by A. W. Gray
It was Donna and Jack, arms about each other’s waists, on the deck of the same boat where Donna had posed with the unlucky marlin. She was wearing the same pair of hugging white shorts, and one of the marlin’s huge tail fins was visible on the far right edge of the picture. But it wasn’t Jack and Donna I was gaping at. It was the guy in the picture with them: a tall, stoop-shouldered guy with jug handle ears and a big winning grin, and who was wearing a dark blue blazer with white deck pants. I’d seen this guy not too long ago, but when I’d seen him he’d been in a slightly different condition than in this picture. It was the same citizen who’d been on the couch at Connie Swarm’s, getting high with Crystal. The one who’d recognized me, but whom I hadn’t been able to place.
I snapped my jaw back into its socket, went on upstairs and found the master bedroom, stood just inside the door, and shook the cobwebs out of my brain. Who was that fucking guy? I still didn’t know.
I crept inside both closets, one at a time, and sneaked up on no one. Ditto with the bathroom; I stood for several seconds with the shower curtain yanked aside, threatening thin air with my club. Then I went back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. It was a fourposter king-size with a canopy and a blue quilted spread, and the thought of Jack and Donna in the bed making love sent a quiver jumping across my scalp. I picked up the white princess phone, fished a folded slip of paper from my pocket, read the number, and called Ramada Inn Disney World, in Orlando.
An operator confirmed that I had the Ramada Inn and told me to have a nice day, sounding as though she was talking through her nose. I gave her Donna’s room number, and as I listened to a series of monotonous three-second buzzes, I had a fleeting moment of panic. I’d told her twelve o’clock—hell, in Florida it was a few minutes after one. What if she wasn’t there? There was a sharp click on the line and Donna’s soft, lovely voice said hello.
“I was afraid I’d missed you,” I said.
“Rick. You nearly did. Jacqueline’s ding-donging about going to the Haunted House and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea to the point that I can’t hold her off much longer.”
“Guess what, Donna. I’m sitting on your bed.”
“I wish.”
A small lump stuck in my throat. I cleared it away. “Your house in Dallas, goofy. I’m . . . looking around.” I’d almost told her about the hole in the downstairs window, but decided she had enough to worry about.
“I don’t think I’d like to be in that house right now,” she said, her voice suddenly tiny and frightened. “Maybe later, but not now. Have you found anything?”
I touched the key through the fabric of my pants. “Not much. I’ve got more questions, though.”
She laughed, the teasing lilt suddenly returning to her voice. “I’ll answer on one condition, that you’ll fly down here in a day or two. I’m keeping up a pretty good front, if I do say so myself, but I need some moral support. Some physical support, too.” She breathed softly, then said, “Shameless, huh?”
Little Donna Sue, the subject of most of my dreams during the years at El Reno, now the target of a possible murder indictment that was mostly my fault. I said, “Sure, I’ll come. The questions. They’re pretty important to me.”
“Well, ask them.”
“I need to look at a copy of the papers you signed for Jack. The ones that have to do with Lorraine Daley’s house.”
“Oh, they won’t be around there. Jack never kept anything like that at home. Fred Cassel will have a copy.”
Good old stand-up Fred. The piano stool leg lay beside me on the covers like a small brown stump. I said, “I’ll pay Mr. Cassel a visit. Another thing, Donna, something I’m buffaloed about. There’s a picture hanging by your staircase, of you and Jack on a big boat beside a big fish. Who’s the guy in the picture with you, the one dressed up like H.M.S. Pinafore?”
She laughed again. “Why, don’t you know?”
“Should I?”
“Well, I don’t guess he’s that famous. Lou James, Louis P. James. He was the state senator from our district, ran for governor. Jack did a lot of chasing around after those kind of people. That trip on the boat, that was the only time I ever met the man, but Jack insisted on displaying the picture.”
I guess the guy’s identity should have surprised me more than it did, but it figured. I even remembered where I’d seen him before Connie Swarm’s. At a couple of rah-rah, in-crowd-only parties back when I was playing ball, another time at a fund-raiser given by Clint Murchison, the Cowboys’ owner at the time. The press had had a field day with an affair between Connie Swarm and a gubernatorial candidate. Same guy, Louis P. James.
