Canvas Coffin

by Gault, William Campbell

  “A little tender, that’s all. Do you think that doctor knew his stuff?”

  “No, he’s a converted veterinary. He — ”

  “Stop quibbling, you two,” Sally said sharply. “You haven’t acted like this since the Robinson fight.”

  The last big one; the last one I’d worried about. I went over and kissed the back of her neck. She was wearing shorts and a halter and her perfume was light on the morning air.

  “Easy, sailor,” she said. “Max is watching.”

  “Jealous, that’s Max,” I said. “I trotted almost all the way to the seals. Aren’t those seals screwy, Max?”

  “Anti-Semitic bastards,” he said. “They just looked right through me.”

  Charley Retzer came into the kitchen then, huddled into a big sweater. “Isn’t there any heat over that garage? Tony and I damned near froze last night.”

  Max smiled. “Go easy on Luke, and I’ll show you how to turn on the furnace. Tony almost put him away with the big gloves yesterday.”

  “That’s what I hear,” Charley said. “Tony should have fought middleweight, huh?”

  Annoyance in me. Ridiculous, of course, but there. I smiled.

  “Or I should have had somebody in my corner besides that meat-head, Doc Heinrich, in Jersey City,” Charley went on. “You’ve had some lucky nights, Champ.”

  I smiled, the burn growing in me.

  “For instance,” he continued, “you could have been fighting when Walker and Greb and Tiger Flowers were going. You’d have been fighting prelims for the Elks Club.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Or you could have had any other manager in the world but Max Freeman, and you’d be lucky to even — ”

  “Shut up!” Sally said.

  We all looked at Sally. Her face was white, her blue eyes were blazing. She had a big mixing-bowl in one upraised hand, and it was ready for Charley.

  “Lay off Luke,” she said. “You fools don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Charley grinned. “Ahh, baby, the hell we don’t. We’re trying to bring out the old tiger in him. We’re needling him for a purpose, kid.”

  “He doesn’t need it. He’s got pride, pride, pride. That’s all he needs, and all he ever had.”

  Charley’s voice was quiet. “As far as you know. You didn’t know him when he had something else. The first time I fought him, I wanted to run and hide after the third round. That was before he got civilized.”

  “That’s the way I like him,” she said.

  “You and Giani,” Charley agreed. “Relax, Sal.”

  The hand holding the bowl trembled, and then the bowl fell to the floor and bounced along the tile. Sally put both hands to her face and her shoulders shook as she took a deep and noisy breath.

  I put an arm around her. “Easy, kid. They’re my friends, honey. It was all in fun.”

  “It wasn’t fun for you. You know it wasn’t. I was watching your face, and I knew it, too.”

  Charley looked at her coldly; Max snorted something and went out of the room. The side door opened, and Tony Scarpa came in.

  “I smell something good,” he said genially. His quick eyes moved from Charley to me and Sally. “And something bad,” he added. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

  “The boys were needling me,” I said. “Charley claims I’m Mr. Horseshoes.”

  “You’ve had a lot of breaks,” Tony said easily, “but now you’ve got Giani. Into each life some rain must fall. When do we feed?”

  Sally’s composure was back. “In ten minutes.”

  It was a quiet meal, except for Tony. He voiced his opinions on this and that; he wasn’t a man who needed any help to keep a conversation going.

  Charley looked owly; Max’s face was carefully blank. Jest ate quietly, in a world of his own. Luke Pilgrim, the cheese champ, said nothing, burning slowly.

  I took on Charley that afternoon. I watched his feet and watched his eyes and seemed to know every punch he was going to throw before he threw it. Against Charley I looked good.

  And he was trying. He had the memory of those last couple rounds of our bout and annoyance at Sally’s interference this morning. He knew all my tricks and tip-offs; he knew me like a son.

  But he couldn’t score consistently. In the clinches, my hands were always inside; in the corners, his back was always to the ropes. I kept him off balance. I kept on top of him and the pace of the sparring was my pace. I had him blowing at the final bell.

  “I didn’t earn my dough,” he said. “I’m not in shape.”

  “You’ll earn it before we’re through,” I told him.

