flecks of tobacco drifted on the top of black coffee long since gone cold.
He stopped, rubbed bloodshot eyes, tugged his mustache, considered. Aaronia Haldorn. Her husband Joseph. And instead of the run-down hotel, their exclusive Pacific Heights place, the Temple of the Holy Grail. Joseph would work as a character where Weber hadn’t.
He got up and started to pace. Hell, yes. Joseph would
believe
. That was it. Wield the knife himself. Sure. As for Aaronia . . .
Aaronia.
Hammett quit pacing to light himself a cigarette. Aaronia. He’d given her the name but not the physical description of his older sister, Reba. Of all his relatives, the only one he still wrote to. He chuckled. Aaronia Rebecca Hammett, as stiff-necked as he was. He’d send her a copy of
The Dain Curse
when Knopf published it. If he ever got the damned thing revised.
But still he stood, gripped by the past. Philadelphia. He’d been . . . what? Two? Three? White house with a little wooden porch and initials carved penknife deep in the railing. Tagging along after Reba to the park to fetch drinking water. Must have been Fairmont Park. And the time the old man took them both – maybe even the baby, Dick, too – to the city dump. There’d been a billy goat with a long white beard and mad eyes, eating tin cans. Or at least the labels off them.
Circle of men around the goat, laughing. Every time one of them would toss a cigarette butt, quick as lightning the goat would piss on it and put it out. Every time. He’d never seen his father laugh so hard.
He became aware that knuckles had been rapping against thefront door for some time. He rubbed a hand over his sandpaper jaw and called, ‘I’m asleep.’
‘Sam. It’s me. Goodie. You’ve got another phone call.’
Hammett went to the window and jerked at the bottom of the shade. It shot up to slap twice around the roller. Sunshine burst in to squint his eyes. He threw up the bottom half of the double-hung window and sucked in shocking dawn air. Where the hell had the night gone?
Goodie was dressed for work in a checked gingham apron frock with a collarless square neck and a midcalf hem that would turn no sufferer’s head in the doctor’s waiting room. Following her to her apartment, he talked at her back.
‘I’m going to give that damn Atkinson a blast he won’t forget, after that trick he pulled last night . . .’
He knelt on the couch, picked up the phone, clipped the receiver between the side of his neck and a raised shoulder so he could make drinking motions with his left hand to suggest coffee. Goodie nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
‘Yeah, I know, Vic. The cops picked you up and—’
‘Dash? Jimmy Wright here.’
A well-remembered voice from his Pinkerton past, another operative who’d stayed on when Hammett had left.
‘Jimmy, how’s the boy, long time no see. You still with the Pinks?’
‘Not for a year. I quit to go with Vic down south. Why I called, they found him behind the Southern Pacific station this morning. Worked over with a baseball bat or something, then dumped there.’
I’m in danger, Dash! Strange men . . . Hope they beat . . . goddamn head in
. . .
‘Dumped?’ he asked almost stupidly. The tips of his fingers had turned pale against the phone. ‘Dead?’
‘You never saw one deader.’
He was without movement for a full twenty seconds; then a long ripple that might have been a shiver ran through his lean body.
‘I’m on my way.’
Goodie came from the kitchen with a steaming cup of coffee half-extended. Hammett felt hollow.
Hope they, beat . . . goddamn head
. . .
‘Sam, what’s wrong? What—’
He was already heading for the door.
Hammett paid off the cab and started across Third toward the bulky colonnaded Mission Revival SP station, built of stucco phonied up like adobe. When he saw the craning knot of loungers at the far end of the long wooden baggage shed, he veered down Townsend instead. At the gate in the iron picket
He stopped, rubbed bloodshot eyes, tugged his mustache, considered. Aaronia Haldorn. Her husband Joseph. And instead of the run-down hotel, their exclusive Pacific Heights place, the Temple of the Holy Grail. Joseph would work as a character where Weber hadn’t.
He got up and started to pace. Hell, yes. Joseph would
believe
. That was it. Wield the knife himself. Sure. As for Aaronia . . .
Aaronia.
Hammett quit pacing to light himself a cigarette. Aaronia. He’d given her the name but not the physical description of his older sister, Reba. Of all his relatives, the only one he still wrote to. He chuckled. Aaronia Rebecca Hammett, as stiff-necked as he was. He’d send her a copy of
The Dain Curse
when Knopf published it. If he ever got the damned thing revised.
But still he stood, gripped by the past. Philadelphia. He’d been . . . what? Two? Three? White house with a little wooden porch and initials carved penknife deep in the railing. Tagging along after Reba to the park to fetch drinking water. Must have been Fairmont Park. And the time the old man took them both – maybe even the baby, Dick, too – to the city dump. There’d been a billy goat with a long white beard and mad eyes, eating tin cans. Or at least the labels off them.
Circle of men around the goat, laughing. Every time one of them would toss a cigarette butt, quick as lightning the goat would piss on it and put it out. Every time. He’d never seen his father laugh so hard.
He became aware that knuckles had been rapping against thefront door for some time. He rubbed a hand over his sandpaper jaw and called, ‘I’m asleep.’
‘Sam. It’s me. Goodie. You’ve got another phone call.’
Hammett went to the window and jerked at the bottom of the shade. It shot up to slap twice around the roller. Sunshine burst in to squint his eyes. He threw up the bottom half of the double-hung window and sucked in shocking dawn air. Where the hell had the night gone?
Goodie was dressed for work in a checked gingham apron frock with a collarless square neck and a midcalf hem that would turn no sufferer’s head in the doctor’s waiting room. Following her to her apartment, he talked at her back.
‘I’m going to give that damn Atkinson a blast he won’t forget, after that trick he pulled last night . . .’
He knelt on the couch, picked up the phone, clipped the receiver between the side of his neck and a raised shoulder so he could make drinking motions with his left hand to suggest coffee. Goodie nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.
‘Yeah, I know, Vic. The cops picked you up and—’
‘Dash? Jimmy Wright here.’
A well-remembered voice from his Pinkerton past, another operative who’d stayed on when Hammett had left.
‘Jimmy, how’s the boy, long time no see. You still with the Pinks?’
‘Not for a year. I quit to go with Vic down south. Why I called, they found him behind the Southern Pacific station this morning. Worked over with a baseball bat or something, then dumped there.’
I’m in danger, Dash! Strange men . . . Hope they beat . . . goddamn head in
. . .
‘Dumped?’ he asked almost stupidly. The tips of his fingers had turned pale against the phone. ‘Dead?’
‘You never saw one deader.’
He was without movement for a full twenty seconds; then a long ripple that might have been a shiver ran through his lean body.
‘I’m on my way.’
Goodie came from the kitchen with a steaming cup of coffee half-extended. Hammett felt hollow.
Hope they, beat . . . goddamn head
. . .
‘Sam, what’s wrong? What—’
He was already heading for the door.
Hammett paid off the cab and started across Third toward the bulky colonnaded Mission Revival SP station, built of stucco phonied up like adobe. When he saw the craning knot of loungers at the far end of the long wooden baggage shed, he veered down Townsend instead. At the gate in the iron picket
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