Undertow

by Warren Adler

  “Hey, Sam, cool it,” the other policeman said. “I’ll get the chief.”

  “You’re a son-of-a-bitch,” the young policeman said. “I’d love to beat the shit out of you.”

  “Don’t be a damned fool.”

  Chief Bernhard appeared at the entrance. Ernie showed him his press card.

  “I’m Rowell, Washington Chronicle.”

  “So?”

  “The story is in the public domain. All I want is to get the facts. I don’t think you’ve been fair with us.”

  “What do you expect of me?”

  “We’re entitled to honest answers.”

  “You got honest answers. I gave you the facts up at the house.”

  “I’d like to know who is in there with the senator.”

  Chief Bernhard hesitated. He observed Ernie cautiously.

  “The girl’s father.”

  “And the senator and his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have they talked to each other?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was their reaction?”

  “You asked for facts. I’m not going to be drawn into interpreting these events.”

  “All right, then. Can I speak to the senator?”

  “He doesn’t want to speak to reporters. I feel I owe him that protection.”

  Ernie watched the stoic, leathered face, the cool, blue eyes, liquid but clear, in soft pouches.

  “All right,” Ernie said. “I have a note for the senator. Will you give it to him?” Ernie handed him the paper. The chief looked at it, and then took it and slipped it in his pocket. The chief started to move back into the hospital.

  “Chief Bernhard,” Ernie called. “It’s just that this man, this Senator James, aspires to be President of the United States. Do you understand that? We can’t just roll this story under the rug. You can’t be a party to a cover-up. This is not just the senator’s ball game. It’s everybody’s ball game.”

  The chief turned. A flush began to form around his jowls.

  “We owe the American people the truth,” Ernie said.

  “The truth? Are you saying that I haven’t told you the truth?”

  “As far as the facts you’ve presented. But there are other things. Lots of unanswered questions.” Ernie pressed on, knowing now that he had Chief Bernhard’s attention. “Why did he wait so long to report the drowning? Was he having an affair with this woman? These are key questions.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “It’s a question of integrity, of truth. Look, I’m not a judge. There’s a lot at stake here.”

  “I have given you the facts.”

  “Look, Chief,” Ernie said. “I’m not questioning your integrity. You’ve just got to see the situation in perspective. If we don’t tell it like it is, a curtain will drop, and then we’ll never know. The senator has resources. He can manipulate his story, he can bend it, and he can command huge audiences. I offer a counterbalance. Events move swiftly. We’ll never again recover this moment.”

  “What difference does it make? What’s one more bent story by a politician?” Ernie could see that the chief was sorry he said it.

  “You mean the story is being bent.”

  “Son,” the chief said. “I’m as tortured about this as you are. I have made my judgment. There is no crime here. As for the senator’s career, that’s really outside the jurisdiction of police business. I refuse to be tempted into interpretations.”

  “Christ, Chief, the issue is his fitness to govern.”

  Chief Bernhard scratched his ear and made what was to him an uncommon grimace.

  “I raise bees,” he said. “I have twenty-five hives. I spend all my spare time raising bees, collecting honey, watching their habits. All I want to do for the rest of my life is raise bees and collect honey. I know you’ll think that’s indifference, an obscure police chief in a small town raising bees. Bees are honest. I would prefer to live my life around honest things, like bees.”

  “What about people?”

  “Bees are better.”

  “Haven’t you got any kids? Don’t you care about their future?”

  He looked at Ernie. His lips began to move. No sounds came.

  “In other words, you prefer to be indifferent,” Ernie said, after a long silence.

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “It will take a little more living on your part to make that judgment.” He looked at the note in his hand. “I’ll see that he gets your note.” Chief Bernhard shook his head sadly turned, and was soon lost in the darkness of the corridor.

  “Now beat it,” the young policeman said.

