L.A.'s FIRST commandment: When in doubt, drive.
Years ago—ages ago—when I arrived in the city as a college freshman1, the first thing that hit me was: The streets are asphalt rivers. In high school I'd played guitar in a wedding band and filed paper at an architect's office in order to scrape up enough cash for a puke-colored, emphysemic Chevy Nova that my father, a Ford2 man, despised. (Quoth Harry3 Delaware: "It's crap, but at least you earned it—nothing you don't earn is worth half a crap.") That Bondoed, duct-taped chariot whisked me from Missouri to California and, when it reached my dorm, promptly4 sputtered5 and died. For most of the first year I was left to the mercies of L.A.'s afterthought bus system—house imprisonment6. The following summer a series of late-night jobs had earned me a moribund7 Plymouth Valiant8, chronic9 insomnia10, and the habit of stumbling out of bed before dawn, cruising dark, empty boulevards, and wondering about my future.
Now I sleep later, but the urge to escape on wheels has never died. It's a different L.A. from my college days, traffic all bunched up and angry and irrevocable, less and less open space until you get up in the Santa Monica Mountains or out on some old stretch of blacktop made redundant11 by the freeways, but I still love to drive for the sake of driving. It's a trait I share with a certain subsample of psychopaths, but so what— introspection can be a sucker game.
After Milo hung up I sat at my desk listening to the empty house. Wondering if Robin's increasing absences had to do with more than her work. Wondering how I could've been so wrong about Rene Maccaferri ("He doesn't look like a brain surgeon, Milo") and what else I'd screwed up. I got into the Seville. Tony Duke sick, maybe seriously so, amid Malibu splendor12. I switched on the tape deck, listened to the Fabulous13 Thunder-birds being tough enough at way too high a decibel14 level. Tooling up the glen to Mulholland, turning east into the Hollywood Hills, playing with turns and twists, zoned15 out, wanting to empty my head.
Without intending to, I ended up in the heart of Hollywood and back at Sunset Boulevard. No more relaxed, still plagued with supposition. About Lauren's pathway from rebellious16 kid to garment center hooker to ... whatever she'd been when the bullet had bounced around in her brain.
I remembered the paper she'd written for Gene17 Dalby's social psych class. "Iconography in the Fashion Industry."
Women as Meat.
Bitter about the trade-offs she'd made? Had that played a part in fueling a blackmail18 scheme, or had she just been greedy?
It took a long time to crawl through Beverly Hills and the eastern fringe of Bel Air—two of the "Three B's" to which Shawna Yeager had aspired—and when I reached the glen I got caught in the jam and crawled, feeling strangely at home, like a member of some vast, inertial conspiracy19.
No stress from the automotive stalemate; the chrome clog21 was no worse than the neural22 traffic in my head. I was trying to figure out what to do with the rest of the day when I realized I'd inched toward Justin LeMoyne's house. As I passed the white bungalow23, a flash of movement caught my eye.
The garage door closing. Just a foot of opening at the bottom as the wooden sheet slid into place. At the first side street I managed to hang a left across both lanes, hooked a three-point turn, pulled to the corner, and waited. Seven minutes later the garage door opened and a red Mercedes convertible24, its top up, nosed out with its left turn signal blinking. Whoever was at the wheel was trying to swing across and head south.
Letting the Mercedes in wouldn't have ruined anyone's day, but human kindness was at an ebb25 and the red car just sat there for a long time, blinking. Finally, a gardener's truck relented, and the convertible was allowed to join the go-nowhere-fast club. Ten car lengths later, so was I.
Trying not to dwell on the ludicrousness of my tail job of Ben Dugger and Dr. Maccaferri, I tagged along, struggling to keep the Mercedes in view. No mean challenge, because the red car squeaked26 through the light at Sunset and left me in a queue of five cars. I kept my eye on its rectangular taillights. Right turn. By the time I followed suit, no sign of the red car, and I rolled along with all the other automatons27, at a bracing28 fifteen miles per. Then brake lights flashed in series, and the congestion29 that anticipated the 405 freeway put the Mercedes back in my sights.
Thirty yards up, in the left-hand lane. I managed a few less-than-courteous lane changes, and when the Mercedes chose the Sepulveda alternate to the southbound freeway, I'd narrowed the gap and was able to make out the cloudy outline of a solitary30 driver through the convertible's plastic rear window.
He stayed on Sepulveda, crossed Wilshire and Santa Monica and Olympic, driving as quickly as traffic would permit. Past the spot where Lauren's body had been dumped. Across Pico and Venice, into Culver City, then a right turn at Washington, a quarter-mile zip, and a quick swing into the parking lot of a small hotel called the Palm Court.
