One for Hell

by Jada M Davis

  “Willa Ree.”

  “Oh. Well, we’d love to.”

  “And, Nora—”

  “Don’t worry, Ben. I’ll be quiet as a little mouse.”

  “As a little cat, you mean.”

  “Don’t call me a cat, Ben, or I might claw you.”

  “Some day,” he said, “some sweet day, I’m going to let you claw me all you want.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. What time shall we come over?”

  “About eight?”

  “Eight’ll be fine. Good-by, Ben.”

  “’By, Nora.”

  Well, he’d put his foot in it, with eyes wide open, too. All this time’s passed and Nora hasn’t squealed to Martha, but tonight, sure as shooting, it’ll come out. It’ll come out in that sly way women have of saying things, telling things, tattling things, with catlike digs.

  Well, to hell with it.

  He called Martha.

  “But, Ben!” she protested. “I’d planned on seeing a movie tonight.”

  “This is important, Martha,” he said.

  “What’s so important about a little police detective?”

  “Politics, honey.”

  “Graft, you mean.”

  “What was that?”

  “I’m sorry, Ben.”

  “That was a hell of a thing to say to your own husband!”

  “I’m sorry, Ben.”

  “So that’s what you think? That’s what you really think?”

  “I said I was sorry, Ben.”

  “You couldn’t be sorry if you meant it. And you meant it!”

  “I just said it, Ben. Just kidding, like.”

  “Where did you ever hear anything like that?”

  “I haven’t heard anything like that! Now, for crying out loud, will you drop it?”

  “O.K.”

  “What time did you set for supper?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “Cocktails before?”

  “Yes. You know Sam Byrd. He’ll be shaking like a rag unless he gets oiled up a little.”

  Martha hung up.

  He didn’t feel like working. It was hot, even with the air conditioner going, and he went to the drugstore for a Coke. The soda jerk was a girl, tiny and blonde and high schoolish, but she had sweet little round breasts under a low-cut blouse, and she bent over the counter, wiping it, and he looked.

  Leaving the drugstore, he went up the street, walking aimlessly, until he decided to drop in on Sam Byrd.

  “He’s in his office,” Sam’s secretary said. “I think he’s locked his door.”

  “The sot’ll be too drunk to unlock it by quitting time,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.” He knocked.

  “Who is it?”

  The words were muffled, but not thick, only muffled by the door.

  “Open up, Sam. It’s Ben.”

  Not footsteps, but shufflings, and clumsy rattlings at the door, and then the door swung open and Sam Byrd stood, glass in hand, smiling foolishly and said, “Oh, h’lo, Ben.”

  “Starting a little early, aren’t you?”

  “Early, late, no matter.”

  “Well, I might as well have one.”

  He went across to the small box and got ice, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye as he mixed a drink.

  “Don’t hit it too heavy, Sam. You and Nora are coming over to the house for supper. Want you to meet this Willa Ree.”

  “He’s the new stooge?”

  “Stooge isn’t a very good word, Sam.”

  Byrd waved a hand. “Don’t try to make it sound good, Ben. No use. Bronson won’t play ball. Oh, don’t look surprised—I know what’s going on! Everybody knows it. Sheriff Messner was telling me yesterday that you were trying to take everything under the police department’s wing. And he doesn’t like it, Ben.”

  “No, but he’ll take it.”

  “That county bunch could make things rough if they got mad.”

  “I think I know what I’m doing.” Ben took a sip of his drink, grimaced, and lit a cigarette.

  “Arthur Fry’s a pretty powerful man,” Sam Byrd said. “And you know as well as I do that Messner’s a tool for Fry.”

  “You’ve got it hind part forward,” Halliday said. “Fry’s got Messner to thank for getting elected county attorney in the first place. And in the second place, Fry hasn’t got the guts to front anything. No, Sam, take it from me, Messner’s the brains over at county, and he’s smart enough to let me have my way about things.”

  “Things!” Sam Byrd laughed.

  “Well, what do you want me to say?”

  “Graft!”

