance calls, who's going to pay for those feasts that Giffords throw in London?Yeah, you thought your job was stable.Do you think.Well, I'd better talk to Gifford directly.Ask him to listen.His valet had just brought in his tea.If he can't answer the phone, we'll send someone who can. What am I writing about now?What is it that I try to avoid thinking about?Telephone.Better call now.It's serious. With that alone, I folded the paper and tucked it behind the wallet in my inner breast pocket, then walked to the French window, opened the casement, and stepped out onto the patio.The moon is a little rotten.But it was summer in Ed Varley, and summer was never too rotten.I stood there gazing at the motionless, colorless lake, pondering, pondering. That's when I heard a gunshot.