The Day I Died

by Lawrence Lariar

  “We can drop the dame,” Barney said at last. “This dame maybe came from Florian’s and maybe she didn’t. But the way I figure it out, we don’t give a damn about her. The way it adds up, if she came from Florian’s, it was a big, beautiful accident, that’s all. I’ll tell you why. She couldn’t come from Masterson, because if she did, she’d hang on to Coyle like a goddamned leech, wouldn’t she? Of course she would. Masterson now, if he gave a dame like that a job of work, she just wouldn’t be able to pull out the way she did. She left Coyle for McCotter because of two reasons. Number one—maybe Coyle got sick and tired of her nuzzling up to so many strangers around the hotel. Number two—maybe she just decided there was more in it for her with McCotter. The way I see her, she’s strictly a money piece, Kepper. She’ll roll over and play the game for anybody with enough money. That’s what happened with her. Right or wrong?”

  “You could be right,” said Kepper. “What about Coyle, now?”

  “I don’t know how to figure him.”

  “You want me to stay with him?”

  “I’ve got to know more about him,” Barney said. He was shivering out here and there wasn’t a goddamned reason in the world for it. The night was warm, almost tropical. He hated himself for shivering because he knew that it always came with the image of Masterson, a rush of panic that made him tremble like a frightened schoolboy. He got off the rock and began to walk briskly back to the car.

  “We’ve just got to make sure about Coyle,” he said.

  Kepper only nodded …

  CHAPTER 19

  Through the window of The Kiddie Shoppe, from the inside looking out, across the sun-washed street and beyond the yellow body of his convertible, Coyle became suddenly aware of Nick Bruck. Bruck made no effort to hide himself. He sat at the wheel of a black Plymouth, his eyes down, probably reading another comic book, because he did not look up for the few minutes during which Coyle stared at him. Coyle waited at the window, anxious to be sure about Bruck. And after a while Bruck raised his head from whatever he was reading and squinted across at The Kiddie Shoppe, as casual and unconcerned as a man outdoors for a dose of the sun. In the pause, Coyle saw the green felt hat, the colored shirt and the unforgettable pattern of Bruck’s jaw.

  Coyle found himself overcome by a mounting rage as he stood at the toy counter. How long had Bruck been following him? The salesgirl came forward and stood politely by, waiting for Coyle to make up his mind.

  “Another doll, sir?” she smiled.

  “This is a pretty one,” Coyle said. He was handing the girl the doll and counting back to the first day in this shop, the first purchase for Ellen’s daughter, Linda. Five days? A week ago? Today was Thursday, and he had come here the day after his first visit with Ellen. How long ago? He could not measure the time. The immediate past seemed rushed and vague to him, beginning at the moment when he had walked into Ellen’s restaurant in Miramar.

  He fumbled with his wallet now, holding the salesgirl at his side.

  “How many dolls have I bought here?” Coyle asked.

  “You’re our best customer.” The girl smiled. “I’d say about ten or so.”

  “Can you check it for me?”

  “Very easily, sir. You’ve been through our complete line of costume dolls, starting with the cute Spanish one, remember? That means you’ve bought exactly eleven, counting this Dutch one.”

  Twelve days! Coyle faced the street again, confused by the sight of Bruck. In the recent past, he had forgotten the inevitable figure of Masterson’s man behind him. Bruck had followed him everywhere, ever since the day Coyle had dismissed Sue Welch. On the beach, at the races, in the clubs and restaurants, Bruck pursued or only sat and waited and watched. In the beginning, Coyle fidgeted and rebelled against his pursuer, occasionally taking great pains to lose Bruck, to prove himself cleverer than Bruck. But the patiently stubborn shadow of Masterson’s man had always returned to the chase; his broad face creased in an all-knowing smile when his quarry was tracked down. And now, across the street, was Bruck smiling again? On this, the twelfth visit to Miramar and Ellen, Bruck would be amused by the regular trips to The Kiddie Shoppe. He would already know all about Ellen. He would have checked The Dunes in Miramar, to submit an historical background of the place to Masterson, complete with all the information about Ellen’s private life. He was a leech, this Bruck. He would plumb the past, from the moment he observed Coyle’s entrance into The Dunes; from the instant he smelled a building relationship between them. On that first day, had he followed them to the beach? Had he watched the byplay, the growing warmth between them? His research must have carried him far into Ellen’s life; her marriage to Jim Higgins and his recent death in an air crash. And Masterson? Had Masterson followed the line all the way back to Camberton? Did they know who Ellen was? Did they know what Ellen meant to him?