  “All right, damnit! Graft! And now I know where Martha gets that word!”

  “I’ve not....”

  “No, maybe not! But you cry on Nora’s shoulder and Nora cries to Martha! Now, you listen to me, Sam! You’re in this thing just as much as I am, and mister, you’ve got dollars in the bank to show for it!”

  Sam Byrd sat down on the desk, put the glass down, jiggled it and turned it and twisted it.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. But— Well, it’s not been from, well, graft. Before, it’s been business.”

  A slow smile, amused but cold, too, skimmed the surface of Halliday’s face.

  “Business, you said. Yes, I guess it was. At least, we can call it business. But I know and you know different.”

  “Yeah. All right, Ben, have it your way. I don’t like it, but then I haven’t liked any of it. You said Fry was Messner’s tool. Well, I guess I’m your tool.”

  “Tool? You, Sam? A tool’s something you use. How do I use you?”

  “As a front, Ben.”

  Halliday pursed his lips and cocked his head. “You’re smarter than I thought,” he said, “so I might as well admit it. Only, I’m not obvious about it, Sam. I don’t let you lead the way like Messner does Fry.”

  “Oh, you’re smart enough,” Sam Byrd said. “Even I know that.”

  “What’s bothering you, anyway?” Halliday asked. “Does your conscience hurt?”

  “Yes, I guess it does,” Sam Byrd said, indecision in his voice. “I guess it’s my conscience. I don’t know for sure, you see, because it’s been a long long time since I inspected it. In fact, I didn’t think I had one any more. I know a man can’t make a lot of money and stay strictly honest, you see, but in business—real business and not politics—it’s all right as long as you use business methods. Ethics, I guess you’d call it.”

  “Politics is no different.”

  “Yes it is, Ben. You know it is. A man in business can make money honestly—but you can’t make an honest dime in politics. Except a salary, and we don’t even get a salary. We’re supposed to devote our time to the public good, and that’s worse than it would be if we were getting paid, you see, because the public trusts us. We’re supposed to be community leaders; the people look up to us.”

  “What do you want to do—resign?”

  “I’d like to. Yes, I’d like to resign.”

  “I can’t let you do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Publicity,” Halliday said. “And you know what happens when you get publicity. People start asking questions. They get curious.”

  “I could say that business keeps me too busy. I could say my health is bad.”

  “That would be all right, Sam. But, the truth is, Bronson is going to resign one of these days. If you quit he’ll quit too, hoping that it’ll cause people to ask questions. And he’s the man to talk if he’s given a halfway chance.”

  Sam Byrd poured liquor over the ice in his glass. His hands trembled, his chin trembled, and he drank the whisky off in one big gulping gulp.

  “Then stay out of the graft, Ben,” he said. There was a pleading note in his voice. “If I can’t quit, then, for crying out loud, Ben, don’t make things any dirtier than they are. It was bad enough before. We took kickbacks! We took pay-offs on bidding for every damned thing the city bought! We took surplus goods from
the government for ourselves!”

  “Let that bother your conscience, then,” Halliday said. “But, be reasonable, Sam! Don’t let it bother you if we take money from tramps and pimps and gamblers and bookies!”

  “It’s graft!”

  “Graft it is, but it’s expected! We’ve got to have gamblers and bookies and pimps and all the rest! You know why, Sam? Well, I’ll tell you why! Because the people want them, that’s why! The people want them or they wouldn’t be around! All right, what would happen if we ran them out to town? Do you know, Sam? I’ll tell you what’d happen! The people would raise hell, that’s what they’d do! You know who’d be the only happy people if we ran them out of town? The preachers, that’s who!”

  “I wouldn’t say....”

  “No, you wouldn’t! But it’s true, just the same.”

  “So what of it? It’d be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

  “No it wouldn’t, Sam! They help make this town. Find any live-wire town and you’ll find pimps and tramps and gamblers and bookies and all the rest. And something else, Sam. They’re regulated in every town! They pay off in every town! They help pay guys like us! They help pay underpaid policemen and county attorneys and city councilmen!”

