by Ben Benson
I drove alongside. “Ride home, Leta?” I asked her.
She stared at me, slowing her pace.
I said, “I was just going by. I’ll give you a lift.”
She stopped. “I have to do some shopping first,” she said.
“I’m a champion bundle carrier,” I said, opening the door.
I drove her to the supermarket on Main. We went inside and I wheeled the basket wagon for her. I had an odd feeling we were moving in a vacuum. All around us people were chattering to one another as they passed in the aisles. But nobody said a word to Leta Nofke.
She bought only the cheapest cuts of meats and the second line of canned goods. The only luxury item was a cellophane bag of chocolate drops for nineteen cents. The Osanger-Cluett prosperity hadn’t reached her.
I carried her bundles out to the car. After I put them in I stood aside and held the door open for her.
She glanced at me oddly. “Thank you,” she said softly, stepping in.
I got into the car and started the motor. “Tough luck about Vince Pomeroy,” I said. “Did you know him well?”
She tucked her skirt under her shapely knees and stared straight ahead. She didn’t answer me.
I said, “Did you know Pomeroy well?”
She pointed across the street. “That’s Mill Street where I live. It’s only a block down from here.”
I didn’t ask any more questions. I drove down Mill Street. The houses were shabby and run-down and needed paint badly. There was an open field that ran behind them. In it some youngsters were tossing a baseball around, thumping their gloves, crouching like big-league infielders.
Her house was little more than a shanty with broken shutters and streaked, fading, green paint. I carried the bundles up the warped stairs, onto the sagging porch and inside.
The living room had old cheap furniture, repainted, repaired, carefully waxed and very clean. A threadbare Wilton rug covered the floor. There were bright, but home-made curtains hanging at the windows. There was no radio or television set, but in a corner was an electric record player and a wrought-iron record stand.
A wizened, little old man came into the room. He was wearing a clean, patched gray flannel shirt and dark pants. He smiled inanely at me with a gaping, toothless mouth.
“My father,” she said quietly. “He’s not well in the head.” She said something to him in a foreign language. She took out the package of chocolate drops and his grin widened. He reached for them. She shook her head, said something reassuring in the foreign language and put them back in the big brown bag.
She carried the bag into the kitchen. I followed her. There was a table with a yellow oilcloth over it. She began to lay out forks, spoons and knives. Her father came in, went to the bag, took out the chocolate drops and looked at them.
She took them away patiently. “He loves candy,” she said to me. “Since I’ve stopped him from drinking, he can’t get enough of sweet stuff. The doctor said it’s to be expected.” She carried some plates to the table, set them down, turned to me and said suddenly, “You want to stay for supper? It isn’t much. Hamburgers and potato chips. I don’t have time to cook a big meal.”
“Thanks very much,” I said. “I’ll be glad to stay. But why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Last time I saw you, you froze up. Is asking me to supper Ken’s idea?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “He said if I ever saw you again I should be friendly with you.”
She went out of the kitchen. The father grinned at me and nodded his head. He pointed to the chocolate drops on the table. I patted his arm and smiled back at him.
She came back. She had primped up. She was now wearing a trim, flowered housedress. There was fresh lipstick on her mouth. Two barrettes were clipped to her beautiful hair. She busied herself at the stove and sink.
I sat down at the table and stretched out my legs. “Why did Ken ask you to be friendly with me?”
“He wants me to find out things about you if I can.”
“And you always do as Ken says?”
“Yes,” she said, her back to me.
“It’s funny you’re telling me about it.”
“I don’t care much,” she said listlessly.
“Why?”
She turned around to me. There was a tiny spark in her eyes, just a glint. “Maybe it’s because I like you. Maybe you’re the only one in this town who’s acted like a gentleman, who’s treated me like a lady, who hasn’t called me a dirty whore. Maybe that’s why.” Then the glint disappeared from her eyes. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter much. I don’t care any more. I don’t even care if I die.”
“What makes you think you’re going to die, Leta?”
“Everything Ken touches dies. It gets rotten and dies.”
“Pomeroy, too?”
“I don’t know about Pomeroy.” She turned and faced me. “Why do you keep asking about Pomeroy? You a cop, or something?”
“Me? Do I look like a cop?”
“You could be a cop, only you’re too young. Maybe you’re one of these private eyes.”
I laughed. “Did you ever see a private eye?”
“Once. At the laundry. There was somebody stealing stuff. The boss belongs to some organization and they sent a man down. Anyone could spot him. He was a sneaky fellow who wore a dirty shirt and sneakers. Honest. Sneakers. And a man who can’t afford a clean shirt can’t be making much money. He was sneaking around, poking into everybody’s locker, making a nuisance of himself.”
“And he caught the crook?”
“No. But the stealing stopped. So I guess he did accomplish something. He left a week later. But he was as young as you.”
“And how young is that?”
“About twenty-two,” she said. “You told Ken you were nineteen. You’re older. You’ve got a boyish face, but you’re no teen-ager. Your eyes are too strong, and you don’t act like a kid. You’re more set in your ways.”
“You told that to Ken?”
“No, I didn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask my opinions. He just orders me what to do and I do it. And another thing. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong with Ken and Scotty. You’re not like them at all.”
