Free Manifesto for the Dead by Domenic Stansberry Page B

pot.”
    â€œSure,” Thompson said. The cop was a cornponing him, but he had no choice but to play along. “A kettle for every stove.”
    â€œThat’s right. And a match for every fire.”
    Then Lieutenant Mann stood up, his hat in his hand. He seemed finished, as if he’d gotten what he needed, though in fact Thompson couldn’t see how he’d gotten much at all.
    â€œYou got any leads?”
    Something imperceptible shifted in the cop’s face, and Thompson regretted the question. It was the kind of thing a guilty man might ask, looking to see how much the cops knew.
    â€œA few. Objects at the crime scene. Maybe the killer left them behind, maybe not.”
    â€œOh.”
    Thompson recalled his missing shoe, his wallet, and saw at the same time how Lieutenant Mann studied his face. He nodded at Thompson’s suitcase.
    â€œYou going somewhere.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThat’s good,” the cop said. “Now you take care. And good luck with your writing.”
    Mann tipped his hat and left. Thompson listened to the cop’s footsteps fade down the hall. His own shirt was soaked through with sweat. The heat. He slammed down a drink. Stripped off his shirt. Trapped. The cops on one side. Miracle on the other. He shook his head. Mann did not know anything, not yet. Just blowing smoke up a hole.
    Another knock—and Thompson about leaped from his skin.
    â€œWho’s there?”
    â€œCourier.”
    Thompson remembered. He’d called the Studio Courier. He swung the door open and handed the boy his message for Lussie. The courier was a blue-eyed kid who aspired to stardom, no doubt, but in the meantime it was his job to drive envelopes around town.
    When the kid was gone, Thompson poured himself another drink. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and lay buck-naked on the bed, an old man sweating in the Hollywood heat.

NINETEEN
    Thompson thought about Lussie. He felt that old tremble, smelling for an instant that heavy green smell he used to smell in the night air in Lincoln, when he stood on her porch and the yellow light was on her (or maybe it had been Alberta under the porch light; his memory confused things). She wore a farm girl dress, scooped at the neck, so you could see her collarbone. Up close to her like that, it had seemed he could smell the night even thicker around them both, along with the soap on her body that could not hide, not completely, her animal smell.
    They had gone for a walk, up the hill behind her house, and Lussie was all innocence in her cotton dress.
    â€œWhat are you thinking about?” she asked. “What’s really inside you?”
    He looked down at the lights of the little village, and heard the sound of some cow lowing, children playing by the river. All that stuff is in me, he wanted to say, the whole business—but something else, too, an undercurrent in his head like the undercurrent in the Platte, washing things to shore. Old boots, maybe; a bullwhip; a petticoat stained with blood.
    She pulled away, tightening her knees, and would not let him kiss her.
    Years later, when they met in New York, things had changed. Something different in her eyes. They had a few drinks in her hotel room, and she leaned sloppily against the wall, innocence gone, a bit of the matron in her hips. He touched her cheek. That was the moment, then. His chance. Blue flecks in her glimmering eyes. Instead, he went out into the hall. More ice. By the time he returned, she’d recovered herself. They went to the bar in the lobby. Some friends of hers happened along, fellow travelers, and the evening was finished.
    He climbed out of bed and got dressed. Slipped on his white jacket. Outside, he bought a bouquet of flowers and strung a carnation through his lapel.
    He wondered if she would appear.
    Inside Musso’s, he ordered himself a double shot and waited. He lounged. He watched the door. Soon it was six clock. Then it was