The stretch of broken-paved road from the highway to the curve of the hill was dancing in the noon heat and the scrub that dotted the parched land on both sides of it was flour-white with granite dust by this time. The weedy smell was almost nauseating. A thin hot acrid breeze was blowing. I had my coat off and my sleeves rolled up, but the door was too hot to rest an arm on. A tethered horse dozed wearily under a dump of live oaks. A brown Mexican sat on the ground and ate something out of a newspaper. A tumbleweed rolled lazily across the road and came to rest against a piece of granite outcrop, and a lizard that had been there an instant before disappeared without seeming to move at all. Then I was around the hill on the blacktop and in another country. In five minutes I turned into the driveway of the Wades' house, parked and walked across the flagstones and rang the bell. Wade answered the door himself, in a brown and white checked shirt with short sleeves, pale blue denim slacks, and house slippers. He looked tanned and he looked good. There was an i.kstain on his hand and a smear of cigarette ash on one side of his nose. He led the way into his study and parked himself behind his desk. On it there was a thick pile of yellow typescript. I put my coat on a chair and sat on the couch. "Thanks for coming, Marlowe. Drink?" I got that look on my face you get when a drunk asks you to have a drink. I could feel it. He grinned. "I'll have a coke," he said. "You pick up fast," I said. "I don't think I want a drink right now. I'll take a coke with you." He pressed something with his foot and after a while Candy came. He looked surly. He had a blue shirt on and an orange scarf and no white coat. Two-tone black and white shoes, elegant high-wasted gabardine pants. Wade ordered the cokes. Candy gave me a hard stare and went away. "Book?" I said, pointing to the stack of paper. "Yeah. Stinks." "I don't believe it. How far along?" "About two thirds of the way — for what it's worth. Which is damn little. You know how a writer can tell when he's washed up?" "Don't know anything about writers." I filled my pipe, "When he starts reading his old stuff for inspiration. That's absolute. I've got five hundred pages of typescript here, well over a hundred thousand words. My books run long. The public likes long books. The damn fool public thinks if there's a lot of pages there must be a lot of gold. I don't dare read it over. And I can't remember half of what's in it. I'm just plain scared to look at my own work." "You look good yourself," I said. "From the other night I wouldn't have believed it. You've got more guts than you think you have." "What I need right now is more than guts. Something you don't get by wishing for it. A belief in yourself. I'm a spoiled writer who doesn't believe any more. I have a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, and a beautiful sales record. But all I really want is to get drunk and forget." He leaned his chin in his cupped hands and stared across the desk. "Eileen said I tried to shoot myself. Was it that bad?" "You don't remember?" He shook his head. "Not a damn thing except that I fell down and cut my head. And after a while I was in bed., And you were there. Did Eileen call you?" "Yeah. Didn't she say?" "She hasn't been talking to me very much this last week. I guess she's had it. Up to here." He put the edge of one hand against his neck just under his chin. "That show Loring put on here didn't help any." "Mrs. Wade said it meant nothing." "Well, she would, wouldn't she? It happened to be the truth, but I don't suppose she believed it when she said it. The guy is just abnormally jealous. You have a drink or two with his wife in the corner and laugh a little and kiss her goodbye and right off he assumes you are sleeping with her. One reason being that he isn't." "What I like about Idle Valley," I said, "is that everybody is living just a comfortable normal life." He frowned and then the door opened and Candy came in with two cokes and glasses and poured the cokes. He set one in front of me without looking at me. "Lunch in half an hour," Wade said, "and where's the white coat?" "This my day off," Candy said, deadpan. "I ain't the cook, boss." "Cold cuts or sandwiches and beer will do," Wade said. "The cook's off today, Candy. I've got a friend to lunch." "You think he is your friend?" Candy sneered. "Better ask your wife." Wade leaned back in his chair and smiled at hint. "Watch your lip, little man. You've got it soft here. I don't often ask a favor of you, do I?" Candy looked down at the floor. After a moment he looked up and grinned., "Okay, boss. I put the white coat on. I get the lunch, I guess." He turned softly and went out. Wade watched the door close. Then he shrugged and looked at me. "We used to call them servants. Now we call them domestic help. I wonder how long it will be before we have to give them breakfast in bed. I'm paying the guy too much money. He's spoiled." "Wages—or something on the side?" "Such as what?" he asked sharply. I got up and handed him some folded yellow sheets. "you'd better read it. Evidently you don't remember asking me to tear it up. It was in your typewriter, under the cover." He unfolded the yellow pages and leaned back to read them. The glass of coke fizzed unnoticed on the desk in front of him. He read slowly, frowning. When he came to the end he refolded the sheets and ran a finger along the edge. "Did Eileen see this?" he asked carefully. "I wouldn't know. She might have." "Pretty wild, isn't it?" "I liked it. Especially the part about a good man dying for you." He opened the paper again and tore it into long strips viciously and dumped the strips into his wastebasket. "I suppose a drunk will write or say or do anything," he said slowly. "It's meaningless to me. Candy's not blackmailing me. He likes me." "Maybe you'd better get drunk again. You might remember what you meant. You might remember a lot of things. We've been through this before — that night when the gun went off. I suppose the seconal blanked you out too. You sounded sober enough. But now you pretend not to remember writing that stuff I just gave you. No wonder you can't write your book, Wade. It's a wonder you can stay alive." He reached sidewa............