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"Yeah, hon?" he said popping his head back into the room.
Madeline had propped herself up against the headboard. "What do you think it means — that man seeing you?" she asked. "I can't shake the feeling that something isn't right."
Remy returned to her bedside and, leaning in, planted a reassuring kiss upon her forehead.
"I'm sure it means absolutely nothing," he told her. "It was just a fluke. The guy was so crazy he could have imagined me as the Easter Bu
Remy flashed her a final smile as he stepped into the corridor and out of view. He passed through the lobby to see that the pretty young receptionist was on the phone, and he mouthed the words Have a good night as he passed.
Walking to his car, he was preoccupied with thoughts of his wife and her failing health. The poor woman didn't need anything else to worry her right now. He got behind the wheel and turned over the engine. In the theater of his mind he saw Mountgomery and his secretary entering the motel room, heard the clamor of the door slamming shut behind them like the sound of thunder.
Remy flipped on his blinker and eased out into traffic. Though he would have preferred otherwise, he couldn't help but remember Mountgomery smiling dreamily as he talked about the beauty of angels, just before putting the gun beneath his chin and decorating the ceiling with his brains.
He pointed the car for home, turning up the radio, hoping the music would distract him from further thoughts of the day's disturbing events. But it did little to drown out the sound of Mulvehill's voice repeating in his head.
They're still alive, Remy.
They're still alive.
Remy stood in the foyer of his Beacon Hill brownstone, sifting through the day's mail. From a basket attached to the inside of the door beneath the mail slot, he had plucked three envelopes and a grocery store circular. He tucked them beneath his arm and searched for his house key. On the other side of the i
"Hang on, pally, help is on the way."
He let himself into the house and was immediately set upon by the jet-black Labrador with the furiously wagging tail. The dog's tail had become the legendary scourge of knickknacks up and down Pinckney Street, able to clear coffee tables with a single exuberant swipe.
Remy tossed the mail onto a hall table and bent down to rub the excited animal's big head, ruffling his black, velvety soft ears.
"Hello, good boy. How are you, huh? Were you a good dog today?"
Marlowe's deep brown eyes locked on to Remy's. And he responded. "Goodboy. Yes. Out? Out?"
It was another angelic trait that Remy Chandler had chosen not to repress: the ability to commune with all living things upon the earth. If it had a language, no matter how rudimentary, Remy could understand and communicate with it.
"Okay, let's get you out, and then I'll give you something to eat," he told the dog as they walked down the hall and through the kitchen to the back door.
"Out. Then eat. Good. Out, then eat," Marlowe responded, his tail still furiously wagging while he waited for Remy to open the door into the small, fenced-in yard.
The dog bounded down the three steps, his dark nose sniffing the ground for the scent of any uninvited guests, as he trotted to the far corner and squatted to relieve himself. Remy smiled, amused by the expression of relief on the dog's face. Even though he was a male dog and nearly four years old, Marlowe still insisted on squatting to urinate. Maddie had suggested he was a slow learner and would be lifting his leg in no time. Remy wasn't so sure.
The dog started to poke around the yard again.
"Hey, do you want to eat?" Remy called from the doorway.
Marlowe looked up from a patch of grass, his body suddenly rigid. "Hungry. Eat now, yes," he grumbled in response, then ran toward Remy, who barely managed to get the screen door open in time.
Marlowe hadn't eaten since six that morning and was obviously ravenous. But then again, when wasn't he?
Remy mixed some wet food from a can with some dry, Marlowe standing attentively by his side, closely watching his every move. A slimy puddle of drool had started to form on the floor beneath his hungry mouth.
"Almost ready, pal," he told the Labrador. "I hope you appreciate the time I put into the preparation of your meals."
"Appreciate," Marlowe replied. "Hungry. Eat now?"
"Yes, now," Remy confirmed, setting the plastic bowl down on a place mat covered with images of dancing cartoon Labradors. "Let me get you some fresh water."
He picked up the stainless-steel water bowl as Marlowe shoved his hungry maw into his supper. He emptied the bowl and rinsed it thoroughly, then filled it with cold water. In the seconds it took Remy to do that and return to the plastic place mat, Marlowe had already finished his meal and was licking the sides of the dish for stray crumbs.
"More?" Marlowe asked, looking up at his master.
Remy rolled his eyes and shook his head. "No. No more. Maybe later you can have an apple, if you're good."
He ruffled the dog's head and went to the counter to prepare a pot of coffee.
"Now better."
"What did I just say?" Remy said, scooping coffee into a filter. "Later, before bed."
Marlowe lowered his head and watched quietly as his master poured water into the coffeemaker. The dog carefully moved closer to Remy, casually sniffing at his pant leg.
Remy leaned down and thumped the dog's side. It sounded like an empty drum. "What do you smell there, big boy? Anything good?"
"Female," Marlowe answered. "Smellfemale. Where?"
Remy squatted in front of his friend and rubbed the sides of his black face. "Maddie is at the get-well place. I'll bring you to see her tomorrow."
The dog thought for a moment and then kissed Remy nervously on the ear. "Get-well place? Get-well place bad."
Maddie and Remy had called the veterinarian's office the get-well place, and the dog had never enjoyed his visits there. Marlowe was not happy in the least that Maddie was in the get-well place. She and Remy made up Marlowe's pack, and it confused the poor animal not to have her at home. No matter how Remy tried to explain that Madeline was sick and needed to be taken care of elsewhere, Marlowe could not grasp the concept. So, as he often did in instances like this, Remy changed the subject.
"Want an apple now?"
Marlowe snapped to attention, his missing pack member almost instantly forgotten.
"Apple noow? Yes. Yes."
Remy grabbed a Red Delicious from a fruit bowl on the microwave table and brought it to the counter. He plucked a knife from the strainer, cored the apple, and cut it into bite-sized pieces. Marlowe followed him excitedly across the kitchen as he tossed the chopped fruit into the metal bowl.
"Here you go. Eat it slow so you don't choke."
Marlowe dug in. "Applegood. Chew. Not choke. Good," he said between bites.
Remy returned to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup. He leaned against the counter, watching the dog inhale his treat, and wondered how long it would be before Marlowe again asked for Madeline. Not the best of situations, he thought, his eyes going to the fruit bowl.
And they were almost out of apples.
It was after eight when Remy finally retired to the rooftop patio to unwind from the hectic day. It was getting cooler, but he didn't notice. He sat in a white plastic lounge chair, sipping his coffee and reading Farewell My Lovely for what was probably the tenth time. Remy never tired of Chandler. In fact, he'd chosen his human name and that of his «baby» as a kind of tribute to his favorite author. There was something about the man's prose, his keen observations of the mean streets of 1940s Los Angeles, that usually soothed the angel, but not tonight. He placed the paperback down on the patio table.