Whom Gods Destroy

by Clifton Adams

  The whole thing depended on Keating himself—how much guts he had and how much of a bluff he would swallow. If it didn't work—I couldn't allow myself to think about that. And if it did work....

  I liked to think about that.

  In about thirty minutes the girl came back.

  “Tell me about it.” I said. “What did Keating say?”

  “I've got a name,” she said. “It's Rose—that's the reason I got this robe with the roses on it.” She held the robe in front of her and admired herself in the dresser mirror. “Well, he was interested all right,” she said, looking over her shoulder at me. “He wanted me to come to his office, but I told him what you said, that the information was too bad and I was afraid Seaward was having me followed. He didn't like it much, coming to the hotel, but he finally gave in.”

  “When?”

  “Four-thirty,” she said.

  I looked at my watch and it was a little after four. “All right. Let's see how the robe fits.”

  She could have gone into the bathroom to change, but I guess it never occurred to Rose. She stripped right in the middle of the room.

  Then she posed for me, turning clumsily, imitating the fashion models she'd probably seen in newsreels.

  “That'll do, I guess. Can you shuck the thing fast when the time comes?”

  “In less than a second, I'll bet. All I have to do is pull the tie and shrug my shoulders. You want to see me do it?”

  “Never mind, I'll take your word for it.”

  We had almost a half hour to kill, and it was a long half hour. But Keating was right on time. At four-thirty sharp there was a light rap at the door and I grabbed my camera, making elaborate gestures for Rose to get her robe on right. Keating was knocking the second time when I closed the closet door on myself. I didn't see him come in, but I heard the door open and Rose saying, “Mr. Keating—?”

  She was a pretty good actress, at that. She did it just right, not too eager but kind of nervous. Keating said something and I began easing the loose panel up, making a crack to look through.

  Keating didn't look very comfortable and he didn't like the setup at all. He looked around sharply as Rose slipped behind him and snapped the latch on the door. He took out an immaculate handkerchief and daubed at his forehead. “Well— Very well, Miss Carson. Now what is this information you mentioned over the phone?”

  By now she had maneuvered him into the center of the room, the way we had planned it. “Do you promise,” she asked anxiously, “not to tell where you got the information?”

  “Of course, Miss Carson. It will be confidential, I assure you.” Keating was beginning to get interested now. She had him in profile to the closet, which was just right. I saw her working with her belt then, and that was my cue to go to work. Keating started to say something, but no sound came out. His mouth merely came open and stayed open. She brought it off as calmly as she would light a cigarette. One smooth motion broke the bow in the belt and the robe came open. She shrugged her shoulders; the robe fell away completely.

  I almost laughed at the look on Keating's face. He was completely frozen, shocked beyond speech, beyond movement. He stood there like a stone statue as Rose wriggled against him and slipped her arms around his neck, and by that time I had the panel down and the camera aimed. She flattened her bare belly against him and hung onto his neck, leaning back from the waist up. For just an instant they stood that way. The camera clicked and the silent crash of light lit up the room.

  Keating reacted to that. He whirled, knocking the girl against the bed. When I stepped out of the closet I thought he was going to faint. His face went white as he began to realize what had happened. Then he sprang at me, growling deep in his throat and grabbing frantically at the camera.

  As a lawyer, Paul Keating may have been pretty good, but as a fighter he was less than nothing. With the camera in my left hand, I stepped to one side and hit him full in the face with my right fist. I could feel the ache all the way to my shoulder. I shifted the camera and slammed my left in his belly, low. He went to his knees.

  I made sure that Keating was in no hurry to get up; then I gave Rose the five twenties and waited for her to get dressed. It could have been a minute or an hour—but after a while she finally eased out.

  Keating kneeled on all fours, gasping, sick from that low punch. I realized then that I still had the camera in my hand. The realization almost sent me into panic. Maybe I had left the exposed film in too long and it was ruined! But the picture was all right. I pulled it out of the camera and tore it off.

