by Robert Bloch
But why fault them for this? All his life Warren had wondered about the phenomenon. We claim to admire virtue, honesty, loyalty, charity, compassion, self-sacrifice and all achievement that improves the lot of mankind. But we bestow our greatest rewards on those who may possess none of these attributes. On people whose only skills involve throwing a ball, kicking a ball, hitting a ball with a stick, tossing it through a hoop, swatting it over a net, pushing it into a hole in the ground. To our claim of intelligence there is only one answer—balls.
As if to punctuate his pronuncement, Warren heard the click of mallet against wooden spheroid from the small park ahead. Croquet players at work. Too enfeebled for more active sports, they were still balling as best they could. Beyond them, on a bench under the trees, walnut-faced men watched the play with listless, heavy-lidded eyes, but their thoughts were obviously elsewhere.
Warren caught a fragment of conversation as he passed.
“Now you take Baby Ruth. I remember when they first come out—so big it was like getting a whole meal for a nickel.”
“What about Three Musketeers? And Milky Ways—now there was a bar for you—”
Two old men, bragging about the size of their candy bars in their youth. Or were they? It didn’t matter now, for both were toothless and their appetites were dead.
Warren thought of the nostalgia craze, the hobbyists who haunted second-hand stores and antique shops searching for artifacts of a bygone age. A waste of time; you couldn’t find the past in a junkheap. Better for them to come here and listen to the old men. They were the only ones who really remembered, who told it like it was.
The real secret of time travel was memory. Warren was younger than most of the others here, but he could still recall his early childhood—buttonhooks for shoes, strips of flypaper hanging in the windows of corner grocery stores, open pans under the ice box. He’d owned armies of lead soldiers, paraded his wooden circus toys, seen real circus parades pass down the street, followed by street cleaners in their pith helmets and white coats. He’d lived in a world where Dad started the flivver with a crank-handle and Mom put camphorated oil on his chest when he had a cold; the world of the last Chatauqua shows and the first superheterodyne radios. It was all there in the memory banks, neatly stacked away—row after row of Weird Tales magazines, ornate three-sheets advertising the advent of Fred Stone or Otis Skinner, files of Sunday comic strips. After you, my dear Alphonse.
And think what these others remembered! Decoration Day parades with Civil War veterans marching down the street, Sousa’s band, horsecollars and bird-of-paradise hats, Tom shows, minstrels, Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. Right here in Eden there were probably men and women who had heard the voice of Mark Twain, seen Lillian Russell plain, shaken the hand of Teddy Roosevelt.
Warren turned down the side street bordering the far end of the recreation area, glancing at the cluster of lower-priced residences as he passed. All spotless and shiny, neat and new, but every one a miniature museum in which were preserved almost extinct beliefs, attitudes and life styles. And the untarnished memories of barbershop quartets, Mr. Dooley, the Wright Brothers—
A jet snarled overhead, smog-smudging the shattered sky.
And Warren came down to earth, just in time to hear the beep of the horn behind him.
He moved quickly, stepping out of the path of the big red panel truck bearing down on him. As he did so he caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver’s face grinning down at him beneath a dark halo of hair.
“Hey, why don’t you look where you’re going?” Warren’s response was automatic, but it was lost in the repeated blast of the horn as the truck swept past without slackening speed.
He stood there, momentarily shaken, watching the vehicle swerve off and begin climbing the hillside. Gears shifted into low on the steep slope, and at a distance the truck seemed to slow to a crawl.
Crawl was the appropriate word.
For although Warren didn’t know it, the serpent was entering Eden.
SEVEN
Mick parked in the driveway, climbed down out of the cab, walked over to the frontdoor and rang the bell.
The whole bit took maybe thirty, forty seconds, you know? But already he felt wet under the arms as he stood there holding his clipboard. Like today was gonna be another hot one.