Donna’s voice cut through the fog bank. “Is something wrong?”
I’d been clutching the phone and staring off into space. “Nothing,” I said. “Just thinking.” The grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs was chiming twelve-thirty. For some reason it sounded odd.
“I thought you were using the phone in my bedroom,” Donna said.
“I am.”
“You can’t be. I can’t hear the grandfather clock from my bedroom. Doesn’t it have the sweetest chime?”
Yeah, it did, just the cutest little chime I’d ever heard. Only the tinny noise of the clock striking hadn’t come to me in the conventional way, with the sound waves traveling up the stairs into the bedroom. The single bong had come to my ears electronically, transmitted through the telephone. As realization flooded over me, my gaze rested on a bureau, a tall French Provincial piece against the far wall. The top drawer was partway open and some papers—what looked to be some handwritten sheets and a white business envelope with some typewriting on it—were sticking in disarray from the drawer as though somebody’d been going through them.
I reached down and gripped the piano stool leg.
“Think carefully, Donna. Picture me in your bedroom. Now, where are the other phone extensions? The downstairs ones first.” I shifted my gaze to the open bedroom door; beyond the door in the hallway was a wood rolling server on rich shag carpet.
“Well,” Donna said, “there’s one on a little table at the foot of the stairs, on your left as you go down. Another in the den by the sofa. One on the kitchen that hangs—”
She stopped in mid-sentence as a sharp click sounded over the line. Donna then said, “Rick? Are you still there?” Suddenly her voice was clear as a bell and the static I’d been hearing had disappeared. She said again, “Rick?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” I said. “Look, I’ll have to get back to you.” I dropped the receiver onto the hook as Donna’s voice, tiny, frightened and far away, started to say more. I carried my club out into the hallway with beads of sweat popping out on my brow. On the rolling server was a vase holding long-stemmed roses. The flowers were beginning to droop and wilt.
There was no one on the stairs; from where I stood on the second-story landing the bottom half of the front door was visible. I brandished the piano stool leg over my head, took a deep breath, and charged downward. Between short, raspy breaths I yelled, “You son of a bitch, I’m coming.” I was either going to scare the hell out of somebody or send them into giggling hysterics.
I thundered around the bannister, my feet thudding on hallway tiles, and raced into the den. I stopped in my tracks. There was no one in the den, only stone silence and the painting of Donna and Jack and the palomino. I pictured someone crouched behind the bar, took hesitant steps, club ready, had a look. Nothing. The Dallas Cowboy team picture was slightly tilted in its frame. I straightened it. As I did, a draft hit my cheek; I turned toward the back of the house. The door leading to the redwood deck stood open; the flowered drapes rippled and billowed in the wind. I went outside.
Not a sign of anyone on the deck; choppy, wind-generated waves rolled across the surface of the pool. As I started to go down the steps, white light flashed in the periphery of my vision accompanied by a small explosion, like a Chinese firecracker. Something whanged close to my feet, knocked a good-sized sp
linter from the redwood. I went down in the yard, rolling, the jarring fall sending pain shooting through my knee. Another explosion and something whined a foot over my head.
I held my breath for an hour’s worth of seconds as my heart tried its damnedest to tear through my rib cage. There were no more shots, no further sound other than the wind rustling the trees and hedges. Finally I rose, went over to the wire fence and looked into Jacqueline Brendy’s playground. I was still carrying my club.
The gate in the high brick wall, iron painted white and molded into the shape of a grapevine, stood open. On top of the wall a yellow light flashed on and off, on and off, and I looked stupidly at the light for a few seconds before it dawned on me what had happened. Whoever had gone through the gate had triggered the alarm. Goody, the law was on its way.
I went back through the house and exited by the front door. My rented pickup stood where I had left it, and I got in and drove away. A half block down the street, a black and white Dallas police cruiser passed me going in the opposite direction. Its lights were flashing and its siren was hooting. Only then did I remember the ladder, still propped against the wall at the back of Donna’s house. The metal tag from Rent-It-All was attached to one of the ladder’s lower rungs.
