Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Darling,” she said, and my finger almost jammed on the keys.

“I don't think you can legally call me that anymore,” I said. “I don't remember it being part of the settlement.”

Ellen's pout was still as lovely as ever, those exquisite red lips that would make most men take out their checkbook and wearily ask how much, but I had been down that road and had the tickets to prove it. No, I just felt tired. I felt that a lot these days.

“We can't be friends?” she said, her lips tightening when she realized that the softer touch wasn't going to work. A knife wrapped in silk, that was Ellen, and I wondered which schmo would be the next one to get jammed with it. Not my business anymore, I supposed.

“Don't tell me you hate me now.”

I didn't hate her. I didn't even blame her. One of us was going to pull the trigger on ending this and she just beat me to it. Turns out that when you actually live with someone all the time, the little things you might have found endearing turn out to blunt coshes you hit each other on the head with. Enough blows and you're both left reeling, wondering when things are going to start making sense again.

They came into focus when I signed the paper and became a bachelor again. I didn't regret losing her, but I did regret that maybe I had so much time chasing a dream instead of cold, hard reality.

“We're friends,” I said. “So what do you want to ask me to do?”

“I didn't--” and she stopped, eyeing my face. “All right,” she said, and this was the Ellen I wanted to see, the one that got right down to it. She wasn't just here to hand off a bauble and make a few jabs. She wanted something from me she didn't get in court. “It's just—darling, I'm worried about you.”

“Worried about me?” My lips curled, which felt good, though it didn't last. It was hard to keep anything other than a gray fog in me these days, and whiskey went a long way towards keeping the haze a pleasant one. “I'm doing just peachy.”

“You're doing nothing.” Her fingers drummed on my desk. “And while you normally do nothing, Walter, you at least to do it with some sort of panache.”

“And I suppose you have a fix for that?”

“I do,” she said, passing over a card. I blinked at it.

“George Pennyfeather? Isn't he that director?” With a name like that, you have very few options in your life and old George had apparently chosen the path of least resistance and gone straight into Hollywood.

Her teeth gleamed bright. “The very same. Now I might have slipped one of your delightful little stories to him at a party recently.”

“I don't remember that party.”

“You weren't invited.”

And here I thought we were dividing everything in half. Looks like our friends weren't a part of it. “Must have been a swell time. Shame I missed it.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice impatient. “Well, darling, he was simply taken with it, marveling at what a thrilling tale of mystery and suspense it was! And I don't think it was just the two scotches he had. He wants you to call on him.”

The thing about living in this city is occasionally you're reminded that other people also do and those trying to get into Hollywood are some of the worst. I should know, I've tried to break into it a few times before giving up. So naturally Ellen's the one who dragged me through the door, throwing my feet first.

“I don't know, Ellen,” I said. “I think I may have to pass on--”

“Three p.m. tomorrow. Don't be late.”

I wasn't going to go. I was going to sit in my room and stare at my typewriter and maybe drink the rest of the bottle in my desk, but at 2:30, I found myself pulling out the least wrinkled suit I had, polishing up my shoes, and swigging some mouthwash before making my way towards the door. The good thing about having money is at least when you look like a bum, you look like an expensive one, the sort that can be trusted to write five pictures in a row in a hotel room before getting tossed out when one of them flops and someone's got to take the hit for it.

My car thankfully started up, though not without some persuasion, as it was as equally reluctant as I was to make the journey out to this Pennyfeather's house. From what I had heard of the guy at the parties I used to be invited to, he was the sort to make the kind of pictures that one might charitably call “terrible.” But it was something to do and I was in desperate need of that. I might have hated being dragged into schemes, but there was something mildly diverting about imagining that the black car parked on my block for the last two months was up to no good, instead of gathering dust the same way I was.

The gate was open when I got there so it saved me the bother of having to rustle up someone and try to explain what I was doing there when I wasn't even sure I could explain it. I didn't know if Ellen had given the guy a formal introduction to all that is Walter Gage, or just waved her hand and batted her lashes to say of course, they'd get along famously.

There was a spot off to the side that looked suitable for parking a car that had seen better days, so I stashed there as to not offend the neighbors. I had been meaning to take it to some guy to fix it up, but like most things these days, that fell by the wayside.

Gravel crunched beneath my feet as I walked up. I went to knock on the front door and this is where I should have probably cut my losses and gone back home, but I've never been good at that sort of thing and a door swinging wide open at my touch combined with a Walter Gage coming down off a hangover is a bad combination. I walked in.

I did call out – I may be an intruder but I am a gentleman. “Hello?” I said. There was no answer, but I did hear a soft scuffling noise off to my left and like the sap I am, I went to go check it out.

The thing here is that I don't remember how many steps I took or how far I got into the room. Someone could sit me down in a chair and tell me my life depended on whether it was ten or twelve and how far did I make it in and I'd tell them the same thing I'd tell a hundred people. I don't know.

I do remember the body, though. That was hard to forget. It was lying there, his white suit covered in blood, and I'm no doctor but when a man's lost that much, it's a sure bet that he isn't getting up from it ever.

