“I’m sorry.” She meant it. She never wanted to quarrel with him. There was no one in the world she loved more.
He smiled. “Don’t patronize me, Sweetheart. I’m a warrior priest, not a saint or a hermit.”
She swore under her breath, a very unladylike thing to do, and then laughed.
• • •
However, sitting on the train all the way back to London, she was unable to put Matthew’s grief out of her mind, and the growing concern that the young man whose death so troubled him was Daniel Carslake. She recalled too vividly his face earlier in the evening, and the strange mixture of emotions she had seen in it at mention of Fascist achievements. It was when they had mentioned order in the streets that he had changed. For a moment, before he had deliberately masked it, there had been horror in his eyes. As if she had spoken it aloud again, she recalled mention of beating Jews in the street in Berlin, leaving them for dead. Had Daniel been Matthew’s man? Was that how the Intelligence Services saw Ivor, and the others, even her?
• • •
She had dinner with Ivor that evening, and his face lit up with pleasure when she entered the room. He came to her immediately and gave her a warm hug and a kiss that was more than just a greeting. All her doubts slid away. She was being ridiculous. She hugged him back.
“How was Cambridgeshire?” he asked.
“Same as always,” she replied, wanting to forget it. “It doesn’t change much.”
“Don’t let it get you down, darling,” he replied lightly. “Most people’s families are the war generation, and they won’t ever be the same again. The deep layers of that kind of damage don’t really heal, even if they make the effort to look as if they have. That’s why we mustn’t ever allow it to happen again, whatever the cost.”
“I know that,” she said quickly. “Only a fool thinks it will be easy. Let’s join the others.”
• • •
Over the next few weeks, the crisis regarding Prince Edward and Wallis Simpson seemed to grow more urgent. Churchill spoke of the darkening situation in Europe, although his followers were few. More seemed to believe, as the government leadership did, that there was no real cause for concern.
Lucas Garrow emerged as something of a leader, more extreme than Ivor, more passionate to force a commitment from people. A few of the others admired him very much. Maude was less certain, and openly preferred Ivor. The tension between them grew. No one gave it those terms, but it was becoming a clash for the leadership. The more extreme Lucas became, the more Ivor was obliged to outdo him to retain control.
It came to a head one evening when they had attended a performance of Shakespeare in the park and were leaving together.
“Dan would have liked that,” Maude said with a catch of sorrow in her voice.
“He was a dreamer,” Lucas said with contempt. “Our parents dreamed, and look where it got them. Grow up, Maude. Face reality, before it overtakes you and crushes the light and hope out of you, as it did them.” He stared ahead, looking at none of them, his face full of pain in the waning light. “You’re either for peace, or for war…right, Ivor?” It was a provocation, and there was no mistaking it.
In that moment, Jenny hated him. It was not so much what he said—they all knew it was true—it was the fury with which he said it, the challenge.
“We all need dreams,” she said quickly, before Ivor could speak. “They give us something to believe in.”
“Spoken like a woman,” Lucas said angrily, looking at her, then away again as if her words, even her face, infuriated him with its inner weakness.
“We have to look as if we believe in them,” Ivor said, coming to Jenny’s defense. “You’re too obvious, Lucas. For God’s sake, use a little camouflage, man! We’ve got to take them with us. We need to show them that Hitler is no threat to us, and we can’t do that by accusation. Right, Maude?”
“Absolutely,” she agreed. “We’ve got to make people see that it’s not England’s problem. The changes into a new and better world with more social justice are going to be difficult. People don’t like change. It frightens them. But it’s necessary…really, we’ve no choice.”
“Except going back to the old order, and another war,” Ivor added. He took Jenny’s arm. “Come on. We’ve got far too much to do to waste time quarrelling within ourselves. You’re either with us, Lucas, or you’re not!”
Jenny hoped he was not, but she did not say so.