  “Regulated is a good word, Ben. A good word for graft.”

  “Call it anything you want. All I’m saying is that society has a certain element it can’t do without, and that element expects to pay off. It might just as well be us doing the collecting. Don’t you know the people know what’s going on?”

  “Cut that out, Ben! You don’t believe what you’re saying any more than I do! If you do, you’re a bigger fool than I thought—or you’re just trying to salve your conscience.”

  Halliday’s voice trembled. “Listen, Sam,” he said, “Not so long ago, not so dammed long ago...” he paused and pointed a shaky finger. “You can remember not so long ago when you had a two-bit place, and that was mortgaged up to your neck!” The finger became a menacing spear. “I took you practically out of the gutter, Sam Byrd! You’d have been broke in a month and you know it. Oh, you took my help, Sam. You got on your feet and, don’t you ever forget it, you were damned glad to run for council when I gave the word!” He stopped speaking, ran a hand over his face, and breathed hard. “I didn’t hear anything about your conscience when you first started making money, Sam! For two long years you took dollar for dollar along with me. You built this place and stocked it, and you’ve got plenty dollars where the others came from! Now, tell me this!” He shouted, and the finger speared out. “Why has your conscience started hurting you all of a sudden?”

  Sam Byrd was sober. He splashed more liquor in his glass and drank it like medicine. “Maybe you’re right, Ben,” he said quietly. “Maybe I waited too long to yell.”

  “Yeah, too damned long. Know what I think?”

  “I’d like to know.”

  “I think you’re plain scared.”

  “You wouldn’t be far wrong.”

  “What scared you?” And then Halliday added hastily, “Oh, I know you’ve been scared all along, Sam, but not this scared! What’s thrown such a scare into you?”

  Sam Byrd sniffed, held both hands palm up and stared at them. “I don’t know. It’s not just one thing, but a lot of things, and I don’t know what they all add up to. Nora, for one thing. We used to be happy, but lately—since the money, Ben—things have changed. That scared me. For another thing, it’s been too easy. Just too damned easy! Things have never been easy for me, and this easy money scares me. I’ve never been lucky before, Ben, and I have a feeling this luck might not be luck at all.”

  “You don’t even make sense!”

  “Maybe not.”

  “About Nora—know whose fault that is? Yours, Sam! You started drinking, and then you started swilling! You started soaking yourself in alcohol. That’s about all you do these days!”

  “I’m not as hard as you are. That’s why I want to quit now, while I’m ahead.”

  “Two more years. You’ve got to stick with me two more years.”

  Sam Byrd slammed his glass on the desk. “Why?” he shouted. “For more filthy money? Haven’t you got more money than you can count? Must you rob tramps and pimps of what little they make? How much money do you want, anyway? And what the hell good is it going to do you?”

  “Maybe it’s not the money.”

  “It has to be the money.”

  “Maybe I crave power.”

  Sam Byrd’s laugh was scornful. “Money’s power!”

  “Maybe so. Anyway, we’ll take this up another time. You’d better go home and dress for dinner.”

  “O.K. See you tonight.”

  Ree bought a new suit. He had promised Bronson he’d buy a uniform, but he’d decided against it.

  “Why should I look like a uniformed dummy?” he asked. “Anyway, a detective should be in plain clothes.”

  “You won’t fool anybody with plain clothes,” Bronson pointed out. “Your picture’s been in the paper and you’ve blabbed speeches to anybody that’d listen.”

  “My badge is enough,” Ree said. “And I think you’re jealous.”

  “You could have bought a uniform for what that fancy badge cost,” Bronson said. “And I’ll never be jealous of men like you.”

  “This badge has class,” Ree snapped.

  “Well, you promised to buy a uniform,” Bronson said.

  “Oh, forget it. Or take your complaints to Halliday.”

  “I’ve decided Halliday wouldn’t miss you if I fired you,” Bronson said. “I’ve about decided Halliday forgot all about you, or made other plans or something.”

  “Try it and see,” Willa Ree grinned. “Tonight, my friend, I dine at the Halliday home.”