  He looked at me strangely. “Tough guy? Luke, I know you. Don’t talk out of character.”

  Max said, “Want to try a round or two with Tony?”

  “Hell, yes,” I said.

  Splat, splat, splat again. But not always scores. Some on my forearms, some on my gloves, some on the high shoulder. Moving in and moving out, hydraulic Tony Scarpa, smooth as new oil. But I didn’t look like the complete bum, this time.

  The bell, and I was conscious of spectators. Harry Bevilaqua was leaning against the trunk of the eucalyptus tree, missing nothing. Ruth Gonzales was with him.

  Max took off the gloves, and Jest gave me a robe, and I went over to talk to Harry and the dead-eyed Ruth.

  “Afternoon, Champ,” Harry said. “That Tony can move, can’t he?”

  “He sure can. Good afternoon, Ruth.”

  She nodded, and looked away, staying close to Harry.

  “You didn’t look so good.” Harry said.

  “I looked worse yesterday against Tony. Remember, he’s a welter, and fast.”

  “He’s no welter no more, nor fast,” Harry said. “You just didn’t look good, Champ.”

  “Lay off, Harry,” I said. “Did you come out here to heckle me?”

  “No, just wanted to see you go. Want to know how to bet.”

  “Bet on Giani,” I said. “You like him.”

  “I hear that’s the bet,” Harry said. Even voice, quiet.

  I studied him a good five seconds. “What’s on your mind, Harry?”

  “What should be? Brenda dead, Noodles dead. You fighting Giani, and the word around it’s in the bag. I’m just seeing for myself. Noodles was my friend.”

  “And Brenda wasn’t?”

  “Not like Noodles.”

  I said easily, “You know more about both murders than I do, Harry. Maybe I should be watching you.”

  “My place is open to the public.”

  “This isn’t,” I said. “Not today. Get out of here, Harry.” His big face puzzled, then set. “You mean that, Luke?”

  “I mean it. If you want to play cop, get a badge, get a gun.”

  “I’ve got a gun,” he said. “I don’t need no badge, I’ll go, if that’s orders.”

  Then Max was there, and Max said, “What the hell’s going on? What’s the matter here?”

  “The big meatball’s threatening me,” I said. “He’s throwing his acreage around.”

  Tony Scarpa came over, and he talked rapid Italian to Harry, nothing I understood. Charley Retzer came, and Jest, and Ruth Gonzales began to cry.

  I said, “I’m sorry, Ruth. I wasn’t including you. You can stay as long as you want.”

  “I’ll go,” she said, and she had Harry’s arm. “Come. We go.”

  Harry’s smile was scornful. “I’ll be ringside, Luke.”

  “I’ll dump him in your lap,” I said. “Beat it.”

  Max was in front of me. Tony said quietly, “Relax, Champ. Take it easy.” Jest flanked Max, saying nothing.

  Harry turned his huge back on us, and walked off with Ruth.

  “Noodles,” Tony said. “Noodles was his best friend. Noodles was always in his corner, in the old days.”

  I was trembling and there was a touch of nausea in my tight stomach. Jest put a limber black hand up and began to massage the back of my neck.

  “Save it,” Jest said quietly. �
��Save it for Giani, for when you get paid.” His voice soft as his hands, his sleepy poise soothing.

  “What the hell got into that big wop?” Max said. “I never knew he was that punchy.”

  “Noodles,” Tony said again. “When do we eat?”

  “What’s Noodles got to do with Luke?” Max asked him. “And what do you know about that, anyway?”

  Tony winked at me. “We Italians confide in each other. What’s for supper, Max?”

  “Noodles,” Max said, “for you.”

  Sally was waiting on the drive in front of the house when we came back. Her eyes searched mine, asking questions.

  “I’m better,” I said. “I’m beginning to shape up.”

  “What was Harry here for? What was the ruckus down there?”

  “Nothing, honey. I don’t want to talk about it now.”

  “All right.” Her bright eyes moving over my face. “One more question — was that Ruth Gonzales with him?”

