Which made me clutch the pole so hard slivers stung my palms. J. C.? You know everything, dont you? Tell, in Jesus Christs name, J. C. tell before its too late. You know why the body was shoved up on the wall and maybe the Beast shoved it there to scare, and just who the Beast is? Tell. Tell.
Poor innocent stupid son-of-a-bitch kid. My God, son. J. C. looked down at me. Youre going to die and not even know all the reasons why.
He stretched his hands out, one to the north, one to the south, to grip the crossbar as if to fly. Instead an empty bottle fell to break at my feet.
Poor sweet son of a bitch, he whispered to the sky.
I let go and dropped the last two feet. When I hit the ground I called up a last time, dead-bone tired: J. C.?
Go to hell, he said, sadly. For I sure dont know where heaven is I heard cars and people nearby.
Run, whispered J. C. from the sky.
I could not run. I simply wandered off away.
I met Doc Phillips coming out of Notre Dame. He was carrying a plastic bag and had the look of one of those men who roam through public parks with nail sticks, jabbing trash to thrust in bags to be burned. He looked startled, for I had one foot up on the steps as if I were going to mass.
Well, he said, much too quickly and heartily. Heres the boy wonder who teaches Christ to walk on water and puts Judas Iscariot back in the criminal lineup!
Not me, I protested. The four apostles. I just pick up their sandals to follow.
Whatre you doing here? he said bluntly, his eyes flicking up and down my body, and his fingers working on the trash bag. I smelled incense, and his cologne.
I decided to go whole hog.
Sunset. Best time to prowl. God, I love this place. I plan to own it someday. Dont worry, Ill keep you on. When I do, Ill tear down the offices, make everyone really live history. Let Manny work over on Tenth Avenue, New York, there! Put Fritz in Berlin, there! Me, Green Town. Roy? if he ever returns, the nut. Build a dinosaur farm yonder. Id run wild! Instead of forty films a year, Id make twelve, all masterpieces! Id make Maggie Botwin vice president of the studio, shes that brilliant, and haul Louis B. Mayer out of retirement. And
I ran out of gas.
Doc Phillips stood with his mouth dropped as if I had handed him a ticking grenade.
Anyone mind if I go in Notre Dame? Id like to climb up and pretend Im
Quasimodo. Is it safe?
No! said the Doc, much too quickly, circling me like a dog circling a fire hydrant. Not safe. Were doing repairs. Were thinking of tearing the whole thing down.
He turned and walked away. Nuts. Youre nuts! he cried and vanished in the cathedral entrance.
I stood watching the open door for about ten seconds, then froze. Because from inside I heard a sort of grunt and then a groan and then a
sound like cable or rope rattling against walls. Doc?!
I stepped into the entrance, but could see nothing. Doc?
A shadow ran up into the cathedral heights. It was like a big sandbag being hauled up in shadows.
It reminded me of Roys body hung swinging over on Stage 13. Doc!?
He was gone.
I stared up in darkness at what looked like the bottoms of his shoes sliding higher and higher.
Doc!
Then, it happened.
Something struck the cathedral floor. A single black slip-on shoe.
Christ! I yelled.
I pulled back to see a long shadow hauled into the cathedral sky. Doc? I said.
Catch!
Crumley threw a ten-dollar bill at my taxi driver, who hooted and took off.
Just like the movies! Crumley said. Guys throw money at taxis and never get change. Say thanks.
Thanks!
Christ, Crumley examined my face. Get inside. Get that inside. Crumley handed me a beer.
I drank and told Crumley about the cathedral, Doc Phillips, hearing some sort of cry and a shadow sliding up in shadows. And the single black shoe falling to the dusty cathedral floor.
I saw. But who could tell? I finished. The studio is nailing itself shut. I thought Doc was a villain. One of the other villains must have got him. By now, theres no body. Poor Doc. What am I saying? I didnt even like him!
Christ almighty, said Crumley, you bring me the New York Times crossword puzzle, when you know all I can do is the Daily News. You drag dead bodies through my house like a cat proud of its kills, no rhyme, no reason. Any lawyer would heave you out the window. Any judge would brain you with his gavel. Psychiatrists would refuse you shock privileges. You could motor down Hollywood Boulevard with all these red herrings and not get arrested for pollution.