  Ernie felt sweat in his palms. He wiped them on his jacket. He looked at his watch. It was getting near deadline time for the first edition. He felt helpless. At the end of the parking lot, he found a telephone booth. He sat on the seat and looked at the dial, going over the conversation with Chief Bernhard. What was nagging him? He seemed to be overreacting. What was he really looking for? Why didn’t he simply accept the bare facts and be done with it? Was it his own ambition, the big scoop? Didn’t every young newspaperman or woman yearn for that one giant story that would make his reputation, make him famous. Was it that kind of power he was unconsciously seeking? Like a film clip, the white charger passed across the screen. He put the dime in the slot and started to dial the paper. Before he finished, he pressed down the lever breaking the connection. Instead, he dialed Ellen.

  “Ellen.”

  “Ernie. I called the paper. They said you were in Rehoboth.”

  “I am.”

  “Quite a story.” Her voice was warm, inviting. He remembered making love to her.

  “I’m having a crisis, baby.”

  “Animal, mineral, or vegetable?”

  “No kidding. I think I’m being put on. I think I’m being victimized.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t either yet. I’m being frustrated by well-meaning men.”

  “Ernie.”

  “Yes, Ellen.”

  “I wish you were here.”

  “So do I.”

  There was a long silence. He looked out of the booth and saw two police cars rush past. Between them was another car and inside was the senator and his group.

  “I’ll call you later.”

  He hung up, opened the door of the booth, and walked back to the emergency entrance. A hearse was parked at the entrance and two men were wheeling out a sheet-draped body. A group of nurses and doctors stood silently. To one side was a small black man. He leaned against the wall. The back panels of the hearse were slammed shut. The doctors and nurses filed back through the alley door. Only the black man remained. The hearse sped off. He was alone now.

  “Mr. Jackson?”

  The black man looked at Ernie, his dark eyes red veined and swollen.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Jackson,” Ernie said.

  The black man took a handkerchief from his rear pocket and blew his nose.

  “They say she was a very wonderful person.”

  He had learned that flattery could penetrate grief, that flattery could offer solace. The black man nodded his head.

  “I won’t have to worry now,” he said quietly. “I won’t have to worry ever again.”

  “Did he at least say he loved her?” Ernie asked.

  The black man slowly raised his eyes.

  “He didn’t even say that,” the black man said. “They just used my baby and threw her away like a piece of unwanted clay, black clay.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Bury my little girl.”

  Ernie tried to frame another question, but all he could do was watch the black man, bent and defeated, walk slowly to the parking lot.

  XXV

  It was the kind of bar replicated in every country of the world, near a busy port, sleazy, smelling of beer, cheap booze, urine, and the dried sweat of rootless men. Badl
y lighted, the interior seemed to complement the emptiness of the lives lined up against the bar, gnarled faces of bitter men who man the docks and ships of the world’s ports. In one corner, two fat prostitutes nursed their beer and laughed shrilly.

  “Mike’s,” the broken lopsided sign had beckoned. You couldn’t see through the dirt-caked ancient storefront along the dingy back street of abandoned row houses, warehouses, and shipping offices. Don had insisted. Karen had shrugged in resignation.

  “It’s your goddamned life,” she had said.

  Davis was less resigned, especially since Don wouldn’t reveal his plans.

  “I just want to go somewhere. I want to fade for a few hours,” he said.

  “You’re a public figure, Senator, with a public face. You’ll be spotted. It will kill us.” Davis, usually nonplussed, seemed on the verge of tears.

  “Look,” Don said. “I don’t mean to be a son-of-a-bitch, but I’ve been through a bit of hell in the past twenty-four hours. If I don’t just get away and think, I’ll climb the walls.”

  I knew then that Don had finally gained full control again. He was measuring himself against the future, taking stock, calculating the odds. He had to work it out. We’d been down that road before together. Sometimes it was drink or just plain physical activity until exhaustion. Sometimes it was women. He needed to expend energy. Once he walked from San Francisco to Carmel. We were a hell of a lot younger then. Once he holed up with a Chinese prostitute for three days in San Francisco’s Chinatown. I can’t remember what had set him off then, but he was always having terrible telephone fights with his father. Back in school, I would see him run around the track until he dropped while I dozed in the stands. Always, later, he would say, “Lord, I needed that.”

