Page 63 (1/2)

“Constance’s wake-up hour”

“Transylvania time? Hell” Crumley took a deep breath “Do I drive you?”

A single peach fell froarden tree It thumped

“Yes!” I said

34

“At dawn,” said Cru soprano, don’t call”

And he drove off

Constance’s house was, as before, a perfection, a white shrine set to glow on the shoreline All of its doors and s stood wide Music played inside the huge stark white living room: some old Benny Goodman

I walked the shore as I had walked a thousand nights back, checking the ocean She was there so seals

I looked in at the parlor floor, littered with four dozen circus-bright pillows, and the bare white walls where, late nights until dawn, the shados passed, her old films projected from the years before I was born

I turned because a wave, heavier than the rest, had slammed on the shore …

To deliver forth, as fro tossed at Caesar’s feet …

Constance Rattigan

She ca seal, with hair almost the same color, slick brown and water co and doused in cinnas and wild arms, wrists, and hands Her eyes were a wicked wiseNovember surf creature rinsed out of a cold sea but hot as burnt chestnuts to touch

“Son of a bitch,” she cried “You!”