Hector was smoking a Pall Mall and watching Hannah, his pale blue eyes narrowed.
“No.” The old woman sobbed, “No, God forgive me, he wasn’t. He wasn’t dead yet.”
“What was Papa doing when you found him downstairs, Mary?”
“He was sitting in the foyer with his gun—clutching his unloaded shotgun again and rocking back and forth. He was sobbing, and his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t slip the shells into the breech. He couldn’t even load his own damned gun anymore because his hands were shaking so badly. He kept dropping the shells. He couldn’t chamber them, no matter how hard he tried.”
Hannah took a deep breath. “What did you do?”
Mary squeezed Hannah’s hand harder. “I talked to him, like a fool again. Just talked, talked, talked. Talked about nothing. Dithered on about seeing Paris together again. And Africa, and Spain. Talked of new places neither of us had seen, but might try: Alaska or Australia or Scotland or Wales.”
Hannah winced at the mention of her homeland. “What did Papa say?”
“He smiled sadly, wiping his tears with his swollen, shaking knuckles, then he reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a note he had written for me.
“I read it over twice, crying and squeezing his trembling hand as I read it. There was little left for him to say that he hadn’t written out for me. I understood how miserable he was. I knew he was through and that it was cruel to keep him alive simply for the sake of keeping him alive.”
Mary smoothed Hannah’s hair and Hannah rested her face on the old woman’s lap. “I’m so sorry for you,” Hannah said. “Such a burden to carry.”
Mary smiled and stroked Hannah’s blond hair. “God shapes the back for the burden, sweetie, don’t you see?” Mary cupped Hannah’s trembling chin. “It had to be that way—you understand, don’t you? How it was cruel to deny Papa what he wanted? You see how it was?”
Hannah hesitated, then went with it: “I see.”
“We both knew it was over,” Mary continued, “but Papa couldn’t kill himself, himself—you see? He said he wasn’t capable, anymore. He said he needed me. He needed me to help him. So, it really wasn’t my fault, do you see? You see how it wasn’t my fault, don’t you, Daughter? Please…you have to see how it wasn’t my fault that Papa died. He asked me to. He really did it himself after all, when you look at it in a certain light. You see that, don’t you?” She looked from Hannah to Hector. “It wasn’t my fault.”
Hannah heard her own voice cracking. “So, you…helped Papa? Is that how it was?”
Mary was sobbing and shaking, her slight, sloped shoulders heaving and her breath coming in ragged gasps. Mary slumped over, still holding tightly to Hannah. Hannah felt Mary’s tears, wet against the back of her own neck. “Did you help Papa, Mary?”
“Yes, yes. Yes, I did.”
“Tell me how it was…please….”
“You don’t blame me?”
“I swear to you—I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, but Papa’s own. Maybe not even his fault. You were good to help him if that is what you did.” Hannah felt her own body beginning to shake. “I just…I need to know exactly how it was. I need to know what happened, so we need never talk about it again.”
The widow nodded. “He…he just begged me to help. I tried to argue, and he kept pleading—his sad, empty brown eyes besieging me. And I put the shells in the gun and handed it back to him. He hugged me and kissed me and tried to use it, but Papa’s hands were shaking so badly he could hardly hold the gun. His arms seemed too weak to support it. Papa put the gun’s butt against the floor and pushed his poor forehead to the barrels, but then couldn’t reach the triggers with his trembling, striving fingers. He tried to use his foot—to use his toes. But he couldn’t balance and nearly fell down. Finally, shaking and crying, he handed the gun back to me and fell back against the wall, crying. He whispered hoarsely: ‘You have to help me, Kitten. Please? Please, darling? Won’t you?’”
Mary sobbed again and Hannah felt the old widow’s nails digging into her shoulder. “Jesus, I didn’t want to.”
“It’s okay. Really, Mary. You’re not to blame. One way or another, you always lose them.”
Mary nodded and smoothed Hannah’s hair back.
“What happened next, Mary?”
