The Devil's Only Friend

by Mitchell Bartoy

  I was too far gone to think much about it. But however much I tried to push back all the murky thoughts drifting through my brain, I had to admit to myself that I had fallen into something bigger and messier than I was prepared to slog through again. Who bolted the door like this? Who else has the key? I stepped inside and pushed on the door till it clicked tight behind me.

  My place had been tossed, but gently. Drawers had been pulled and turned out, but all my meager junk had been placed in neat piles. They had opened up the back of my radio and left the six screws that held it together in a row at the back of the counter. It looked like a joke a kid might play. Not much had been broken or torn apart. The bed looked like it had been tipped over and put right again. I did not need to make an inventory to know that nothing of value had been taken or broken—there was nothing of real value to me in the place. I kept a few photographs in the box at the bank for sentimental reasons.

  I shuffled over to the silver drawer, took it all the way out, and set it on top of the counter. Though I couldn’t get down properly to see up under the counter, I stuffed my hand inside and found that Lloyd’s papers had not been removed. I had tacked the envelope right close to the front, and as far as my fat fingers could grub, the papers seemed just as I had left them. In trying to force my groggy head to consider what else of value might have been taken, I fell into a sort of stupor, leaning on the counter crookedly, numbly. That was it. I had come to it. As a man I wasn’t even worth a proper knockover.

  There was the one thing—and I had put off thinking of it because I knew how much trouble it would be to replace it. I had augered and filed a little hole in the brass lamp that sat by my chair. In this little hole I kept the key to the bank box that seemed to hold everything worthwhile I had managed to glean in my sorry life. The majority of it, I knew well, had been earned by my father. Since the lamp operated mainly with a switch on the wall plate, it was hard for anyone to notice that the key wouldn’t turn like a switch or that there was a real knob on the back of the base to let the juice through. I walked over, kicked my ottoman upright, and eased myself down into the chair. Because I had changed, the chair didn’t fit me like it had before; but I was able to relax because I could see that my key had not been discovered.

  Even though it was the middle of the day, I fell into something like sleep. My mind wandered over everything: my unlocked door, Federle’s woman, my mother’s garage, Jasper Lloyd’s foul breath. I don’t think I ever stopped rambling along like that—half awake—before a low knock on the door brought me to attention.

  I had stiffened up so much that I could not move from the chair.

  “What?” I said.

  Muffled speech seemed to echo through the wood.

  “It’s open,” I said. “Just come right in.”

  There was no answer, but now I could hear or feel the knocker’s weight shifting in the hall.

  “Come in, you ass! Come in!”

  I was seized by a fit of coughing that propelled me to my feet, crabbed over with my hands on my knees. The knob turned, the latch clicked, and the door opened a sliver. I kept hacking and gasping until I dredged up a rubbery clot of something from my lungs. I spat it out into my hand and noted that it was flecked with blood.

  “Mr. Caudill?”

  I wheeled to see Lloyd’s slim secretary, James, standing timidly inside my door.

  “Well?” I said.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  I stomped toward him so he could get a good look. He kept his horror pretty well hidden, but I was afraid he might slither back through the door, so I turned away and limped to the kitchen area.

  “Your jacket, sir,” he said. “It’s ruined.”

  “That’s fine. I got it at St. Vincent de Paul’s.”

  “But you’ve bled through the back. You’ve run off from the hospital.”

  “It’s a bad habit,” I said, turning again toward him. “I do what I want.”

  He considered his words for a moment. “Mr. Lloyd wonders if you’re in any condition—”

  “I’m all aces,” I said, trying out my grin on him. “I’m peaches and cream.”

  “If you’re in any condition to assist him further.”

  “You can see what kind of shape I’m in.”

  The secretary had a neat businesslike timidity, and there wasn’t any reason to treat him badly. It seemed possible to imagine that he was a decent fellow in his private life.

  “We can arrange for personal medical care,” he said. “A nurse—”

  “Can you get me some penicillin?”

  “I should think so,” he said. “I can send a nurse to look at the bandages. The stitches will have to be removed.”

  “Ah,” I said, and then I swallowed and tried to clamp down on a blinding surge of pain that raked my sinuses. “Why didn’t you tell me that the girl was chopped up?”

  “What girl?”

  “Look now, don’t dummy up on me. Why didn’t you tell me about the girl at the Cleveland plant? Now this other girl—”

  “I’m not in a position to tell you anything, sir. I’m careful to perform within the limits of my function. I only keep things in order for Mr. Lloyd.”

  I knew it wasn’t any use bracing him—and I knew I wasn’t in any condition to play rough with anybody, even a secretary. For all I knew, James was a golden gloves champ. He’d go about flyweight, but I was already coming apart at the seams. I waddled away from him again, pacing to relieve the pain in my lower back.

  “Mr. Lloyd is anxious to make some progress.”

  “Well, Jesus, why don’t you look into it?”

  “I’m not sure I enjoy Mr. Lloyd’s complete trust.”

  As best I could tell he wasn’t trying to be funny. He kept his words guarded, but I could see by his face that he was speaking more personally now than professionally.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve faced danger before. I don’t believe I’d fare as well as you, given the circumstances.”