North side of Washington, two-story mock colonial wedged between an ARCO station and a flower shop, auto20 club badge of approval tacked31 above the door. Clean, white clapboard facade32 that I couldn't help comparing to Jane and Mel Abbot's house. The parking lot was sun-grayed, one-third full. The Mercedes pulled to the far left side, well away from other vehicles, and came to a short stop.
A man got out and hurried toward the motel's glass doors. Forties, tall, slim, and sunken-chested, with long, stringy arms and kinky, graying hair. He wore a snug33 yellow polo shirt over pressed khakis, brown loafers, no socks, tiny eyeglasses. Carried a cardboard file case in his hands. Justin LeMoyne making a quick trip back home for paperwork? He shot a worried look over his shoulder as he shoved the doors and stepped in.
The phone booth at the ARCO station smelled of too-old burrito, but the dial tone was clear. I called Milo at the station, and before he could speak said, "Finally, something real."
"Yeah, they're both in there," he said, returning to the Seville and leaning in the driver's window. "Room two fifteen. They checked in yesterday under LeMoyne's name."
It had taken him a quarter hour to arrive. He'd left the unmarked on the opposite side of the lot, conferred for a couple of minutes with the desk clerk, emerged nodding.
"Cooperative fellow?" I said.
"Ethiopian fellow studying for the citizenship34 exam, very yessir, nosir. I promised not to bring in a SWAT army if he didn't fuss or notify LeMoyne and Salander. He seemed duly impressed by the badge— Why should he know that justifying35 a warrant, let alone a G.I. Joe ground assault, is about as likely as Ghaddafi marrying Streisand."
"Let's hear it for TV."
"And here I was thinking it was my commanding aura. He also volunteered that Salander just called down and asked where he could order a pizza. He directed them to Papa Pomodoro on Overland, told me they've got a guaranteed half hour delivery or it's a freebie. So I'm gonna knock on the door in five minutes, and just maybe they'll open it with pepperoni expectations."
"And when the real delivery boy shows up?" I said.
"We'll have a party— Thanks for noticing LeMoyne's car, Alex."
"Hard not to, I was right there."
"And they say no one in L.A.'s neighborly."
"If he checked in under his own name, LeMoyne wasn't exactly being cagey," I said. "Driving up to his house in broad daylight, staying this close to home? Doesn't smell like a frantic36 rabbit."
"Then what're they doing here? Vacationing in Culver City?"
"Maybe taking a breather," I said. "Giving Andy Salander time to figure out what to do with the information he got from Lauren."
"Or he was Lauren's partner in crime."
"No sign she shared the wealth. She was the one with the wardrobe and the investment portfolio37. Salander barely scraped by on his bartender's salary. No, I think she took him in for company—nonsexual company—just like he said, and he became her confidant. Maybe she didn't even give him details, just told him enough for him to figure things out when people started dying. Reconciling with LeMoyne couldn't have come at a better time for him—allowed him to leave the apartment, move in with LeMoyne. He told LeMoyne of his suspicions, scared LeMoyne enough to bunk38 down here."
"And he didn't call me because ..."
"Because why should he, Milo? If he's a TV baby, how many times has he seen the old witness protection bungle39 story? Not to mention all those police corruption40 scenarios41. Fictional42 or otherwise."
"Untrustworthy?" he said. "Moi?" He gazed at the hotel. "Or maybe the two of them are trying to figure out how to take over the blackmail scheme." He looked at his watch. "Okay, time to be Simon the Pie Man— Wait here, and if it's okay for you to come up, I'll let you know. If the delivery guy does show up, you can say the pizza's yours and pay him."
"Is the department going to reimburse43 me?"
He dipped in his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet.
"Put that back," I said. "Just kidding."
"Sure," he said, flashing teeth. "I can be trusted."
Seven minutes later a small, fine-featured black man in his late twenties stepped out of the Palm Court, sighted across the parking lot, spotted44 the Seville, and waved. I jogged over, and he held the door open. After ushering45 me into the skimpy, dim booth the hotel passed off as a lobby, he led me to a chipped, brown-metal elevator, cupped his hand over his mouth, and spoke46 so softly I had to lean toward him.
"Detective Sturger rogers you to ascend47, sir."
"Thanks."
"Room two fifteen. You may take the elevator. Please."