Someone might have expected me to check it out to make sure, but it's hard to do that sort of thing when you're slipping in the blood as you try to take a step back, falling, and for the second time in your life, your head meets the corner of a table and you go under into darkness.

I've had bad hangovers before and I've cracked my head a few times, but you never get used to it, to the nausea that roils in your stomach while your eyes knock against your lids and tell you that you might as well open up to see what kind of mess you're in. It was a different sort of cloud I was in this time, one that combined the worst headache I've ever had with not even a lingering sense of warmth from the booze to dull the pain.

Somehow, I managed to get to my feet, stumbling around like a boxer who's gone a few too many rounds. It was made harder by the fact that I didn't want to cling to anything, because even in my state, I knew a little thing about fingerprints and the fact that I was the only one there with the body. It had all the makings of a set-up, a nice little play to get a patsy like me exactly in the right position to take the fall, and boy, I had. Didn't even need to crack me over the head. I guess I was lucky that my head was used to this sort of thing and managed to sound the alarm before--

No, I thought. That wasn't my own bells ringing in my head. That was a police siren, screaming in the distance and in a few minutes, I figured, the trap was about to shut tight on my foot. I could wait around for them and I probably should have, but my feet were already hoofing it for the back door as my brain was trying to catch up.

There weren't cops waiting at the back for me. That was the good news.

The bad news was that unless someone had slipped something into my booze to make me see things, I wasn't wrong about the black car being up to something. It was idling at the back, waiting for me, with a man I hadn't seen in some time getting out.

He looked a little more tan the last time I saw him, probably from all the tropical sun, though California is no slouch in that department, but he was still just as splendid a specimen of manhood as ever, whereas I had lost some of the advantage over him in terms of weight class.

“Was it you?” I asked, even as I took one lurching step forward. “This whole thing?”

Henry stared at me, raising his eyebrows. “Thing? I don't know what you're talking about, Walter.”

“The body,” I said. I knew my words were coming out like I had marbles in my mouth but you try putting the pieces of your broken clock of a mind back together when you got someone like Henry standing there before you, his hair gleaming in the sun while you squint at it. “Pennyfeather.”

Henry's eyes flickered towards the open door. “Is that so?” he murmured. “You really think I'd do something like that?”

I must have wavered for a second, the world going in and out of focus because Henry was a lot closer now and so were the sirens. “I don't know,” I said. “I think sometimes people do a lot of things they say they would never do.”

But even as I said it, I knew. We might have not seen each other for a year but men like Henry don't change that much. He might improve his vocabulary or slick his hair back, but looking into his eyes, I knew he wasn't capable of it. Besides, if he'd been the killer, he would have left already, let the police arrest me if they were feeling generous or finish the job if they weren't.

Henry opened his mouth to answer, but a siren was what cut the silence and before I could even start to run, he was hoisting me into a bridal carry that made me feel like I was some swooning damsel, not a 6 foot three man, and sprinting for the car. It occurred to me that I should have questioned just what he was doing here. I should asked him how he knew to wait in the back for me. I should have--

But I passed out again. I really need to stop doing that around him.

Wind against my face is what woke me next. That, and the jostling against leather that meant I was in a car going somewhere. I'll give it to Henry, he didn't seem to get his chauffeur job strictly on looks. I didn't hear any sirens behind me and the road ahead looked clear, lights shining on the hills

I glanced over at him. “Two months,” I said because it occurred to me just how long it had been that I'd been seeing it. He must have gotten some money out of that widow, enough to buy something better than an old jalopy that sputtered because this drove like a dream, speeding along that I could fall asleep to its rumble. “You could have come up and knocked on my door.”

“Wasn't sure you wanted the company, bub,” Henry said. He didn't look at me, his eyes fixed on the road, and I was glad. I wouldn't have been able to take any shred of pity in them.

“I wouldn't have,” I agreed, “but I wouldn't have kicked you out if you barged right in. Might have even offered you a drink and an opportunity to get your revenge.”

“Revenge?” Henry laughed. “That's what this about? You think I'm the kind of guy that gets someone into a fix over some cash and a knock on the head?”

I shook my head and regretted it as there were a few things knocked loose in it. “No. I got your letter.”

Henry smiled. “No hard feelings. So was I right?”

“Quarters.”

Henry nodded. “Makes sense,” he said. “Gotta hand it to you, you played that last act real well. Why would I give you a crack when I should just be clapping?”

My head had stopped constantly ringing, settling into just a few bells now and then, so I can't say that I could blame what I said next on my brain being made of jelly. “She's single now.”

“I know.” Henry's tone was even, nothing being given away. He had gotten practice in more than just his English. “I heard about it.”

“Yeah, I guess you would,” I said. Maybe he'd been part of the new set at the parties. I could see him there, mingling and laughing, Ellen's hand clutching at his arm. Strangely, I could still feel anger at that, and I didn't know why. I knew I didn't care what she did anymore but the thought of her touching Henry made something in my throat go tight.

“So who told you?” I asked to try to get rid of that thought. It wouldn't do anybody any good. “Patricia? Judy? Not Alice?”

“Ellen,” he said. “She wrote me a letter.”

