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240 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1956
He said with the bitter irony of age: "So you are an altruist, are you? A Hollywood culture-hero in a sports coat? ...
I swung in black space, supported by some kind of sky hook above the bright scene... I was occupied with deep thoughts of my own. They flashed on my mind like brilliant lantern slides: Hollywood started as a meaningless dream, invented for money. But its colors ran, out through the holes in people's heads, spread across the landscape and solidified. North and south along the coast, east across the desert, across the continent. Now we were stuck with the dream without a meaning. It had become a nightmare that we lived in. Deep thoughts.
I realized with some embarrassment that the body on the deck [below] belonged to me. I climbed air down to it and crawled back in, a rat who lived inside a scarecrow.
There was a girl on my left. I caught a glimpse of her profile, young and pretty and smooth as glass. She was talking earnestly to the man beside her, an aging clown I'd seen in twenty movies.
"You said you'd catch me if I fell," she said.
"I was feeling stronger then."
"You said you'd marry me if it ever happened."
"You got more sense than to take me seriously. I'm two years behind on alimony now."
"You're very romantic, aren't you?"
"That's putting it mildly, sweetheart. I got some sense of responsibility, though. I'll do what I can for you, give you a telephone number. And you can tell him to send the bill to me."
"I don't want your dirty telephone number. I don't want your dirty money."
"Be reasonable. Think of it like it was a tumor or something -that is, if it really exists. Another drink?"
"Make mine prussic acid," she said dully.
"On the rocks?".
I left half my drink standing. It was air I needed.
These were movie people, but a great deal of their talk was about television. They talked about communications media and the black list and the hook and payment for second showings and who had money for pilot films and what their agents said. Under their noise, they gave out a feeling of suspense.
The people were all inside. They had given up night walks back in the cold war. Call me trouble looking for a place to happen.
I left the house the way I had entered, and drove up into the Canyon. A few sparse stars peered between the streamers of cloud drifting along the ridge. Houselights on the slopes islanded the darkness through which the road ran white under my headlight beam. Rounding a high curve, I could see the glow of the beach cities far below to my left, phosphorescence washed up on the shore.Archer is hardly ever at a loss for pinpointing an essence:
An onion taste of grief rose at the back of my throat.And he's not above the occasional inclusion of a word you just don't hear in everyday conversation:
I sat back in the seat and watched the lights go by, flashing like thrown knives.
Her breath was a blend of gin and fermenting womanhood.
"Isobel! What kind of Walpurgisnacht is this?"What's at the root of all of the scummy behavior on parade is never all that surprising, perhaps. Nevertheless... in his storytelling, Macdonald is as tenacious as a terrier, lifting the hunt to a genuine art form.
Mrs Campbell lived on a poor street of stucco and frame cottages half hidden by large, ancient oak trees. In their sun-flecked shadows, pre-school children played their killing games: Bang Bang, you're dead; I'm not dead; you are so dead.
