by Peter Rabe
He hurried toward her as if she might disappear. It shook the wrinkles around his jowls, and the way he stooped into his walk made it look as if he meant to peck at the woman with his beaky nose. After Janice had closed the door she took Sutterfield's hat, trying to be very calm. “Want some coffee, Herb?”
He turned, looking belligerent. “Don't you think it might be more important than coffee when I take the risk and come to this house?”
“Don't rant at me, Herb.” Janice sat down, looking too disinterested.
“All right, where is he? What's going on?” Sutterfield sounded nasty.
“Herb, don't you think I'm worried too?” Her show of indifference gave way. She bit her lip quickly and tried to look angry. That would be better; better to look mean, like Sutterfield did, than to show how anxious she was about Fell.
But Sutterfield wasn't looking. He went to see whether his car was visible from the window.
“Now listen to me, Janice.” Back in front of her chair, he started swinging his bent hands back and forth. “I got three secretaries, six telephones, and a whole department of flunkies to run my errands for me. But I came down here myself. Did you ever hear of a police commissioner making a call like this himself?”
“Yes.”
He hadn't meant for her to interrupt with an answer, but then it nettled him enough to give her a very personal kind of pleasure. He got pompous.
“I hold more than one public office. I have my own business to run. I also—”
“I know, Herb. Believe me...”
“May I finish?”
Then Janice changed her tone of voice.
“Come to the point, Herb. You don't have to put on for me.
Sutterfield and Janice knew each other very well. He came to the point immediately. “Where's Fell?”
Janice shut her mouth. After a moment she relaxed again, slowly. “You'll have to wait, Herb.”
“Wait? Do you realize what he's doing to me? I'm not in the habit of waiting for anybody, neither my kind of people or his kind! When I—”
“When you talk to me about my husband,” said Janice, “you will please remember your manners as much as you do with anyone else. More so, Herb.”
Sutterfield twitched his chin and stared at Janice, but didn't say anything for the moment. Then he said, “Now I'll explain something to you, Janice. He depends upon me as much as I depend on him. Where is he?”
“I can't tell you.”
“You won't?”
“He'll be back, Herb.”
“When? By the time this town blows up in his face? And that won't have a thing to do with what I think of him! It'll be his doing, his absence, his lack of—”
“All right, Herb. All right.”
Sutterfield thought for a moment she was going to tell him where Fell was, but Janice had only wanted to stop his ranting. She tried not to show her worry and kept her face blank. She had nothing to say. If she told Sutterfield what he wanted to know, it would only make things worse. She wanted Tom Fell back more than anyone else, for better reasons, and with better feelings. Then Sutterfield started talking again.
“Do you know I haven't received my check for almost a month? Do you realize that this money must go to a number of places or else our entire arrangement in this town is apt to collapse?”
“Herb, if you need some money...”
“You seem to have no idea how much Tom pays for protection.”
“No, and I don't care. Go and speak to somebody in the organization.”
“They know any more than I do? They're fidgeting on their chairs as if they were wired for electricity! All they know is how to take orders, and there's nobody here who's giving them.”
“I'm not interested in hearing about it.”
“You don't care? You don't care about Tom?”
Janice drew herself up, and seemed suddenly very much taller than Sutterfield. He hesitated a moment, expecting her to shout, but she spoke very quietly.
“Get out. Get out, Herb.”
Sutterfield went to the door, opened it, and said, “You're making things worse; you know that, don't you.”
“Don't come to me about yours and Tom's business. I'm not part of it.”
“Pretty soon nobody else will be, either.”
Janice looked out the window and then back at Sutterfield. She wanted him to go. “Why don't you see Pander? He's in charge,” she commented.
“That clown?”
Janice shrugged. “Or see Cripp. Tom and Cripp are very close.
