Inherent Vice by Thomas Pynchon Read Free Book Online

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    “ Good thing you ’ re not recruiting for the NCAA, Bigfoot, you ’ d be in some deep shit. ”
     
    at the office next day, Doc was listening to the stereo with his head between the speakers and almost missed the diffident ring of the Princess phone he ’ d found at a swap meet in Culver City. It was Tariq Khalil.
    “ I didn ’ t do it! ”
    “ It ’ s okay. ”
    “ But I didn ’ t— ”
    “ Nobody said you did, fact they thought for a while it was me. Man, I ’ m really sorry about Glen. ”
    Tariq was quiet for so long that Doc thought he ’ d hung up. “ I will be, too, ” he said finally, “ when I get a minute to think about it. Right now I ’ m conveying my ass out of the area. If Glen was a target, then so am I, I would say in spades, but you folks do get offended so easy. ”
    “ Is there someplace I can— ”
    “ Better not be in no contact. This is not some bunch of fools like the LAPD, this is some heavy-ass motherfuckers. And if you don ’ t mind a piece of free advice— ”
    “ Yeah, care in motion, as Sidney Omarr always sez in the paper. Well, you too. ”
    “ Hasta luego, white man. ”
    Doc rolled a number and was just about to light up when the phone rang again. This time it was Bigfoot. “ So we send some Police Academy hotshot over to the last known address of Shasta Fay Hepworth, just a routine visit, and guess what. ”
    Ah, fuck no. Not this.
    “ Oh, I ’ m sorry, am I upsetting you? Relax, all we know at this point is that she ’ s disappeared too, yes just like her boyfriend Mickey. Isn ’ t that odd? Do you think there could be a connection? Like maybe they ran off together? ”
    “ Bigfoot, can we at least try to be professional here? So I don ’ t have to start callin you names, like, I don ’ t know, mean-spirited little shit, somethin like that? ”
    “ You ’ re right—it ’ s the federals I ’ m really annoyed with, and I ’ m taking it out on you. ”
    “ You ’ re apologizing, Bigfoot? ”
    “ Ever known me to? ”
    “ Uhhm. .. ”
    “ If anything does occur to you about where they—so sorry, she — might ’ ve gone, you will share that, won ’ t you? ”
    There was an ancient superstition at the beach, something like the surfer belief that burning your board will bring awesome waves, and it went like this—take a Zig-Zag paper and write on it your dearest wish, and then use it to roll a joint of the best dope you can find, and smoke it all up, and your wish would be granted. Attention and concentration were also said to be important, but most of the dopers Doc knew tended to ignore that part.
    The wish was simple, just that Shasta Fay be safe. The dope was some Hawaiian product Doc had been saving, although at the moment he couldn ’ t remember for what. He lit up. About the time he was ready to transfer the roach to a roach clip, the phone rang again, and he had one of those brief lapses where you forget how to pick up the receiver.
    “ Hello? ” said a young woman ’ s voice after a while.
    “ Oh. Did I forget to say that first? Sorry. This isn ’ t ... no, of course it wouldn ’ t be. ”
    “ I got your number from Ensenada Slim, at that head shop in Gordita Beach? It ’ s about my husband. He used to be close to a friend of yours, Shasta Fay Hepworth? ”
    All right. “ And you ’ re ... ”
    “ Hope Harlingen. I was wondering how your caseload ’ s looking at the moment. ”
    “ My ... oh. ” Professional term. “ Sure, where are you? ”
    It turned out to be an address in o uter Torrance, between Walteria and the airfield, a split-level with a pepper tree by the driveway and a eucalyptus out back and a distant view of thousands of small Japanese sedans, overflowed from the main lot on Terminal Island, obsessively arranged on vast expanses of blacktop and destined for auto agencies across the desert Southwest. TVs and stereos spoke from up and down the streets. The trees of the neighborhood sifted the air green.