Free Manifesto for the Dead by Domenic Stansberry

motion tended to stay in motion. All lines intersected, all paths converged. Somewhere, past the curve of the ocean, Sepulvada ran into Sunset ran into Santa Monica Boulevard, became one street, divided again, became many.
    A knock sounded on the door.
    â€œWho’s there?”
    â€œLieutenant Mann, Los Angeles Police.”
    Thompson glanced out the landing toward the fire escape. If he were a young man, he might leap out and be gone, but he was not a young man. He opened the door.
    Lieutenant Mann was a plainclothes cop, tall and gangly. He wore a seersucker jacket, pressed slacks and a pink shirt that opened at the collar. He wore a white hat too, which he removed from his head as he stepped inside. The room was a mess. It smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and rumpled bed clothes, and Thompson’s traveling case stood out in plain view. The cop took it all in without a flicker.
    â€œYou’re originally from Oklahoma, I understand,” said Lieutenant Mann. He made it sound like small talk, but Thompson knew better. If the cop knew this much, he knew more. He’d been checking into his background.
    â€œYears ago.”
    â€œI spent some time on the force in Oklahoma City, but I’m from corn country myself.”
    â€œThat right?”
    â€œCedar Rapids.”
    Once again Thompson heard it, the reedy accent of the Midwest. It shouldn’t have surprised him. They were coming out here everyday, these Midwesterners, bringing with them their big ears, and their fat heads, and all that empty space in-between. Thompson had been through Cedar Rapids. He remembered the red brick hotels and the sandstone apartments and the huge silos, and he remembered too the oats mounded up on boxcars that rattled through town in a line that reached all the way to Dubuque. The cop’s voice sounded a little like that, all those boxcars loaded with oats, rolling through the night.
    â€œI hear you’re a writer. A crime novelist, that right?” Mann flashed him an aw shucks smile. “Mind if I sit down?”
    â€œGo right ahead.”
    The lieutenant made himself comfortable. Thompson waited for the grilling to begin, but Lieutenant Mann took his time. He was in no hurry to go anywhere, as if he were on a front porch back home, watching the cars roll by on Main Street, waving to the men in their overalls, flirting with the women in their summer dresses. Thompson knew better. He knew how these people sugar-gummed you to your face; then later, after the ax fell, treated you with the same compunction they would a turkey at the evening table.
    Lieutenant Mann’s eyes drifted over to the suitcase, then to Thompson.
    â€œI’m here in regards to the Lombard murder. You’ve heard about it, I’m sure.”
    â€œIn the paper.”
    â€œYou were acquainted with Mr. Lombard?”
    â€œThat’s true.”
    â€œWhen was the last time you saw him?”
    â€œLast night, down at Musso’s.”
    â€œWhat did you talk about?”
    â€œWe didn’t speak. I only saw him from across the room.”
    The lieutenant considered this and went on considering. He gandered once more at the suitcase. He held his white hat in his lap, running his fingers around its brim.
    â€œWe’ve been talking to a lot of people. People say things, as I am sure you know, and from what I hear …”
    Thompson cut him off. Maybe Lieutenant Mann here was a bumpkin, or maybe it was just a routine, but Thompson didn’t mean to play this game. “I’m not the only person who had trouble with Lombard. He screwed people right and left.”
    â€œSo I’ve heard.”
    Thompson felt the heat under his collar. He was sweating. I should be quiet, he told himself. This cop is nothing but a country clown and here I am …
    â€œWhen was the last time you were at his house?”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œHow about last night? Where were you?”
    The cop set his hat aside.