My life has been . . . interesting.'' He gave the word an ugly, bitter twist.
``Writers don't do their best work during interesting times, Clyde. Take my word for it.'‘
I glanced at the baggy way his hobo clothes hung on him and decided he might have a point there. ``Maybe that's why you screwed up in such a big way on this one,'' I said. ``That stuff about the lottery and the forty thousand dollars was pure guff--they pay off in pesos south of the border.'‘
`Ì knew that,'' he said mildly. `Ì'm not saying I don't goof up from time to time--I may be a kind of God in this world, or to this world, but in my own I'm perfectly human--but when I do goof up, you and your fellow characters never know it, Clyde, because my mistakes and continuity lapses are part of your truth. No, Peoria was lying. I knew it, and I wanted you to know it.'‘
``Why?'‘
He shrugged, again looking uneasy and a little ashamed. ``To prepare you for my coming a little, I suppose. That's what all of it was for, starting with the Demmicks. I didn't want to scare you any more than I had to.'‘
Any private eye worth his salt has a pretty good idea when the person in the client's chair is lying and when he's telling the truth; knowing when the client is telling the truth but purposely leaving gaps is a rarer talent, and I doubt if even the geniuses among us can tap it all the time. Maybe I was only tapping it now because my brainwaves and Landry's were marching in lock-step, but I was tapping it. There was stuff he wasn't telling me. The question was whether or not I should call him on it.
What stopped me was a sudden, horrible intuition that came waltzing out of nowhere, like a ghost oozing out of the wall of a haunted house. It had to do with the Demmicks. The reason they'd been so quiet last night was because dead people don't engage in marital spats--it's one of those rules, like the one that says crap rolls downhill, that you can pretty much count on through thick and thin. >From almost the first moment I'd met him, I'd sensed there was a violent temper under George's urbane top layer, and that there might be a sharp-clawed bitch lurking in the shadows behind Gloria Demmick's pretty face and daffy demeanor. They were just a little too Cole Porter to be true, if you see what I mean. And now I was somehow sure that George had finally snapped and killed his wife .
. . probably their yappy Welsh Corgi, as well. Gloria might be sitting propped up in the bathroom corner between the shower and the toilet right now, her face black, her eyes bulging like old dull marbles, her tongue protruding between her blue lips. The dog was lying with its head in her lap and a wire coathanger twisted around its neck, its shrill bark stilled forever. And George? Dead on the bed with Gloria's bottle of Veronals--now empty--standing beside him on the night-table. No more parties, no more jitterbugging at Al Arif, no more frothy upper-class murder cases in Palm Desert or Beverly Glen. They were cooling off now, drawing flies, growing pale under their fashionable poolside tans.
George and Gloria Demmick, who had died inside this man's machine. Who had died inside this man's head.
``You did one lousy job of not scaring me,'' I said, and immediately wondered if it would have been possible for him to do a good one. Ask yourself this: how do you get a person ready to meet God? I'll bet even Moses got a little hot under the robe when he saw that bush start to glow, and I'm nothing but a shamus who works for forty a day plus expenses.
``How Like a Fallen Angel was the Mavis Weld story. The name, Mavis Weld, is from a novel called The Little Sister By Raymond Chandler.'' He looked at me with a kind of troubled uncertainty that had some small whiff of guilt in it.
`Ìt's an hommage.'' He said the first syllable so it rhymed with Rome.
``Bully for you,'' I said, ``but the guy's name rings no bells.'‘
`Òf course not. In your world--which is my version of L.A., of course --Chandler never existed. Nevertheless, I've used all sorts of names from his books in mine. The Fulwider Building is where Chandler's detective, Philip Marlowe, had his office. Vernon Klein . . . Peoria Smith . . . and Clyde Umney, of course. That was the name of the lawyer in Playback.'‘
`Ànd you call those things hommages?'‘
``That's right.'‘
`Ìf you say so, but it sounds like a fancy word for plain old copying to me.'' But it made me feel funny, knowing that my name had been made up by a man I'd never heard of in a world I'd never dreamed of. Landry had the good grace to flush, but his eyes didn't drop.
`Àll right; perhaps I did do a little pilfering. Certainly I adopted Chandler's style for my own, but I'm hardly the first; Ross Macdonald did the same thing in the fifties and sixties, Robert Parker did it in the seventies and eighties, and the critics decked them with laurel leaves for it. Besides, Chandler learned from Hammett and Hemingway, not to mention pulp-writers like--'‘
I held up my hand. ``Let's skip the lit class and get down to the bottom line. This is crazy, but--'' My eyes drifted to the picture of Roosevelt, from there they went to the eerily blank blotter, and from there they went back to the haggard face on the other side of the desk. ``--but let's say I believe it. What are you doing here? What did you come for?’
Except I already knew. I detect for a living, but the answer to that one came from my heart, not my head.
`Ì came for you.'‘
``For me.'‘
``Sorry, yes. I'm afraid you'll have to start thinking of your life in a new way, Clyde. As . . . well . . . a pair of shoes, let's say. You're stepping out and I'm stepping in. And once I've got the laces tied, I'm going to walk away.'‘
Of course. Of course he was. And I suddenly knew what I had to do . . . the only thing I could do.
Get rid of him.
I let a big smile spread across my face. A tell-me-more smile. At the same time I coiled my legs under me, getting them ready to launch me across the desk at him. Only one of us could leave this office, that much was clear. I intended to be the one.
`Òh, really?'' I said. ``How fascinating. And what happens to me, Sammy? What happens to the shoeless private eye?
What happens to Clyde--'‘
Umney, the last word was supposed to be my last name, the last word this interloping, invading thief would ever hear in his life. The minute it was out of my mouth I intended to leap. The trouble was, that telepathy business seemed to work both ways. I saw an expression of alarm dawn in his eyes, and then they slipped shut and his mouth tightened with concentration. He didn't bother with the Buck Rogers machine; I suppose he knew there was no time for it.
`` `His revelations hit me like some kind of debilitating drug,' '' he said, speaking in the low but carrying tone of one who recites rather than simply speaking. `` Àll the strength went out of my muscles, my legs felt like a couple of strands of al dente spaghetti, and all I could do was flop back in my chair and look at him.' '‘
I flopped back in my chair, my legs uncoiling beneath me, unable to do anything but look at him.
``Not very good,'' he said apologetically, ``but rapid composition has never been a strong point of mine.'‘
``You bastard,'' I rasped weakly. ``You son of a bitch.'‘
``Yes,'' he agreed. `Ì suppose I am.'‘
``Why are you doing this? Why are you stealing my life?'‘
His eyes flickered with anger at that. ``Your life? You know better than that, Clyde, even if you don't want to admit it.
It isn't your life at all. I made you up, starting on one rainy day in January of 1977 and continuing right up to the present time. I gave you your life, and it's mine to take away.'‘
``Very noble,'' I sneered, ``but if God came down here right now and started yanking your life apart like bad stitches in a scarf, you might find it a little easier to appreciate my point of view.'‘