Kill the Boss Goodbye

by Peter Rabe

  Pander swung hard and connected, and with a rage from all the way back swung again. That one hit too, a sharp thud on the side of Fell's head, but when the follow-through came Pander suddenly pulled his punch.

  Fell stood head up and started to roar with laughter. He had swung with each punch as if he couldn't feel pain and was roaring a loud, crazy laugh straight at Pander's face.

  Then he hit.

  It cracked Pander's mouth, and Fell was still laughing. When Pander recovered and flew out with a left, Fell saw it but again didn't try stepping away. He took it and laughed.

  “Cripp,” it was like a grunt, “what did I say about noses, Cripp?” A blow to the chest stopped him from talking but he didn't look punished. “About boxers with perfect noses.” Right then Fell connected but he didn't care. “A fighter without heart! Hear, Pander? No heart!”

  That's when he broke Pander's nose.

  Pander tried stepping back but somebody pushed him from behind. His blood made a mess down his shirt front. When he heard Fell laughing again he reached for his gun, but even if he had found it, there wouldn't have been enough time. Pander had lost long ago.

  Then Fell stepped back. He was panting and his face was cut but that's not what showed. What showed was a man who seemed all muscle.

  “Pick him up,” said Fell. “The bedroom's in back.” Then he smiled, nodded at Cripp, and the two of them left.

  The men stood around without talking about the fight, even though they had never seen one quite like it. There was a weird part to it, because through it all, Fell had never been angry.

  ChapterSeventeen

  There was a smoggy sun over Los Angeles, and to keep the glare out of the room all the blinds were drawn. There were six large windows in the conference room. The drawn blinds made the beige walls even more colorless. Three men sat at the table. One smoked a cigar, one drank soda water, and one made small doodles on a pad in front of him. They all wore business suits.

  “Well? What about San Pietro?” Brown didn't look up. He took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at the ashes.

  “It's a problem,” said Shawn.

  Erwin stopped doodling. “Pander's out. No good.”

  “And Fell?”

  “That's the problem.”

  They sat without talking for a moment.

  “He's kept Pander. Some kind of job or other.”

  “It doesn't make sense.”

  “What does make sense? He's pushing to open a second track; he buys real estate all over. New clubs he wants; he's squeezing that Sutterfield, who can take just so much; he's throwing out money like it was his—”

  “It is.”

  “Like hell. He made it on our losses. The combine lost and he made it. And that real estate...”

  “He knows San Pietro. Perhaps it makes sense.”

  “It makes sense to buy up the whole prairie?”

  Shawn took a drink of soda and they all waited till he was through.

  “The thing is he hasn't consulted us. He's moving, and I don't know where.”

  “He's moving awful fast.”

  “Like that track deal. Two tracks make sense. It means a season twice as long. But it doesn't make sense the way he's moving. He's got the land already and he's using the same plans as on the first track.”

  “The point is, he didn't consult us. Can San Pietro carry a season twice as long? Are there enough customers? Is it going to make too big a splash and draw attention to our setup? The point is, we don't know. Fell can't know, because he didn't consult anyone. We got high-priced talent to check all those things, but Fell—”

  “He's moving too fast.”

  “Don't forget, though.” Brown commented, “Sutterfield's the wheel out there and Fell's got him where it hurts.”

  “That's another thing. Him marrying that Janice can be a problem.”

  “I never liked that deal.”

  “A problem, let me tell you. What if it gets around that the kingpin in San Pietro is the brother-in-law of the political wheel there? Even the suckers won't hold still for that.”

  “They've kept it quiet. I don't know if Fell ever used his advantage there.”

  “So why did he marry her?”

  “Makes no sense.”

  Shawn tore a leaf off his pad and balled it up. Then he doodled on the next sheet.

  “So. To get back to Pander.”

  “He's nothing. He's through.”

  “Sure. But he's still there.”

  “He hasn't got it. He just hasn't got it.”

  “He's got one thing.”

  “What?”

