Fadeout (9 page)

"But why did she accept?" 

Loomis shrugged. "Guess she was fed up with living on hope. When she got a look at how Hale McNeil lived ... " He stared out the window again. There were runnels of shadow in the mountains now. "Hell, her man had nothing. Past forty years old and nothing to show. The top of the hill has got to be just ahead at forty. But Fox was still at the bottom. He wasn't going to reach the top pushing a typewriter. Guess she decided he might, pushing a guitar." 

"How did he react to the offer?" 

"Says thanks but no thanks"—Loomis grinned—"and hung up." 

"You don't mean it." 

"Fact." Loomis's eyes laughed, remembering. "Well, Thorne was allover him. It's the chance of a lifetime, she says, and he better grab it. He stands there with his jaw hanging. He can't figure it. A while back, when all these coffeehousesstarted up and all the kids singing and playing what they call folk songs, he wants to give up writing and go out do that. She near killed him. She claims she never, but I kind of guess he told it like it happened." 

"So they argued about this?" 

"Only till he was sure she meant it. Then he give a shrug and that grin of his and picked up the phone and says to Hale that he'll give it a try. And I'll hand it to him. He done fine. I did hand it to him. We got to be real good friends. And him being my son-in-law, a lot of people that wouldn't give me the time of day before, they turned real neighborly and respectful all of a sudden. Guess I could have run for mayor myself." He chuckled sourly, then tilted his head, blinking. "Queer thing, though. About Thorne. She never listened. I did." He jerked a work-flattenedthumb at a radio on the desk, half buried among u.s.Agriculture Department bulletins. "Never missed him on the air. But Thorne—she couldn't have cared less."

She had on a clean cotton housedress today. Starchy. The faded pink cardigan over it had been washed so often it had no more shape left than she had. Her hair was combed and her face scrubbed. No makeup. Instead of a wine bottle there was a Bible in her hand. The big eyes that had been bleary with booze last night were clear now. More than clear. Bright. Too bright. Her smile clicked on. So did her voice, also too bright. 

"It's Mr. Brandstetter, isn't it?" 

She pushed open the screen. He stepped in. She didn't wear perfume. The smell was of some kind of medicinal soap. 

"We met last night," he said. 

"Yes." He knew now what the trouble was: the eyes didn't blink. The voice went on, a recorded message. "I'm an alcoholic. It's a sickness. But I'm winning. Prayer helps me. God helps me." She glanced down at the Bible and then laid it on the telephone stand. 

"And your children?" he said. 

"They're wonderful." Her smile was a rictus that belonged with a scream. "Aren't they wonderful? My beautiful boys. I don't know what I'd do without them." 

"And your daughter-in-law? Is she beautiful too?" 

"I'm so proud of her," Mildred Mundy said. "I couldn't have wished for a finer girl for my Phil." 

"And so rich too," Dave said. 

The eyes still didn't blink. The mouth made a big O. The tongue clucked. "Why, Gretchen's not rich. Her grandfather, sure. But she works for a living, typist at the United Growers. Money's not the important thing in this life. Love is." For a second the eyes and voice came humanly, bitterly alive. "I know. I was married to a rich man once." She didn't go on. 

"Money seemed important to you last night. You followed me into a hard rain after that fifty thousand dollars Fox Olson left Gretchen." 

"I wasn't myself last night." The eyes stared blank at him again. A puffy hand groped for the Bible and touched it like base. Then she started along the hall. "Buddy's waiting for you. You're nice to come play chess with him. Now that Phil's got his own building business along with his job and Fox is dead, Buddy gets lonesome." 

"I get lonesome too." Dave followed her, the warped floor tilting under his feet. "And I don't get to play chess often." He said it loud and clear because the door to Buddy's room was shut. 

Mildred Mundy opened it. Her voice had the terrible fake cheerfulness of a death ward nurse, a bad echo in Dave's mind. "Mr. Brandstetter's here, Buddy. Isn't that nice?" 

"That's . . . nice." Buddy's smile was better than the human average. He sat in his steel tubular wheelchair, the chessboard in front of him, the wooden men in ranks. He wore a red sweatshirt and white corduroy pants and tennis shoes. Wore is the wrong word. They hung on him as if on a small, broken drying rack. Last night, wet from his bath, his hair had looked dark. It was fair, a shock of wheat. The eyes were still the color of rain. "Hi ... Mr. . . . Brand ... stetter." The name made for a lot of agonizing jaw work. 

