The Day I Died

by Lawrence Lariar

  How far back? Coyle trembled as he listened. He did not like the color nor the pattern of the revived memories.

  “… all the way back to grade school,” Masterson was saying. The paper in his hand fell to the desk. He picked up a yellow pencil and began to tap, slowly and rhythmically. “As far back as Lem Washington.”

  “That’s pretty far back,” Coyle said.

  “You were a pretty strong-minded boy, playing with a black kid.”

  Coyle exploded at the emphasis. “I don’t like that kind of talk, Masterson!”

  He was on his feet now, shouting, trying to quiet the pain that bit so deep. Out of his boyhood, the stabbing memories of little Lem Washington came alive with a frightening vivid shock. He had fought and suffered to protect and defend Lem, the two of them in countless street brawls and private battles behind the clustered store fronts of Main Street.

  “What kind of talk is that, Coyle?”

  “That sneer in your voice when you said ‘black’!” Coyle snapped.

  “A sensitive soul,” said Masterson, softly now. “It sort of jibes with the record your townspeople have of you, all the way back …”

  Masterson continued his monologue, watching Coyle carefully, waiting for the tension to ease. And Coyle played it his way, quietly, but on fire inside, upset by the history of his boyhood.

  Yet he listened as the past came forward. There was no way to break the thread of Masterson’s speech, unless he exploded again and leaped from his seat and shouted down his tormentor. But it would not pay to take chances now. It would be better to allow Masterson the subtle pleasure of his monologue.

  “… and so, you see, I know you well, Coyle,” Masterson was saying.

  “You most certainly do.”

  “I think we can go on.”

  The great stone figure was rising and moving away from the desk and across the rug in the direction of the mantel. He lifted his right hand to take an envelope off the mantel and then examined the envelope, smiling and slapping the envelope delicately in his palm and turned to face Coyle. Was it all real now? Was this the end of the drama? The big man was opening the envelope and producing a sheaf of money and holding the bills out to Coyle, who did not seem to see them, but let them fall in his lap and then slowly started to count them. And when his fingers touched the money, reality returned.

  “Fifteen hundred,” Masterson was saying. “Count it. You’ll get the rest in Miami.”

  “You think I’ll run out on you, is that it?”

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” Masterson said.

  “How do I get the rest in Miami?”

  “It’s already arranged,” Masterson said. “One of my men will deliver the balance to you. He’ll find you at the Carrillon Hotel, in one of the cottages on the north side of the place, facing Biscayne Bay. You see, I’ve already reserved your accommodations for you, Coyle. You’ve been booked into the Carrillon through International, through Walton Zadek. You’re supposed to be a high-salaried employee of International, a talent scout. You will be visiting Miami in search of fresh talent for various amusement spots in New York handled by International. Zadek has told you the names of the main accounts?”

  “Florian’s, the Fan Club and the Jungle,” Coyle said.

  “And Zadek has told you about my connection with International?”

  “Zadek told me nothing about you.”

  “Good,” Masterson said. It was strange and incongruous the way the boy’s mind seemed suddenly sharp and alert, almost super-intelligent and quicker than the normal. It was a satisfaction to know that he could be depended upon to play according to the rules. “You must remember, Coyle, in case you are ever asked, that I have no connection at all with International. None at all. I want that clearly understood.”

  “I understand it.”

  “You have never met me,” Masterson said. “Nobody on earth suspects that I am in any way connected with International. Is that clear?”

  “You’re making it clearer by the minute.”

  “And I want my little secret kept quiet.” He advanced closer to Coyle, passing to let his weighted words produce the required effect. “People have long noses, Coyle. They will be asking you questions. Checking on you.”

  “I can handle them.”

  “Of course you can—”

  There was too much talk. Coyle found himself tiring rapidly, becoming bored with the final moments of his interview. He was on his feet now, following Masterson through the dimly lit vestibule. Beyond the stiff figure of Masterson, through the small glass panes at the door, the street was dark out there. It was the empty blackness that teased him now, gnawing at him, making him hot with impatience. It was time to get out. That was the idea.

  “… and you’ll be a representative of an entertainment company,” Masterson was saying. “You’ll be expected to act a bit on the light side, Coyle. Is that clear?”

  “I think so.”

  “When do you begin to laugh it up?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Ah? You’re going to begin spending your money?”

  “You bet I am,” Coyle said. It was an effort to bridle his enthusiasm now. “I’m heading down to Florian’s.”

  “A splendid idea,” Masterson said. “I’ll phone them and tell the manager you’re on the way. They’ll take good care of you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nothing at all.”

  Nothing at all? These were the last words, before the door moved open under the Rock’s hand. The moment loomed important, a picture moment, worth saving for the future. It was a memory trick Coyle always played during times like this. Going out of Camberton, for instance, he had stood for a long time at the railroad station, staring back at the railroad bridge. It was a final look, drinking in the great panorama of the valley and the town down there. A sight that would last indefinitely as a picture in his mind. He was convinced that he would never see Camberton again. And now? Masterson was off to one side, against the dark wall, his face framed oddly because of the contrasting values. Where had he seen a face like this before? Masterson was almost bald, but the baldness did not detract from his stony beauty; almost like a carved figure, an ancient sculpture. Would he ever see Masterson again?