“Why not?”
“You’re putting on an act,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what your game is, but you’ve been trying to act tough. Maybe you are tough. But it’s a different kind of toughness. It’s deep inside. Did you ever kill anybody?”
I moved in my chair, startled. “That’s a crazy question to ask.”
“I mean, maybe you were a soldier or something.”
“Maybe I was.”
“Where?”
“In Korea.”
“Did you ever kill anybody there?”
“Yes. I killed. But they were enemy soldiers.”
“Did you enjoy killing. Did you like it?”
I thought for a moment. “It’s hard to answer,” I said slowly. “No, I don’t think I enjoyed it. But I felt better after doing it. I felt better because if I didn’t kill them they’d kill me. It made so many less to worry about. If we killed enough of them maybe we could go home. That’s all we thought about.”
“Everybody in this country was having a good time. Were you bitter because you were in Korea?”
“Not exactly bitter. It’s the breaks. That’s the way the ball rolls. Why?”
“It’s like I said, you’re tough inside. You don’t have to wear it outside like a neon sign, the way Ken and Scotty do. They wear it because it’s a dirty yellow toughness to hide their fear. There’s lots of people like that. Arkie Nodecker, lots of others.”
“Is that what you do?” I asked. “Make a study of people?”
“Yes. Why not? I have nothing else to do.”
“And Ken asked you to find out if I was a cop?”
“He didn’t say. All he said was, ‘Find out about that guy.’ I told you I always do what he says. And that’s enough questions back an
d forth. Pull up your chair. The hamburgers are ready.”
We ate. Her father talked softly to the food, fondled it, kept gazing happily at the chocolate drops beside his plate. After supper Leta brought him into his bedroom, sat him in a chair and handed him the chocolate drops. He crooned over them and opened the package. Then she walked into the kitchen. I watched as she gathered up the dishes and brought them over to the sink.
I grabbed a dish towel. “I’ll wipe.”
She glanced at me blankly. Then she laughed, a short, almost hysterical laugh.
“What’s the joke?” I asked.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “It’s the first time. The first time in my life anybody offered to wipe the dishes. Are you married, Ralph?”
“No, Leta.”
“You wouldn’t tell me the truth anyway.”
“It’s the truth,” I said.
She was silent until I finished drying the dishes. Then she said, “In all my life I’ll remember this day. Thank you. You make me feel almost human again. Come into the living room and have a cigarette with me.”
We went into the living room. She sat on the couch and I sat down in a maple rocker across from her. We smoked without talking. When she put her cigarette out, I snubbed out mine. I went over and sat down beside her. My arm went around her. I felt her back stiffen at my touch.
“Don’t,” she whispered inarticulately.
But I tilted her head up. I kissed her soft, fragrant mouth. Her lips began to tremble under my pressure and I felt a trickle on my face. I sat back and looked at her. She was crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“What do you want me to do now?” she cried. “Take off my clothes?”
“No,” I said. “I only wanted to kiss you.”
“God, God,” she said. She clutched me, her nails digging into my arms. She kissed me so hard her teeth cut into my lip. My arms went around her soft waist. I pulled her in very close. I felt her full warm breasts against me, a scent of perfumed soap.
“You’re a sweet kid,” she murmured, her mouth moving against mine. “A real sweet kid.”
Sure, I thought. Ralph Lindsey, a sweet kid. Clean-cut, straightforward, gentlemanly. And, like almost every other male, a girl gives him half a look and he’s all around her like a hoop around a barrel.
Suddenly she pushed me away. “Go home,” she said urgently. “Don’t come back.”
“Don’t tease me,” I said. “We’re getting along fine. Besides, you want to give Ken a report, don’t you?”
“I’ll say you told me nothing. But do this. Please. Go away. Get out of Carlton.”
“Why should I?”
“You know why,” she said. “You’re in with a bad gang.”
“How bad?”
“Bad enough,” she said. “The worst.”
“That tells me nothing.”
“Please,” she said. “I don’t know who you are, or what you’ve done. But you can’t be as bad as them.”
“Why not? What have they done?”
“What do you want me to do? Put a gun to my head and pull the trigger? I’m telling you to leave town. Now. Before it’s too late.”
“I’ve got no reason to leave. I’ve got a good job. Ken treats me right.”
She laughed bitterly. “You don’t know him. You never met a person like him. He looks soft like mush. But he has a little web he spins. He’s the spider. You’re the fly. Soon he’ll have you so tangled in the web, you’ll be like me.”
“What’s Ken done that’s so bad?”
“Look,” she said earnestly. “What’s the worst a man can do? Killing, isn’t it?”
“Is that why you asked me if I had killed? Are you trying to compare me with Ken?”
“No. You were a soldier. You killed the enemy. You were overseas fighting for your country. Ken did it here in the States.”
“He killed Pomeroy,” I said. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Why do you always come back to Pomeroy?” she asked. “I don’t know if Ken killed him.”
“You seem to know everything else about Ken.”
“No, I hardly know anything about him. I don’t know where he comes from, or even his real name. But I do know he’s bad. He murdered people. He was once called The Executioner. He did it for money, for people who paid him. One day he made a mistake and killed the wrong person. He had to come here to hide. That much I know about him.”