  Coyle left the store and drove north at a middling speed. In the rearview mirror, he saw Bruck swing the black Plymouth out into the lane of traffic and hold it at a reasonable distance behind. Yet, when Coyle reached the outskirts of Miami Beach, Bruck abandoned the chase, pulling in at a roadside restaurant at the edge of town.

  Coyle laughed. Bruck had followed him to Miramar before and his job was done a long time ago, and he could be getting tired of the long trip up the coast, just to watch Coyle deliver a doll to a small girl and sit and moon with the small girl’s mother on the beach, or in a fishing boat, or in the convertible, out under the stars.

  Twelve days! For Coyle, all time had stopped after the first quick meeting with Ellen at The Dunes, the immediate renewal of their old affection and the great joy he found in being with her. Where had the time gone? With little concentration, Coyle could relive the immediate past, beginning with the bright moment of seeing her and holding her hand and following her to the cottage near the restaurant to meet her daughter. It was good and pure, all of it.

  The gilt and glitter of the great resort lay behind him now and his mind was fresh and sharp and free of the echoes of the noise and nonsense at Miami Beach, the tinsel and fluff of routine amusements. He had escaped them all, forever. He had abandoned the dream; the incredibly beautiful girls in the great and noisy dens of pleasure; the drinking rooms and the gambling rooms and the rooms dedicated to nothing but the gut.

  And in their place was Ellen.

  She was waiting for him at the door of her cottage, but Doug Folger appeared at her side.

  “Hello, Coyle,” Folger said pleasantly, his hand out for the strong, tight handshake. “Good to see you again.”

  “My pleasure,” Coyle said. He handed Ellen the new doll, watching Folger’s face sag and then rally to the situation. It was strange that Folger and he had fought this duel before. The third doll? The third day?

  “You’ll spoil Linda,” Ellen said, admiring the doll. The gift pleased her, as all women are pleased, by such intemperate samples of affection and thoughtfulness. She had a special place for the toys, on a special shelf near the window, a long row of dolls now, arranged as though she might be displaying them for her own satisfaction, up high, where Linda could not reach them.

  “You must be in the doll business,” Folger said with an open smile.

  “Not quite,” Coyle said.

  “Just what is your line?” Folger asked. He had a set, sure smile, not mean, not nasty, but purposeful and direct, a good-natured inquisitor.

  “That’s a question you should ask me,” Ellen said, still busy at the shelf. “Tom has a really old-fashioned line.”

  Coyle laughed with them, but he measured Folger carefully during the light moment. The man was in dead earnest about his question. He had assumed the protective, big brother, serious suitor role in his relationship with Ellen. There was something likable about Folger, the caricature of young business in the Deep South. Folger was sincere, a good man with a good heart.

  “I’m in the entertainment bus
iness,” Coyle said.

  “That sounds really interesting,” Folger said. “Tell me about it, will you, Tom? We hicks never get to know the inside of that kind of business.”

  “Eleven beautiful dolls are far too many for one little girl,” Ellen said, coming away from the shelf and admiring the row of toys. “I still think Linda will be spoiled, Tom.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “You’re cutting down the odds,” Ellen laughed. “She’s beginning to expect a doll a day, you know.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “What will you do when the stock runs out?”

  “It already has,” Coyle laughed. “Tomorrow we begin with toy animals.”

  “Oh, no!” Ellen clapped her hands and enjoyed the prospect. “Linda will love you madly, Tom.”

  “I want Linda to love me madly.”

  “But, seriously,” Ellen said, “you mustn’t buy any more.”

  “Even if I’m buying them for you?”