Chapter Four
Cripp spread dust as he swung through the iron gate with the sign that said Desert Farm. Suddenly there was no more dust. The dirt road from the highway had been yellow with old gravel and sand drifts, but once through the gate, the road was a clean hard-top. The view coming through the desert had had the strong colors of an Indian blanket; mesas with their sides brick-red, sharp blue in the sky, mustard-yellow where the desert was. All the shadows had been pure black.
Now the shadows were green. They hung dark and moist among the trees along the drive and made the bushes look dark where they bordered the big pea-green lawn. Desert Farm was a park, a hothouse, an artificial oasis. It reminded Cripp of Forest Lawn, except that there were no mausoleums or any other visible tombs. The main building was a vast white thing that took Cripp's breath away. A portico in front resembled Grant's Tomb and the rest of the structure had a touch of a modern office building, or maybe Sing Sing, except for the sun porches and giant verandas.
Cripp parked under a tree. He was five minutes early, so he sat for a while, straightened his tie, ran his hands through his blond hair. He didn't seem impatient. His features were so regular it was difficult to decide whether he was handsome or beautiful, and except for his strong neck and powerful shoulders he might have looked like a boy.
After a while he got out of the car and with a peculiar swing of the arms walked toward the building. It was a shock to see him walk, his whole body making a spastic jerk each time the twisted leg took a step. That's why they called him Cripp.
“I'm Jordan,” he said at the desk. “To see Doctor Emilson.”
He waited in the lobby, looking at the Indian decor. Then a young woman wearing sandals and a hand-printed dress took him through a series of corridors; not regular hospital corridors—the first one was pink, the next one was mauve, and the one after that was orange. From time to time the woman used the keys that hung from her belt.
In Dr. Emilson's office, more Indian decor.
“I'm back,” said Jordan. “About Mr. Fell.”
Dr. Emilson came around the desk making a therapeutic smile; a slight smile, eyes gazing deeply, and no offense meant.
“Of course, Mr. Jordan. Won't you sit down?”
Cripp sat down.
“Would you care to smoke?” said Dr. Emilson, and offered a heavy wood cigarette box.
Cripp declined. “I'm in a hurry,” he said, and watched Dr. Emilson take one of the cigarettes.
Dr. Emilson sat down again and smoked. He did it without inhaling, blowing out the smoke as if he were only practicing. He was young and smooth-skinned, with a small mustache under his nose. The mustache was meant to add age and a trustworthy look.
“What about Fell?” he said.
“You're the doctor,” said Cripp. “How is he?”
“Coming along very well. Very well. You may see him, of course, but please remember the rule of the house. Keep him calm, happy, untroubled.” Dr. Emilson again made his smile.
“He's got to come back.” said Cripp.
Emilson thought for a moment, because he rarely said yes or no. He said. “You mean leave here?”
“It's important. His business.”
This was a familiar request to Emilson, and since he already knew what to answer he waited for a moment, untroubled. He flipped the pages of a severe-looking book, full of small print and footnotes, bound in the uniform wine-red of one of the university presses. The author's na
me was in gold. Fredrick Emilson, M.D., Ph.D. The work dated back to the time before he had gone commercial.
“Mr. Jordan, the only important business is Mr. Fell himself. That's why he's here.”
“You said he was doing fine. I'm glad. But his other business isn't.”
“Does Mrs. Fell know you are here?”
“I don't think so. She's got nothing to do with the business.”
“But you have.”
“Sure. I'm his boy.”
“Ah? I didn't know Mr. Fell had a son.”
“His boy. His boy. Right hand. His aide or something.”
“Ah, yes,” said Emilson.—
“So I got to see him about this.”
Emilson wasn't sure how to handle this matter. It confused him. “Out of the question,” he said, sparring for time.
Cripp went right on. “Let's ask him. You said he's better, so he ought to decide himself.”
Emilson thought about how he might handle this. Cripp wasn't a relative, so the scare approach wouldn't work. He wasn't a doctor, so the clinical terms wouldn't solve anything. He said again, “Out of the question.”