He scowled, thinking how it must be down at the beach, tearing along 101 on a big Harley with some tail riding tailgate behind. Super. Instead he was stuck here on the job.
The job. That’s what he had to think about now. And maybe it would cool off by tonight. Wipe that frown off your face, Mick baby.
And just in time, too, because the door was opening and Mrs. Marks stood squinting up at him. He laid a heavy smile on her.
“Good morning. Remember me—Mick Sharpe, from Pringle’s Catering Service?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Sharpe—”
“Mick.”
She liked that, he could tell. The long hair turned them off, but the friendly routine always worked.
“Please come in.”
He followed her into the hall. She was wearing a pants-suit. He hated to see an old klutz in one of those outfits, you know, with the big fat butt hanging out, only on her it wasn’t bad. She had a nice wiggle, even at her age, and maybe with a little promoting—
No, not on the job. Not on this job.
“Here we are.”
The living room was like he remembered—fancy fireplace, Spanish furniture, what did they call it, Mediterranean, and the windows opening onto the patio. Mick double checked with the floor plan on the clipboard, the one he’d sketched when he first came out here last week. Everything jibed.
“I was thinking of having the bar over here.” Mrs. Marks pointed at the open area before the French windows.
Mick shook his head, remembering to give her a big smile. “Maybe we’re better off putting it in the corner there.” He moved over to the spot he had in mind. “If we set it up at an angle it saves floor space. And you won’t have any traffic problem—you know, the bartender can go out to get more mixer or ice without having to cross the room.”
“I guess you’re right.” But she wasn’t completely sold, he could see that.
“Another thing.” He nodded toward the French windows. “Suppose some of your guests want to go out on the patio. With the bar over there, it’d be in their way.”
“I never thought of that.”
But he had, and not because of the guests, either. So it was good when she nodded and told him to go ahead. “Did you bring the bar with you?” she said.
“No, we’ll set it up tonight. Only takes a few minutes, and there’s no sense cluttering up the place now.”
“What about the service?”
“Everything comes out this evening.” Mick riffled through the sheets on the clipboard until he found the list. “Let me run through this now and make sure there’s no mistake. You’re expecting fifteen, including yourself and Mr. Marks, that is?”
She shook her head. “One couple, the Danzigers, can’t make it. Mrs. Danziger has the flu. And we invited Mr. Beckley, one of the estate managers, but he called last night and cancelled off. They’re having a big dance up at the clubhouse this evening, and naturally he has to be there. So it looks like we’re going to be down to twelve.”
“No problem. We can still give you the same rate.” Mick ran his pencil down the order sheet. “Let’s see, now. You wanted the Imperial pattern, the Grandee silver service, Melford crystal—”
“What about the liquor order and the food? Do you think we ought to cut down?”
“Let me make a suggestion, ma’am.” She liked that, too, the “ma’am” bit. “We’ll keep things just the way they are. That way, if anybody wants seconds or they do a little more drinking than you expected, you don’t have to worry about running short. And it doesn’t cost you extra, because you only pay for what you use.” He winked at her. “I don’t have to tell the boss anything. As far as he’s concerned, three of your
guests just didn’t show at the last minute.”
That she really loved. “You’re very considerate.”
“Thank you.” He moved toward the archway at the right. “If I can just double check the dining room and kitchen—”
“Of course.”
Mick stood aside, letting her turn and lead him down the hall. That way she wouldn’t notice him sneaking another look at the den as he passed the door.
The old man was in there again, but this time he was just sitting behind his desk reading a paper. Not like the other day when he stood in the corner, pulling the picture aside and reaching up to open the wall safe behind it. The old man didn’t look at Mick now and he hadn’t seen him then, either, because his back had been to the door. But Mick saw enough that first time to start planning a party of his own, you know? A surprise party, like.
Now they were in the dining room and Mick went into the clipboard bit again, taking notes.
“I’ve ordered some flowers for a centerpiece,” Mrs. Marks said. “Will they be in the way?”