It was obvious from the look on his face that the skinny guy from Rent-It-All had had a bad day, and he saw the missing ladder as a chance to give somebody a ration of shit. There wasn’t much for me to do but listen to him.
He said, “Buddy, you got any idea how long I could stay in business if everybody treated my stuff like that? About that”—he raised a hand to ear level and snapped his fingers—“long. Hells bells.” He folded pipe-stem arms and leaned against his side of the counter. He was chewing a toothpick and a yellow pencil was stuck behind his ear. The old black Burroughs cash register was showing a No Sale flag in its window.
“Look,” I said, “I told you twice I was sorry and I’d pay for the ladder. What’s it worth?” I fished in my pocket and brought out my bankroll.
He eyed the bills. A hundred was exposed. “How much it cost ain’t really the point,” he said. “It’s the loss in income. Aluminum ladders is hard to come by as young pussy, case you ain’t never tried to buy one. How much rentals it’s going to cost me before I can replace the damn thing, that’s the question.” On a low shelf behind him sat three TV sets—two RCAs, and even an old Philco—which looked as though they’d been around when “The Milton Berle Show” was leading the ratings.
“Look,” I said. “A couple of hundred should take care of it, shouldn’t it?” I laid two bills face-up on the counter and shoved them in his direction.
He removed the toothpick, examined its end, then used it to spear a pulpy lump of something-or-other from between his teeth. He looked the lump over, then swallowed it. A real Emily Post fan. He said, “Make it three hundred.”
“Three? Bullshit.”
“Three,” he said. “Or the Corvette stays parked right where it is.”
I didn’t have any idea how long it would be before the cops read the tag on the ladder and called this guy, but it could happen any second. The guy had me by the short hairs. I dropped another bill on the counter. “How’s that?” I said.
“More like it,” he said, dinging open the register, fishing my keys out—they were on a chain along with a big orange plastic numeral 1—and dropping them over in front of me. He took the pencil from behind his ear and held it poised over a pad. “I’ll give you a receipt, everything legit.”
The phone rang, a too loud, jangly sound. He gave me a wait-a-minute wave and picked up the receiver. “Yeah, Rent-It-All. Bob speakin’.” Then arched a thin eyebrow in my direction as he listened. “Yeah, it’s my ladder. What about it?” he said.
I scooped up my keys and walked toward the exit, trying hard not to break into a mad dash.
He covered the mouthpiece with his palm. “Hey, bud, wait a minute.”
I broke into a jog, left the building, ran across the asphalt to the ‘Vette. I cranked the engine and spun rubber, fishtailing, barely avoiding a crack-up with a Dodge van as I wheeled onto Cedar Springs Road. Visible in my side view mirror, the Rent-It-All guy came out on the curb, shook his fist, yelled something I couldn’t hear, and finally shot me the finger. He was standing there with his middle digit upraised as he disappeared from view.
As I passed the entrance to DFW Airport and continued west on Highway 183, a Delta 747 whined overhead and rode the breeze in a lumbering descent. I didn’t have the slightest idea what the speed limit was. There didn’t seem to be any signs; half the cars were going forty, the other half seventy. I couldn’t afford a ticket; if a cop were to stop me I’d probably be breathing my last gulp of free air for a while. Likely there were already warrants on me for the break-in at Donna’s house. I took a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, kept the needle firmly on sixty, and listened to a country singer look for love in all the wrong places on the wrap-around. The sun was setting, a blinding ball of fire directly in my path on the western horizon; I lowered the visor, hunched over the wheel, and squinted down the road.
Euless Main Street flashed by; Central Drive, with its single tall bank building on the right; golden McDonald’s arches and a green, blue, and white Wendy’s Hamburgers sign on the Brown Trail access road. I passed underneath a green luminescent sign reading, “Bedford-Euless Rd—1 mi.” I slowed gradually and eased over, took the Bedford-Euless exit, and came to a halt behind snarled traffic waiting for the light. When a Buick Park Avenue stopped behind me and honked, I jumped and banged my head on the ceiling. I was that jittery. The light changed and the traffic moved on. I followed, turned left in front of a Bennigan’s Tavern, and crossed underneath the freeway, drove past Northeast Mall and its jammed parking lot, its big signs over the J.C. Penneys and the Sears, its marquee stating that the U.A. Cine was showing Steven Spielberg’s Empire of the Sun, Danny DeVito in Throw Momma from the Train, and Broadcast News, starring William Hurt, Albert Brooks, and Holly Hunter. The mini-warehouse was a block down on my left. It was called U-Storit, and as I turned in and parked, I wondered briefly if these people knew the guy from Rent-It-All. I went inside, digging in my pocket for the key and tensing myself to break and run at the first sign of trouble.