The lift rattled48 dangerously, and the one-story ride took nearly a minute. The second floor was a single, low, pink-vinyl hallway crowded with gray-green doors fitted with cheap locks. The sand-colored carpeting beneath my footsteps was unpadded and grimy around the edges. Midway down the corridor, an ice machine gurgled. DO NOT DISTURB signs dangled49 from three knobs, and every few feet canned laughter oozed50 through the vinyl.
No sign on 215. I knocked and Milo's voice said, "Enter."
Blue room. Gold bamboo over turquoise51 paper, a queen-sized bedmade up carelessly with a navy spread, a black-painted desk and chair, a nineteen-inch TV bolted to the wall, rental52 movie-video game box riding on top. No closet, just open shelves next to the bathroom door, bare but for two six-packs of Budweiser and a collection of Chinese take-out cartons. A pair of older Vuitton suitcases had been shoved into a corner, sad as impoverished53 nobility.
Justin LeMoyne sat on the edge of the chair twirling an unlit cigarette between the fingers of one hand. His shoes were off, and the file case I'd seen him take from the car rested near his bare feet. In his lap was a black-bound script, and on the desk was a cell phone and a ThinkPad. Up close he looked older—early fifties—neck puffing54 and hollowing in all the wrong places, facial skin losing its grip on the bone. The kinky hair was worn down over his collar at the back, but a feathery, precise hairline in front said transplant. Behind the tiny glasses his eyes were dark, bright, uncertain.
Andy Salander was perched near the foot of the bed, dressed similarly to LeMoyne in khakis and a polo shirt—his, white with an olive collar. On the nightstand near his elbow was an open can of Bud. The ashtray55 on the opposite stand overflowed56 with butts57, and the room reeked58 of tobacco and restless sleep.
Milo stood behind them, up against the beige chenille drape that dirtied the light leaking through the room's single window.
Salander said, "Hi there, Doctor," in a breakable voice.
LeMoyne gripped the script and pretended to study dialogue.
"Hi," I said.
"This is Justin," said Andy.
"Pleased to meet you, Justin." LeMoyne sniffed59, thumbed pages.
"Mr. Salander and Mr. LeMoyne are on 'retreat,'" said Milo. "The question is from what."
"Last time I checked it was a free country," said LeMoyne, without looking up.
"Justin," said Salander.
The older man looked up. "Yes, Andrew?"
"I—we . . . Forget it."
"Excellent idea, Andrew."
"Oh, my," said Milo. "Such a simple question."
LeMoyne said, "Nothing's simple. And you have no right to invade our privacy." To Salander: "You didn't have to let him in, and there's absolutely no reason we should permit him to stay."
"I know, Justin, but. . ." To Milo: "He's right. Maybe you should go, Detective Sturgis."
"Now I'm hurt," said Milo.
"Knock it off," said LeMoyne. "The cute stuff chafes60. We've already put up with the indignity61 of being frisked and having our belongings62 pawed through. If you have something to say, say it, then let us be."
Milo fingered the drapes, pulled them aside, turned and peered through the window. "Gas station view." He let the chenille drop. "If I lived in Beverly Glen, I wouldn't retreat here, Mr. LeMoyne."
"To each his own. You of all people should know that."
Milo smiled. "The thing is, Andy, this whole free country thing— people recite it like a mantra, but we're really not all that free. The law imposes restrictions64. I've got handcuffs in my pocket, and I can take them out, place them around your wrists, and take you to jail and be operating in a perfectly66 legal manner."
A tiny tremor67 scooted across Salander's lips.
LeMoyne kept turning pages. "He's trying to intimidate68 you, Andy." To Milo: "That's rubbish. On what grounds?"
"The thing is, Andy," said Milo, "there's a legal status called material witness that can reduce your freedom substantially. Same for 'suspect.'"
Salander blanched69. "I didn't see anything, and I didn't do anything."
"That may be so, but my job is to suspect, not to adjudicate. And after a couple of days in custody—"
"Bullshit," said LeMoyne, starting to get up. "Stop scaring him."
"Please stay seated, sir."
"Bullshit," LeMoyne repeated, but he settled back down. "This is obscene. Oppressive. You of all people should—"
Milo turned his back on LeMoyne. "The thing that bothers me, Andy, is I specifically asked you to be available. Because you're the last person who saw Lauren Teague alive, and that makes you a definite material witness. From my perspective, the fact that you agreed to be available but reneged makes you an interesting person."
Long pause. Salander said, "I'm sorry—"
"Oh, Christ," said LeMoyne. "Stop talking, Andrew. Shut up—"
"You went back on your word, Andy. That and the fact that you're hiding out in this garden spot—"
"We are not hiding," said LeMoyne, picking up the phone. "I'm calling my lawyer. Ed Geisman. Geisman and Brandner."