Mick shook his head. “We’ll just use the table for laying out plates and napkins and silver. When your guests pick up their service they move around to the kitchen door.” Mick circled the table to the doorway. “We set up our own buffet unit right in the doorway and serve them here. That way we keep all the hot dishes in the kitchen, no running back and forth. Okay?”
“That sounds wonderful.” Mrs. Marks moved past him into the kitchen. “Now what do you want me to lay out for you here?”
“Nothing. We’ll have everything ready to go when we bring it in. That means you don’t have to use your stove or clear the refrigerator, and we furnish all our own utensils, too.”
“You think of everything, don’t you?”
Goddam right I do, lady. Mick laid another smile on her. “We do our best.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm as they went back along the hall and into the living room again.
“What time can I expect you this evening?” Mrs. Marks said. “The invitations are for eight, you know.”
“I remember.” Mick pretended he was figuring. “You’d better tell the security people we’ll be coming through the service gate at seven-thirty.”
Mrs. Marks frowned. “I wasn’t planning on serving dinner until around eleven. Are you sure the hot dishes will keep that long?”
He patted the clipboard. “Here’s how we work it. The bartender comes with me at seven-thirty. We set up the bar, put out the appetizers, serve drinks. There’ll be two more people handling the buffet, but you won’t need them so early. I’ll have them bring in the hot dishes on a second truck, about ten-thirty.”
“Will that give them enough time?”
“All they do is come in the back way, put everything in the kitchen and stick the buffet table in the doorway. They’ll be ready to serve in fifteen minutes.”
“You make it all sound so simple.”
“It is when you know how, ma’am.” He nodded, moved to the front door. “Now don’t worry—everything’s under control.”
“Thank you, Mick.” She opened the door for him. “I’ll see you tonight, then?”
“Seven-thirty.”
Over and out. Out to the truck, and all systems go. Everything under control, everything simple. Yeah. Like, he was under control and she was simple.
They were all simple. Driving back down the hill and along the route to the service gate, Mick eyeballed the scene. Old creeps in golf caps shuffling along, feeble looking broads watering their lawns, sitting on benches. He wondered if any of them were going to be at the party. Jesus, the way they looked they wouldn’t last until tonight. But if they did, he’d handle them. Anybody tries stepping out of line, they get it right in the old pistachios.
But they wouldn’t try, not these creeps. They were chicken to begin with. All you had to do was lean a little, you know, and they’d fold. And not just the old ones, Most people run scared, scared spitless.
Like that hunk he’d picked up at the beach the other night, what was her name, Penny something? Maybe fifteen, tops, but coming on so strong, couldn’t wait until he got her into the back of the truck, couldn’t wait until he laid some grass on her, real little smart-ass.
He’d figured her right from the start. It was the grass she was after, and she wasn’t about to put out, just give him the old teaser routine.
Until he got her sweater off, lighted up, then took the roach and burned her nipple. Burned it, hell, he put his other hand over her mouth and ground the goddam thing out against her tit.
When he took his hand away from her mouth she didn’t even try to scream. Because now she knew the score, knew she couldn’t pull any crap. Maybe she hated him, but from then on she’d do anything he said, anything.
Mick grinned, thinking of some of the things he made her do before he dumped her out.
All you needed was to show them who’s boss, that was the secret. After that, no sweat.
And there’d be no sweat tonight.
He drove through the service gate and the security officer nodded, logging his license number on a pad, marking down the time.
Mick had a grin for the security officer, too. Let him recognize his face, memorize the license number, take his frigging fingerprints for all he cared. It didn’t matter.
They could put a hundred guards on duty and it wouldn’t mean a thing. He was coming back tonight and they couldn’t stop him.
Nobody could stop him now.
EIGHT
“There he goes.”
The sharp voice cut through Warren’s reverie and he turned to see the gray-haired woman nodding at him, her big head and broad shoulders framed by the shutters of the kitchen window through which she peered.
