The Dream Lover [antikvár]

One The front door of the Beverly Hills mansion was solid oak. It was painted a glossy white with gilt trim. Eli Hebron came out slowly, testing the day like a swimmer dipping toes. He turned a pale, night-ravaged face to the sky. In the west, over the ocean, there was a stroke of chalk across china-blue. He had lived in California for eight years but still wondered at the high sky, low clouds like rabbits, breasts, bears, thighs, fish, buttocks. And dragons. And the light pulsated. It didn't move in the east. Down on the graveled driveway Barney O'Hara lounged against the maroon Hispano-Suiza limousine. He was leafing through Variety, sucking a matchstick thirstily. The padded neck brace held his head erect, so he had to hold the paper high. He wore a white linen cap with button, a diamond-patterned cardigan, golf knickers with tassels hanging from the outside garters. Ribbed white stockings. Brown-and-white shoes. His shirt was soft-collared. Wally Reid had started that. The Arrow people had objected, but now they were making soft collars. Eli Hebron came down the steps, carrying his Spanish leather script case. Taki, the Japanese gardener, trotted around the comer with the flowers: yellow roses and white mums surrounded with maidenhair, all artfully arranged in a trumpet-shaped wicker basket that could be spiked into the grave. 'Thank you, Taki,' Eli Hebron said. Then, a conjuror, Taki produced from his canvas jacket a tiny nosegay of tea roses. Pinkish. Like watery blood.