Murdering Americans

by Ruth Edwards

  ‘That’s totally cool.’

  The baroness saw and learned a lot during the walk that depressed her. ‘Why do students eat all the time?’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Look. That one’s eating crisps. And the one with her is scoffing a bar of something. And half of them are glugging something out of a bottle.’ She stopped. ‘Look at that crowd beside that building. They’re all eating hamburgers.’

  ‘That’s because they’re like going to have to fast in a minute. Look at the banner.’

  The baroness squinted into the sunlight. ‘PLAY POVERTY. What’s that?’

  ‘It’s like a sociology programme. You get a credit for like spending lunchtime role-playing being poor, so you don’t get much to eat.’

  ‘You’re having me on.’

  Betsy shook her head. The baroness was so appalled she didn’t speak for two minutes. Then she burst out, ‘Why do they all dress so horribly?’

  Betsy was puzzled. ‘Horribly?’

  ‘Look at that group.’ They stopped and surveyed it. ‘Those girls in long, skin-tight rubber knickers, whatever they’re called?’

  ‘They really are, like, called knickers. They’re for sports. You know, cycling and that.’

  ‘Where are the bicycles?’

  ‘They probably don’t do like sports. People wear them cos they like them.’

  ‘My God, how can they like them?’ cried the baroness. ‘Look, the thin girls can just about get away with them, awful as they are, but look at that fat one. She’s bulging out all over.’

  Betsy shrugged. ‘People wear what they want.’

  ‘This place is turning me into a body fascist.’ The baroness jabbed her finger towards the group. ‘Look at those boys with those hideous long, baggy shorts.’ She shook her head. ‘Yecchh! And those grotesque multi-coloured ones?’

  ‘Oh, they’re board shorts. Everyone thinks they’re like really cool.’

  ‘Why are they called that?’

  ‘I think it’s to do with them having been like invented for surf boarding.’

  ‘If you’re surfing, at least the waves cover you. What possible excuse is there to wear them to class?’

  Betsy shrugged again. The baroness looked at her in despair. ‘Are you telling me you could see one of these as a sex object?’

  Betsy shot her a startled look. ‘You mean would I like date one?’

  ‘Look at that fellow there. He’s got a Hawaiian shirt. And that one. His stomach’s flopping over his waistband. And like all the other clones, he’s wearing a stupid baseball hat backwards. Whey do they even need hats? I’m not suggesting they dress like Cary Grant….’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘He’s an elegant dead film star, Betsy, whom, being a realist, I’m not suggesting they emulate, but why do they have to dress so repellently? Or am I just so old-fashioned I don’t realise they look divine.’

  Betsy laughed. ‘I’m not too keen on the look either. I think guys look cuter in like jeans and sweatshirts and showing their hair.’

  ‘So what’s the reason for the fashion?’

  ‘Fashion’s fashion. Why are my shorts frayed? Because it’s fashion. It’s the way it is.’

  ‘But you look good in them. Mind you, you’d look good in anything.’ Another group of students passed in front of them. The baroness shook her head. ‘That’s another thing—though I admit this is not peculiar to the U.S. Why do so many people pay good money to wear advertising slogans? Isn’t that the wrong way round? Shouldn’t you get the advertisers to pay you?’

  ‘I never thought of that.’

  The baroness lost interest in her own rant. ‘What’s that building?’

  ‘The undergrads’ library.’

  ‘And what’s that flag flying from the top? It’s not the Stars and Stripes. Is it a university flag?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can you make out the lettering? It’s too small for me.’

  ‘Sorry, Lady Troutbeck, I can’t make it out either.’

  ‘How good is the library?’

  ‘They say it’s got hundreds of thousands of books, but they’re like going to get rid of most of them because there isn’t much demand.’

  The baroness stopped dead and gazed at her in horror. ‘How can students do without books?’

  ‘We don’t get assigned them much. We get handouts of the bits we need or we like do research on the web. The Provost told the student newspaper that undergrads don’t need books. They need…what did she call it?…software suites.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Computer centres, I guess. The Provost said like students needed to acquire skills that suited their career path. And they came from like computers, not books.’