“Look, Fell is a paying guest. He's self-committed, and you're a private outfit. Fell can leave any time he wants.”
“Let me try to explain something, Jordan. I told you the patient was well, and I meant it. I also meant it to imply that he was well here, but not necessarily anywhere else. When you brought him in he was suffering—to use your language—from a nervous breakdown, brought on typically enough by a mere matter of having been handed a parking ticket. You know the events better than I do, Mr. Jordan, because you were with him at the time.”
“He was in bad shape,” said Cripp, and thought about it. “Until he slowed down.”
“If Mr. Fell had been under the care of a physician at the time, the physician would have told you how important psychiatric judgment is in cases like this. My judgment—”
“That was a whole month ago. And don't forget,” said Cripp, “when he was home, talking to Mrs. Fell and me after we got him to bed, it was Fell himself who said he wanted to come here. For a rest.”
“Yes, and it was very acute of him.”
“So don't tell me he's crazy.”
“I didn't. I said he was sick.”
“Look, when a head-shrinker says—”
“Mr. Jordan.” Emilson felt himself lose some of the smile and the patience. He found that the most trying parts of his work were the non-clinical contacts, the job of explaining to laymen. Emilson had soft little hands, and he started to stroke the book he had written.
“Let me say this. We all have flaws, and most of the time a flaw doesn't show except under stress. What really distinguishes insanity is the fact that the flaw shows sooner, that even a slight thing becomes a stress.”
“That doesn't fit Fell. He's got plenty of stress in his line of work and nothing ever showed before.”
“Nothing that you would recognize. But I've spent a good deal of time with Fell, and I tell you this. Now that his flaw has finally shown so much that anyone can notice the difference, it will take more than rest to mend him.”
“He's been doing okay. And if he doesn't do some mending pretty soon in the way of business...”
“Look, Jordan,” said Dr. Emilson. “If Fell should leave now, that might be all he needed to go over the brink.”
Cripp sat up. He was finally getting straight answers.
“That's my professional guess,” said Emilson, “and it's enough to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“Did you ever hear of a psychosis?”
It made Cripp think of padded cells and children's games for grown men. It made him think of Fell, whom he had known for over ten years. Fell had picked him up in New York, where Cripp was making pocket money in a cheap sideshow at Coney Island. The Brain Boy with the Mighty Memory. Tell the kid the year and date of your birthday, mister, and he'll give you the day of the week. And now the most astounding feat ever performed! Read any sentence from this paper, mister, this morning's paper, and the kid will tell you what the rest of the paragraph is. This morning's paper, mister, the kid's read it once—and Fell had picked him up after the show, kept him with him ever since. A mighty memory was quite a boon in Fell's racket. No bookkeeping, no double checks on collections, no time wasted on figuring odds and percentages. Cripp did it all in his head. He and Fell weren't friends, or even buddies, but whatever they had between them was as close a thing as Cripp ever had with anyone. And Cripp made it the only attachment there was. It was easier that way.
“Did you ever hear of a psychosis?” Emilson had said, and right then all Cripp knew was that Fell was not like those men playing children's games or like somebody in a padded cell. Fell was strong, always right, generous because he was big; and he could make things sure because he was always sure himself. Fell had two legs that gave him a straight, even walk. Fell was—
“Mr. Jordan, I asked you a question.”
Cripp jerked up in his chair, the mask of calmness slipping from his face. “You trying to scare me, so he'll stick around longer? So you can suck him along and keep him wrapped up in this hot-house you run here? Let me tell you about Tommy Fell. I been with him for more years than you've had a mustache. He's—”
“Letme tell you,” said Emilson, and the way he said it, coolly and with no effort, Cripp stopped and listened. “He is energetic, correct? There is very little that will stop our Mr. Fell, correct? There has never been such a man for being sure of success, for confidence, for making things come out the right way. And generous, correct? Even careless, perhaps, careless in his generous ways, his being so sure of things...”
Emilson saw how Cripp took it, like watching a parlor game with tricks he couldn't figure out.