  “He's got it in for Fell. Like all crumbs, when they carry a grudge—”

  “He's no good to take Fell's place.”

  “I didn't mean that.”

  “He's no good, and for that matter, maybe Fell's okay.”

  “Maybe. We don't know.”

  “We got to find out.”

  They sat for a while without talking.

  “The sanatorium. We'll look there first,” Brown said.

  “That might do it.”

  “We can send Jouvet. You know, he can put it over.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “We'll send him and see.”

  “And Pander?”

  “Right now forget about Pander.”

  “And Fell?”

  “We'll see.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fell took a shower, dressed, and went downstairs. Since it was only four in the morning Rita was not in the kitchen. He went to call her. Once awake she looked at him from the bed but Fell just stood there and waited.

  “I have to get dressed,” she said.

  “Do it later. Come on and get me some coffee.” He stood there.

  Her Indian face didn't show it but she was puzzled because he just stood there.

  “Come on, come on,” he said. He was looking at her, but she wasn't sure what he was seeing.

  Rita got up and reached for her housecoat.

  “You must be only in your twenties,” he said. “Never mind the hair,” he said, “leave it down. Just make the coffee.”

  She left her black hair in one shiny long braid and went to the kitchen.

  Fell didn't follow her. He went outside and breathed the air. It smelled good, but it was already warm. Then he went to look at the lawn, kicking at the yellow dust that had started to show in patches. Some grass had died but it was still a lawn, a dry, brittle lawn with uneven color. Once he stooped to look closer. Something new was growing, something spiky and wild where the grass had given up. He went back inside.

  Rita was at the sink beginning to tie up her hair.

  “Leave it down,” said Fell.

  She let the braid fall again and lowered her arms. Fell stood close now, but his eyes told her nothing. But she put her hands up to the housecoat and closed it in front.

  “Open it up,” said Fell.

  She stood still for a moment; then she let go and started undoing her belt.

  “The braid, Rita. Open up the braid.”

  If she felt humiliated Fell didn't notice. He watched her pull the braid around and undo it. Then she shook back the hair.

  There was a lot of it, thick black hair with lights in it. Rita's housecoat stayed open but neither he nor she paid attention to it.

  “God, that's good.” Fell put his hands into her hair. He held it watching her.

  “Turn off the coffee,” he said, finally, and let go of her hair.

  “I never could tell about you,” he said, “but you must be only in your twenties.”

  She watched him take the pot and pour coffee at the table. She came to the table and stood mere.

  Fell drank coffee, and when he looked up she was still standing there. The housecoat was open and the nightgown came to sharp points over her high breasts.

  “Go back to bed,” he said. His cup was almost empty.

  Her lower lip was between her teeth. She looked at him and then turned
, the lights moving in her hair. She went into her room and took off the housecoat and then the nightgown. She rubbed her hands over her thighs once, then lay down. Her hands played with the cover.

  Fell finished the coffee, got up, and stretched. In the hall he grabbed the new jacket off the hook and put it on.

  Rita heard the front door slam.

  Fell was whistling as he drove down the street, and at five o'clock he pulled the car to one side, out on the highway. The grandstand and race track were on the left, the open prairie on the right. That's where the contractor's shack stood, the dump trucks, the steam shovels and half a dozen caterpillar tractors. Fell turned off the road and made the car dip when he stopped by the contractor's shack. It was a few minutes after five then, and the Diesels started to roar and the cats clambered off into position.

  Fell got out. The super and the foremen saw him from the shack, but Fell didn't come in. He climbed over the dirt and watched the buckets take bites out of the ground. Then they reared up, swung sideways, and the trucks sagged on their springs when the earth dropped down. The cats were further away. They dug their blades into the ground, made a gouge, and when the earth had piled up they backed off and did it again. The noise was deafening.

  Fell stood and watched. Once he moved because the shovel was biting close. When the sun had cleared out of the haze along the horizon the prairie turned hot and bright.

