Read Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair for Free Online Page A

lamb?”
                 “It’s
already fixed. With mint jelly. I know it’s an
extravagance, Bill, but I wanted to make you something special for a change. I
spend so much time dreaming lately, I haven’t been doing my duty by you. You
will be home for dinner, won’t you?”
                 “As soon as I can make it. Keep it warm.”
                 “But
you can’t keep a leg of lamb warm. It dries out.”
                 “I
enjoy it that way. Like pemmican.”
                 Sally
hung up on me, and there I was again with the adrenalin singing in my veins. I
decided to walk it off. Something that was not ESP pushed me down the long
slope of Main Street to the lower town.

  Chapter
5
                 THERE
WAS A POLICE SEAL on the front door of Broadman’s store. I peered through the
dusty pane. The evening light fell slanting across the furniture and bric -à- brac which Broadman had
laid up against hard times, before time stopped for him.
                 I
became aware of voices next door, a woman’s voice raised high, and a man’s
growling under it. I strolled over and looked in through the window of the
tamale shop. The man in the white hat was arguing across the counter with a
black-haired woman. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter as if it was a
high ledge from which she would fall to her death if she let go.
                 “But
they will kill him,” she cried.
                 “Let
them. He asked for it.”
                 “What
will I do if they kill him?”
                 “You’ll
be better off.”
                 His
eyes were brown liquid slits under his white hat. They widened when they saw me
through the glass door. I tried it. It was locked.
                 He
shook his head curtly, and waved me away. The movement of his arm was jerky,
like a semaphore’s. I pointed at a sign in the window which said: OPEN 7 A.M.
TO MIDNIGHT. He came around the counter, opened the door about a foot, and
thrust his nose out. His nose was longer and sharper than it had appeared in
the afternoon.
                 “I’m
closed, I’m sorry. There’s a good place around the corner on Main Street.” Then
he gave me a second look. “Are you a policeman? I saw you with Mr. Granada this
afternoon.”
                 “I’m
a lawyer, William Gunnarson. Could I talk to you a little, Mr. Donato?”
                 “I
have already talked about my brother, to the police.”
                 The
woman had crowded up behind him. She was a young pretty woman, but her face was
puffed and dissolute with trouble. She said with one hand in her tangled
licorice hair:
                 “Tell
him nothing!”
                 “Be
quiet, Secundina. You are a fool.” He turned back to me, trying to control his
feelings. Their pressure forced the flesh of his face into stark shapes, like
cracked clay. “I see , you have heard that my brother
is wanted by the police. You want to offer your services?”
                 “That
wasn’t my idea. I want to talk about your neighbor Broadman. Your
ex-neighbor.”
                 Donato
didn’t seem to hear me. “I have no need for a lawyer. I have no money to pay a
lawyer.” I guessed he was using me to continue his argument with the woman. “If
I had money I would go and buy a nice new rope and hang myself.”
                 “Liar,”
she said. “You have a savings account. And he is your only brother.”
                 “I
am his only brother, too. What has he done for me?”
                 “He
worked for you.”
                 “He
broke dishes. He mopped the floor and left it dirty. But I paid him, I kept you
eating.”
                 “Big shot!” Her mouth curled.
                 “Gus
is the big shot.