2

 

She walked in.

Now, I mean, it just wasn’t fair. Her dress fit so tight it almost split the seams. Too many chocolate malts. And she walked on heels so high they looked like little stilts. She walked like a drunken cripple, staggering around the room. A glorious dizziness of flesh.

“Sit down, lady,” I said.

She put it down and crossed her legs high, damn near knocked my eyes out.

“It’s good to see you, lady,” I said.

“Stop gawking, please. It’s nothing that you haven’t seen before.”

“You’re wrong there, lady. Now may I have your name?”

“Lady Death.”

“Lady Death? You from the circus? The movies?”

“No.”

“Place of birth?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Year of birth?”

“Don’t try to be funny…”

“Just trying to get some background…”

I got lost somehow, began staring up her legs. I was always a leg man. It was the first thing I saw when I was born. But then I was trying to get out. Ever since I have been working in the other direction and with pretty lousy luck.

She snapped her fingers.

“Hey, come out of it!”

“Huh?” I looked up.

“The Celine case. Remember?”

“Yeah, sure.”

I unfolded a paperclip, pointed the end toward her.

“I’ll need a check for services rendered.”

“Of course,” she smiled. “What are your rates?”

“6 dollars an hour.”

She got out her checkbook, scribbled away, ripped the check out and tossed it to me. It landed on the desk. I picked it up. $240. I hadn’t seen that much money since I hit an exacta at Hollywood Park in 1988.

“Thank you, Lady…”

“…Death,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Now fill me in a little on this so-called Celine. You said something about a bookstore?”

“Well, he’s been hanging around Red’s bookstore, browsing…asking about Faulkner, Carson McCullers. Charles Manson…”

“Hangs around the bookstore, huh? Hmm…”

“Yes,” she said, “you know Red. He likes to run people out of his bookstore. A person can spend a thousand bucks in there, then maybe linger a minute or two and Red will say, ‘Why don’t you get the hell out of here?’ Red’s a good guy, he’s just freaky. Anyway, he keeps tossing Celine out and Celine goes over to Musso’s and hangs around the bar looking sad. A day or so later he’ll be back and it will happen all over again.”

“Celine is dead. Celine and Hemingway died a day apart. 32 years ago.”

“I know about Hemingway. I got Hemingway.”

“You sure it was Hemingway?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Then how come you can’t be sure this Celine is the real Celine?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got some kind of block with this thing. It’s never happened before. Maybe I’ve been in the game too long. So, I’ve come to you. Barton says you’re good.”

“And you think the real Celine is alive? You want him?”

“Real bad, buster.”

“Belane. Nick Belane.”

“All right, Belane. I want to make sure. It’s got to be the real Celine, not just some half-assed wannabe. There are too many of those.”

“Don’t we know it.”

“Well, get on it. I want France’s greatest writer. I’ve waited a long time.”

Then she got up and walked out of there. I never saw an ass like that in my life. Beyond concept. Beyond everything. Don’t bother me now. I want to think about it.