Yeah, I said, sinking into depression. The phone rang.
Crumley handed it over.
A voice said: They seek him here, they seek him there, they seek that
scoundrel everywhere. Is he in heaven, is he in hell That damned elusive Pimpernel! I yelled.
I let the phone drop as if a bomb had blown it away. Then I snatched it up again.
Where are you? I yelled. Humm. Buzz.
Crumley clapped the phone to his ear, shook his head. Roy? he said.
I nodded, staggering.
I bit one of my knuckles, trying to build a wall in my head for what was coming.
The tears arrived.
Hes alive, hes really alive!
Quiet. Crumley shoved another drink into my hand. Bend your head. I bent way over so he could massage along back of my skull. Tears
dripped off my nose. Hes alive. Thank God. Why didnt he call sooner?
Maybe he was afraid. I talked blindly to the floor: Like I said: Theyre closing in, shutting the studio. Maybe he wanted me to think he was dead so they wouldnt touch me. Maybe he knows more about the Beast than we do.
I jerked my head.
Eyes shut. Crumley worked on my neck. Mouth shut.
My God, hes trapped, cant get out. Or doesnt want to. Hiding. We got to rescue him!
Rescue my ass, said Crumley. Which city is he in? Boston or the backlot? Uganda on the north forty? Fords Theatre? Get ourselves shot. Theres ninety-nine goddamn places he could hide, so we run around like sore thumbs, yodeling for him to come out, get killed? You go on that studio tour!
Cowardly Crum. You betcha!
Youre breaking my neck! Now youve caught on!
Head down, I let him pummel and thumb all the tendons and muscles into a warm jelly. From the darkness in my skull I said, Well?
Let me think, god damn it! Crumley squeezed my neck hard.
No panics, he muttered. If Roys in there, we got to peel the whole damn onion layer by layer and find him in the right time and place. No shouts or the avalanche comes down on us.
Crumleys hands gentled behind my ears now, a proper father.
The whole thing, it must be, has to do with the studio being terrified of Arbuthnot.
Arbuthnot, mused Crumley. I want to see his tomb. Maybe theres something in there, some clue. You sure hes still there?
I sat up and stared at Crumley. You mean: Whos in Grants tomb?
That old joke, yes. How do we know General Grant is still there?
We dont. Robbers stole Lincolns body twice. Seventy years back they had actually toted it to the graveyard gate when they were caught.
Is that so? Maybe.
Maybe?! shouted Crumley. God Im going to grow me more hair so I can tear it out! Do we go to check Arbuthnots tomb?
Well
Dont say well, dammit! Crumley scrubbed his bald pate furiously, glaring. You been yelling that the man on the ladder in the rain was
Arbuthnot. Maybe! Why not someone got wind of homicide and stole the body to get the proof. Why not? Maybe that car crash came not from being drunk but dying at the wheel. So whoever does the twenty-year-late autopsy has murder evidence, blackmail proof, then they make the fake body to scare the studio and rake in the cash.
Crum, thats terrific.
No, guesswork, theory, B.S. Only one way to be sure. Crumley glared at his watch. Tonight. Knock on Arbuthnots door. See if hes home, or someone fetched him out to get his guts read for omens and scare Caesars half-cracked legions to pee blood.
I thought of the graveyard. At last I said: No use going unless we take a real detective, to check.
Real detective? Crumley stepped back. A seeing-eye dog.
Seeing-eye? Crumley examined my face. This dog, would he live at Temple and Figueroa? Third floor up?
In a midnight graveyard, no matter what you see, you need a nose. Hes got it.
Henry? The greatest blind man in the world? Always was, I said.
I had stood in front of Crumleys door and it had opened.
I had stood on Constance Rattigans shore and she had stepped from the sea.
Now I edged along the carpetless floor of the old tenement where once I had lived with future dreams on my ceiling, nothing in my pockets, and empty paper waiting in my Smith-Corona portable.
I stopped in front of Henrys door and felt my heart beating rapidly, for just below was the room where my dear Fannie had died and this was the first time I had returned since those long sad days of good friends leaving forever.
I knocked on the door.
I heard the scrape of a cane, and the muted clearing of a throat. The floor creaked.
I heard Henrys