  “Yes.”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t feel like cooking, tonight Couldn’t we all go to a restaurant? Couldn’t you and I go to a movie or something, Luke? Wouldn’t that be all right, Max?”

  “I’ll cook,” Jest said. “I like to cook. There’s plenty of stuff to work with. We can eat here in a jiffy.”

  Sally was still looking at Max.

  Max said, “Okay. A movie for you two. I want him in bed by ten-thirty. We’ll play pinochle. We’ll be up.” He smiled at Sally. “Biggest fight of his life coming up.”

  “I know, Max,” she said. “Don’t worry about that, for a second. I know.”

  We ate at the restaurant next to the seal tank. We got some fish for the seals first, and watched them perform and then we went in and took a table overlooking the ocean.

  It had turned into a gray day, and the ocean was dirty along here. It wasn’t exactly an inspiring view today.

  Lobster for Sally and scallops for me, and very little talk between us. Tired, Sally looked, and sad.

  She sipped her coffee and I lighted her cigarette for her, and she looked out at the littered water as she said, “I’m sort of — frightened, Luke. Everything seems to be coming to a head. Tell me about Harry Bevilaqua now.”

  I told her. Over her shoulder I could see the seals watching the doorway, watching for somebody to come with a plate of fish, the always hungry seals, like Los Angeles sports writers.

  When I’d finished, she said, “Why don’t we go and talk to him? He’s a reasonable man, Luke.”

  “He’s not a reasonable man right now,” I said. “I can’t risk the hand again. I was lucky last time.”

  “Hit, hit, hit — ” she said bitterly. “Is that all you know?”

  “Until after the fight. I’ll be all soft and tender again, after that. I’ll be your lover boy again.”

  She put a hand on mine. “Sometimes I don’t think you’re for me at all. But then I think what it would be without you, and I shiver, Luke.”

  “I’m kind of a handsome bastard,” I admitted.

  “I’m glad you’re not handsome,” she said. “Are we going to live out here?”

  “I’d like to.”

  “Some days like this, I loathe this country. It’s so gloomy and littered and raw-looking.”

  “You’re forgetting those Chicago Januaries,” I said. “And that dirty south side and the stockyards and the wind off the lake.”

  “I suppose. And Colonel McCormick.” She put her cigarette out in the ash tray, watching it as she asked, “Do you think of Brenda much?”

  “I think of her. But I feel that I — didn’t kill her, now. I’m like the big boy, I think about Noodles more.”

  “I think of Brenda,” she said.

  “Well, don’t.”

  She looked up. “Oh, not the way you think. I feel sorry for her. She was really trying to make it the hard way, wasn’t she?”

  “All the ways are hard. We’d better find a cheerful movie.”

  It wasn’t quite that, it was A Streetcar Named Desire. It was a fine job.

  “But a long climb down from Glass Menagerie,” Sally thought.

  “I liked it better,” I told her.

  “You would. Rape, perversion, violence. That’s too easy. Menagerie had subtlety and tenderness and depth. Menagerie had craftsmanship. Any hack can write violence and sex.”

  “I refuse to listen to your opinions when you won’t listen to mine,” I said. “Is there a motel near here?”

  “You go to hell, Punchy. I thought I’d given you some discernment. I thought you were developing taste and balance and sensitivity.”

  “I’m trying,” I told her, and took her hand. “But none of those will help me against Giani.”

  “And neither will a motel. What time is it?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “We’ll just about make it by ten-thirty. Max will be waiting.”

  “To hell with Max.”

  “And Patsy Giani? To hell with him, too?”

  “Yes. He doesn’t bother me.”

  “Not much, he doesn’t. Let’s get home, Champion.”

  Searchlights stabbing the sky, traffic moving on the wide streets, the Ford talking quietly to herself.

  “Why,” Sally asked, “couldn’t you have been anything in the world but a fighter? You’ve some good stuff in you, Luke.”

  “If I hadn’t been a fighter,” I pointed out reasonably, “I wouldn’t have known Max. I wouldn’t have gone to that party in Chicago and met you. So what difference would it have made to you what I was?”

  “We’d have met,” she said.

  “You don’t believe that. You’re too much of a realist.”