  “How do you like it, Keating?” I held it in front of him and jerked it back before he could grab it.

  His mouth worked. “It—It was a trick,” he said painfully. He shook his head, blood from his split mouth dripping to the carpet. “It was a trick—she was in on it all the time.” He looked up then, at me. “This is extortion, Foley. Do you know what they do to extortionists in this state?”

  “It isn't extortion unless I try to get something out of you. Now get up.”

  He got up slowly, wiping his mouth on his handkerchief. “It was a trick,” he said again. “I can prove it in any court in Oklahoma. If I have to, I can get experts to swear that it's a composite picture you had made up for the purpose of blackmail.” His legal brain was beginning to work now, and he was gaining confidence. “Give the picture to me,” he said, holding out his hand. “If you refuse, I'll see you behind bars.”

  I laughed. “The last thing you would do,” I said, “is bring this up in court. Sure, you could prove that it was a trick. You could even send me to prison, maybe—but you're not going to. Do you know why? It would be the end of your political career, that's why. No matter how many experts you brought in and how completely you proved it. Look,” I said, holding the picture in front of him again, “do you know what I'll do if you ever mention this? I'll get a hundred thousand copies of this picture printed and I'll send a copy to every voter in Big Prairie County. Do you think your good church members would believe what an expert told them or what they saw with their own eyes? Look at the picture, Keating. Does it look faked?”

  His brief moment of fight was over. He looked as if someone were turning a knife in him.

  “Why—?” he said hoarsely. It was almost a sob. “What have I done to you? What do you want from me?”

  “First, I want you to call Sid and tell him not to pay any attention to anything your wife might have told him earlier today. Tell him she was upset or something and it was all a mistake and there's no reason to take me off the payroll.”

  He stared blankly. “What is this? I don't even know what you're talking about.”

  “You'll find out later. Just do as I say.”

  Now he looked more puzzled than hurt. He just stood there for a moment, studying me; then he picked up the room phone and gave the hotel operator the number of Sid's office.

  “Sid? This is Paul Keating. I believe my wife talked to you today about one of your runners—” Sid said something—I could guess what it was. “It was nothing,” Keating said. “Lola was upset, that's all; it's been a hectic day, we're planning for a few people tonight.” He listened for a minute. “Yes, I'm sure, Sid. Will you get in touch with Barney and tell him everything's all right? No, it's perfectly all right. There's no use saying anything to Foley about it.”

  “That was very good,” I said when he hung up.

  “Is that all?” he asked coldly.

  “Just keep on being smart,” I said. “If you ever get an idea about turning Sid and Seaward against me, just remember this picture and what it would do to your political career.”

  He got out.

  I could breathe now. Then I looked at the picture and laughed. I fell across the bed and howled. I would give plenty to see Lola's face when she first laid eyes on it.

  7

  WHAT I SHOULD HAVE DONE was find a photographer that I could trust and have the copies made up right away. But I figured Keating was too stunned and sc
ared to do anything about it right now.

  The more I thought about the setup the better I liked it. By holding that picture over Keating, I thought, there was even a chance that I could put pressure on Seaward. Barney had spent a lot of money getting Keating where he was in the political setup, and he wasn't likely to let all that fall out from under him if he could help it. I had a bargaining point now, and before it was all over I was going to bargain myself right into a Big Prairie retailing position. But the thing that excited me most was the knowledge that I could smash Lola anytime I felt like it. I could make her crawl; I could make her beg!

  It was almost dark when I got back to the rooming house. The hall phone was ringing again and when I answered it was Vida.

  “Roy!” The word came out as a gasp. “Roy, I've been trying to get you all day. Roy, listen to me. Something's wrong, horribly wrong!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Sid was mad. He just left here, Roy, and he was half drunk and crazy mad. He said he was going to get you. He said Barney was after you too.”

  I grinned. “Maybe they were after me,” I said, “but not any more. There was a little trouble but it's all straightened out now.”