  I called two cabs from the little office at Montgomery Airport.

  “Senator, I don’t know what to say,” Davis said. “I think it’s pure madness.”

  “Don’t worry. Where I’m going, no one will know me.”

  “I’ll be with him,” I said. Karen turned away in disgust.

  “Let him go,” she said. “They deserve each other.”

  She really hated me, Karen did. I guess I understood. Hell, I was closer to Don than she was. That fact was pretty well proven yesterday. Now it was being confirmed. Both she and Davis could see that Don would not be moved.

  “I won’t be long.” He looked at Karen.

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  “I’ve just got to,” he said. “You’ve just got to understand. I wouldn’t be able to sit still. I wouldn’t be able to talk. I just wouldn’t be able to function.”

  Whether the explanation served any purpose or not, Don and I got into our cab and headed into downtown Baltimore. We didn’t talk much, and we had the cab driver drop us at the fringe of the dock area. We roamed around for a while; then Don found what he was looking for. Mike’s. It was a little corner of the refuse trap of life, a seedy little bar. Among the assortment of mismatched tables and chairs, we found a place in a corner. I brought double Scotches from the bar, suffering the strange looks of what seemed a hostile bunch. This was the kind of joint they called a “bucket of blood.” Above the din, we could hear an occasional argumentative outburst, a curse shouted over some unknown irrational drunken dispute. Even the bartender, a fat, unshaven old salt type with a red face, scowled when he passed over the drinks. We were two strange fish swimming in another ocean. This was the other world. Don would not be recognized here. He downed his drink in one gulp and hit his chest as the booze burned its way down.

  “Shit,” he croaked, his face reddening.

  The bartender watched his reaction.

  “Rotgut,” Don said. He stood up and moved to the bar.

  “I paid for Scotch whiskey, buddy,” he said.

  The bartender looked through him, then spat, smiled, and pulled another bottle from behind the bar. He poured it out into a double shot glass. Don downed it in one gulp.

  “Hit me again,” he said. The bartender poured. Don threw a five-dollar bill on the bar. It soaked up some spilt whiskey. Turning with a contemptuous sneer at the fat bartender, he walked back to the table.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” he said, as he sat down.

  The bartender huddled with two men, sitting in a corner of the bar. Occasionally, he looked our way. Smiling, he gave me the finger. I didn’t call it to Don’s attention since it was obvious that Don was going out of his way to be offensive.

  “Lou,” he said, smiling. “We are in one hell of a pickle. One hell of a pickle.”

  “Well, that’s one statement that doesn’t need a response.”

  “It was seeing Marlena’s body lying there on that table. Just a lump of useless matter. That’s when it occurred to me. I didn’t kill that girl. That’s when the guilt died inside me. Death had come and snatched her. I did not kill that girl. Nor do I feel that I was the instrument of her death. That is neither cruel nor calculating nor rationalizing. I did not kill that girl.”

  “Who the hell said you did?”

  “I said I did.”

  “When?”

  “When I dived into that surf, Lou, I felt like a murderer, I wanted to die with her. I nearly did die. Not until I saw that body, that lump of useless dead flesh and bones, did I conclude that I didn’t kill that girl.” He stood up and moved to the bar again. The bartender, who had been observing us, straightened belligerently, and, without a word, poured another double Scotch, and contemptuously lifted two dollars from Don’s wet pile of bills on the bar. Don came back, sat down again, and polished off the whiskey in a single gulp.

  “I didn’t exactly enhance my political career.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “I’m sorry that she died. She was a nice kid. But I didn’t kill her. And I’m going to fight this thing. No matter what fire I have to walk through. No matter what hot coals I’ve got to pass over. I’m good at my trade.”

  “I’ll buy that.”