  There was a pause and Folger recognized the undertones and picked up a magazine and pretended to look at the pictures. In the silence, Ellen had colored and softened and stared at Coyle with a quick and tender appraisal. There was something between them, something that Coyle had, a closeness to Ellen that frightened Folger and made him look away at times like this.

  “You remember about my dolls?” Ellen said a little sadly.

  “I never forgot much of anything about you, Ellen.”

  “It’s been a long time since you saw my dolls at Camberton.”

  “You had quite a collection,” Coyle said. “What happened to them?”

  “I remember them,” Folger said, and dropped the magazine. “You used to have them on the bookshelf in the old house. Guess they all got lost in the fire—was that it, Ellen? I remember how proud Jim used to be about that doll collection. You had them from all over the world, didn’t you?”

  “They were all lost in the fire,” Ellen said.

  “Even the Kewpie from Garfinkle’s?” Coyle laughed, remembering his doll and the way he had won it for her. “That was really a tough baby, wasn’t it?” They laughed at the memory and Coyle broke the story down for Folger, who seemed lost and alone, outside the orbit of their conversation. “We used to drive over to this place, Doug—a place called Garfinkle’s, sort of roadhouse affair for the kids in town. We danced and drank Cokes and had ourselves a good time, almost every Saturday night. Hank Garfinkle was a classmate of mine, you see? His old man was always crazy about kids and actually redesigned his dogcart to accommodate the crowd on the weekends. Well, Hank had this Kewpie doll hanging up near the second floor on the outside of the house. I got it for Ellen one night, but we dropped it out of the car at least twice on the way home. The thing was something special, though. It never even cracked—and Ellen gave it the place of honor in her collection. I didn’t think that doll would ever perish in any fire, Ellen.”

  “They all perished, Tom.” She busied herself with the drinks at the small bar in the corner of the room. “In a way it was a good thing for me to lose them.”

  “A good thing?”

  “They were a symbol of my youth,” Ellen said. “Sort of a sticky, sentimental symbol. When I lost them, finally, a lot of my childhood left me and I found myself growing up. You see, the fire happened during my second year of married life, Tom. After the fire, things somehow became more realistic for me. Jim died, and I was left alone with a restaurant and a small daughter. I had to grow up fast, and the fact that the dolls had been taken from me helped a lot.”

  Coyle said: “And how do you feel now about the new crop of dolls?”

  “I’m a big girl now,” Ellen said.

  “Makes the best rum swizzle south of the Mason-Dixon Line,” Folger said, smacking his lips over the tall glass. “Positively the best.”

  “I’ve been telling Ellen to feature this drink in her restaurant,” Coyle said. “People will come from miles around to gargle it.”

  “Not a bad idea at all, Coyle.”

  “You can’t buy a drink like this in Miami Beach.”

  “Well, you should certainly know.” Folger nodded with sincerity. “I mean, living at the Carrillon, and all. Getting around the way you do.”

  “It tops them all.” Coyle caught the morsel of research information in Folger’s last line. He must have been checking up at Miami Beach. How else had he discovered the fact that Coyle lived at the Carrillon? He must have done a bit of wandering in the recent past, a bit of exploring. Only Ellen knew where he lived. Coyle wondered whether she had told Folger. “They mix a thing at the Carrillon called a Rum Rocker, Doug. Ever had it there?”

  “Well, not lately,” Folger said.

  “Drop in any time and I’ll buy you one.”

  “That’s mighty nice of you, Tom. Mighty nice. But I don’t get around that section very much. Last time I passed by, I just happened to get out of my car and walk up by the docks. Saw you and Ellen getting out of your boat back there. What was the name of it?”

  “The We Two,” Ellen said. “You should have yelled to us, Doug. You would have liked Tom’s boat. It’s a dream.”

  “Used to own a friendship sloop,” Folger said. “Back a couple of years ago. But I ran her aground on the Keys. Since then I just haven’t had the courage, you might say, to get me another one. A friendship sloop, that is. They’re a big care, you know, maybe tougher to take care of than that nice little job of yours. How long is she?”

  “About thirty feet, Doug.”