  ‘The woman’s a barbarian. That’s not what I think a university education is about.’

  ‘In Freeman it is,’ said Betsy quietly. ‘Nowadays people think you’re like a freak if you read. That’s why I’m hoping to make it to Honour College. I’ve heard it’s different there. They still have reading circles and all. Though I heard the Dean’s cracking down on what they can read. A lot of books have like been banned as inappropriate.’

  The reason Betsy had failed to get into Honour College as a freshman, she explained, had to do with so much of her time at high school being given over to cheerleading.

  ‘Why didn’t your parents insist you spend more time on study?’

  ‘My mom insisted I spend more time on cheerleading,’ said Betsy bleakly. ‘You ever heard of soccer moms?’

  ‘Mothers who get over-enthusiastic about how their sons do at soccer?’

  ‘Something like that. Well Mom was the cheerleading equivalent. She took me to cheerleading gyms, to cheer camp, we watched cheer competition tapes. She never like let up. Not for a minute.’

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘Not really. I wasn’t that good so I was always anxious. But Mom said I just had to try harder so I did and I got like the scholarship so I could go to college.’

  ‘But did you want to get to college to cheerlead?’

  ‘I had to get to college. If you don’t get to college you’ve no future. No one will like hire you except to fill shelves at Wal-Mart.’

  ‘Ridiculous.’

  ‘Isn’t it like that in England?’

  The baroness grunted. ‘The bloody government is trying hard to make it like that. But it’s all wrong. Universities are for people who genuinely want to learn. Not for people who want a piece of paper.’

  ‘I’d like to learn. But being a cheerleader doesn’t like leave much time for study. It was as much as I could do to complete basic assignments. It’s not just the practising and the performing. It’s like the socialising. You can’t like get out of it if you want to be popular and if you’re not popular, you won’t be picked for the team. “You work hard. You play hard. You get on the team.” That’s what Coach was always saying.’

  ‘But you were fired.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Because you weren’t popular?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Betsy, opening the hotel door for the baroness. ‘Anyway, I’m glad really cos this job takes less time and you don’t have to worry about like breaking your leg.’

  ***

  When she was satisfied that Betsy had had enough to eat, the baroness said, ‘I’m curious. People have said things to me about low standards on campus. What’s your experience?’

  Betsy looked at her nervously. ‘I work for the Provost’s office, Lady Troutbeck.’

  ‘I’m not going to tell the Provost—or anyone else—anything you say.’

  ‘But there’s been like hassle about this and Dr. Gonzales said if I said anything to anyone I’d be in trouble.’ She shuddered.

  ‘Are you talking about the stories in the Sentinel?’

  Betsy relaxed. ‘So you’ve seen it. I thought all the copies had been like removed from camp
us. And the hotel.’

  ‘They may have been. But some enterprising person brought in some more last night and I happened to pick up a copy.’

  ‘So that’s why you invited me to lunch?’

  ‘It’s why I invited you to lunch today. I’d have invited you soon in any case. I like you.’

  ‘Even if I’m Pollyanna.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because you’re Pollyanna. There’s not that much going on that I find it easy to be glad glad glad about. However, I’d be pleased if you wouldn’t look on the bright side when you’re telling me about campus standards. I’d like the dirt.’

  ‘If I promise to tell you, will you order me up some cheesecake from downstairs?’

  The baroness groaned. ‘You exact a high price, Betsy.’

  ***

  ‘It’s a Faustian pact.’

  Betsy swallowed her last forkful of cheesecake. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Faust was a chap who sold his soul to the devil in exchange for knowledge and power. In this case, your teachers—though that’s clearly the wrong term—sell their souls to the students in exchange for a job.’

  ‘It’s like tough for them, Lady Troutbeck. They’re on contract and they won’t get renewed unless they get like the numbers and the positive student assessments. And they won’t get the numbers and the positive assessments unless the students like them. And the students won’t like them if they make them work and don’t give them like good grades.’

