The Black-Eyed Blonde: a Philip Marlowe Novel
“The air was fresh, after the rain, and had a melancholy fragrance. I had the car window down, enjoying the cool breeze on my face. I was thinking of Mandy Rogers, and of all the other kids like her who had come out here to the coast, drawn by the promise of one day getting to play opposite Doris and Rock in some mindless concoction of schmaltzy songs and mink coats and white telephones. There was bound to be a boy in Hope Springs who still pined for her. I could see him, clear as the rinsed lig...ht over the Hollywood Hills, a gawky fellow with hands like shovels and ears that stuck out. Did she ever think of him, there among the cornfields, eating his heart out over the memory of her? I felt sorry for him, even if she didn’t. I was in that frame of mind; it was that kind of hour, after the rain.
I parked at the start of Napier Street and walked to Peterson’s house. I didn’t want another encounter with the old buzzard across the way, and I figured that if I drove up he would probably recognize the Olds—his type remembers cars more than it does people.MoreLess
I parked at the start of Napier Street and walked to Peterson’s house. I didn’t want another encounter with the old buzzard across the way, and I figured that if I drove up he would probably recognize the Olds—his type remembers cars more than it does people.MoreLess
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