“But all this is very well under control, wouldn't you say, Mr. Jordan. All this is just slow enough to keep Fell within range of the normal. And I tell you another thing, Mr. Jordan. Sometimes Thomas Fell has been depressed, just mildly, just sort of vague and withdrawn, for all you could tell.”
“Just twice,” said Cripp and then he listened again.
“That's all I wanted to tell you,” said Emilson. “I wanted to tell you this to describe Fell's flaw. The way you've seen it, you'd hardly call it a flaw, would you? In fact, it must have helped when it came to running his enterprises. But push it a little further, Jordan, and what do you have?”
Emilson's soft little fingers had started to fiddle with each other, and Cripp was looking back and forth from the dancing fingers to the mustache under Emilson's nose. He had been only half listening because everything had only made half sense. Then Cripp lost his temper.
“You telling me he's nuts?” he shouted.
“I'm telling you he might go nuts!” Emilson answered quietly.
“You telling me something new?” Cripp was up now. “Everybody might go nuts!”
“This type's got a name, Jordan. Fell's a potential manic!”
“A maniac?”
“No! A manic. A fast-moving, cheerful guy, lots of laughs, lots of drive, and no end to what he might do or how far he might drive himself. That's what I'm talking about.”
“Fell never—
“I didn't say that, but he might. He's got the makings to just take off into space, laughing or not laughing. And once he does that, once he cuts off his mooring, everybody better scatter because Fell isn't going to wait around and apologize.”
For a while they just stared at each other, Emilson waiting to see whether he had said enough, and Cripp staring back and hoping that Emilson was finally through. Cripp had a vivid picture now. He tried not to pay any attention to it because he didn't want it to fit, but the picture was very vivid now. Not a maniac, Emilson had said, but a manic. Not somebody raving and ranting but somebody who might—No, Emilson hadn't said that. It was hard to remember what Emilson had said, and then Emilson spoke again.
“We can see him now,” he said.
There were more corridors painted in soothing pastels, and then the large sun porch. It could have been a hotel. Two men played cards at a small table and a group further down was arguing about cotton futures. Nothing crazy anywhere. Nothing crazy about cotton futures or about playing cards. No children's games for grown men, no white gowns and attendants. Doctor Emilson himself was wearing slacks and a Hawaiian shirt and the rest of the staff, if there were any on the porch, couldn't be distinguished from the patients, either.
Then Cripp saw Fell. He had never seen Fell wearing anything but a business suit, so Cripp hadn't spotted him right away. Three men came down the bright corridor. They all wore housecoats, and the big one had a red ascot around his neck, a diamond horseshoe pinning it down. The big one was smiling at the one with the stoop, who was talking around a straw in his mouth. That one smiled too. The one in the middle didn't smile. He had brown hair, gray at the temples. The lines on his forehead made him look as if he were thinking, except that his eyes were too casual. It was also peculiar that he should have long lashes with a hard face like his. Then the tall one roared with laughter, showing gold teeth in the back. The stooped one laughed too.
When they had come up to Dr. Emilson and Cripp, they stopped. Fell reached out and shook Cripp's hand. “Glad to see you,” he said.
“The attendant will show you my room,” said Fell. He pointed to the big guy, and Cripp looked at the red ascot with the diamond pin. Fell turned to Dr. Emilson. “Let me have my bill,” he said. “I'm checking out.”
Chapter Five
Cripp drove, and Tom Fell sat in the back. The car was a convertible, and when Cripp could see the head in the rear-view mirror he saw how the wind made Fell's hair dance at the temples. Most of the time Cripp saw only the top of the leather seat and the lines of the highway shrinking behind. Fell sat out of view, not talking. He was a presence which Cripp felt as a vague tenseness on the back of his head and on his back where the shoulder blades came together. When it had got dark the desert had disappeared and the road started climbing gradually. But it stayed warm, a heavy night warmth that was unusual.
