One Grave Too Many Read Free Page B

the cluster of Victorian furniture and rugs which made a sort of parlor in the midst of the huge high-ceilinged warehouse. Everything beyond was high rows of green metal filing cabinets. “I’m into a whole new way of life,” he said.
    “That makes six so far this year.”
    “Is that fair, John?” said the TV Look writer. “In a town so full of flux I am, by contrast, as steadfast as a … well, I can’t think of anything steadfast, but nevertheless I am.” He walked over to the waist-high refrigerator on the edge of the Oriental carpet. Atop it an oblong white mechanism was whirring and chuffing. From a nozzle, a purplish liquid was sputtering into a glass measuring cup. “I have become a juicer.” He fondly patted the juice maker before snapping the off switch. “Do you realize all the enzymes you miss by not drinking raw vegetable juice? And do you have any idea what enzymes can do for you?”
    Easy sat down in a bentwood rocker facing his friend. “New girl, huh?”
    Hagopian smiled, causing curving wrinkles to join those already occupying his high forehead. “As a matter of fact, yes. This girl is really terrific, John, and impossibly healthy. Do you know you can even change the color of your nipples through diet. You ought to see Melody’s tits. Know what color her nipples are?”
    “Blue and gold?”
    “You’re exceptionally flippant today.” Hagopian poured the vegetable juice into a Dixie cup. “You’re probably crotchety because Jill’s going away to Spain. Obviously in no mood to discuss the more sacred and profound things of life, like Melody’s tits. Jill really going?”
    “Should be winging her way eastward by now.”
    Holding an empty cup toward Easy, the writer asked, “Join me?”
    “Do you still allow beer in the house?”
    “I hate to admit it, but yes.” He fetched Easy a bottle of German dark beer out of his refrigerator. “Do you have any idea how many additives there are in beer?”
    “I’ve already given up cigarettes, coffee and hard liquor.” Easy got up to find himself a glass. “If I cut out beer I won’t have any vices left at all. As it is, my parish priest yawns during my confessions.”
    “You really were a Catholic once, weren’t you?”
    “I was even an altar boy,” answered Easy, pouring the dark beer.
    “Really? So was I. The real reason I got into that line of work was that in the rec hall behind the church they had the only pool table in our part of Fresno.” He took a sip of his juice. “Too much turnip.”
    Easy reached inside his shirt. “Know who this is?” He tossed the glossy photo of the pair of hands toward Hagopian.
    The picture did one spin through the air-conditioned air and then the circle-eyed writer caught it. “Yum yum,” he said after studying it. “This is what you call an appetite shot.” He squinted. “Yeah, that’s a carton of Bascom’s Margarine in the background there, the newest package. Sure, this must be Danny Lane. She’s a hand model now, specializing in hand shots for commercials. You know, some girls have nifty tits, others have pretty photogenic hands. I’ve always thought it would be interesting to be whacked off by a hand model, but I …”
    “Did Marks & Feller do that particular commercial?”
    “Hey, John, you’re getting to be very knowledgeable about show business and peripheral show business as it is practiced in this wacky town. Yeah, M&F did this.”
    Easy reached into his shirt again. “Would this redhead be Danny Lane, too?” He got up, handed his friend the ten year old enlargement.
    After trying a little more of his juice, Hagopian took the photo. “Sure, that’s Danny. Notice her smile, half wistful and half bitchy. Those are the kind of broads to avoid. I know, I’ve had to avoid about two dozen of them in the last year alone. She’s got sharp pointy tits, too, always a bad sign.” He scanned the picture further. “There’s Marks himself, looking even more boyish than he does