Venice, California. Cloudy sky, eternal rain. Deserted streets, grey walls. Loneliness is behind every door. Nobody wants the old, forgotten women. People, abandoned, all this imbued with despair of the city. Steel waves lapping on the old pier, and with a whisper rolled back, dragging the coastal debris in the cold forever. Again run over, trying to cling icy fingers of someone’s worthless life.
People in wet shoes straightens his glasses, looming a hat almost over my eyes and raised the collar of his cloak, leaving. He is passing a dilapidated movie theater, the screen which black-and-white silent actors still living your past life. By what once was a rollercoaster, and now anxiously towers over the city like a skeleton of a huge dinosaur. Past the dusty Windows and the dirty thresholds – home. Into the void. Where no one is waiting. Where dusts an old typewriter. And stacks of yellowing paper with stories about the missions to Mars.
Where is the young writer on whom he so remarkably similar? Meets lonely evenings, and waits only when the phone rings on a street corner to run to him and hear…the dead silence. Staying one day in foggy twilight, he hears the footsteps behind him. Feels death. He sees death around. She smells disgusting. She knows his every move. She again and again crawls out of darkness to take away another lonely life. And our writer is the victim of it, or bait? A deadly challenge, and he can only wait, or to engage in a dangerous game, the rate at which life. The rain envelops the city in a dense haze.
And only then I heard the sound of the tram pulling into the unknown two passengers. He is already very close. That opens the door… Death! – From there came the terrible whisper. – Death – it alone! A strange figure comes out of the car and disappears into the fog. The tram leaves. And again the silence around. Only drops of rain are falling and breaking on the pavement…
Death is not long in coming. Found the corpse of the old man. The corpse, enclosed in a cage under water. A pocket full of confetti, at once suggestive of the protagonist – a young writer of detective stories – thinking about the identity of the victim. Of suicide or accident may not be considered. A whole string of different events and meetings to encourage the writer to immerse themselves in this case.
The works of Bradbury, may not always carry away the plot, but always captivate unique atmosphere. It happened at this time. The story is not to say that it is very difficult – the usual detective. There is death, there is a suspicion of murder, there is a young and hot writer who is eager to unravel this mysterious ball, and on the way to write several books, to get a couple of grannies and outdo all the police in this provincial town.