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I locked up again, choked my car to life and rode off home to a shower, dry clothes and a late dinner.
Shaved, dressed and lightly breakfasted I was at the Hall of Justice in less than an hour.
I took my dark glasses off and tapped them delicately on the inside of my left wrist. If you can weigh a hundred and ninety pounds and look like a fairy, I was doing my best.
Her whole body shivered and her face fell apart like a bride’s pie crust.
The place was horrible by daylight. The Chinese junk on the walls, the rug, the fussy lamps, the teakwood stuff, the sticky riot of colors, the totem pole, the flagon of ether and laudanum—all this in the daytime had a stealthy nastiness, like a fag party.
“You must have thought a lot of that queen,” I said.
“Don’t kid me, son. The fag gave you one. You’ve got a nice clean manly little room in there. He shooed you out and locked it up when he had lady visitors. He was like Caesar, a husband to women and a wife to men. Think I can’t figure people like him and you out?”
Under the thinning fog the surf curled and creamed, almost without sound, like a thought trying to form itself on the edge of consciousness.
The violet light at the top of Bullock’s green-tinged tower was far above us, serene and withdrawn from the dark, dripping city.
But not even the drenched darkness could hide the flawless lines of the orange trees wheeling away like endless spokes into the night.
pyroxylin
benison.
She was in oyster-white lounging pajamas trimmed with white fur, cut as flowingly as a summer sea frothing on the beach of some small and exclusive island.
