fire and desire.
Tires hummed on Wilshire and a radio played in the next unit. Her body was smooth and her artist’s hands, strong, her body was firm and active and finally calm.
I heard the shower above the hum of the tires but below the blare of the radio next door. I lay on my side on the double bed, at peace with the world.
Ranch-type furniture, with the insignia of the motel branded into the chairs, the bedstead, the dresser, the end tables. Western living, under the neon sign. Navajo rugs and Western prints and charcoal-broiled steaks in the grille. Howdy, podner, we even got television.
The shower hiss stopped, and Sally called, “Would you get my back, Champ?”
I went in to scrub her back.
We went from there to the Coast Highway and drove out that past Malibu, soaking up the February sun. Coming back, she parked where there was a view of the ocean, just south of where Sunset ends.
Sea gulls walked the beach below us and a few bathers lay on the sand beneath the ledge.
I told her about Sam Wald’s visit the night before, and added, “It’s been bothering me. He knows Max and I left with the girl, and he must have found out from the hotel clerk that Max came home alone.”
“If he knows, the police know,” Sally said, “and you wouldn’t be sitting here if the police knew. Wald was guessing.”
“I don’t think so. If he was going to guess, he’d guess the other way, that Max went home with the girl.”
“When you were making the play for her at the party?”
“I don’t know that I was. And how do you know?”
“By the way Max told the story. Who else was at the party?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll ask Max.”
“Why?”
“Maybe we can learn something.”
I smiled at her. “Something the police can’t?”
“That’s not so silly. The kind of people Max knows don’t usually confide in the police, even when they’ve nothing to hide. We might be able to confide in the police for them.”
“A couple of stool pigeons?”
“Don’t be adolescent. Luke, I want to know now. Don’t you?”
“I always did. And if I should learn I had committed murder, I’d want the police to know.” I studied her. “Would you?”
“We’ll never learn that,” she said. “Not about you, Luke.”
“I wish I could keep up with your moods,” I said. “Fifteen hours ago, you were ready to cut my throat.”
Her hand came out to rest on mine. “I know. Keep you jumping, don’t I? But I do love you, Luke.”
“There’s another motel, right up the road a way here,” I said.
She brought the left hand all the way over from her side of the car. It was a clenched hand, a fist, and it caught me right under the eye.
“You’re so damned insensitive,” she said. She rubbed her knuckles. “You hurt me.”
My cheek throbbed, and I knew it would puff right below the eye. I said nothing, and didn’t look at her, playing the strong, silent hero, wounded to the quick, wherever that is.
“Luke — ” Her voice was soft, and the hand on mine was stroking my wrist. “Luke, honey, I’m sorry. I — ” Nothing from me.
“Luke, tell me what you’re thinking, please.”
“I’m hungry,” I said. “I want a hot fudge.”
“I’d rather have a drink,” she said. “I know a place, not too far from here.”
I looked at her suspiciously, but her face was innocent enough. “You’re driving,” I said. “Let’s go.”
She took the Coast Highway to Olympic, and Olympic to Lincoln. Lincoln is as ugly a boulevard as you’ll see in any town, a truck-infested, traffic-busy thoroughfare lined with secondhand car lots, junk yards, clip joints, and all the small-shop rackets Los Angeles is loaded with, from pottery to prune juice.
Just this side of Venice, she pulled the convertible into a five-car parking-lot, next to a grimy brick building. The neon sign on top of the dump read:
Harry’s Hoot Owl Club.
“Is this the best you can do?” I asked her.
“This,” she said, “is where
Tires hummed on Wilshire and a radio played in the next unit. Her body was smooth and her artist’s hands, strong, her body was firm and active and finally calm.
I heard the shower above the hum of the tires but below the blare of the radio next door. I lay on my side on the double bed, at peace with the world.
Ranch-type furniture, with the insignia of the motel branded into the chairs, the bedstead, the dresser, the end tables. Western living, under the neon sign. Navajo rugs and Western prints and charcoal-broiled steaks in the grille. Howdy, podner, we even got television.
The shower hiss stopped, and Sally called, “Would you get my back, Champ?”
I went in to scrub her back.
We went from there to the Coast Highway and drove out that past Malibu, soaking up the February sun. Coming back, she parked where there was a view of the ocean, just south of where Sunset ends.
Sea gulls walked the beach below us and a few bathers lay on the sand beneath the ledge.
I told her about Sam Wald’s visit the night before, and added, “It’s been bothering me. He knows Max and I left with the girl, and he must have found out from the hotel clerk that Max came home alone.”
“If he knows, the police know,” Sally said, “and you wouldn’t be sitting here if the police knew. Wald was guessing.”
“I don’t think so. If he was going to guess, he’d guess the other way, that Max went home with the girl.”
“When you were making the play for her at the party?”
“I don’t know that I was. And how do you know?”
“By the way Max told the story. Who else was at the party?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll ask Max.”
“Why?”
“Maybe we can learn something.”
I smiled at her. “Something the police can’t?”
“That’s not so silly. The kind of people Max knows don’t usually confide in the police, even when they’ve nothing to hide. We might be able to confide in the police for them.”
“A couple of stool pigeons?”
“Don’t be adolescent. Luke, I want to know now. Don’t you?”
“I always did. And if I should learn I had committed murder, I’d want the police to know.” I studied her. “Would you?”
“We’ll never learn that,” she said. “Not about you, Luke.”
“I wish I could keep up with your moods,” I said. “Fifteen hours ago, you were ready to cut my throat.”
Her hand came out to rest on mine. “I know. Keep you jumping, don’t I? But I do love you, Luke.”
“There’s another motel, right up the road a way here,” I said.
She brought the left hand all the way over from her side of the car. It was a clenched hand, a fist, and it caught me right under the eye.
“You’re so damned insensitive,” she said. She rubbed her knuckles. “You hurt me.”
My cheek throbbed, and I knew it would puff right below the eye. I said nothing, and didn’t look at her, playing the strong, silent hero, wounded to the quick, wherever that is.
“Luke — ” Her voice was soft, and the hand on mine was stroking my wrist. “Luke, honey, I’m sorry. I — ” Nothing from me.
“Luke, tell me what you’re thinking, please.”
“I’m hungry,” I said. “I want a hot fudge.”
“I’d rather have a drink,” she said. “I know a place, not too far from here.”
I looked at her suspiciously, but her face was innocent enough. “You’re driving,” I said. “Let’s go.”
She took the Coast Highway to Olympic, and Olympic to Lincoln. Lincoln is as ugly a boulevard as you’ll see in any town, a truck-infested, traffic-busy thoroughfare lined with secondhand car lots, junk yards, clip joints, and all the small-shop rackets Los Angeles is loaded with, from pottery to prune juice.
Just this side of Venice, she pulled the convertible into a five-car parking-lot, next to a grimy brick building. The neon sign on top of the dump read:
Harry’s Hoot Owl Club.
“Is this the best you can do?” I asked her.
“This,” she said, “is where
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