"Make it Dave." Dave smiled and sat down on the kitchen chair facing the boy. The chair was newly painted but the rungs were wired and it wobbled. 

"Just call me if you want anything." Mildred Mundy went out and shut the door. 

"Th ... anks ... Mama." 

"I hope four was a good time." Dave glanced at the television set. "There isn't something you want to watch? I just picked my own time. That wasn't very considerate." 

The boy's fine head did its slow, neck-straining roll while the unexpectedly deep voice spasmed and his mouth labored at shaping the speech. Chess was preferable to TV. Though he was grateful to Fox Olson for giving him the set, he didn't watch it much. It was moronic for the most part. He enjoyed reading. And KPIM played good music in the evenings. 

"Good music? What about Mr. Olson's music? You don't like that?" 

Buddy meant Bach and Bartok. Sure, he liked Fox's music. Fox used to bring his guitar here and sing. It was better that way than on the radio, like cheerful conversation. But Fox hadn't taken it seriously himself. He liked Mozart and Mahler. 

"Did he come here often?" But the boy was eyeing the chessmen. Dave reached for a pawn of each color so they could draw for white. But the white men were ranked on his side and Buddy said: 

"Be . . . my guest." 

Dave pushed his king's pawn and the boy countered the move. It took time because the small clean hand kept twisting out of control. But Dave waited, judging that if Buddy wanted help he would ask for it. Chess was no game to hurry anyway. Yes, Fox Olson had spent a lot of time in this room, had taken Buddy to films, driven him to his physical therapy sessions at the hospital, replaced his clumsy old wooden wheelchair with this flash one, a standard-model typewriter with the electric that was better for writing because you could think about words instead of motions. What did he write? Haiku. . . . He took Dave's knight with a bishop from a far corner. 

Dave groaned. "I told you I was a potzer." 

"You aren't. You're think . . . ing." In the straining, tormented young face, the eyes were steady. "About Fox." Gretchen had told Buddy why Dave was in Pima, that he didn't believe Fox was dead but had only run away. 

"What about you?" Dave asked. "What do you think?" 

"May . . . be. If I . . . could I . . . would." Buddy glanced at the ceiling, the rows of bright license plates. 

"That how you travel?" Dave asked. 

Buddy gave his loud bray of laughter but the eyes were sad. It was how he traveled. He lay in bed and thought about the places the license plates came from. He knew a lot about them from reading the
National Geographics
. He had plates from every state, including Alaska and Hawaii. Phil had got them for him over the years. The boy named Sandy, at the Signal station—whose girl friend worked for Fox—had contributed a couple. Including Mexico. Buddy's first foreign one. The second Fox had brought. Dave saw it in the ceiling corner, a long black rectangle with white numerals. France. He looked at the boy. 

"Where did he get it?" 

About two weeks ago, Fox had come here with a stranger. They had driven into the Mundys' yard under the walnut trees in the man's car. A Ferrari. With French license plates. Fox had introduced the man to Buddy as an old friend, simply as Doug, no last name. Anyway, the man wasn't French. He was American. Only he had lived in France for a long time. Something to do with NATO. He was nice. He'd taken Buddy for a ride. They'd driven out the highway. It was the fi,rst sports car the boy had ever ridden in. His eyes shone, remembering. On the straightaway Doug had opened it up. The speedometer needle had passed 120 before traffic had slowed them down. When they got back here, Doug, at Fox's suggestion, had given Buddy the license plate. . . . He pushed a rook. Dave's king was in check. 

"Maybe ... " Buddy said, "Fox went ... toFr ... ance." 

Dave blinked. "Why would he go to France?" 

"He was ... hap ... py ... with Doug." Buddy watched his hand moving like a slow, stunned, naked little animal, setting the white pieces back in place. "I told . . . Phil ... I nev ... er saw Fox ... laugh the way ... he did ... that day." 

A smoldering Valentino in white riding breeches ought to have been waiting in the motel office. It was a silentmovie set. Slot windows in deep white walls, guarded by grilles of black iron. Black carved beams, black iron chandelier. Floor of square red tiles. Tapestry-backed chairs with brass studs and gold fringe. But it wasn't Valentino. It was Ito in a tidy white jacket. 

He took a registration card out of a green file box and laid it on the counter top, which was inlaid with painted tiles. The name was lettered on the card with a black felttip pen. Dashing.
Douglas Sawyer
.
Los Angeles
. 