Well, I guess now I knew how Henry had figured out that it would be smooth sailing for him to come back. I almost wanted to laugh. All this time I thought I was the slick one and she was the one making plans behind my back. “Well, you don't need to keep in my good graces anymore,” I said. “She's free and clear to be with you.” I laughed. “Just make sure when the cops catch up to me that you guys send me a postcard from Honolulu. I'd enjoy getting mail in prison.”

The car jerked to a stop. We were far enough along this road, somewhere in the winding hills, that the lights were distant specks compared to the stars above. I'd been out long enough that it was night, cool and crisp against my skin and the moon hung low over me, waiting to drop.

Henry's hand raised. I thought wildly that maybe he might slap me. I might even like it, get some sense knocked into me or maybe just get knocked out again.

But it settled and so did he, dropping it before it could touch my cheek. “You really don't know anything, do you?” He whistled through his teeth. “Jeez, Walter. You think I'm that low that I'd take advantage of a pal in some real trouble just to get his girl.”

“Not my girl anymore.”

“Not mine, either.” Henry grinned. “Got bigger plans now.”

It was not a great sensation, feeling two steps behind everyone in my life, least of all Henry, who seemed to have picked up a number of new tricks in Honolulu. “Such as?”

“Well, solving a murder,” Henry said, starting the car back up. “Seems to me that you're in a real pickle.”

It didn't seem like the whole truth, but I let it go. I was no detective and whatever Henry got up to on the side wasn't my problem. I had a whole mess dumped in my lap that I needed to figure out quick. “You said murder.”

“If it wasn't one, I don't think you'd be running out the back like that. So lay it on me.”

I hadn't seen him in a year and I knew he was lying to me about something. It didn't matter. He was cutting through the fog in my brain like a lighthouse guiding a broken down ship to safety, and the only rocks I was likely to crash on were the ones at the bottom of a glass.

“Thank you,” I said and meant a hell of a lot more.

“Nice,” I said, letting out a low whistle as I stepped on the cool tile. It was a step up from the lousy room I first found him in. Spanish Colonial, if I knew my architecture, though giving Henry a lecture on the development of housing in the Hollywood Hills was probably a waste on both of our parts.

Henry set the keys down in a bowl near the door and shrugged off his coat. “Been looking after about a couple months,” he said. “Friend of mine's off in Brazil and asked me to keep an eye out.”

Naturally. He was the sort to stumble his way into the good graces of money, time and again, and I had no doubt that whatever words he used, they were honeyed enough that anyone would have gladly turned over the keys to their fortune to him if they weren't paying attention. “What's her name?”

Henry chuckled, but his eyes were curiously fixed on me. “Charles,” he said.

If it was supposed to mean something to me, it didn't. He was a hit with the ladies, but I was sure that with his new suits and fancier way of talking, he could have roped some gents in as well. Sure got me and I knew better. “All right,” I shrugged. “When he comes back, you might want to hide the part where you let an escaped murderer hole up in it.”

Henry clapped me on the back. “I'll pour you a drink,” he said. “Then we'll jabber on what we're going to do tomorrow.”

He'd listened to my story in the car with interest, saying very little, though I flinched as I was telling it. If you had made a movie of it, the audience would be wondering why the protagonist kept making all these blundering mistakes and probably would have walked out before they even gotten to the reveal of the killer. But Henry didn't judge it, just kept driving until he was making his way up this winding driveway and into what we declaring sanctuary for now.

“Scotch or bourbon?” I heard him call out. “We're out of rye.”

“Bourbon,” I said, hoping that at least it wouldn't be total swill.

He came back out with a couple of glasses, one of which he handed to me, and I took a sip. It burned nicely going down and I raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“Van Winkle,” he said, and I fought the urge to whistle again.

“The good stuff. Sure he won't be missing it?”

“He said I could use what I wanted.” Henry grinned. “Might as well take the time to show off to an old pal.”

I was impressed by many things. Henry had always been quite a looker, though I wouldn't let him on that fact, but now with a new coat of gloss to him, it seemed unfair to the rest of the world to unleash him upon it. If I had run into this one now, I might have been tempted to fall for whatever cockamamie story he gave me and things might have gone much differently. I might have been calling Ellen Mrs. Eichelberger instead, at the parties. I guess that was still on the table, though it looked like Henry had no desire to play that hand.

I sat down in one of the couches, sinking into it, expecting Henry to sit across in one of the equally looking comfortable chairs, but he surprised me and sat down next to me, his arm draped across the back of the couch. I could feel it behind me, almost brushing the back of my neck and I fought the urge to move over. He didn't need to know how it affected me, made me want to lean back instead, and I took a big swig of the bourbon.

“Gotta say, Walter, it don't look good. You got lucky that you made it out of the fix, but they're still gonna be breathing down your neck for it. And we don't even know who might be the one that set it all up.”

I had one name in my mind already, but if that was the one whose fingerprints were all over this, than I knew her even less well than I already did. I put it off to the side, though. Just like Henry, I got the itch at the back of my neck that it wasn't the right answer to this question.

