Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair by Ross MacDonald Read Free Book Online

catching
in the branches of scattered oaks. The slopes of the golf course dissolved away
into darkness. Venus lit her candle in the western part of the sky. I thought
of Sally and her leg of lamb. Some kind of cooked-meat smell was emanating from
the clubhouse. Prime ribs of unicorn, perhaps, or breast of
phoenix under glass.
                 The
clubhouse was a rambling building with about an acre of red tile roof and many
wings and entrances. Like the hills and trees around it, it had the air of
having been there for a long time. I was beginning to feel indigenous myself.
Not a member: nothing like that: a wild thing who
lived in the neighborhood.
                 A
car came up the road from town. Its headlights wavered like antennae before it
entered the parking lot. It stopped just inside the stone gateposts.
                 A
man got out and strode toward me busily. “Park it, bud.”
                 He
was very short and wide, broad-faced, and pigeon-breasted, as if a pile driver
had fallen on him in his formative years. He wore a light suit, a sunburst tie,
and a light hat with a band that matched the tie. He had a voice like a foghorn
and a breath, when he came up close, like the back room of a bar. “You deaf or something?”
                 I
was feeling declassed and surly, but I answered mildly enough: “I’m not a
parking attendant. Park it yourself.”
                 He
didn’t move. “You must be the manager, eh?” Without waiting for an answer, he
went on: “Nice place you got here. I’d like to pick up a club like this
myself—high class, wealthy clientele, quiet surroundings. I could turn a place
like this into a gold mine. How much do you make a week?”
                 “I
have nothing to do with the management of the club.”
                 “I
see.” For some obscure reason, he decided that I was a member and was snubbing
him. He jerked a thumb at his car. “Don’t judge me by that Ford, it’s just a
rental. Back home I keep a four-car garage, nothing in it but Caddies. I don’t wanna brag, but I could buy this place outright, cash on
the line.”
                 “Bully
for you,” I said. “Are you in the real-estate business?”
                 “I
guess you could say I am, at that. Salaman’s the
name.”
                 He
offered me his hand. I didn’t take it. It hung in the air like a dead haddock.
His eyes became bright and moist under his hat brim.
                 “So
you won’t take the hand of friendship.” His voice was a blend of menace and
sentimentality, like asphalt mixed with molasses. “Okay, no hard feelings. I
never been in the State of Cal before, but it certainly isn’t the friendly
place they said it was. It’s strictly from chillyville ,
if you want my opinion.”
                 He
took off his hat and looked ready to weep into it. His hair was a frizzy black
mass which sprang up vivaciously, adding inches to his height and altering his
appearance. In spite of his illicit air, the man was queerly pathetic.
                 “Where
do you come from, Mr. Salaman ?”
                 He
said as if he’d been waiting to be asked: “Miami, Florida. I’m in business
there, various kinds of business. I flew out here for combined business and
pleasure, you might say. Deductible expense. You got a
member with you, name of Holly May?”
                 “Holly
May?”
                 “You
may know her as Mrs. Ferguson. I understand she married a man name of Ferguson
since her and me were—friends.” He smacked his lips over the word or its
connotations. “Just between us girls, big blondes were always my weakness.”
                 “I
see.”
                 My
noncommittal act was wearing thin. So was my patience.
                 “Do
you know her?” Salaman said.