  The door was open and the face disappeared behind the barrier of the door and there came a final click to tell him that he was alone in the dark corridor, the stone closet that let out to the street. The air out here was light and fresh and he breathed deeply, smelling the scent of foliage from the park.

  Then he was stepping down stone steps to the pavement and listening to the sound of his feet moving slowly toward the far lights on Madison Avenue, aware that he was walking faster as he came off and away from Masterson’s porch and entered the deeper shadows of the long dark street, his heels clicking and clacking and echoing in the gloom and the sound bouncing back from the gray façades of the giant houses in the canyon. Coyle found himself almost running now. Coyle reached Madison Avenue quickly. He paused to light a cigarette, but not because he really wanted one. The cigarette gave him time to quiet his beating heart, time to reflect, to hesitate and look back along the concrete corridor. What was back there in the gloom? Did something move in Masterson’s doorway? What flickered in the dismal shadows? Another cigarette? Or was the man striding out of another doorway?

  Coyle waited. The man was coming his way, clacking up the pavement on hard heels, closer and closer still; a short man, stocky and swaggering. Would he pass? The man strode under a street lamp and Coyle saw that he was wearing a green felt and a bow tie and a suit that looked blue under the light. He passed, not bothering to look at Coyle. He spat into the street and flicked the cigarette away and went on, down Madison Avenue.

  Coyle laughed out loud.

  “You crazy bastard,” he whispered to himself.

  He whistled sharply fo
r a cruising cab and got in and told the driver to take him to Florian’s, his mind bright and alive with the images he had dreamed so long in the hospital at Camberton; the warm, lush interior of the famous club, the smells of it and the sounds of it, all these things out of the descriptive laborings of Joey Bader; the oval bar and the soft pounding of the rumba music from far behind the main room; the easy languor and the intimate atmosphere and above all else, the girls …

  CHAPTER 12

  All of the magic began at the door, but the memory of his first few moments at Florian’s dimmed and died after the tall headwaiter introduced him to the girl at the oval bar. The headwaiter was expecting Coyle, and from the time he took a stool near the end of the bar, things began to happen. They were arranged in a continuity that made the entire series of events seem accidental and uncontrived; all the necessary pleasantries took place, including the casual meeting with the girl named Sue Welch. They had a quick one at the bar, but that was long ago, and now they were in the corner at their own table and their conversation was warmed with the liquor. But she did not seem at all drunk and he was beginning to wonder whether she would ever get really plastered.

  “Is that one better?” she asked.

  “A hundred per cent,” Coyle said.

  “I told you the headwaiter’s a friend of mine.”

  “I believe you now. The first one was stronger, at the bar.”

  “They’re always stronger at the bar,” Sue said with a smile. “House policy. But that’s because the real drunks concentrate on loading up here at the tables. When that happens, Abe, the bartender, dilutes them a bit. Just to keep the place under control, you might say.”

  “You know the business pretty well,” Coyle said.

  “I’ve made a study of it,” Sue said.

  She drank along with him. They were on their third now and she wasn’t fooling when she said she liked Scotch and soda. She loved Scotch and soda. Coyle watched her stir her drink with the little glass mixer. Her fingers moved with smooth gestures and even the smallest movement pleased him. She was certainly one of the best in the place. He had hoped and dreamed about a girl of this type, but even in his wildest dreams, Sue Welch would have seemed an impossible attainment. She was small and trim. He wanted her badly from the first moment, the first quick exchange. They sat against a black-cushioned wall and the table was lit for intimacy, a small lamp, like a candle. Sue had a rich voice, a bit husky, but always pleasant.

  “You like Florian’s?” Sue smiled.

  “The best.”

  “I guess it is, if you go for this kind of atmosphere. But it gets monotonous, every night in the week.”

  “I didn’t think that was possible,” Coyle said.

  “Even caviar can be tiresome, night after night.” Sue smiled wearily and toyed with her drink. He was looking at her sharply, suddenly, his blue eyes probing and piercing. He had the strangest eyes, soft and dreamy most of the time, but biting and almost cynical at others. She reached across the table and patted his hand. “Don’t look so surprised, Tom. It’s the truth.”

  “I suppose so,” Coyle said. “But I’ll have to prove it to myself. The caviar, I mean. Starting tonight.”

  “Not a bad idea,” she laughed. “I really don’t eat it, you know. I was only using it as sort of a symbol, I guess.”

  “But you actually get tired of Florian’s?”

  “Oh, yes. That I do.”

  “And what happens when you get bored?”

  “I get around. I take a trip for myself.”

  “All alone, I’ll bet.”

  “It depends.”

  “On what?” Coyle asked.

  “On who’s around me when I get the urge to travel.”