  “From nothing. From shit. My father was a goddamned nothing, a turd. I was this much away from taking a shot at being president of the United States—the head motherfucker—”

  “The head motherfucker,” I repeated, downing the original shot of rotgut. It burned its way down.

  “I will not yield to self-pity, Lou.”

  “I know, Don.”

  “When you’re good, you’re good. And I’m good.”

  “Yes, you are, Don.”

  “I refuse to feel remorse.”

  “Right on.”

  “Or guilt.”

  “No, not guilt.”

  “Only stupidity. I feel stupid, Lou. It was stupid to believe I could live a charmed life forever. It had to catch up with me sooner or later.”

  “I should have foreseen it.”

  “It’s just that sometimes you get overconfident. Power! Success makes you overconfident. I felt that I could never make a mistake.”

  “We were careful, Don. It was just one of those things.”

  “I will not cry about it.”

  “No, Don.”

  “I will not let it defeat me.”

  He banged on the table. I knew he was getting drunk.

  “I feel like jumping out of my skin, Lou.”

  He swilled down the remains of his drink, stepped up to the bar again, and banged down his glass. The bartender nudged one of his companions and stepped up to Don.

  “Okay, buddy, don’t make so much fucking noise,” the fat bartender said, winking at his companions.

  “Just pour it in.”

  “I don’t have to serve you.”

  “He’s looking for trouble, Charlie.” It was one of the bartender’s friends, a huge man, with thick features and tattoos crawling up his hairy arms. He looked thickheaded and mean, used to barroom brawling.

  Don put up both hands, palms outward. He smiled.

  “No offense,” he said. “I’m not touchy. You don’t be touchy. Just pour the drink.” He said it with a snicker. Th
e bartender shrugged and poured the drink.

  “Very touchy bunch,” Don said. The booze was taking hold. He was beginning to slur his words. I determined to stay sober.

  “I’m going to lay off the broads, Lou. I’m going to be the soul of propriety. God, I loved the girls, Lou. All the pretty, wonderful girls. All the great bodies. Ah, joy of joys. I just got caught. That’s my crime. I got caught. I humiliated Karen. The punishment doesn’t fit the crime. Who knows? Maybe I’m just a guy whistling in the cemetery. Maybe I’m through, washed up.”

  He shook his head, then slapped one of my thighs.

  “Do you think I’m through, Lou?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I’m not ready to quit yet, Lou. I’m ready to show the some character. I’ve got a lot of ideas up my sleeve, Lou. Believe me, I know their game. They may think I’m washed up.”

  “We’re going to stick it out.”

  “Good old Lou.”

  “All the way.”

  He was beginning to get red on the tip of his nose, a sure sign that the alcohol was getting to him.

  “They’re gonna remember me,” he said. “I wish the old man was alive today. That son-of-a-bitch. That bastard. When I was about six or seven he used to have these bum friends of his come to the house for booze and poker every Friday night. They were a bragging bunch. I used to be a gopher for the beer. They always drank boilermakers. Pop had taught me his cheating system. I would watch and then give him signals, a wink for two pair, a finger in my nose for three of a kind, I’d blow bubble gum for a full house. A flush! What the fuck was a flush? Yeah, I’d touch my head. I can’t remember the other signals. He was such a damn bastard. When he walked out, I wanted to go with him. I cried like hell.” A tear started slowly down the corner of his left eye. “Hey, pop. Did I let you down? I’ll do better next time, pop. I’m smart, pop, like you, pop.”

  “If you keep your cool, we’ll weather this storm, Don,” I said.

  “This fucking country—,” Don said. “This great fucking country.”

  “Great fucking country.”

  “You’re a cynic, Lou, We’re just in the middle of the revolution. Recognize it. The old America is as dead as Kelsey’s nuts. Maybe Marlena’s death is the Master’s way of saying that the time is not yet come for me. I have this uncanny feeling, Lou. I should have drowned. I felt I was drowning. You saved me. Good old Lou. It’s my destiny, my fucking destiny. That’s what Marlena’s death tells me. I’ve been saved for something. One day, Lou.”