• • •
Jenny believed that her pictures of Edward and Wallis Simpson were good, but she was taken by surprise by the serious praise they both received. For a few days she basked in the appreciation. But she did not see portraiture as her future. She was still grieved over Daniel’s death, and angry with herself that she had taken a dozen photographs of the event, albeit from a distance, and in poor light, but not one of them helped identify anybody involved.
It was Lucas Garrow who raised the issue again. They were walking together on the way home from a meeting, and she realized he had deliberately chosen the opportunity to be alone with her when he spoke of it.
“You actually photographed Daniel being murdered, and caught nothing at all of use,” he said bitterly. “How the hell did that happen? I’d like to believe you aren’t protecting anyone, but it’s not easy.”
She found Lucas abrasive anyway, but now she was really angry. “Of course I’m not protecting anyone! I wouldn’t do that, even if I hadn’t liked them. That’s a filthy thing to say! Damn it, even if someone attacked you, I’d turn them in, if I had any evidence.”
He gave her a bleak, twisted smile. “Would you? I see you as an impulsive idealist. I think you’d follow your heart.”
“I had no time to attach a flash and, with all that movement, there is no shutter speed that would have caught it. They all came out too dark to distinguish anybody,” she explained. “Don’t you think I wish I had?” Guilt and misery brought her quite suddenly close to tears, and in front of Lucas Garrow, of all people.
“Are you willing to try again?” he asked more gently.
“There’s no point.”
“Let me try,” he urged.
“There’s no point!”
“You’re hiding something,” he accused.
“Alright! Do your damnedest. There’s nothing to see! Then apologize, and leave me alone.”
They walked the rest of the way to her flat in angry silence, and she showed him the darkroom. She let him do the work. He seemed to know at least the technical side of developing, if not the artistic. One after another the dark pictures emerged, indistinguishable as she had said. He looked at each one closely, detail by detail, which she watched, still wretched at her own failure.
Then a cold, frightening thought occurred to her. Was he looking to see if he could identify anyone? Or to make sure that he could not? That no one could! She felt her heart racing and the sweat breaking out on her body.
That was when she saw it again, only a very small, bright shape in the corner of the print.
“What?” he asked instantly.
“Probably nothing,” she replied. “Just a…”
“There in the corner!” He had seen it too. He enlarged it as much as he could and peered at the image. It was small, bright, irregular, a piece of jewelry lying on the pavement a couple of feet from the dead man’s hand. She knew what it was…a man’s cufflink, beautiful, unique. She had given them to Ivor last Christmas. He had been wearing them that evening.
She remembered him standing behind her as she developed these pictures. He had not been looking to see if he recognized anyone, he was making sure they were bad enough that she could not recognize him.
And if she had? She could feel his hand on her neck now. One swift move and he could have killed her. Would he have done it?
“What is it?” Lucas said quietly. “What do you see, Jenny?” Now there was a gentleness in him, almost compassion.
“The cufflink,” she replied. “It’s…Ivor�
�s.”
“I’m sorry. But it makes no difference. I must take it to my boss.”
“Your boss?” She pulled away. She knew it was inevitable, and yet it felt like a betrayal of Ivor, as if he had been torn apart and exposed as something utterly different from all she had let herself believe. How could she not have known? “No!”
Lucas waited, sadness in his face. “Daniel was one of his men,” he said. “He won’t let it go. You know that, Jenny.”
She stared at him in the dim light of the red bulbs.
“You’ve known Matthew since you were born. He makes the hard decisions. So must you. There are many kinds of war, many losses.”
“You work for Matthew?”
“I’ll make two prints of this. I’ll take one, and I’ll give it to him if you don’t give him the other. But I’ll leave it to you first.”
That was a trust she had not expected, and she would honor it, because she had no choice, whatever Lucas did. It was the price that her Uncle Joseph had spoken of, the weapons you would not use. “Thank you.”