  “I’m going to travel,” Coyle said. He was alongside her now, on the soft cushion against the wall. “Maybe I’ll be needing a traveling companion, Sue.”

  “Is this a proposition?”

  “Does it appeal to you?”

  “Maybe I’ll let you know. Later.”

  “Later tonight?”

  “Later this morning, you mean.”

  It was true. Coyle looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was almost two-thirty. Where had the time gone? He had been supremely happy for the last few hours. He couldn’t remember the last time he had talked this way with a girl. The desire for her welled up in him when she leaned his way and let him light her cigarette and then drew back to blow the smoke away with a discreet, almost innocent air. Phony? What did she have that he wanted so badly? A charm? A manner? Or was it her face; the smooth round oval and the deep eyes and the way she made up her mouth, not hard and pouted the way the others did, but gently curved and of a lighter color. And she didn’t bother to sell with her eyes. Something remote and unattainable glowed there, a dreaminess, a sadness that held her aloof from him. And since she was beautiful and distant, Coyle wanted her badly. That was it. She was there to be his, of course, yet the game was arranged to resemble a decent encounter, a normal, dignified pickup, like the way you would make a pass at a neighbor girl. She would be like Ellen Gardiner, of course, and that was the reason for her strong appeal. Her lips would be soft and yielding when he would kiss her. But he would expect the freshness that came with the image of Ellen. It was all fuzzed and wonderful: Florian’s, Sue, the table in the corner, everything pleased him. How long ago had he met her? They were old friends now, weren’t they?

  “Of course we’re old friends,” Sue was saying, and lifted her glass to touch his. “The best of friends.”

  “How about taking a trip with this old friend?”

  “You want to leave?” Sue asked.

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “To my place.”

  “That sounds mighty nice, old friend,” Coyle laughed.

  Distances blurred and all sounds and sights were impermanent now, the sting of the liquor alive in him as he led Sue across the room and beyond the bar. There was a man at the bar who watched Coyle carefully. The man had his green felt hat off, holding it in his lap, and when Coyle passed the bar, the man lifted his glass to his fat lips and stared openly at both of them. At that moment Coyle was fingering Sue’s arm, and the feel of her flesh warmed him and the sound of her laughter, so close and so real, held his attention. Then they were out on the street and in a cab, whirling across town in a sort of dream, because he only kissed her once, it seemed, briefly, before the cab stopped and they got out.

  The house was a brownstone and there were stairs beyond the big door. Sue walked ahead of him, slowly and gracefully, only opening her pretty mouth to smile at his jokes. It was all unhurried and casual and undramatic and undersold, the way Coyle liked it. Exactly the way. If he closed his eyes he would actually believe that this was just another date with Ellen, back in Camberton, taking her upstairs in the two-family house where she lived. Everything about this moment reminded him of Ellen. The door upstairs? Sue opened it and flicked on the lights.

  The place was cosy. There was a broad red couch set in the corner near the bay, everything neat and in its place, maple-furniture and a light blue carpet. Only the pictures on the wall annoyed him; cheap chromos that could have been left out. But the annoyance passed when he sat on the couch and looked at Sue. She mixed him another drink and took one herself, finishing it with him on the couch. He didn’t want the liquor now and told her so, and she removed the glasses and came back to him.

  “Jesus,” Coyle said. “You’re nice, Sue. You’re really nice.”

  “And you’re real drunk?”

  “Cold sober,” Coyle said. “You’re beautiful, Sue.”

  “How beautiful?”

  “The prettiest. Terrific.”

  “Easy, Tom.”

  “I can’t keep my hands off you.”

  “I don’t want to ruin this dress,” Sue said.

  Sh
e got up quietly and went into the bathroom. He heard the shower going and smoked two cigarettes while she made herself ready. She came out soon and she was wearing a yellow robe that made her look more like Ellen than ever, a light canary color with little girlish flowers all over it. Was it all a dream? She had let her hair down and it lay over her shoulders, and without any make-up she was as virginal as Ellen had been. She sat on the couch beside him.

  “Now kiss me,” she said. “But easy.”

  “Like that?”

  “Again.”

  He did it again and again and a wave rose up to engulf him, the first giant sea rolling out of nowhere and carrying them along on the crest, higher and higher and then sinking. He knew at once that this was what he wanted. He knew, too, that he would want it again and again, later on in Miami Beach. The whole weight of his past anxiety swept out of him and away with the wave, a sighing, weakening, rolling, cleansing thing, up and out and beyond himself. He closed his eyes and released himself, letting her take possession of him. Ellen? Was it Ellen he held in his arms now, the living dream and all the tenderness of the past? She was as much a part of the wave as he, and they were falling together, melting and merging through space into an abyss of impossible delight and torment. His mind closed on the moment and held tight to it, so that he never knew when her nails bit into him and never heard the sound of her passion. The wave broke with a sibilant breath and sleep rose up to engulf him, but he was aware of tomorrow before his mind died; the quick images of his departure clear and lucid.