  “Trouble starts, then,” Bronson said. “And I’d about convinced myself I’d misjudged the man.”

  “There won’t be any trouble, Chief. Everything’s going to work smooth as silk.”

  “We won’t discuss it!” Bronson said sharply. “Keep all that to yourself!”

  “You brought it up.”

  He bought a new suit, had it altered and pressed, and then went home to dress. He dressed with care.

  Martha met him at the door.

  “Come in, Mr. Ree,” she said, and felt his eyes slide over her body.

  “In all due respect for your husband, Mrs. Halliday, I didn’t expect to see such a beautiful woman as his wife.”

  She laughed lightly and said, “I want you to meet Mr. Byrd and Mrs. Byrd, Mr. Ree. And you know my husband, of course.”

  Sam Byrd extended his hand, and Ree stepped forward to clasp it. He bowed slightly to Nora and then shook hands with Halliday. “It’s very kind of you to have me here,” he said.

  “Not at all, Ree,” Halliday said. “In fact, I wish to apologize for not having you out earlier.”

  “Quite all right. I know you’ve been busy.”

  “Would you like a drink?” Martha asked.

  “Please.”

  Nora sat at the piano, idly pecking, her drink on a small end table, and he moved to one side of the piano, leaning slightly, and watched as she played.

  “Do you play, Mr. Ree?”

  “A very little.”

  He thought her beautiful, more beautiful than Martha, but he saw her eyes were on Halliday. He wondered if Martha wanted Sam Byrd, but a second look at Byrd was enough to discount the thought.

  Nora might be fun, but Martha was more interesting.

  He watched Byrd, secretly, and wondered if Halliday was cultivating him or if Byrd and Halliday were connected. Byrd had been drinking heavily, and was still drinking. His eyes were glazed and he smiled foolishly.

  Nora took her drink across the room, and Ree sat down at the piano.

  He began to play not boogie-woogie or modern classics, but fragments from “Lucia di Laminermoor” and “La Bohème.”

  “Play some Viennese waltzes,” Martha said.

  He smiled and played. The corner
of his eye caught Martha’s uplifted eyebrow, aimed at Halliday, and saw Halliday’s shrugged puzzlement.

  A maid appeared at the doorway, and he stopped playing.

  “Supper,” the maid said.

  Halliday asked questions as they ate. “Where were you born, Ree?”

  “Hattiesburg, Mississippi,” he lied.

  “I thought you talked like a Southerner!” Martha said.

  “Have you had a lot of experience as a policeman?” Nora asked.

  “Several years.”

  The questions kept coming.

  Veiled questions, leading questions, but he lied and twisted and doped, naming places he’d seen, could describe, but giving no pattern they could stitch together for a whole.

  After supper, over coffee, Halliday steered the talk toward city politics.

  “You’ll find this a wild town, Ree, a wild town. Most of our population blew in here during the past couple of years, after they hit oil, and transients are flooding the town still. There’s fast money here, and the fast money is drawing the riffraff. We’ve got enough prostitutes to serve a town ten times our size, and the same thing goes for gambling and book-making and all the rest.”

  “That happens to boom towns.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, it creates quite a problem, made worse by the fact that Chief Bronson’s getting old and doesn’t know how to handle the toughs and the riffraff. All he knows is that he should arrest people for double parking and speeding. Small-town stuff, you see, and this town is big business now.”

  “If that’s true, Mr. Halliday, why does the council keep Bronson on as chief?”

  “Because he’s an old timer, Ree, and we’d make the voters mad if we let him go. Understand, I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence.”

  Ree laughed. “There’s no love lost between Bronson and me, Mr. Halliday. He didn’t like taking me on at all. Wesley is his fair-haired boy.”

  Martha asked him to play again, but he begged off, and at ten o’clock he asked her if he might call a cab.

  “Must you go so soon?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mrs. Halliday. I still have a lot of work ahead of me, and I need my rest.”

  “I’ll show you the phone.”

  The phone was in a hallway, off the dining room, and it was half dark there.