Mary hung her head. “He handed me the gun. Ernest crossed himself, and he began to pray out loud—‘Hail Mary, full of grace—’ and I put the barrel to his forehead, and still praying, Ernest smiled. His sweet brown eyes crossed as he looked up at the barrel pressed between his eyebrows, and he said, “Holy Mary…at the hour of my death, I am sorry my love, but now, oh now my blessed Kitten….”
Mary shuddered in Hannah’s arms. The old woman, her cracking voice muffled against Hannah’s shoulder, said:
“And I killed him.”
Hannah held the old woman close. Hannah looked up at Hector—he turned, unable to face her, not wanting her to see his expression. His back to Hannah, Hector just shook his head.
The old widow sniffled several times. “There was a blinding white splash that turned pink, and a red splash across the oak paneling. Papa’s headless body fell back, tumbling over, the awful mess of what was left of his head pumping and spraying blood on the walls and tile. Papa’s red robe was covered with his blood, as was mine, and I dropped the shotgun, screaming, and tried to stop his body from falling. Tried to save him being hurt anymore—and the blood was pumping terribly from his neck and what was left of his chin as I grabbed the front of his robe and tried to stop him collapsing. I screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed, but Papa was still dead and I had killed him.”
The nonsensical phrase that post-World War II Papa had become strangely fond of echoed in Hector’s head:
How do you like it now, gentlemen?
Mary smiled and wiped her eyes.
Hannah scooted back, knuckles brushing her eyes dry. She could see it too vividly—the blood and all the bits of brain.
Mary said to Hannah, “What will you do with all of this?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m so tired of carrying it alone.”
“That time is over, Mary.”
“If…if you decide, Daughter, that you do want to tell this story, will you please wait until…?” The old woman smiled hopefully at Hannah. “Yes?”
Hannah nodded. “Yes.”
Mary looked up at Hector. “And you, Lasso?”
Hector shook his head; Hannah searched for a word to describe his expression. The writer in her settled on ineffable.
Hector said, “Hem was my friend. It’s not my story to tell. Not a story I’m sure should ever be told. Old friend once said, ‘When legend becomes fact, print the legend.’” He hesitated. “You said Hem had written you a note, Mary…an actual suicide note. What became of it? What did Hem write?”
“I hardly remember now,” Mary said. “Not after everything that morning….” She was quiet; then her voice became strange. “There was the other thing, too. I ran to the phone to call for help—to change from my bloody clothes. I left the letter there on the table. When I came back, it was missing. I never found it again.”
Hector narrowed his eyes. “Missing? Where the hell could it go?”
Mary’s voice grew strange: “When I came back, there was a footprint on the floor by Papa’s body, and the front door was unlocked.”
“A footprint?” Hector searched Mary’s face, trying to decide if this was all some kind of lie.
“Yes…a bloody footprint…from a man’s shoe, I think.”
Hector said, “You’re claiming someone else was in here with you that morning? Maybe saw all this?”
“Or the aftermath,” Mary said. “It’s not a claim. It’s the gospel truth. And it’s had me in fear ever since.”
***
Walking to his Bel Air in a soft rain, Hannah took Hector’s hand. “For you, most of all, that had to be very hard to
hear.”
Hector took a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring at a black Ford parked across the street. A man sat inside, smoking a cigarette. The profile was different with the broken nose, now, but Hector was sure it was Donovan Creedy in the car.
Savoring the smell of the mountain rain, glad to be out of that crazy concrete house, Hector said, “I’m not sure I believe Mary about that. About her shooting Hem, like that. I’ve been an author for a very long time, Hannah. I know a book pitch when I hear one. I think Mary might have been trying something out on us. Scribner isn’t pleased with what they’ve seen of her planned memoir. But if she could take this crazy tale—this story about ‘mercy’ shooting Hem herself—and go to Knopf, say, or to Simon & Schuster?”
“You think that’s all a lie?”
“Or maybe an exaggeration. Maybe it really happened as she says. Maybe not. Fact is, we may never know for sure.”