HE’LL KILL AGAIN
by Heywood Gould
I ain’t been the same since that brawl. The paramedic said my palpitations would go away, but they got worse. It felt like my heart was fixin’ to jump right outta my throat.
I knew this dude was gonna kill again. It made me sick worryin’ about it.
I went to the clinic at the college and they sent me to a shrink. Not a real one, but one of them psych majors who’s gettin’ class credit workin’ in the office. I’m only janitorial services. They save the real doctors for the students.
Little bitty girl, not from here. Don’t see alotta local kids in the college.
I told her about that sick, scary feeling in my gut when I know somethin’ bad’s gonna happen. She said violence is always upsetting, but I should look on it as an isolated incident that won’t be repeated.
I told her it’ll sho’ nuf be repeated as long as this dude is out there. She was checkin’ my employment record, scribblin’ notes. I’m going to send you over to see Dr. Klein, she said. He’ll give you something that will help you put this thing in perspective.
The dude’s on the prowl and they wanted to dope me up. Okay, fine. Can’t say I didn’t warn ’em.
I figured I’d talk to the old man. I asked at O’Meara’s, but they didn’t remember him. We have five fights a night, they said. Not like this one, I told ’em. This dude was tryin’ to kill somebody. The old man stepped in. Don’t worry about it, they kept sayin’. To them I’m just a dumb redneck janitor, hands all muddy from retimin’ the sprinklers. Okay fine, they don’t have to pay me no mind neither. I know what I saw. The old man knew, too. I jus’ had to find ’em.
Right off campus they got this section called the Village with pizza joints and bars where the students get hammered on Thursday nights. That’s why they made Friday a light day for classes, I guess. School’s right in the middle of the city, so close to the bayous you get that steamin’ fog, especially in the summer. Sometimes a stink of garbage or dead fish blows over like a cloud. People say it’s a sign there’s a dead body rottin’ in the swamp. Students are mostly rich kids, except for the ballplayers. Fancy cars gleamin’ in the parking lot. High end electronics and fancy jewelry. You see a girl in cutoffs and a halter top with diamond earrings and bracelets and all, just to go to class.
Every other Thursday is payday. I take a fifty out of my envelope and go over to the Village to watch the fun. O’Meara’s is real rowdy. Big dance floor, but it’s so crowded all the people can do is stand nose to nose, yellin’ in each other’s faces. Horseshoe bar, I sit in the corner. Good view of the dance floor and the street. Most of the night I’m passin’ drinks back to the people behind me, holdin’ two or three in each hand, and never spill a drop. Bartenders trust me to pass the money and change, too. Slide me free beers.
There’s off duty cops and firemen supposed to be keepin’ order, but all they do is check IDs and talk to the girls. It takes a few hours for everybody to get ramped up—chuggin’ vodka Red Bulls and Cosmos, poppin’ them go pills—and then the show starts. You hear the dudes yellin’, girls shriekin’, glasses breakin’, chairs and tables goin’ over. The doorguys shove through the crowd and drag people out. I seen a few dogpiles, dudes comin’ up all bloody and staggerin’ around. Girls with their stuff all torn off, you know, free show. The doorguys get ’em out in the street and they’re like stumblin’ right into traffic, horns honkin’, people cursin’ across to the parkin’ lot. Cars peelin’ out and bouncin’ over the curb, tires squealin’. It quiets down as they sweep up the broken glass. Then maybe a half hour later you hear the screamin’ and you know it’s startin’ up all over again. It’s just a goof, not serious. Like a reality show, like everybody wants you to see ’em brawlin’ and the girls gettin’ half-naked.
But this thing last week was different. It kinda exploded out of nowhere. Two girls at the bar. One second they’re talkin’, but before you know it one smashes a glass into the other one’s face. They start screechin’ and clawin’. Blood pourin’ like out of a faucet.