Ito said, "It was a Ferrari. Red." Red, dying sunlight slanted into his eyes and he narrowed them, watching Dave copy the address and license number. "A car like that must cost a bundle." 

"Around fifteen thousand dollars," Dave said. 

Ito whistled softly. "Who was this cat? Somebody important?" 

"Possibly. At least to me." Dave laid a dime on the counter. "May I make a local call?" 

"Sure." Ito slid the phone toward him. 

While Dave checked a number in his address book, he asked Ito, "Do you know whether anybody else saw him while he was here?" 

"You mean came to see him?" 

Dave dialed. "I mean just what I said." 

"Well ... " Ito shrugged. "Sandy Webb, the kid at the Signal station. He saw him. I heard him raving. about the car at the bowling alley one night. Sawyer bought gas from him." 

Dave smiled thanks and Thorne Olson answered the phone. "I'm just checking on my memory," he told her. "Didn't you tell me your husband once had a friend named Sawyer, Doug Sawyer?" 

"Is this Mr. Brandstetter?" 

"Sorry to bother you," he said. 

"Yes." Her voice was chilly, impatient. "The answer to your question is yes. They were very close friends. They attended art school together. The Provence School." 

"And didn't you say Sawyer was a flier in the war?" 

She sighed. "And was killed on a bombing mission over Europe, yes. But I don't see what this can possibly—" 

He cut across her annoyance. "Doug Sawyer is alive, Mrs. Olson. He was here in Pima only two weeks ago. Your husband talked to him at the Pima Motor Inn." 

"I don't believe it." 

"The registration card is here with his name on it. Your husband was seen going into his unit." 

"But . . ." Her voice climbed a step. "He would have told me. Fox worshiped Doug Sawyer. Why, if he had ... " 

"Yes?" 

Her tone hardened. "Is this supposed to have some connection with Fox's death?" 

"Disappearance," Dave said. "I don't know. When I do, I'll bother you again." He hung up and looked at Ito. "I'm checking out." He turned for the door. 

"You think you'll find Mr. Olson?" 

"Maybe." The brown boy was reflected in the thick beveled glass of the door. Dave told the reflection, "One living dead man ought to be able to lead me to another." 

And he went out and shut the door.

Three hours later, at San Fernando, he caught up with the rain again. It hissed under the tires as he curved along the freeway into Hollywood. He hadn't eaten and he needed to. He had lost too much weight. Traffic on Sunset was heavy and slow. When he reached Romano's it was late. There were only a couple of cars left in the parking lot. Reflecting neon signs, the puddles he stepped through were like paintings drowning in ink. The familiar stained-glass windows smiled welcome. He pushed into steamy warmth, good smells of cheese and garlic. Fat Max was there to take his coat. Big smile full of gold fillings. 

"Mr. Brandstetter. You're a stranger. Where you been? Where's Mr. Fleming?" 

"Dead, Max. Cancer." And when the old Italian's good-natured face crumpled with shock and pity, Dave turned fast for the bar. "Make it lasagne with sausages tonight. Garlic toast. Big salad. Vino. Give me twenty minutes." 

"I'm-a so sorry about Mr. Fleming. We'll miss him." 

"Thanks." The bar, dark woods and leathers, stainedglass lanterns, was not big but it was nearly empty. Rain could do that to business in L.A. There was only one other customer. A woman. He noticed her without looking at her. The bartender he didn't know. That was good. He wouldn't have to say it again, about Rod. It wasn't martini weather but that was what he ordered, hoping it would make him hungry. He started a cigarette and went to work on the drink. 

Then the woman slid onto the stool next to his. This could happen at Romano's? Still, he'd never sat here alone before. Rod had always been with him. He picked up the martini and had one foot on the floor when he smelled her perfume and knew who she was. The scent was Russia Leather, had been for twenty years. The woman was Madge Dunstan, had been for forty-five years. Old friend. She had introduced him and Rod to Romano's in 1948. He turned back. "Madge," he said. 

Her smile was gently reproachful. "I've been worried about you. I phoned every day as I said I would." At the funeral she'd told him she didn't expect him to answer. She'd rung the bell to let him know she was there and caring. "Then I thought I'd better look at you in the flesh and I drove to your house and your car was gone and I started worrying." 

"I should have told you. That was rude as hell. I went back to work." A cigarette hung in the comer of her wide humorous mouth. He lit it for her. "A policyholder disappeared up in San Joaquin Valley. I'm only down here now to follow up a lead."