It wasn't true that I didn't know Pennyfeather entirely. I may never have met the man, but I had briefly met someone who worked for him, a bit actor with a few minor roles in his movies. He was probably still in town, trying to get that one big break that would make him a star. A lot of them are still trying that until they either get it or go back home with their tail tucked between their legs and a few sheets of celluloid they can call their own.

“There's a guy named Francis Phipps,” I said. “Might be worth a shot to give him a ring.”

“We'll do one better.” Henry swigged back the rest of his bourbon, slammed the glass on the table. “We'll go see him.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Even with my head still pealing now and then and the bourbon burning a trail down my throat, it was easy to see what a terrible idea that was. “Even if I'm their number one suspect, the cops are going to be all over anyone connected to Pennyfeather. They'll take one look at me and I'll be in a cell in time for tomorrow's evening paper.”

Henry's arm slid down and wrapped itself around my shoulder, pulling me tightly against him. “I don't know, Walter,” Henry said, low in my ear. “I think you're pretty good at playing someone you're not.”

I did not ask why his old pal had a number of wigs in his closet nor about the other things I found further back. It was Hollywood, after all, and if a man wants to be something else, it's the perfect place to do it.

Henry adjusted my hat and pushed the spectacles up on my nose. I looked at myself in the mirror and had to admit that it was a good call to make myself as mousy as possible. Next to Henry, in fact, I looked more like a background extra that spouts one line to hero and runs away than any kind of major player in a murder mystery.

He hadn't done much to disguise himself, but there was no point. You can put a pair of glasses on Superman and you still know that one's standing before you is something special. He'd put some pomade on his hair to tame it and thrown a fedora over it, but I could have seen him coming a mile away.

Hopefully, Francis wouldn't.

We got in the car and made our way down the hills, driving back into LA. All the time, I slunk down. I didn't know why. I hadn't been out in some time and even then, Walter Gage wasn't the sort of person that made headlines. Even my wedding announcement was back by the obits, which should have been a sign.

Francis lived in a small apartment off of Alameda on the fourth floor. I trailed behind Henry, letting him take the lead, while I kept an eye out for any looky loos. It wasn't like I expected someone like Gandesi to jump out and ambush us, but I could see some busy old biddy sticking her nose in where it wasn't wanted.

There were still a few morning papers on the mats as we walked down the hallway, and I took a moment to glance at the headline. It was there, in big black letters, in case I had wondered if it was all a dream. “Director Dead! Body Found In Hollywood Home!”

I nudged Henry and he looked at it too. “We'll have to pick one up for later,” he said, deftly snagging a copy and tucking it under his arm. I almost left a quarter on the mat to make up for it, but after searching my pockets, I realized that the only thing I had in them was some lint and a lighter.

Henry knocked on the door of 407, a solid thud that demanded prompt attention. I had wondered what we might do if he wasn't at home, but a yelled “I'm coming, hold your horses,” made that speculation a moot point.

There was the unlocking of a chain and the turn of a knob before the door was thrown open and Francis stood there, bleary-eyed in the sunlight.

“Whatcha want?” he slurred. “I'm trying to get some sleep.”

“It's noon,” Henry said. “I think you've gotten enough already.”

“Can it.” Francis's hand was already going to swing the door back shut. “I just got off a long shoot and I don't need whatever it is you're selling there. Go away.”

Henry's hand grabbed the edge of the door and held onto it tightly. Francis took a step back in confusion and Henry took the chance to push his way in. If they'd been taking bets at the time on who would have won that staredown, the odds would have been so against Francis that the bookies would have laughed it out the door.

“Just a couple of questions, bub,” Henry said, backing Francis into his own apartment. “Then we'll be on our way and you can go back to your bed.”

Francis looked over at me for the first time and I braced myself, expecting maybe some recognition but none came as his eyes remained blank. “And who the hell are you?” he asked Henry. “You're no salesman, not unless you're selling door stoppers.”

“A detective,” Henry lied. It was a real treat to watch it when it wasn't meant for you, to see a master at his craft. He never said he was with the cops, but the way he stood, all stiff necked and menacing, would make anyone think that he could be one. His eyes flicked towards the paper on Francis's table, a match to the one tucked under his arm, and he smiled grimly. “I think you can guess what it's about.”

Francis's gaze followed to the same paper and he went whiter than the sheets on his Murphy bed. “Now, see here,” he stammered. “I had nothing to do with it. I only worked with the guy a few times.”

“No one's saying you did,” Henry said. “But you gotta see where I'm coming from. There's a dead body and a bunch of guys breathing down my neck, asking me who did it, and I gotta give 'em a name. I only got yours so far unless you can think of another.”

He craned his head back and nodded at me. “My friend here wanted me to do the nice way, so that's why we're not hauling you down to the station.”

I nodded, following his cue. “Any name,” I said. “Something we can use.”

It didn't take a detective to see the wheels in his head spinning as he tried to come up with something. “I don't know,” he whined. “There's a lot of people that wouldn't mind seeing him dead. Hell, even his own brother.”

I tried not to react, even as I took note. “Name?”

I knew it was a mistake as soon as the word came out of my mouth. Francis tensed. “Why the hell you asking me? You should know that. Unless—you ain't a real detective.”