For once, nobody gave me a hard time. The attendant was a young girl with stringy dishwater blond hair and braces on her teeth, and she was a whole lot more interested in the National Enquirer that she was reading than she was in me. I signed the register “Jack Landry,” smirking at the alias in spite of myself, and showed her my key. She said, “Thank you,” in a listless monotone, and went on reading about the trouble between Bonnie Prince Charlie and Princess Di. I found Jack’s vault, 14B, in the second row of lockers. The vault had a thick blue steel door and a big padlock. As I inserted the key, I expected that it wouldn’t work, sure as I was that there would be a foul-up somewhere, but the key turned easily and the lock popped open. Inside the locker was a brown Samsonite carrying case, and I opened it also.
I don’t suppose that it was more than a couple of minutes that I stared at the bundles of hundred-dollar bills and the two cellophane bags of white powder, but it seemed much longer. The countless pictures of Benjamin Franklin seemed to leap from the bills, grin, and recite verses from Poor Richard’s Almanac. Seen through filmy cellophane, the cocaine was the color of tapioca pudding. I picked up one of the bags and hefted it; it was as heavy as double ankle weights. I snapped the case shut and took it with me. The girl continued to ignore me as I went by, and I made it to the ‘Vette without being surrounded and robbed. As I drove back to the freeway, the air came out of my lungs in a relieved whoosh.
I said to Sweaty Mathis, “Look, it’s just for a few days. It won’t be in your way, I guarantee you.” I’d just hidden the carrying case, contents and all, in the bottom drawer of a vacant desk at the rear of Sweaty’s office. One packet of bills—each wrapper contained ten thousand dollars, and there were fifty packages in all�
�was in the ‘Vette’s glove compartment. I didn’t think that Jack would miss it.
Sweaty had a jeweler’s magnifying glass squinched into his eye socket and was examining a diamond bracelet that someone had put up as collateral for bail. He wore a vest and tie. His tie was loosened and the collar of his white shirt was soiled. “Naw, it’s okay,” he said, “this ain’t nothing but a hatcheck stand. So you’re going to fuck off a few more days. Us po’ folk got to work on Sunday.” He removed the eyeglass and laid down the bracelet. “What about your buddy Breaux, why don’t you leave whatever it is with him?”
I sat down in front of Sweaty’s desk in a rickety leather swivel chair. The chair creaked. A spring poked my butt. I shifted my position. “I haven’t seen Bodie in a while. Look, Sweat, I need to talk to you.”
“What for? I ain’t in the loan business.” He picked up the bracelet and held it in his chubby fingers. “High quality, my ass. There’s flaws here a blind man could spot.”
“How much bond did you post with the bracelet as collateral?” I said. “Fifty bucks? Tell ‘em to kick in a Piaget watch to boot and you’d make it a hundred? Come on, Sweat, I need to get down with you.”
He set the eyepiece upright and cocked his head to one side. “You need a new gag writer, Bannion. The FBI was by here yesterday. That ain’t funny.”
So they’d already been here. There wasn’t a thing Sweaty could tell them that would help as far as my relationship with Jack Brendy was concerned, but the feds would know that. They’d just come by to let Sweaty, along with anybody else that happened to know me, understand that they had me under investigation. I’d been through it before. “I guess I’m in trouble,” I said.
“So what’s new?” Sweaty said.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. Listen, I could get indicted any time for killing Jack Brendy. They’ve probably already got a warrant for me for burglarizing Jack’s house. I’ve got to keep on the move, not stay where anybody can home in on me. The stuff in the case, well, it’s pretty important. Nobody can know I’ve left it here except you.”