  “Listen, I just got the habit of walking into trouble. I’m not anybody to rely on. I could go south any time.”

  “Mr. Lloyd doesn’t believe you will.”

  The secretary waited me out. As a practical matter it’s hard to stand stock-still for such a length of time without doing something with your hands; but he did. I was flummoxed by the whole load, and panting all the while from the pacing and the pain. A chill ran through me when it hit me that I wasn’t sweating at all—did it mean something?

  “I’ve brought you a badge of sorts.”

  It wasn’t a regular badge like a police shield but more like an identification tag. At any of the auto plants it wasn’t unusual to see the men and women with tin tags on their coveralls, but this one was larger and heavier, and it looked like it might be worth a little something if the silver was pure. He held it up for me by its little clip. The rounded Lloyd trademark was enameled in red, and the rest of the raised text had been topped with blue, like a blueprint. It looked official, sure enough. My full name was spelled out, and Jasper Lloyd’s facsimile signature scrawled out at the bottom corner. I took the badge from him.

  “The badge will allow you unfettered access to any plant controlled directly by Lloyd Motors.”

  “What about the paper you gave me?” I said. “Wasn’t that supposed to get me into the plants?” It occurred to me that James might have arranged the whole beating to see how loyal I was, but I was ranting in my own mind.

  “I’m instructed to tell you,” he said, “that notice has been given to allow your passage. The badge was my idea. I’ve found that—you’re to report any difficulty—”

  “So now I’m Lloyd’s flunky? Is that the kind of job that draws a paycheck?”

  “Certainly I can arrange for some payment,” he said. “A cash arrangement would be preferable.”

  “I know a fella who needs a job. A colored fella.”

  “I’m really not in a position
—”

  “Forget it,” I told him. “How much cash are you carrying with you?”

  “None at all.”

  I felt too dry to keep talking, but I didn’t want to have to offer him anything to drink. There was only spigot water and alcohol. We were still standing just inside the door to my place.

  “You can get some money, ah? Deliver it where I tell you?”

  “Within reason,” he said.

  “Hold on—you have a pencil?”

  He slipped one practiced hand into his jacket and came up with an outsized fountain pen. From another pocket he pulled a little blank card of stiff paper. It reminded me so much of Chew that I gave a shudder. I gave him Walker’s name but I couldn’t think of the street number.

  “You’ve a figure in mind?”

  “Ten thousand?”

  “Five?”

  “Why not?”

  I was beginning to like the fellow, and he continued to win me over.

  “Mr. Lloyd thought you might lack adequate transportation.” He dangled an ignition key on a ring from his pinky finger.

  “Well—”

  “I’ve parked the car down below,” he said.

  There wasn’t a thing to do but go to the window to have a look. Down in the alley sat an old roadster, illegally parked.

  “Lloyd sent over a Chrysler? He couldn’t send something newer?”

  “There’s a bit of travel in the steering,” said the secretary. “But you’ll find it suitable.” There was the trace of a smile in his voice. “The engine has been modified.”

  “Anyway, it beats the streetcar.” It’s like a dream, I thought. What have I fallen into?

  I caught him looking at his wristwatch as I turned back toward him. He stood patiently while I crossed the few feet toward him, and he dropped the key into my shaking palm. His face was placid in the main, except that now and again his eyebrows would get close together and his head would tip to one side.

  “You’ll want to make a visit to the younger Mr. Lloyd. He maintains an office at the big plant. He’s forced at present to curtail his travels due to some pressing business with the board of directors.”

  “Sure.”

  “Good luck to you, sir. Good-bye.”

  So far I hadn’t done anything. I kept the key pressed into my palm and wondered how far I could get if I left right away and kept driving until I hit ocean. How long would it take me to get to a place where the sky was big and the clouds swept away farther than you could see? Along the back roads the hayseeds might part with some of the gasoline they’d kept in rusty tanks since before the war, and I could put the windows down on the Chrysler and let the air whip away the ringing and the buzzing that now plagued my ears. I could just walk out to the middle of a great field of wheat and lay down until I melted into the earth.

  CHAPTER 11

  I started drinking right after the secretary left, though it was only midafternoon. I was surprised to find a pint of whiskey in my cupboard with the seal still on it, and I put it to good use. The doctors will tell you how bad liquor is for the old carcass, but that’s only true in the long run. The booze cleared out my sinuses right away and eased my breathing. Before long I felt right, and some of the pain in my muscles loosened and drained away. If my liver rotted out in a few years, it was a proper trade-off for an evening of comfort. I thought I knew enough not to drink myself into a wicked hangover.

  Since I didn’t have anything else like a weapon, I spent a good hour or two trying to put a proper edge on my meat cleaver with a tiny whetstone. It was not a blade to do a butcher proud, and I knew that my swollen grip was not firm, but it was better than nothing, and it was soothing enough to keep me from thinking too much. As the day faded I gave up trying to sharpen my only other blade, an ancient paring knife with a broken tip and a wooden handle that rattled against the tang and the rivets.