“Mrs. Humphreys—good morning.”
The woman nodded again in acknowledgement of the greeting, but her attention was obviously directed elsewhere. Fat-jowled Carrie Humphreys had the face of a bespectacled bulldog, and the eyes behind the heavy lenses were squinting past him up the street as she spoke.
“Isn’t that the young man who almost ran over you?”
Warren followed her gaze just in time to see the red panel truck disappearing around the corner.
“I didn’t notice—”
“Well, I did.” The voice was not only sharp but quick as it deftly sliced through his reply. “I saw you over on Arcadia when I was coming home from the store about half an hour ago. You were just crossing at the corner when he came up behind you.”
“It was my fault. I should have been watching where I was going.” Warren’s shrug was both an apology and a dismissal.
“Nonsense!” Once a bulldog gets a grip it doesn’t let go. “Can’t they read signs? The posted speed limit is twenty miles an hour; he was doing at least thirty-five. You ought to report him.”
“He did blow his horn. I’m sure it was just an accident.”
“That’s what it would have been, if you hadn’t jumped out of the way. And for all he knew, you couldn’t move that fast. I tell you, those hippies don’t care what they do!”
“I don’t think he was a hippy—”
“Of course that’s what he was! Didn’t you see the long hair? He looked just like Alfred.”
Oh-oh, here we go. Warren started to move away but the voice tugged and held firm.
“You’ve met my son, haven’t you? Then you know what I mean.”
Warren nodded resignedly. He’d met Alfred Humphreys several times, usually on weekends when he and Sylvia had dinner at the clubhouse. A polite, soft-spoken man in his early thirties, almost painfully devoted to his mother. True, his hair was long enough to curl over his collar, but that was typical and acceptable these days, even for investment counselors. From what Sylvia said, young Humphreys was a very successful one, doing well enough to support his mother in comfort here at Eden. And his regular visits and obvious deference told far more about him than his haircut. Hippies seldom are afflicted with a stammer, and they trade their silv
er cords for guitar-strings. Warren tried to imagine Alfred Humphreys with a guitar, and failed miserably. Mother wouldn’t approve.
“No gratitude, no consideration.” The bulldog had him by the ear. “You should have seen our apartment. It’s still one of the nicest buildings in the Wilshire district and we’d lived there over fifteen years, ever since my husband passed on. I’m not the worst housekeeper in the world if I do say so myself. If there’s one thing I insist on it’s keeping everything spic and span—as I used to say to Alfred, I like to see things so clean you can eat off the floor. But do you think he was satisfied?”
Three guesses. Warren glanced around, seeking escape, some reasonable excuse to move away. But the street was momentarily deserted and the bulldog barked on.
“After all I did for him, raising him practically single handed, to move out and leave his own mother all alone in the world! Of course he did buy this place, but he’s not fooling me for an instant. I know he’s just keeping up appearances, pretending, he’s a dutiful son. Heaven knows, I did my best to bring him up that way. I preached responsibility to him for years, but it means nothing to him, nothing at all. Why, for all he knows, I could drop dead of a heart attack this very minute and he wouldn’t bat an eye.” Carrie Humphreys batted both eyes and shook her head with a vigor which belied any hint of imminent cardiac arrest.
Warren searched for a smile. “You really don’t have to worry about being alone here,” he said. “There’s always someone around if you need them.”
“Like that hippy who tried to run you down?” Mrs. Humphreys bared her canines. “Nobody’s safe nowadays. Nobody! All these drug addicts and sex perverts running wild in the streets—don’t you read the papers? Seems like every time I turn on the TV there’s a news report about some poor old lady being hit over the head and robbed in a parking lot; even in the elevator of her own apartment building.”
“Perhaps that’s why your son wanted you down here, where we have around-the-clock security patrols,” Warren said. “Did you ever think about that?”