These two dudes who were with them went for each other. Big dude banged the other dude’s head on the bar like he knew what to do in a bar fight. Everybody was choosin’ sides. The bartenders ducked as bottles came flyin’ and cracked the mirror. Doorguys swingin’ police batons like they was scythin’ weeds, I never seen ’em do that before. Crowd moved like a wave to the door, carryin’ this girl, holdin’ a dirty bar rag to her face, blood comin’ out between her fingers. Cursin’ and swingin’, I’m gonna get you bitch!
There was a quiet voice in my ear: Think she’s screamin’ now? Wait’ll she sobers up and sees that bloody gash on her face.
Outside, it chilled for a second when the doorguys got everybody separated. But then outta nowhere that same dude, wide load like a nose tackle, came bustin’ outta the crowd at this little dark-faced dude. Then their friends got into it, people goin’ down hard on the sidewalk, jumpin’ up and swingin’ wild, everybody fightin’ like they meant it. Let ’em kill each other, the doorguys was sayin’.
That girl was havin’ a conniption fit, screamin’ and rollin’ on the ground. People arguin’ about should they wait for the ambulance or drive her to the hospital before she bleeds to death.
The dark-faced dude was on his knees, head all bloody. People talkin’ about how this brawl’s for the books.
Then I heard this gaggin’, chokin’ sound like a rusty hinge. Footsteps shufflin’ and a thump like somethin’ hittin’ the ground. It froze me, I admit it. I was scared to turn around. Like I almost knew what I was gonna see.
There’s a dark narrow alley between the bar and the pizza place. Must have been a car turned in and high beam lit up the alley right onto the big dude’s face. He was lyin’ on the cobblestones, mouth open, breath rattlin’. A shadow in the dark was sittin’ on his shoulders. Couldn’t see nothin’ but hands around his neck, thumbs pushin’ down his windpipe.
It was like all them self-defense YouTube videos. How do you get out of a chokehold? You don’t. If the dude knows what he’s doing you got a coupla seconds before you start to lose consciousness. Then, you die, if that’s what he wants you to do.
Like them animal videos. The predator catches the prey. There’s a second of wild thrashin’, but then the predator clamps down and the prey kinda relaxes and gives up.
The world was froze. Nothin’ moved but them hands pressin’ harder. The dude wasn’t movin’, that’s for sure. Eyes wide open, starin’ at the moon.
My feet was stuck in cement. Heart poundin’. That sick, scary feelin’ in my gut. Voices around me.
He’s gonna kill him.
Looks like his eyes are poppin’ out of his head.
I wanna go home…
The old man came down the alley like he’d been standin’ in the dark all along. He poked at the shadow with a metal cane, jabbin’ him so hard in the ribs it had to hurt.
The shadow jumped up and melted into the darkness. Footsteps runnin’ until you couldn’t hear ’em.
I caught up to the old man at the end of the alley.
“Hey Pop, you saved that dude’s life.”
His eyes were big like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Better get away from here, son,” he said. He took off down the alley. You wouldn’t think anybody that old could limp that fast on a cane, but he was makin’ a new world record.
I walked around back. Didn’t hear no motor drivin’ away. That dude was hidin’ somewhere; I could feel it in my gut. Maybe crouchin’ down somewhere gettin’ set to jump me. Choke me to death.
I don’t know why, but I wasn’t scared. Like I was darin’ him to try somethin’. I walked slow all the way around back by the dumpsters and turned the corner to the front of the bar. It was like a movie, police lights blinkin’ and ambulances pullin’ up. The girl who got smashed with the glass was lyin’ on a stretcher with a bloody ice bag on her face. Paramedics crowdin’ around that dude in the alley had somethin’ under his head and was talkin’ to him, but he didn’t answer, just kept lookin’ up at the moon.
A detective was leanin’ back against a police car. Big redfaced guy in a dark suit, tie all tight up against his neck on a hot night like this, wipin’ his face with a handkerchief. Tony Lama custom boots, you can tell by the heel.
Killer Nashville Noir Page 19