  I could almost feel her gripping the phone. “Roy, are you sure?”

  “Of course, I'm sure. I saw that it was all straightened out. Can I see you tonight?”

  We didn't even mention Sid any more. By ten o'clock he would be too drunk to notice or care if Vida was even in the house. “All right, Roy.”

  I hung up, went to my room, and sat on the edge of the bed, thinking. Maybe it wouldn't be necessary to try the hijacking after all—but I didn't believe it. Even if I could bluff Seaward into installing me as a retailer, I didn't have the money to make the start. Twenty thousand dollars, Sid had said.

  I sat there for a long while, letting the thing filter through my mind. Finally I decided that there was only one thing to do, and that was to hijack the liquor, get rid of it, and then get out of Big Prairie fast and take Vida with me. The hell with holding a club over Keating's head and praying that he and Seaward would play along with me.

  All right, I thought, the idea running fast now, finish it up good and get out. The only reason you wanted to stay in the first place was because of Lola, and now you can bring her to her knees and get the money too, all in one giant sweep! I'd do it just the way I had threatened Keating I would. I'd have a hundred thousand copies of that picture made. I'd flood the county with them. There was no reason why I couldn't. The only bad thing about it was that I wouldn't be able to stay and watch Lola as her world started falling down around her shoulders. But I would know how she felt—and I could laugh.

  The thought was fully grown. I stood there holding it, fondling it, proud of it. And then it exploded in my face.

  “Sid just left here!” Vida had said on the phone!

  Just left here.

  That bomb had lain there for fifteen or twenty minutes and I hadn't even noticed it until it went off. I'd been too self-satisfied when I had talked to Vida. Frantically, I back-tracked through my mind to pick up the exact words Vida had used. “He just left here, Roy, and he was half drunk and crazy mad”—I thought that was what she had said, but I was too shaken now to be sure of anything.

  If she had, it meant that Sid had left his office, where he had been when Keating had talked to him from the hotel room. It meant that somebody had talked to him after that, but I couldn't believe that it could have been Keating. It was possible that Lola could have got the truth out of her husband, though. His mouth had been split and his face bruised, and Lola would have to have an explanation for that....

  I almost ripped the door off getting out of the room and downstairs to the phone, but another roomer was using it. I tore out of the front door and up the sidewalk toward a drugstore two blocks away. The important thing was to get in touch with Vida again and find out for sure.

  I was within half a block of the drugstore when the car pulled up to the curb ahead of me. Two men got out, one in his shirt sleeves and one wearing a leather jacket. They cut me off, and the one in the leather jacket said, “What's the hurry, Foley?”

  I knew then that all my fine schemes had gone to pot.

  “Into the car with him,” the one in the shirt sleeves said. They had my arms behind me, jostling me toward the curb, and I knew they must be a couple of Seaward's truck drivers.

  “What the hell is this!” I snapped. I tried to break away; then the man in the leather jacket jerked up my arm, jamming my fist against the base of my skull and almost ripping my shoulder out of the socket. The one in the shirt sleeves stepped back, took all the time in the world to get set, and then hit me as hard as he could in the face.

  The shock snapped my head back as if I had been hit with a hammer. I could feel my cheek split on the inside and warm, salt-tasting blood began oozing into my mouth. I sagged, half numb, as they went through my pockets rapidly.

  “Have a look in his room,” the man in the jacket said, and the other went away.

  “Get in the car.”

  He had a leather-covered blackjack in his hand. I got in, trying to choke the sickness down. He got in beside me and closed the door, staring straight ahead at nothing.

  After a while the other one came back and got under the steering wheel.

  “Did you find it?” the man in the leather jacket said.

  “Everything,” the one in the shirt sleeves said. “The camera, the pictures, the works.” He shook his head. “Geez! How dumb can they get!” He started the car and we headed south, the three of us jammed into the front seat. I was too sick, too hurt, too full of overwhelming disgust at myself to care about anything.