He lunged for me, probably aiming for bum rushing me and getting out the door, but Henry stepped in front of me and took the hit, not even staggering. His fist came up and he gave Francis a good hit on the jaw, one that sent him reeling towards the floor where Henry pinned him.

“Search his pockets,” he said. “Might be something useful on him.”

There was and it gleamed silver even in the dinginess of the room. “You always keep this kind of a thing on you when you sleep,” I asked. “

“It's not real,” his muffled voice came from beneath Henry. “It's a prop. I used it one of my films recently and I took it home.”

I checked it. It was a pretty decent fake, but he was right. “Stealing from a set?”

“Sometimes assholes knock on my door and I need to scare them off,” Francis said. “Didn't seem to work with you two.”

“Give us a name and it will,” I said. “Who's his brother?”

It looked like he was going to try to wait it out, but Henry''s arm pressed down on something and I could hear Francis groan. “William Grady, He took his mother's name.”

“How do you know him?”

“I used to pal around with him back in the day,” Francis said sullenly. “He was the one who told his brother to use me in some of his pictures. And that's all I know.”

Henry let him up, eyeing him to see if he was going to make an attempt at the door or the phone, both of which were within reach. Francis did neither, rubbing his chin. “We're going to go,” Henry said. “I'd suggest not calling the cops to let them know we were here unless you want the kind of trouble a fake gun isn't going to solve.”

As threats go, it was solid. Francis gulped. “Fine,” he muttered. “But you better not come back or next time it'll be real.”

Henry nodded politely and pulled the door shut as he left.

“Any bets on how long it'll be before he calls the cops,” I said.

“I wouldn't take it,” Henry replied and we bolted out of there.

William wasn't at his house when he stopped by the address I found in the phone book, but his landlady directed me to a nearby watering hole where he spent most of his time.

The bar was mostly empty when we walked in, a few clearly long-time residents making their home there in some back booths while the stools in front were mostly empty. There was a guy sitting on one of them, his head resting on the wood of the bar.

I started to walk towards him, when Henry put a hand on my shoulder. “I'll handle this one too,” he said.

“No offense,” I replied, “but I don't think we need another round of fisticuffs to finish up our evening. I'd rather keep this on the quiet side.”

Henry's hand tightened on my shoulder, not enough to hurt, but it gripped in place. “I get it,” he said. “I think I can swing that.”

It wasn't the hand holding me that made me nod and give him the go ahead. It was the way he talked, all quiet and firm, like it was real important to him that I let him be the one to handle it. I didn't know why, but I'd followed his lead all day and there seemed little reason to stop.

Henry let go of my shoulder and walked over to the guy. I hung back a few steps but close enough to listen in. “Hey there,” he said. “I'm a friend of Charlie's. ”

The man lifted his head. His blue eyes fixed on Henry and I could see the swimming fog in them clear. “Charlie,” he said. “Where do you know him from?”

“Club Bali,” Henry smiled. “We had some times.”

“Yeah, well, it ain't here no more and neither is he.”

“No, he's not.” Henry nodded to the bartender, pointing to the rye on the top shelf. “Neither is your brother.”

The guy—William barked out a sharp laugh that made the drunks back grumble. “Sure as hell ain't,” he said. “Guess the joke's on him now finally.”

“Joke?” I said quietly.

William stiffened but Henry passed him the glass that the bartender gave him and nodded. “He's also a friend,” he said. “We're all friends here.”

“All right.” William's shoulders relaxed. “You know when I first read in the papers he was dead, I didn't believe it. Seemed like something he would have cooked up to make people feel bad, then pull the rug underneath them and make fun of them for it. Real fond of that.”

“He liked to do this sort of thing?”

“All the time,” William snorted. “Nothing he loved better than getting you all dressed up because you thought he was going to throw you a real swell shindig and then have you get there and push you into the pool or throw a pie in your face. And that was if he liked you. If he didn't, well--” He held out his hands. “He'd ruin your life and laugh about it.”

I guess I should have been grateful I didn't get that contract with him after all. “Nice guy,” I said.

There must have been something in my voice that he heard because he knocked back the rye in one go and looked at me. “He could be at times,” William said. “Maybe that's why when they called me down to the morgue to have me look at him, I wanted to believe that he was still playing one last jape on me.”

His eyes were wet, red, and I didn't think it was all from the booze. “I'm sorry,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess I am too.”

“You can't think of anyone who might have wanted to make sure he wasn't around anymore,” Henry said quietly in the silence.

“A lot of people,” William said. “But I'll give you a name I didn't give the cops. He had an old business partner he stole money from years ago in New York, Victor Morelli. Came around snooping to see if I'd been touch with George and I told him his best bet was to just go home and forget about it.”

“You don't think he did.”

“I know he didn't.” William made his own gesture to the bartender, and when the man hesitated, passed a fiver over to him, which seemed to be the magic word. “I don't know where he's been staying, but I know that he was pretty keen on the idea of fishing. You might try the Trout Lakes.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Sure.” William took his topped-up glass in hand and hesitated before drinking it. “Say,” he said to Henry. “You still keep in touch with Charlie?”