  Fell finally turned and went to the shack. Under the window that faced the machines he had a desk and a phone. Every time one of the dump trucks went by, the window rattled and Fell, at the desk, looked out. Then he'd work again. He didn't interfere with the supervisor who was checking blueprints and talking to the surveyors, and he didn't bother the foreman who was studying time sheets and work plans. Then he looked up and called the supervisors.

  “It's six-thirty, Jerry. Where's the equipment?”

  “Half-hour late,” Jerry said. “That happens.”

  “I want that stuff here and going.”

  Jerry leaned his hands on the desk and sighed. “Look Mr. Fell. You want the equipment, fine. But if you ask me, it's money thrown out the window. You got till next summer to get this track finished, and the grandstand too.”

  “More equipment makes it faster,” said Fell.

  “So you get it done three months earlier. So the track sits around for three months extra doing nothing.” Then they heard the engines from the highway. “Like I said, Mr. Fell—”

  Fell leaned to look out the window. “That's what I like to hear,” he commented.

  The convoy slowed at the work area and then flatbeds with shovels riding high and earth movers and a dozen more cats came swaying across the ruts and stopped one by one. Jerry went outside to take care of things and Fell got up to stand in the door of the shack and watch them unload the equipment. Each time a piece was unloaded it went right to work. That's what he wanted to see.

  He watched till seven o'clock, when Cripp arrived.

  “You look lousy, Cripp.” Fell laughed.

  “These hours,” said Cripp. He climbed into the shack and then he and Fell sat down by the desk.

  “You pick up the deeds?”

  “Here.” Cripp tossed a bundle on the desk. “You realize they had to open the place special for me to get these at this hour. What I don't get, Tom—”

  “Fine. We got them. How about the clubs? Did that architect guy show up yet?”

  “Last night.”

  “Where'd he put up, at the Alamo?”

  “Yes. Last night.”

  “We'll go there, around noon. He ought to be all set up by noon.”

  “Sure. Now listen, Tom, we got to start figuring finances. All this buying and building—”

  “Keep an eye on it, Cripp. You're good at it. Now another thing—”

  “Tom, listen. I am keeping an eye on it and that's why I'm talking to you. We've got to start—”

  “I got it all figured out. I'll pinch Sutterfield and make things jump a little. You don't think he's trustee of a bank for nothing? And racing commissioner and dummy on the real-estate board. I'll go see Sutterfield again.”

  “Tom, Sutterfield can do just so much, and he's bad medicine when you go too far.”

  “I know. He's old and ill-tempered. But he's okay; he'll come through,” and Fell laughed.

  They settled a few more things, and at nine o'clock Fell wanted some coffee, so a short time after nine he and Cripp drove back to town and to the motel.

  Pearl gave them coffee and Cripp had eggs and toast with his. The coffee was free but he had to pay for the rest.

  “How's Phido?” said Fell.

  Pearl leaned her hip against the jukebox gadget on the counter and shrugged.

  “Fine, Mr. Fell. I don't see him much.”

  “You still with him?”

  “He's so busy all the time. He says it's your fault.”

  “Excuses.”

  “Well, he's making book like he used to and then he's bartending all night at that new one.”

  “The Kitty.”

  “Yes, the Kitty—and all these other crazy things he's telling me about, like you sending him to pick up radio cars in L.A. and getting office furniture down here and who knows what.”

  “Kinda hard on you, Pearl?”

  “It certainly is, Mr. Fell.”

  He laughed and asked for more coffee.

  “He's planning for the future,” said Fell. “He's making dough.”

  “I don't see any of that either,” she said.

  “So? You don't strike me as the wallflower.”

  She tried to look offended but then got serious. “I want Phido to marry me.”

  “Ah!” Fell lowered his voice. “You pregnant, Pearl?”

  She answered right away. “I wish I was,” and then she went to serve somebody else, down the counter.

  Cripp and Fell went to the back, where Fell's other office was. The room looked bigger because the desk had been moved out to the shack at the construction site. Fell unlocked a file cabinet and flipped through some folders. Then he tossed papers on a chair and slammed the cabinet shut.