  Not until we were well out of town and across the river did I realize that we were headed for Seaward's place. We went through the open gate, around a graveled drive-to the back of the house, and I saw four men coming toward us, walking into the bright beam of our headlights. Seaward, Sid, Paul Keating, and Joe Kingkade.

  “Get out,” Barney Seaward said coldly.

  The man in the jacket opened the door and pulled me out after him. Sid stood spread-legged in front of me, red-faced, his little eyes glinting savagely in the headlights. “You lousy punk!” he said thickly. “You goddamn lousy punk!” He took a step toward me, unsteadily, and then lunged drunkenly into the grillework of the car.

  “I think we found what you wanted, Barney,” the man in the shirt sleeves said, and he handed Barney the pictures. Barney didn't look at them. He handed them to Keating and said. “Is this everything?”

  Keating looked quickly. “Yes.”

  Barney took out a lighter, snapped it and set fire to the photographs, the positive and negative prints. They flared up quickly and then died out. Barney ground the ashed paper under his heel, watching me with those cool, business-like eyes, as though he hadn't quite made up his mind what to do with me. Keating stood stone-faced, with a patch of adhesive at the corner of his mouth. How could I have misjudged him? I thought. Kingkade lit a cigarette and studied me dispassionately. If it had been up to him, he would have me killed because it was the neatest way of disposing of the situation.

  “Foley,” Seaward said finally, “I've thought about killing you, but I've decided you're not worth the trouble and the risk. By tomorrow morning you'll be out of Big Prairie. Out of Oklahoma. I don't care where you go, or how, but you're not ever to come back. Is that clear?”

  I looked at them and said, “Go to hell.”

  Seaward's eyebrows raised slightly. “Max,” he said, and the man in the jacket stepped forward. “Joel,” he said, and the shirt-sleeved one stepped up. Max hit me solidly in the stomach. As I doubled over, gagging, Joel got my arms and held them behind me.

  “All right,” Seaward said, “Go ahead.”

  Max worked as earnestly as a circus roustabout driving a stake. He snapped my head around with a right, drove a left to the gut, low, and then a right to the face again, completely without emotion.
He slammed a deliberate low blow and I could feel my insides screaming.

  “Wait a minute,” Seaward said.

  Through waves of nausea I saw a car's headlights cut a long swath in the darkness as it came through the gate and around to where we were'. I heard Keating saying, “Lola, you shouldn't have come here!”

  “I have a right to be here. God knows what would have happened if it hadn't been for me.”

  “Your husband's right, Mrs. Keating. This is a necessary job, but not very pretty, I'm afraid.” That was Seaward.

  “I didn't imagine it would be pretty,” Lola said. “Nevertheless, I'm here and I'm staying. You can't deny I have the right.” She didn't look at anyone but me.

  And all the rage that I thought was dead exploded inside me. “You bitch!” I twisted hard, breaking Joel's hold for a moment, but Max was in fast slamming a paralyzing fist into my middle. I felt my arms twisted behind me again and a fist smashed at my mouth.

  I don't know how long it lasted. My legs gave way but Joel held me up as long as consciousness lasted. It seemed like a long time. My rage kept me fighting long after I should have slipped into darkness. I hadn't really misjudged Keating, but I hadn't accounted for Lola; that had been my fatal mistake.

  And now she stood there, laughing without a sound.

  I came out of it with the smell of damp earth close to my nostrils, with the feel of dew and grass on my face. I lay for a long time, not even opening my eyes. Finally I tried to move my legs and a warm fluid sickness flowed in and out between the cringing coils in my belly, and I thought: There's no use trying to get up. I'm busted up inside and my legs wouldn't hold me. From somewhere, a great roaring swept in, almost passing over me, and then just as suddenly it was gone. I lay there thinking about it, and after a while it occurred to me that it must have been a car.

  I was near a highway. Before long another car passed, and then another, and finally I opened my eyes and I saw that I was lying face-down in a bar ditch, three or four feet away from the edge of the concrete.