“Yeah,” Henry said. “Got a line to him.”

“You let him know the next time he stops off in town to take a breather before he goes off again, that I'd be interested in tagging along. Got nothing keeping me here now.”

“I'll do that.”

This time I was conscious for the entire drive back, which I regretted. There was a lot percolating in my head and I didn't know if I wanted to let it all out in such a tight space.

“Ask.”

I looked over at Henry, his hands tight on the wheel, and I saw his jaw was clenched just as tight. “About what.”

“You got things you want to know,” Henry said. “You think I don't know what you look like when you got a million questions in your head and you don't know where to start.”

“I guess you do.” I took a deep breath. It was a lot warmer tonight, the Santa Ana winds blowing hot and dry, bringing with them the reminder that you're this close to sand and stone and a desert that doesn't care how much civilization you pile on top of it. “Who's Charlie?”

The car jumped a little. I knew there weren't any potholes in the road. “That's what you want to ask,” he said. “Everything out there and that's the biggest one rattling around your head.”

“You didn't answer me.”

It was later in the evening, but still around the same spot, so I guess I wasn't surprised that Henry stopped the car by the side of the road.

This time his hand didn't stop, moving so quick that I didn't even have the chance to flinch before it was running along my cheek, grazing my lips. “Charlie,” he said. “He's someone who helped me figure some things out a long time ago.”

I swallowed, gazing into Henry's eyes. I don't hunt, but I've seen lions at the zoo and it's the same way they look at you, watching your every move to see if you're going to be easy prey. “Club Bali,” I said. “I've been there.”

“I figured.” Henry's fingers traced along my throat. “I wouldn't have mentioned it if you hadn't.”

I couldn't wrap my brain around it, around the Henry that had talked about dames like they were the greatest thing on earth. It made no goddamn sense. “You're not that sort,” I said, my words ringing against his hand. “I would have known.”

“You're a smart guy, Walter,” Henry said, “but I think you're the dumbest guy I know when it comes to things like this.” He wrapped his fingers around my hand and pulled them both away. I opened my mouth to ask him what the hell he was doing when he kissed me.

I could have pushed him away and I know he would have let me. Henry might be right that there's quite a bit I really don't know, apparently, but I knew that if I put my hand on Henry's chest, if I had closed my lips, if I had said no, he would have stopped and we never would have spoken of it again.

I did none of that. Maybe I could have blamed it on the desert or the Devil winds that rush through the valley, making everyone crazy enough to do things they'd never thought of, like drink a bottle of scotch and smash the bottle over someone's head or drown their husband in the swimming pool underneath a clear starry sky. But I didn't. I knew it was all me, everything I wanted, and the truth had been there all the time, just waiting for me to discover it.

He was the one who stopped first, though I could have kept going. “Oh, Walter,” he said, his breath ragged. “You don't know I've wanted to do this.”

“Ever since I hit you over the head?” I offered.

He bit me on the neck, one hard little nip and I did not yelp, no matter what someone might say. “Before that,” he said.

I guess I could figure when it happened because it was the same for me. “When we first met,” I said. “All the way back then.”

Henry shook his head and that did give me a start. It did make sense, I had to concede, that he might not have been nearly as impressed with me as I was with him the first time I saw him, though getting knocked out cold within a few minutes likely would have something to do with that.

“Even before that,” he said. “When Ellen first told me about you.”

“It couldn't have been anything flattering,” I said.

He nodded. “It wasn't,” he said, and that was it before he decided to let his mouth flatter me in different ways.

I won't say what happened that night. It's not anybody's business exactly how Henry made it clear to me that his desire was more than just a passing fancy, but suffice it to say that in the morning, I was thoroughly convinced of his devotion.

“Trout Lakes,” he said thoughtfully, passing a cup of coffee to me. “Never been out there.”

“Not a sportsman,” I replied, shaking out the crumpled paper from the day before. Up in the hills, the paperboys don't exactly deliver, but it was fine. I couldn't imagine there was any new updates on the manhunt for George's killer, since we hadn't heard sirens wailing up our drive.

“Oh, I like sports,” Henry said. “Just not the sort you do outdoors.”

He winked at me and such a thing could not be left unchallenged.

An hour later, we were back at the table, a little more rumpled than we had started out as. The coffee was cold, so I contented myself with juice and perusing the article. There wasn't much I didn't know – the body of George Pennyfeather had been found on the floor of his office at his Hollywood mansion, dressed into the tuxedo that he was planning on wearing to attend a party later that evening. They were not revealing how he died, but it was clearly foul play. I was relieved to see my name had not hit anywhere in the article. I suppose if the police had figure that part out, they were keeping it tight to their breast.

“At least you're in the clear,” Henry said, nodding at the paper as I set it down.

“For the moment.” I closed my eyes, because there was something nagging at my brain, just a small detail, but it was there. It could have been a mistake. It certainly wasn't enough to accuse anyone over, let alone hang a man with, but it was there and I filed it away.

“What are you thinking about now?”

I didn't tell him. Not because I didn't trust him, but because I didn't trust myself. “Are you planning on sticking around town?” I asked instead, opening my eyes.