  “Nice,” Folger said, and whistled a bit. “Must have cost a pretty penny.”

  “I rented it.”

  “Say now,” the whistle came again, “this man is really loaded, Ellen.”

  Folger laughed and slapped his thighs. He had a wide-open face, full of boyish freckles and open enthusiasm, the deceptive mask of deep and significant thought. He was thinking things through now, Coyle knew. He was hell-bent on ferreting into Coyle’s secret life. He would continue the game, fighting to expose something seamy for Ellen to see. It would be his way of winning the battle with Coyle, all very nice and polite and friendly, but with undertones of nastiness. At heart, he was concerned for Ellen, of course. He would relish the idea of exposing Coyle as some kind of phony. A gangster? A racketeer? Coyle found himself amused by Folger’s obvious histrionics, but the resulting tension seemed to blossom out of every stab Folger made. There was no way for Coyle to avoid fighting back.

  And Coyle said: “Shall I tell him the truth, Ellen? Shall I tell Doug my real mission down here? How I pass the counterfeit twenty-dollar bills?”

  “He’s a great kidder,” Folger said.

  “Twenties now,” Coyle said. “I graduated from the tens. You won’t tell anybody, Doug?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “I can get you the territory for the fifties, Doug.”

  “A great kidder,” Folger exploded, aware that he was beaten now. “But I haven’t got the time, Tom. Me, I’m just a no-good real-estate plugger with enough troubles to keep me busy in my own line for a long time. Isn’t that the gospel truth, Ellen?”

  “Doug’s modest,” Ellen said. “He’s the head of the Chamber of Commerce in Miramar.”

  “Let’s talk about the Chamber of Commerce,” Coyle said with a fine show of enthusiasm. “Mister President, you have the floor.”

  It was enough to start Folger toward the door. He remembered a meeting with some of the Chamber of Commerce boys, back at the City Hall, and it was getting close to eight and they’d be mighty angry with him for being so late. He managed to shake Coyle’s hand with the usual warmth and sincerity, but when he looked at Ellen on the way out he was obviously as miffed as a young lover forced out of the family living room. In a way, Coyle felt sorry for Folger. His personal paradise had been rudely invaded by an intemperate Yankee and the siege would
continue for some time to come.

  “Tell me about your boyfriend,” Coyle said.

  “I’m getting into my suit now,” Ellen said. “And so are you. This is no time for idle chatter. The wild waves beckon.”

  They went out into the black sea together and he enjoyed the feel of her strong young body beside him. They dawdled and played in the rolling water, saying nothing, content to share the quiet moments together. At times like this Coyle enjoyed himself most. The sight of her in her bathing suit, on the beach later, her fresh face wet and cool and close to his, all these things pleased him. She was the same bright beauty he had known in Camberton. Yet, the skittishness was gone now, a lot of the brittle and girlish nonsense he had idealized. Over the years, Ellen had gained a new and sensitive perception of the world around her, something that had steadied and matured her.

  She was a woman now—that was it. Her youthfulness shone through, of course. Her beauty was no flashing, blinding thing, but she radiated a cheerful warmth and a solidity that endeared her to Coyle more than ever. She had a face that would be forever young; a washed freshness and color that did not need the high-light of sharp make-up. He had always liked the puckish, fey quality of her face, and the charm still clung to her, despite the fact that she sometimes resembled a little girl who grew up too fast. She had certainly grown. Was it motherhood that had ripened her? She was at home and sensible about all her problems; the restaurant, the vagaries of her daughter, the immediate present and the future she hoped to build for herself in Miramar. It was part of Coyle’s enjoyment to talk to Ellen of practical things, to help her with her business affairs.

  For this reason, their days always ended in The Dunes. The restaurant was a smallish place, but decorated well in whites, to add sparkle and a feeling of airiness to the interior. The tables were arranged for easy intimacy, and you didn’t mind their proximity to the small white bar. Old Dick Christman, Ellen’s good right hand, acted as chef and major-domo. Dick worked hard, but did not seem to mind his labors. He was always on hand, at day’s end, to mix them a final night cap and discuss the business.