Double

I could understand that sort of obsession all too well, because I’d had — still had — one something like it myself: it was the pulps I read as a youth that had led me to become, first, a cop and then finally to hang out my own shingle. And I had never forgotten that early desire to emulate the pulp-detective heroes of my youth, even though I never would, never could, because the world they’d inhabited was a make-believe world, and their era was long gone. But I kept trying. I would go on trying, too, until the time came to plant me somewhere. So what if I was obsolete? To hell with seminars and panels and electronic surveillance equipment and group dynamics and Seidenbaum’s Method of Directive Interrogation. You are what you are.

I poured more beer, and when I lifted my glass I happened to glance into the mirror again. McCone’s stylish lady friend was still sitting at the table by the window. Somebody else had joined her — a handsome wavy-haired guy in a Madras jacket and white slacks — and the two of them appeared to be having an argument of some kind.

It wasn’t any of my business. But then I’m a detective, and detectives are curious types, and I was bored besides; so I kept on watching them. The woman seemed pretty upset. She said something to the man in a low angry voice, and he sat there relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, and laughed at her. Her voice got louder when she spoke again, so this time I could hear the words.

“Goddamn you, Rich, stop bothering me like this. I’m warning you — leave me alone!”

People at nearby tables were looking at them. The woman was aware of it; she said something else, lowering her voice, and got up out of her chair. The wavy-haired guy got up too and blocked her way when she came around the table. She tried to push past him; he caught her arm, not gently, and held her.

Well, I don’t like scenes like that; I don’t like men putting rough hands on women in public. I swung around and got off my stool and went toward them. Nobody else in the Cantina Sin Nombre moved at all — except for the bartender, who was heading for the telephone.

“Let go of me, Rich,” the woman said to the guy. Her tone had a cold deadly edge to it.

He said, “You’re making a scene,” as if he was amused by the idea.

“No, you’re making it. I’m head of security at this hotel, remember? I’ll have you arrested, I mean that.”

“Do you, Elaine? You wouldn’t want me to start telling tales out of school, now, would you?”

She was paper white, and she looked frightened as well as angry. She made an effort to pull away from him; he hung on, hurting her because she winced. And that was when I got to them. I clamped my hand onto his shoulder, not too hard but not too lightly either, and arranged my mouth into a smile as I spoke.

“Some trouble here?”

The guy turned his head to look at me. There was no anger or hostility in his expression; it was just a look, shadowed with vague annoyance. He was in his late twenties, the wavy hair was dark brown, and he had funny eyes — gray-blue, with small pupils and little lights that burned down deep in them, like secret fires.

He said, “Let go of my shoulder.”

“Sure. As soon as you let go of the lady’s arm.”

“This is none of your business.”

“You let go, I let go. How about it?”

The funny eyes crawled on my face for about five seconds. Then he smiled — secret amusement to go with the secret fires — and released the woman’s arm. When I took my hand away from his shoulder, he brushed at the place where it had lain as if he were afraid I might have somehow contaminated him.

The woman was rubbing at her forearm, where his fingers had left dark red marks. “Get out of here, Rich,” she said to the guy. “And don’t come back, do you hear?”

“Oh, of course,” he said lazily. “Sure thing.” He straightened his jacket, winked at me, smiled at her, said “See you soon, dearheart,” and took himself away across the room. Some people at one of the tables gawked at him as he passed, and I heard him say to them, “Nothing to worry about, folks. Just a little spat between lovers. Enjoy your drinks and have a nice day.” Then he was gone.

When I looked at the woman again she was making gestures to the bartender, who still stood behind the plank with the telephone receiver in his hand; asking him tacitly if he’d called anybody. He shook his head and put the receiver down. He might have been throwing a switch, too, because the hush that had fallen over the room broke just then and the customers started whispering to each other and shifting around in their chairs.