He got the Chevy in gear and started driving back toward the Sun Valley complex. “I’m dropping you at the hotel—there’s something I need to finish. Need some time alone to think, darlin’. Time to plot….”
Hannah smiled uncertainly, searching his face. “Plot a story?”
Hector nodded. “Of a sort.”
“If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm any hostility.”
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
52
LAST MOVES
(1966)
Hector stood by the window, looking down on the pedestrians bustling along Broadway in the rain. Mary and the publisher were chatting following their handshake agreement.
Mary rose, said, “You coming, Lasso?”
“I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes,” Hector said. “We have some business to discuss about my new novel, now.”
Mary nodded and smiled her close-mouthed smile. A little tipsy after all the rye, she picked up her purse and tottered out the door to wait on Hector.
His publisher offered Hector whisky—top-shelf stuff now that the widow Hemingway had departed.
“Have to thank you again, Hector. This is huge for us. Imagine what this will do when it becomes public. Can’t imagine how Scribner is letting this one get away. Now, if I can just keep a lid on it until we’re ready to release the book….”
Hector sipped his whisky, said, “I think your bigger problem is getting the ending you think you’re buying with this memoir of Mary’s. My advice to you is to write the contract closely. Otherwise, that ending might change on you.”
“What do you mean? Why on earth would Mary recant, Hector?”
“Because she has every reason to,” Hector said. “You know, there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
***
Creedy walked briskly through the windswept streets of Greenwich Village, head down against the Alberta Clipper that stung his eyes and made his ears burn. He’d gotten the call earlier in the morning. Marcus Shawn, his publisher at Silver Medallion, said that after years of courting the man, Shawn had finally persuaded a legendary figure in the industry to guest edit a few titles for Medallion’s fall release schedule. It was, Marcus said, a tremendous coup for a paperback-only imprint.
Best of all, Marcus said the unnamed guest editor had singled out Creedy’s newest, Hell’s Own Vixen, as the likely lead title for this new sub-imprint to debut in September.
Creedy was beside himself with joy. After so many years alone at his typewriter, the tide was finally turning.
Now, practically jogging through the Village to the offices of Silver Medallion, Creedy wondered who this legendary editor might be. Maybe this next book would be the one that would finally vault him to hardcover publication. Maybe, in time, he and his new editor would gain legendary status as one of the great publishing partnerships. Like—well, yes, like Hemingway and Maxwell Perkins.
When he reached the Medallion building—well, brownstone—Marcus vigorously pumped Creedy’s hand. “I’m excited Donso. I hope you’re excited, too!”
Grinning, Creedy said, “I am! Who is this editor?”
“My surprise for you, Donnie. He’s right through that door.”
Heart pounding, Donovan knocked once, then opened the door to his new editor’s office. The lights were off in the office, and the only illumination came through the room’s single window—a harsh shaft of winter sunlight. The man was standing in the window, his back to Creedy. The light through the window made the man a tall, slender silhouette.
Not sure how to begin, Creedy said, “It’s me…Donovan Creedy.”
A baritone voice, vaguely familiar said, “Your novel has promise, Donovan. I see the possibilities in what’s there now. But it’s like freeing the statue from the stone. I won’t lie to you —it’s going to be hard work. Terrifically hard work for us both. But if you’ll meet me halfway, I think we can make a real novel of what you’ve got there.”
“Of…of course,” Creedy said, trying to sound polite…not too resistant to the editing process. “But, it can’t be that much work.”
Hell, Creedy thought his latest to be near perfect…mature…complex…gripping.
“Almost a total rewrite is required,” the man said, shaking his head. “What’s there now is meretricious, fatuous and derivative. There’s hardly any characterization, and it has no pace. The dialogue is wooden. The sex scenes are wince-inducing. And the book has no second act. But these things we can fix, with hard work and some creativity.”
The man stepped from the light in the window and sat down on the corner of the desk, smiling.
Hector Lassiter said, “So what about it, Creedy? You man enough to write a real book under my editorial direction?”
