significance, something beyond just seeing it, possibly some — connection with what happened.”
The light changed, and we went on. “And another thing,” Sally said, “When I lived out here, I used to know one of the detectives. And he told me Homicide men
always
worked in a team, two men.
Always,
he said. This case can’t be too important, with just one sergeant on it.”
“You and Max,” I said, “are determined to look at the bright side, the easy side.” In my mind I saw the windmill going around and around. “Maybe things have changed, or maybe the other cop is working more quietly. Besides, I want to know what happened if — ” I didn’t finish.
“I don’t,” she said. “I thought I did, but I don’t.”
I didn’t say anything to that. There’d be only one reason why she wouldn’t want to know. The windmill went around and around, trying to tell me something.
Past the Will Rogers Ranch Gate. He’d been something, Will Rogers, and now he was only a memory in middle-aged minds. And some day, Luke Pilgrim, you’ll be only ink in a dusty record book. And Brenda Vane, on the threshold of a new career — From B girl to B pictures, the story of Brenda Vane.
Who made it? Even the title, the crown, what the hell was it when you got there? The crown should be something; it sure as hell was when you were a punk, something to look up to. Until you saw what it was made of — a lucky punch here, the right kind of matching, an angle and a wedge and a manager who knew a lot of people.
“What are you thinking of?” Sally asked.
“Oh, nothing much. What’s worth while? Where does a man get any real satisfaction?”
“In bed,” Sally said. “Both asleep and awake, in bed.”
“I’m serious,” I said.
“So am I.”
Brentwood, and the fine homes. What did they think of, these country-club cuties, besides the bed? And breaking eighty and dashing off to Hawaii for the holidays and money, money, money, money, money?
Sally said, “In your trade, you’re at the top. There’s no place to go from where you are. It’s not achievement that keeps a man happy, it’s achieving.” I’d heard that before.
“When I was younger,” she said, “I thought it was love, love, love. With men, I learned, it’s love, love, love for however long it takes and then it’s a stiff drink and seeing some people. So I said to myself, there’s always the memory; relish it while you’re making it, and cherish it when it’s past, lay it in lavender.”
“That’s some rat race,” I said.
“Luke, there’s only
now.”
At All Saints, they’d said there was more than now, but I was eighteen years from All Saints. I was middleweight champion of the world, driving along Sunset with a lovely dish.
“You’re going to have to grow up sometime,” Sally said.
I should grow up? At sixteen I’d broken another kid’s nose. At fourteen I’d learned about women. How long did it take?
“That book you’re reading,” Sally said, “what scene do you remember?”
“The sleeping-bag.”
“Mmmm-hmmm. Mr. Hemingway knows. It’s bulls and sex, war and sex, Africa and sex. And sex.”
And murder and sex,
I thought. But didn’t say. I said, “There’s a chance he doesn’t know everything. Nor anybody else.” The windmill went around and around.
“Well, I’ll work you up to better, to Thomas Mann and some of the giants. You’re going to be well-read, a real civilized gent, fit to share my bed.” She was grinning, not looking at me, squinting at the sun and the traffic.
“Silk sheets,” she said quietly. “Maroon silk sheets. Doesn’t it give you the creeps?”
“No.”
A light, and UCLA spread out to our right front. I said, “Turn here. Let’s get a drink or a cup of coffee.”
“Why here?” she said. “This place has sad memories for me.”
“Why?” I looked at her, but she wasn’t looking at me.
“This is where George and I spent most of our married life, the first eighteen
The light changed, and we went on. “And another thing,” Sally said, “When I lived out here, I used to know one of the detectives. And he told me Homicide men
always
worked in a team, two men.
Always,
he said. This case can’t be too important, with just one sergeant on it.”
“You and Max,” I said, “are determined to look at the bright side, the easy side.” In my mind I saw the windmill going around and around. “Maybe things have changed, or maybe the other cop is working more quietly. Besides, I want to know what happened if — ” I didn’t finish.
“I don’t,” she said. “I thought I did, but I don’t.”
I didn’t say anything to that. There’d be only one reason why she wouldn’t want to know. The windmill went around and around, trying to tell me something.
Past the Will Rogers Ranch Gate. He’d been something, Will Rogers, and now he was only a memory in middle-aged minds. And some day, Luke Pilgrim, you’ll be only ink in a dusty record book. And Brenda Vane, on the threshold of a new career — From B girl to B pictures, the story of Brenda Vane.
Who made it? Even the title, the crown, what the hell was it when you got there? The crown should be something; it sure as hell was when you were a punk, something to look up to. Until you saw what it was made of — a lucky punch here, the right kind of matching, an angle and a wedge and a manager who knew a lot of people.
“What are you thinking of?” Sally asked.
“Oh, nothing much. What’s worth while? Where does a man get any real satisfaction?”
“In bed,” Sally said. “Both asleep and awake, in bed.”
“I’m serious,” I said.
“So am I.”
Brentwood, and the fine homes. What did they think of, these country-club cuties, besides the bed? And breaking eighty and dashing off to Hawaii for the holidays and money, money, money, money, money?
Sally said, “In your trade, you’re at the top. There’s no place to go from where you are. It’s not achievement that keeps a man happy, it’s achieving.” I’d heard that before.
“When I was younger,” she said, “I thought it was love, love, love. With men, I learned, it’s love, love, love for however long it takes and then it’s a stiff drink and seeing some people. So I said to myself, there’s always the memory; relish it while you’re making it, and cherish it when it’s past, lay it in lavender.”
“That’s some rat race,” I said.
“Luke, there’s only
now.”
At All Saints, they’d said there was more than now, but I was eighteen years from All Saints. I was middleweight champion of the world, driving along Sunset with a lovely dish.
“You’re going to have to grow up sometime,” Sally said.
I should grow up? At sixteen I’d broken another kid’s nose. At fourteen I’d learned about women. How long did it take?
“That book you’re reading,” Sally said, “what scene do you remember?”
“The sleeping-bag.”
“Mmmm-hmmm. Mr. Hemingway knows. It’s bulls and sex, war and sex, Africa and sex. And sex.”
And murder and sex,
I thought. But didn’t say. I said, “There’s a chance he doesn’t know everything. Nor anybody else.” The windmill went around and around.
“Well, I’ll work you up to better, to Thomas Mann and some of the giants. You’re going to be well-read, a real civilized gent, fit to share my bed.” She was grinning, not looking at me, squinting at the sun and the traffic.
“Silk sheets,” she said quietly. “Maroon silk sheets. Doesn’t it give you the creeps?”
“No.”
A light, and UCLA spread out to our right front. I said, “Turn here. Let’s get a drink or a cup of coffee.”
“Why here?” she said. “This place has sad memories for me.”
“Why?” I looked at her, but she wasn’t looking at me.
“This is where George and I spent most of our married life, the first eighteen
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