"Be my guest," said Milo. "Of course, once that happens, I won't be able to control the ensuing publicity—agent and suspect apprehended70 in cheap hotel. I'm sure you can fill in the blanks." Half-turning back toward LeMoyne. "It was my impression that agents preferred to sell stories, not create them."
"Defame me and I'll sue you."
"If I defamed you, I'd deserve to be sued, sir. But release of accurate facts doesn't constitute defamation71."
Salander said, "Justin, this is crazy, why are we fighting? I didn't do anything. All I want is— I don't care about the story."
"Quiet," snapped LeMoyne.
Milo smiled. Edged closer to the bed. "The story. So this is a story conference." He laughed. "You guys are taking a meeting."
"It's not like that," said Salander, wiping moist eyes.
"Stop blubbering," ordered LeMoyne. "It's unbecoming."
"I'm sorry, Justin—"
"Stop apologizing^
"Let me guess," said Milo, stepping between the men. "Insider's view of a blond beauty's murder. Are you thinking big screen or made for TV?"
"No," said Salander. "No, no, it's just— Justin said if we registered the idea with the Writers Guild72 we could be protected—it would be like life insurance."
"Ah," said Milo. "You think if someone comes gunning for you, the Writers Guild'11 ride to the rescue? Must be a new service they provide."
Salander began crying.
"You asshole," said LeMoyne. "You enjoy scaring him, don't you."
"He's already scared," said Milo. "Isn't that right, Andy?"
"Don't call him by his first name. It's demeaning. Call him 'mister.' Treat him with respect."
"I don't care what he calls me, Justin." Salander sniffed. "I just want to be safe."
"That's the problem," said LeMoyne.
"What is?" Panic in Salander's voice.
"You don't care. You always fall short in the caring department. As well as in the thinking-things-through department."
"Stop it, Justin—"
LeMoyne slammed the script shut. "This is bullshit. I've got appointments on hold, canceled meetings— Do what you want, Andy. It's your life, take it where you want to—"
"The thing is," said Milo, "I don't care if you register the story. Make a million bucks73 from Lauren's death, it's the American way. But not before you tell me what you know. Because if you hold out, that puts into play yet another restriction65 of your freedom: withholding74 evidence."
"Oh, bullshit," said LeMoyne. "This is just total bullshit. I'm out of this, Andrew."
"I need your help, Justin."
LeMoyne gave a sick smile. "Oh, I don't think so, Andy. I think you do just fine by yourself."
"I don't." Salander wiped his nose with his arm. "I really need support, Justin—"
"That's a brand-new shirt, use a tissue, for God's sake."
Salander looked around the room helplessly. Milo located the Kleenex box on the floor and handed it to him.
"What should I do, Justin?"
"Do what you want."
Silence.
"I don't know," said Salander, throwing up his hands. He reached for the beer can.
"No more," said LeMoyne. "You've had enough."
Salander's hand jerked back. He hugged himself. "Oh!" he said. "This is ... so restrictive."
LeMoyne shook his head. "I'm leaving." But he didn't move.
"What should I do?" Salander repeated.
Milo said, "How about telling the truth?"
Arms still wrapped around his torso, Salander began to rock. His smooth forehead creased75. Thinking hard.
LeMoyne said, "For this I give up a lunch at Le Dome76."
收听单词发音 |
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freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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sputtered
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| v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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moribund
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| adj.即将结束的，垂死的 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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decibel
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| n.分贝(音量的单位) | |
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zoned
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| adj.划成区域的，束带的v.（飞机、汽车等）急速移动( zoom的现在分词 )；（价格、费用等）急升，猛涨 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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neural
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| adj.神经的，神经系统的 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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convertible
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| adj.可改变的，可交换，同意义的；n.有活动摺篷的汽车 | |
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ebb
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squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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automatons
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| n.自动机，机器人( automaton的名词复数 ) | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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bungle
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| v.搞糟；n.拙劣的工作 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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scenarios
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| n.[意]情节；剧本；事态；脚本 | |
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fictional
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| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
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reimburse
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| v.补偿，付还 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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ushering
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的现在分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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51
turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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rental
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| n.租赁，出租，出租业 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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54
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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ashtray
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| n.烟灰缸 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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butts
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| 笑柄( butt的名词复数 )； （武器或工具的）粗大的一端； 屁股； 烟蒂 | |
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reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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60
chafes
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的第三人称单数 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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intimidate
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| vt.恐吓，威胁 | |
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blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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defamation
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| n.诽谤；中伤 | |
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guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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73
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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