  ‘Unless the students want to learn and the teachers are inspirational?’

  ‘Sure. But if you’re going to college because you have to go to college, if you like just want your degree or you have to pay your own way or you just like want to drink and screw around all the time, what kind of teacher are you going to want? Most kids totally want the one that gives you the handouts that mean you don’t like even have to go to the library, that tells you the questions before the test, that doesn’t care if you like copy stuff off the net, that lets you have a half hour to do a test that’s supposed to be done in five minutes, that tells you bad spelling and punctuation don’t matter, and that rounds the marks up.’

  ‘Is that what you want, Betsy?’

  ‘No. I want to come out of college like knowing something, not having to ask you what you’re talking about all the time because I’m like totally ignorant. I didn’t have time to learn anything much at high school. But it doesn’t seem to me as if the college cares about anything except like getting my money and shutting me up. No one ever says we should like think. They say we shouldn’t.’

  ‘Do many students feel like you?’

  ‘A few.’ Betsy looked at the baroness and grinned. ‘I guess some of them have been talking with the Sentinel.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The VRC. That was their flag on the library, wasn’t it, Betsy? I could see what looked like a sword and the letter V?’

  She nodded.

  ‘So why didn’t you say? Are you one of them, Betsy?’

  Betsy looked at her in terror. ‘No, no. Don’t even go there. Do you know what would happen if they thought I was?’

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘The Provost and her office.’

  ‘They’d fire you.’

  ‘That’d be only the start.’

  ‘Are you really scared?’

  ‘Everyone’s scared of the Provost and Dr. Gonzales.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You’re not scared of anyone though. But then you’re not us.’

  ‘I can’t fault that analysis, Betsy. Now back to the VRC. You’re not one of them, but do you know anything about them? What VRC stands for, for instance?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. None. And if you’ll excuse me, Lady Troutbeck, I’ve got to go now. I’ve got a class.’

  ***

  On her way back to her office, the baroness took a detour along a familiar street, unaware that she was being followed at a distance of about fifty yards by a thin, spotty youth. The young man was there again, smoking, though this time he was leaning against the bonnet of an old, blue car.

  As she walked towards him, he took a final drag of his cigarette and flipped the butt into the gutter. She stopped, and her follower dodged into a nearby porch.

  ‘Still killing time?’ she asked.

  ‘Let’s say if you ain’t found those specs yet, lady, I’ll take on the case.’

  ‘We could discuss it. What’s that car, by the way?’

  ‘A 1953 Chevy.’

  The baroness was enchanted. ‘My God, you’ve actually got a beat-up Chevrolet.’

  ‘You want a ride?’

  ‘Do I just,’ she said. With one hand, he opened the passenger door and with the other, he swept off his hat in a courtly gesture. ‘Get inside, lady.’

  ‘Is this an heirloom?’ she asked, as he drove past her hotel.

  ‘Nope. Bought it a couple of months back from a dealer. It’d been living unused for decades in a local farmer’s barn.’

  ‘It’s in great condition.’

  ‘I smartened it up some.’

  They toured around the town in contented silence and after ten minutes arrived back outside his office.

  ‘Why, thank you, sir,’ said the baroness, after he had helped her onto the pavement. ‘You have brightened my day considerably.’

  ‘And you mine, lady.’

  ‘Now we need a word about those specs.’

  He grinned. ‘Come right in,’ he said, and headed towards the door. The baroness followed him in. The thin boy still lurking in the porch waited for a couple of minutes and then retired to the waste ground and made a phone call.

  Inside the office, the baroness watched with interest as the man tossed his hat toward the hat stand: it fell to the ground. His coat, which he had aimed at the back of the armchair, disappeared out of sight. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I keep trying to improve my aim.’

  The baroness retrieved his hat, retreated to the door, and took aim. ‘Shit,’ she said, as it missed its target. ‘Dishonours are even.’

  The man grinned. ‘Cool,’ he said, and held out his hand. ‘The moniker is Mike Robinson, ma’am.’