Creedy snarled and slammed the door behind him. Through the door, Hector could hear Creedy hurling obscenities at Marcus Shawn.
Smiling, Hector lit a cigarette with his old Zippo, then followed Creedy out into the reception area. Creedy slammed the door behind him, still cursing as he stormed down the hallway.
Shawn shook his head and said, “Damn, that didn’t go well. What the hell happened, Hector?”
Hector smiled and planted his butt on the corner of the receptionist’s desk. He winked and smiled at the buxom redhead, flipping through her Rolodex. “Oh, Don will come around, Marcus, no sweat there. He’s just playing the artiste. Suspect Don’s never really faced an editor who truly cares. Cruel to be kind, you know? This was just the rough wooing.”
He found Creedy’s address and pulled it loose from the chrome rings. He winked again at the receptionist and said. “You’re very sweet; I promise to bring this back, darlin’.”
***
Donovan Creedy keyed himself into his Georgetown apartment. It was raining and frigid and they were predicting an ice storm for the District of Columbia…possible power outages from fallen limbs and lines.
Surveying his options following Lassiter’s treachery, Creedy was racing a deadline on a revision of a long-languishing, unfinished novel for a new prospective publisher. It had been conceived to be Creedy’s big book—a historical thriller on the Bay of Pigs as only Creedy could tell it. Only now did he feel he truly had the reach to deliver the novel he envisioned. He planned to get a big fire going, then settle into his leather writing chair with his pipe, some good bourbon, and a notepad and think about something that might punch up the back end of the book a tad. He’d put a little Wagner on the stereo and….
He paused, standing in the front room of his place.
He sniffed; funny how the mind works—he could already scent that fire.
Creedy reached his study and flipped on the light. There was a man sitting in his writing chair, helping himself to Donovan’s liquor and work-in-progress. This big crackling fire was already going.
Hector tossed the manuscript pages aside and picked up the long-barreled Peacemaker from his lap. He pointed the Colt at Creedy’s right eye.
“I knew you wouldn’t have t
he stones to submit to a real editor,” Hector said. “Alas. But I see you’ve tried to address a few of my concerns. Well, anyway, take a load off, Agent Creedy. I’ve come to reclaim some property.”
Creedy was actually frightened…trying to figure out how Lassiter got in…and got in safely. So much for all the security his money could buy. Creedy said, “What ‘property’?”
“Hem’s suicide note, for starters. There at the end, you were always watching Hem. Always there. You were in Idaho that morning, weren’t you? Followed Hem all the way from the Mayo Clinic and back to Ketchum, I’d wager. When Mary bolted from his body, you crept into that crazy house…stole Hem’s last letter. I’ve come for it and don’t try to feed me some lie. Even you couldn’t destroy a document like that one.”
Creedy surprised him: “You’re right…I couldn’t. When I read it, it was very strange what happened. I finally came to like the son of a bitch, a little.” This funny smile: “Hem really was a magnificent bastard, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Hector said. “The best. The letter—I want it now. Otherwise I’m going to start with your fingers.” He hefted his gun. “I brought a lot of bullets, and these old walls are thick.”
Creedy crossed to his desk. He saw now there was something there in the fireplace—reel-to-reel tapes crackled amidst the logs. Hector said, “Your Topping House collection.”
Hector followed Creedy to his desk. He said, “If you pull a gun, Creedy….”
The agent tossed a yellowed piece of paper to Hector. It was worn at the folds…as if it had been read many times. Hector opened it just enough to confirm Hem’s distorted, but recognizable, downward-sloping hand. He slipped it into the pocket of his sports jacket. “Thanks for this, Creedy. Now, just two more things: Hem’s suitcase. Fetch it now or I’ll blow holes through your kneecaps.”
Creedy stared at the big old Colt, then decided to comply. This was a mere plot reversal, nothing more. It was a chess move, Creedy figured. Not the match.
Print the Legend: A Hector Lassiter novel Page 34