  I became tired from the booze and from all the work it took to heal. What I needed was sleep, a solid block to let my body take care of itself. It was early still, but I capped the dribble of whiskey left in the bottle and got up to pull the shades. Something made me pause at the window. I was light-headed, and I looked for a good place to fall over. The spell passed, but I stood for a moment more, all abuzz from the booze. I heard someone in the hall coming to my door, and I knew it was Federle.

  He rapped in a syncopation, like a secret code.

  “Pete? Pete?”

  It seemed to take me a long time to get to the door.

  “Pete? Pete?” More knocking.

  When I pulled the door open, it made a puff of cool air on my red face. I don’t think I knew how tall Ray Federle really was until that moment. He was very slender, and he had a kind of restless energy that seemed to burn him up from the inside. It reminded me of the partner on the police force I had known so briefly—Bobby Swope, until he was gutted.

  “Hey, Pete. Listen, I didn’t know you were going to bug out of the hospital so fast.”

  I stood aside so he could enter.

  “It’s better I come through the door, eh?”

  I shrugged and walked over to the counter.

  “I’m on tonight,” he said. “They’re giving me some hours. Don’t pay much, though.”

  My legs trembled as I stood with my good hand propping me at the counter. I did not want to face Federle, because I was afraid he had done what I asked him to do.

  “Got a light on, eh? It’s all right. The liquor will dry you up—takes the swelling down. We used to drink grain alcohol when we could get it.”

  He had moved closer to me, and I could feel heat from him. I felt dully that I needed to piss.

  “What do you know about me, Federle?”

  He stopped in his tracks and considered it. “Not so much, I guess,” he said.

  “Did I ever tell you anything about myself?”

  “Ah,” he said, “you don’t need to if you don’t want to.”

  He stood calmly before me. I was screwing it over in my mind, what Eileen had told me. Now I wasn’t sure if I had only imagined it or heard it in a dream. “Have you been talking to anybody about me?”

  “Pete, why would I? I told my wife I had been to see you, sure.” He furrowed his forehead. “Who do I know around here?”

  “A friend of mine told me you left a note for her at her job,” I said. “Does that make any sense to you? How could she have called you by your name?” Am I thinking straight?

  A dark and steady cast came over Federle’s face. “Somebody’s putting one over on you, maybe,” he muttered. “It looks like somebody has it in for you.”

  “Well,” I said, “never mind about it. Maybe … I’m a goner anyway. Maybe I heard it wrong.”

  He looked me over with some concern. “If your bandages are bled through, you need to get them off,” he said. “You got anything clean to put on?”

  “Maybe some gauze.”

  “You can tear up a shirt if you need to. It don’t need to be fancy.” He walked off to rummage through the medicine box in my bathroom. He had an armload of truck when he returned.

  “You’re like Florence Nightingale,” he said. “You’ve had some medical training?”

  “That’s all stuff that sits in there. Never been opened.” It was finally coming down on me, all of it—the blunder I’d made in going to Chew right away, the beating, the liquor—how I couldn’t get rid of Federle—and I was about to collapse. Fine enough. The chair would do if I couldn’t make it to the bed.

  “Get that shirt off and let’s have a look,” Federle said. “Sit down here. The other way.”

  He more or less pulled the shirt from my back and set to work. I straddled the kitchen chair and put my teeth together as he pulled tape and dry bloody gauze from my back. The way his hands moved, it reminded me of a squirrel burying a nut in the grass.

  “Jesus Christ, Pete,” he said. “This shirt is ruined, so I’m gonna use it.”

  Though my front side and my arms were torn up more thoroug
hly than my back, it was the pair of slashes from the edge of the board on my back that caused the most trouble. Over my shoulder blades, the cuts were deep and kept moving and opening. Federle splashed hydrogen peroxide over everything and swabbed it away with patches of gauze and the ruined shirt. Then he broke open the small bottle of mercurochrome and used swabs to dab it into the deeper holes.

  “You fucker,” I said.

  “Hey!”

  “I don’t mean it.” The red stuff burned like hell, but I figured it was doing some good.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry. You need to dry up. You need to stop moving around so you can scab up good.”

  “You shouldn’t be so nice.”

  “You got anybody else to be nice to you?”

  “Jasper Lloyd sent me a car today.”

  “That’s the box down in the alley? The Chrysler?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s got a towing tag on it. They’ll come in the night to tow it away.”

  “You move it for me?”

  “I can do that.”

  “Why don’t you take it to work with you?”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “It don’t cost me anything.”

  “I really can’t say how much—”

  “You got that thing I asked you for?”

  He pressed a patch of gauze down and taped it in place. “I got a line on it,” he said.

  “You’ll need some money.”

  “They don’t give stuff away,” he said. “Except cars, I guess. Old Man Lloyd can bear to part with a little.”

  “Take what you need from the counter there.”

  “But what’s the case? What do you need the gun for? You’re working for Lloyd?”

  “You’re sticking your nose in.”

  “Well, you’re asking me to stick my neck out. I got a family, such as it is. I’m not afraid, but—”

  “Lloyd’s in some trouble and he asked me to look into it.”

  “You’re going after the boys who roughed you over?”