“He told you this?”
“Yes, he told me,” she said impatiently. “He told me he killed people and he never got caught. He said he had a system.”
“What system?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “All he said was he had a system. He knows guns. He carries one almost all the time. He calls it his ‘baby.’ In back of his barn he has a target. He’s always practicing. He knows so much about ‘baby’ he can take it apart and put it together in a minute. In the dark. I’ve seen him do it. He’s crazy about his ‘baby.’”
“He might be a lot of talk, Leta.”
“Please,” she said. “Here’s what he told me. He was working for somebody. He hired out for jobs. He talked about KC. He had been there.”
“Kansas City,” I said. “Go on.”
“He told me the way he used to do it. It was a business. He’d be assigned to kill a man. He’d strike up an acquaintance with the man, get real friendly, treat him nice, watch every move the man made. Then he’d kill him with his gun. He said you have to have a lot of patience and pick out the right spot for the job. That’s the way he spoke about it. A job. Like my job working in the laundry.” She took a deep breath. “Then he made a mistake like I told you. He killed the wrong person. He said he had to pack in and go on the dodge.”
“And you don’t know his real name?”
“No, and I wouldn’t care to find out.” She stood up and brushed at the skirt of her dress. “Now you know, Ralph. So go home, grab your things and get out of town.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, standing up. “I’ll go if you come with me.”
“It’s too late for me,” she said quietly.
“I mean it,” I said.
“It’s too late. Even if you were a cop I couldn’t go away with you. I’m caught. I’m locked in a cage. I can never get out.”
“Why?”
She shook her head. Her voice was so low I could scarcely hear her. “Go away, before I start losing my marbles. That’s me. That’s how nutty I am. I meet a decent man once in my life and I send him away.”
*
So I finally left her. I went back to the rooming house. I climbed the stairs to my room, sat down on the bed and began to think.
It wasn’t right. I had made love to Leta Joyce Nofke and it wasn’t part of the job, like Newpole had said. There was no use deceiving myself about the love-making part. I had wanted to do that on my own. And if she had taken me into her bedroom, I would have gone there, too.
Because, I thought, you’re not the fine, upright exception to the rule. You’re the other kind. It seemed to boil down to one thing. Whether a man is married, or single, or engaged, if the opportunity shows up and a woman can be taken, he’ll take her. And the exceptions are few and far between. Perhaps the main idea was to get information from Leta. Also, perhaps I felt sorry for her and thought she needed love and attention. But it wasn’t all pity on my part. And that wasn’t why I had made love to her.
So I sat there on the bed and began to feel like a first-class heel. Something else was bothering me, another part of the job I didn’t like. It was this worming your way in, having people expose their hidden thoughts, their secrets, lying about what you really were, the worst part of undercover work.
I took out a cigarette and lit it slowly. I kept thinking of how it would be to put on the uniform again, with the badge on the left breast pocket, with the big gun belt, with the flap holster by the side, with the breeches, and even the damn black puttees that chafed the legs. Bec
ause then there would be no mistaking me. People would see I was a cop and there would be no subterfuge about it.
I leaned back in the bed and blew smoke up at the gray, cob-webbed ceiling. I would see Leta again. She knew enough about what was going on. But she was all frozen up inside and it would take time to thaw her out. I would take the time. And the sad, the senseless, part of it was that I was looking forward to it.
That was the other thing that gnawed at my mind. Not until I had come into my room had I once thought about Ellen. Me, with my wedding only ten days away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THERE WASN’T MUCH DOING AT THE GARAGE THE next morning. There was no car to work on. I did some housecleaning chores, filled the lube machine, oiled tools. Osanger puttered around inside his office with Scotty Cluett. The door was closed and, although I drifted over to it once in a while, I couldn’t hear them talking. Then suddenly the door opened and Osanger called me in.
I walked into the office. Cluett was leaning against the wall. As usual, he said nothing to me. But his eyes on me were as cold as ice.
Osanger said, “Ralph, how would you like to earn a few extra bucks?”
“How much extra?” I asked.
“Say a hundred,” Osanger said.
“What’s the job?”
“It’s a job you can handle,” he said assuringly. “We’re short a man since Vince is gone. I saw the way you talked to the state cops the other night. You’ve been around, kid.”
“What’s the job?” I asked again.
“When the time comes I’ll tell you.”
“I’m not walking in blind,” I said. “I’ve got one score against me. It’s got to be safe.”
“It’s safe. I’ve never handled a job unless it was safe.”
“All right,” I said. “What do I do and when?”
“I’ll tell you when the time comes,” Osanger said. His .32 Colt automatic was lying flat on the desk. He was peering at it very carefully. His eyes came up and caught mine. “My baby,” he said. “I wanted to know what the cops did to it.”
He released the magazine catch and took out the clip. Then, swiftly and sure-fingeredly, he pushed the slide back, gave it a quarter turn and disengaged the lug. The slide came forward. He gave the barrel another quarter turn. The barrel came out, slick and oil-shiny. It hadn’t taken more than ten seconds.