  The baroness shook his hand. ‘The moniker is Jack Troutbeck, Mr. Robinson.’

  He swept a pile of papers off the seat of the armchair and beckoned to her to sit. As he walked round his messy and shabby desk to a swivel chair that had seen better days, the baroness looked around the small office. The carpet was threadbare and the furnishings generally redolent of a thrift shop, but it was all surprisingly clean.

  ‘Does that neat desk in the corner suggest you don’t work alone?’

  Robinson lounged back and put his feet on the desk. ‘Yeah. That’s Velda’s. She’s my partner. Now on an assignment chasing a jerk who’s two-timing his broad. Should be back any time. You’d like her. She’s a babe. A babe to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.’

  ‘That’s a familiar line. Raymond Chandler?’

  ‘Got it in one.’ He pulled something out of his pocket. ‘Want a Lucky? We’ll be living dangerously if the cops come, but hell, what’s life without the risk of having the cuffs slapped on?’

  The baroness was charmed. ‘What a good idea,’ she said and leaned forward and tugged a cigarette out of the packet. ‘I’m a pipe or cigar woman myself, but in the circumstances, a Lucky would be just fine. I’m in revolt against the health police, so on principle I’ll accept most things that are illegal and bad for me even if I don’t much like them.’

  Robinson shoved a small manual typewriter aside to make a space, opened a desk drawer and produced a bottle and a couple of plastic cups. ‘Nuts to the health police. What do you say to a finger of rye?’

  ‘I say yes, Goddammit.’

  He grinned. ‘I think we’re going to get on just fine, lady.’

  ***

  Aware that she had to be at Traci’s at six and had things to do, the baroness prudently stuck to one drink, and after half an hour got up to leave. ‘You’re clear ab
out what you’re doing, Mike.’

  ‘Yeah, sure thing, Jack. You want stuff on that Gonzales asshole and you want it fast.’

  ‘That seems a fair summary. I’m sorry to have missed Velda.’

  ‘You should be. She’s one gorgeous dame.’

  ‘Sadly, I have to postpone this pleasure. Another dame—albeit less gorgeous—awaits me.’

  ***

  ‘Hey, I love your darling European accents,’ said Traci.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Constance.

  ‘What do you mean “European”?’ asked the baroness, but she said it sotto voce because she didn’t really want to hear the answer.

  ‘I guessed you must be homesick,’ said Traci, ‘so I thought I’d get right in there and show you a proper American welcome.’ She tossed her hair and gave a dazzling smile, her teeth so gleaming that the baroness thought for a wild moment she could see her reflection in them.

  ‘How very kind,’ said Constance.

  ‘It’s nothing. I’m such a feeling person, I just had to show you I’m here for you. I’m Traci Hunter Dickinson and I’m right here for you. Here. Let’s hug.’

  She threw herself on the baroness, who flinched, and then on Constance, who patted her on the back in an embarrassed way.

  ‘What I think is just because you’re high-powered gals don’t mean you don’t need to have fun. When you’re with all those egg-heads all day, a girlie-night can be just the thing. So, hey! Relax and enjoy yourselves.’

  Constance smiled wanly. The baroness said nothing. Having endured half an hour of Traci’s aggressive vacuity, she would have walked out had she not been so enjoying watching Constance squirm and had she not had recourse to plenty of champagne, which, judging by her exaggerated vivacity, Traci had been indulging in for some time before their arrival. ‘Kristal, of course,’ said Traci. ‘I wouldn’t drink anything but the best. And, of course,’ she added, with a metallic laugh, ‘I wouldn’t serve it in anything but the best crystal.’

  Constance managed a weak smile; the baroness remained stony-faced. She refused to accompany them outside to view Traci’s newest car. ‘But you gotta see it. It was my birthday present. It’s a BMW and I made Henry get it resprayed in fuchsia.’ She waved her nails at them. ‘To match these.’

  ‘Sorry, Traci. It would be wasted on me. Cars bore me. I think they exist to get us from A to B with the minimum fuss.’