Henry shoved a piece of sausage in his mouth and chewed it slowly. “It was my plan,” he said. “Though I don't know if I can stay here. It's a little too big for me to rattle around in all by myself.”

“Hmm.” I rustled the paper out again, pretended to read an article about the latest delay in repairs to the Arroyo Seco Parkway. “That's a shame. I don't know if I can assist since I might be in the same boat as you. If all this shakes out and I don't end up on the hook for a murder, I'm thinking it's going to be a bit too hot for me to stick around my old stomping grounds.”

I could hear Henry's smile in his voice. “A real shame,” he agreed. “If only you had the money to buy out a house in the hills and someone who'd be willing to share it with you.”

That's one of the things I love about Henry. It never takes him long to get on the same page as me.

It wasn't that long of a drive along Mulholland before we reached the row of huts and lakes that marked Victor Morelli's current location. We'd been having good luck in tracking down our growing list of names and this was no exception. A careful bribe to one of the local lads taking out some trash and we were informed that yes, there was a gentleman that had been coming there for quite some time and he was in fact, right over there.

It was a lovely day, even with the hot winds still blowing and there were plenty of people around, taking advantage of it. Morelli had picked a spot a bit more secluded from others, and I had no doubt a swift exchange of money had ensured his solitude.

“I'll let you take point,” Henry murmured in my ear. “It's only fair.”

I glared at him, because he knew from last night what that did to me and such impudence would have to be punished later. I had no doubt he was looking forward to it.

Victor Morelli was a squat fireplug of a man, tufts of hair sprouting from his head like he was a carrot planted in the ground. His face was beet red as he wrestled with his pole, cursing as we walked up to him.

“Mr. Morelli,” I said politely, tipping my hat to him. I pulled out a small pad of paper from my pocket and a pen. “My associate and I would like to ask you some questions.”

“Oh, no, you don't,” he barked. “I've already answered all of them. I don't care what department you're from, I'm just here to get some fishing in, nothing more. I didn't kill anyone.”

So someone had spilled the beans to the cops and they'd come sniffing around. At least Morelli didn't seem inclined to question our identities. I held my hands up placatingly. “We're not here because we think you killed anyone, sir, we just wanted to know if there's anyone--”

He threw his pole aside and hopped up. I could see Henry readying himself out of the corner of my eye, and I shook my head. If things escalated here, it would be a lot harder to make a swift getaway. “Listen, you,” he said, shaking his fist. “I didn't like the guy. No one did. Yeah, he owed me money that he wouldn't pay me so I had it out with him a week ago. Everyone knows that.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, pretending to remember the information as I flipped through the paper. “And that was the end of it?”

“Yeah, it was.” Morelli's fists were still clenched by his sides but he didn't raise them. “I realized that it was a waste of time to deal with him in person so I decided to make the most of the rest of my time here and let my lawyers handle it.”

It was actually sensible. Never try to draw blood on your own when lawyers are so much more efficient at it. I've learned that lesson quite painfully. “So you have no idea who wouldn't have gone further than you and killed him?”

Morelli's hands unclenched as he bent down to pick up the pole. “The guy was an asshole,” he said. “But there's a big difference between punching someone like that in his face and bashing his head in with a poker in his own home. I don't know anyone capable of that.”

And there it was. The piece I'd been waiting for, dropping into my lap, and all I had to do was confirm it. It was strange, I thought. I should have felt more triumphant about finally cracking the case, but I was tired again instead. Maybe it was the realization that for all this running around, the answer had been there all the time, staring me in the face.

“I understand, sir,” I said, closing my notebook and tucking it away. “Thank for your time.”

Morelli grunted and turned his back on us. I

“You didn't get anything out of him,” Henry whispered as we walked back to the car.

“Yeah, I did,” I said.

The drive back was quiet. Henry tried to open his mouth a few times to get me to talk, but I wasn't ready, not yet. The only thing I had asked him to do was acquire a copy of the evening paper, which he did and I guessed the relative leakiness of the police department was a blessing not just for the reporter who wrote up the article, but also me.

Even with all the facts at my disposal, the truth ready to be told, I had no idea how to go about doing it.

We had just about hit the gate of the house, when Henry leaned over and murmured, “There's a police car following us. Do you want me to try to lose them?”

“No,” I said. “I know who it is.”

I motioned for him to stop the car before we got to the front gate. I didn't know this Charlie, but if something was going to go down, I didn't want it to happen in his house. I might have been an unwanted house guest, but I would damn well be a considerate one.

The car behind us stopped as well. We didn't exit our car and neither did the driver. There was no light except for the headlights of the cars, shining on the brush around us. The wind had calmed down, the night hanging heavy and hot over us. Anything could happen, I thought. Anything at all.

“I don't see why they're not getting out,” Henry said. “If they're here to arrest you, then why are they waiting?”

“Because they're not the police,” I said. “They're one very confused, desperate man named Francis Phipps.”

“Francis.” Henry's voice was incredulous. I wouldn't have believed it either but two papers and three names had given me all I needed. “How do you know that one?”