  “Take this to McCann's office,” said Fell.

  “What is it?”

  “Deed and stuff for the Kitty. Tell McCann to transfer it over to Phido. Except the mortgage,” said Fell. “I'll handle the mortgage.”

  Cripp took the papers and said nothing. He didn't know what to think, whether to call it plain crazy or to let it go for what Fell meant it to be: a friendly gift—an overgenerous one but a straight, simple gift. Crazy?

  “Beat it,” said Fell. “Just let me know where I can find you.”

  Cripp said he'd be out in the coffee shop, and if he left he'd leave a number with Pearl.

  He got his free coffee but after a sip or two felt too nervous to sit and finish the rest of it. He took a dime out of his pocket and went to the wall phone. When he got his number he tried to keep it short and anonymous.

  “This is Cripp, ma'am. I was wondering how things were going. At your end.”

  “How are you, Cripp,” said Janice. “I'm glad to hear from you.” She hesitated. “I don't know what to tell you, Cripp; I haven't seen him very much. He seems very busy.”

  “I'll say.”

  “Cripp, is there something you want to tell me?”

  Cripp didn't know what to say. There was nothing to tell. Nothing concrete. Except that Fell had made it back to the top, like a miracle, back on top bigger than ever—and then he hadn't stopped. It seemed as if he couldn't.

  “I'll tell you what, Cripp. Perhaps you could come out to the house for a talk. You think it could be arranged so that Tom...”

  “Tonight, if you're free. I don't think he'll be in before late.”

  “I'll be home,” said Janice. “Please try to come.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dr. Emilson had forgotten about the letter, but when the front desk called him up and said Dr. Jouvet had arrived he remembered the name
and was glad for the diversion and the chance for a professional follow-up. Dr. Emilson had thought about Thomas Fell a few times, wondering what might have happened.

  “Dr. Jouvet?” he said into the phone. “Mr. Fell's physician? Send him in.”

  Dr. Jouvet looked correct, a little severe, and with the self-assured manner of the medical specialist. Dr. Jouvet made Dr. Emilson feel a little self-conscious.

  “I got your letter, of course. Please have a seat I'm sorry there hasn't been time to—”

  “I quite understand,” said Dr. Jouvet. “However, your secretary answered. She gave me this date. I did not inconvenience you?”

  “Oh no, not at all. Cigarette?”

  “Thank you. I don't smoke.”

  Dr. Emilson smiled but Dr. Jouvet didn't smile back. Dr. Emilson got through the lighting of his cigarette, feeling self-conscious.

  “So you are Mr. Fell's physician. To tell you the truth, Doctor, I should have liked to consult—”

  “I am his attending physician, yes, but only for the past month.”

  “Oh. When he was here, you know, he had been attended by a physician in San Pietro.”

  “I am not from San Pietro.”

  “Yes, of course. Los Angeles.”

  “New York, Doctor Emilson.”

  Emilson blew out smoke and gave a short laugh. This time Dr. Jouvet smiled back but it was just barely benign.

  “Well, then—you came to see me,” Emilson said.

  This was better because now Jouvet had to talk Emilson sat back in his chair and waited.

  “As I said, Doctor Emilson, I work in New York. One month ago—it must have been shortly after Mr. Fell left here—I received his call that he was arriving in New York for immediate consultation.”

  Emilson nodded through his smoke. “From one psychiatrist—”

  “I am not a psychiatrist, Doctor Emilson.”

  “Ah. I'm terribly sorry—I—”

  “Quite all right, Doctor Emilson. Our own specialties tend to make us presume—”

  “No, really. As a matter of fact, your letter—”

  “Internal medicine, you may recall. As I was saying, Mr. Fell came to me at rather short notice. However, under the circumstances I examined him immediately, the usual symptoms, lethargy, some skin darkening, stomach upset rather severe. But you know all this, I'm sure.”