“He's worked in a few movies before,” I said. “Played a cop in a couple of them. You saw his gun.”

“A gun, yeah. Not an entire police car. There's no way he could have smuggled that off set.”

“He didn't have to,” I said. “Not when George let him use it so he could play a great prank on an asshole rich guy that walked right into it.”

I knew Henry was putting the pieces together now, though there was one piece he was missing. “So he was the cop coming up the drive. And what? He was supposed to scare you by thinking you had killed someone.”

“It would have been one of his greatest pranks,” I said. “Even with the victim accidentally cracking his head for a few minutes. I assume if I had remained unconscious that much longer, he would have done something about it, but I suppose I'll never know.”

“I should have cracked him over the head,” Henry muttered. “Who just leaves a guy like that?”

“Yeah, a real swell guy,” I said. “It's no wonder that when someone got the chance to kill him for real, they took advantage of it. I don't what he said or did to Francis, but it doesn't really matter, does it? In the end, you and I take off, Francis sees his boss lying on the floor, and maybe George wakes up and Francis gives him a good wallop, maybe he doesn't. Either way, Francis has my fingerprints all over everything and no one's going to question why they hear sirens when they read the next edition of the paper.”

“But wait,” Henry said, placing his hand on my arm. “You said you saw a body when you left. How did you know that it wasn't real the first time.”

“That was exactly it.” I might not have remembered how many steps I took, how long I was there, how I ended up on the floor, but I remembered the body. “I saw a man in a white suit with a bloody chest. Now my knowledge is not always the most practical, but I know the difference between a summer suit and a tuxedo, and I damn well know the difference between a stab wound to the chest and a blow to the head.”

It was silent for a few seconds, neither one of us speaking. Eventually, Henry spoke. “You should look into becoming a detective,” he said. “I'd think it'd suit you just fine.”

“First things first,” I said, opening the car door. “If you wouldn't mind going inside and calling the police.”

Henry didn't raise his voice, but I could see the struggle in him to keep it below a whisper. “And leave you here alone? That crack on your head must have done something to your brain to make you think I'd ever do that.”

“I need you to do this,” I said. “Trust me.” I gripped his arm tightly. “Please.”

He didn't want to leave me. I could see it in his face in the moonlight, that he wanted to just try to yank me with him to safety, but I wasn't drunk, I wasn't unconscious, and the fight he'd have would leave us both at Francis's mercy. And I needed to make sure he had some.

“If anything happens to you,” he said, finally, his lips falling on my forehead. “The police won't have the chance to arrest him before I get my hands on him.”

“I know,” I said and got out.

Francis would be distracted, of course, having two targets now. I had no doubt he had acquired a functional weapon since we had last met and he might have some experience in using it, given his roles. He wouldn't be a crack shot, though, not in the night in a place he didn't know.

I could hear the car door slam behind me as well as Henry's feet thudding towards the house. “Francis,” I said. “You have to know that it's over.”

I wasn't expecting him to say anything, so the silence came as no surprise.

“I know you've killed one person and you think that if you kill two more, everything will be fixed. But it's a lot harder to do it when you actually mean to, isn't it? That first time, you didn't really want to. It just sort of happened and then you hoped that someone else would take the fall. Henry and I showing up ruined that, though, which is why you've been following us, trying to figure out how much we know.”

“You can't know,” I heard Francis say. “I just have to do this and everything will be fine.”

“It won't be.” I couldn't see his face, so I didn't know what the expression on it was. I could guess. I knew what it was like to have a life you thought was all planned out ripped away from you and to wonder what kind of person that made you now. “But I don't have to tell you that. You already know it.”

I could hear a click in the still night air.

“Francis,” I said. “Don't.”

I don't know if he would have pulled the trigger or not. Henry and I argued about that for days and never managed to convince each other. What I do know is that he never got the chance to because I heard a thud, and saw something crumple to the ground.

I walked over. Henry was standing there, his fist still in the air. He'd knocked Francis out, clean and neat as you can. “I thought you trusted me,” I said.

Henry leaned over and kissed me. “I do,” he said. “I just don't trust anyone else.”

It was as close to an apology as I was ever going to get.

I did buy the house after all, Charlie selling it to me at a very reasonable price. It helped that he wanted a good amount of cash so he could take off to Polynesia with a friend of his, a man who was just getting over the death of his brother.

Henry moved in. He hasn't quite convinced me to become a detective, but he has a handful of tricks he's learned how to employ most effectively and I can already see that sometime in the future, he'll maneuver me into a position where I'll say yes.

I'm looking forward to it.

He did show me the letter Ellen sent, which infuriated me so much that he had to distract me the rest of the evening and the next day.

Dear Henry,

I hope this letter finds you well. Poor Walter is just such a wreck these days, and it would do him some good if he could have a companion in his life that might look in on him and lend him a hand. He once told me you were the best of friends and I have to believe that. I know it must be a terrible presumption to ask you to return from Honolulu, but I suspect that you may well find a very warm welcome here in California. To assist with any expenses you may incur on such a rapid return, I have enclosed a ring that I believe you might be able to sell for a tidy profit.

Yours truly,

Ellen