  “Me? You’re the realist.”

  “Not me,” I said. “I still believe in God.”

  “I’ll bet. The crown, that’s your God, the title, the top of the ant heap.”

  “Lay off,” I said.

  Silence, and then her hand came over to grip my knee. “I do it with my tongue and you do it with your fists. It’s cleaner your way, isn’t it? It’s more dignified.”

  “I love you,” I said, “disposition and all. Moods and attitudes and gray hair and fine figure and intellectual snobbery and underwear advertisements. Everything you do and are is exactly what I want. You can’t help trying to make me over; that’s the woman in you. I don’t mind.”

  Nothing from her, her hand on my knee, no words of love from her; she wasn’t as sure as I was at the moment.

  Off Sepulveda, a supermarket and the bakery sign, the blue windmill revolving. Sally’s grip tightened and relaxed.

  Down to Olympic and Olympic through the tunnel, and out onto the Coast Highway. Black night, no stars in sight, no sound from Sally.

  Tomorrow, I thought, I’ll plaster that Scarpa. I’ve got him figured now; I’ve got the rhythm of him. I’ll get to him.

  Sally said, “I wish you could remember about Brenda.”

  “You don’t wish it as much as I do.” I was stopped for the light at Sunset, and I looked over at her. Her profile was toward me, her gaze directed through the windshield.

  She took her hand from my knee and reached into her purse for a cigarette. She lighted it. “That Harry Bevilaqua’s the key to the whole thing, isn’t he? He knows.”

  “I think he does. Maybe he’s next.”

  “And maybe he’s it. Maybe he’s the killer.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Of Brenda. And maybe Noodles, too. No, not Noodles.”

  The light changed, and I moved out in low gear. “No, not Noodles. You can chalk that one up to Johnny.”

  “I suppose. God, what a — thing he is.”

  Nothing from me. A sign read: Slide Area Drive With Caution. A huge rock had fallen from the cliffs above the road here and crashed into a garage of one of the beach cottages. It had completely demolished the garage. If it had chanced to hit the cottage, instead, it would have done as much for the cottage. And the sleeping occupants.

&nb
sp; Design? Chance?

  “What are you thinking about?” Sally asked. “About that rock that fell the other day. Was it just chance it didn’t hit the house?”

  “What else could it be?”

  “I don’t know. I’m asking you. You’re the bright one.”

  “It rained,” Sally said patiently. “The rain eroded the cliff. The rock was dislodged. It fell. There was a garage in the way. If you’re thinking of God, He didn’t build the house or garage. If you believe in Him, He could have put the rock there, and made it rain. He could have anticipated the people who were going to move there. But wouldn’t it be kind of stupid to believe He’d cause all the damage that rain caused to thousands of people, just to scare some family in Malibu with a rock that hit their garage?” She chuckled.

  “Don’t make a federal case out of it,” I said. “I get the shivers, that’s all, when I think of that rock. When I think how all a man’s lifetime of planning can be smashed by a falling rock.”

  “Or a falling plane,” Sally said, “or a falling star. Or even a falling arch, if you’re a mailman. You can’t be ready for everything, Luke.”

  “I guess not. Giani, I can be ready for. I’d better concentrate on that”

  “It’s more in your line. But can you be ready for him?”

  “He can be hit. I hit pretty hard.”

  “So does he, I hear.”

  “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

  Silence for almost a mile. We passed the seal tanks, the Topanga Road.

  Then, as we turned into the winding driveway of the estate, Sally said, “But you have to fight him, don’t you? You couldn’t retire without fighting him, could you?”

  “I have to fight him. You know it, and you know why.”

  “I know why, but you don’t Oh, I’m not going to talk like that any more.”

  The floodlight that illuminated the parking-area was on, and Tony Scarpa’s bleached and battered station wagon was parked there.

  “He’s so smart and talented,” Sally said. “Why isn’t he rich?”

  “Relax,” I said. “Tony’s made a mint, in his time. Maybe he doesn’t worship money.”

  “But I do? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I don’t want to fight,” I told her. “I’m saving all my fight for Patsy.”

  Nothing from her. We walked along the parking-area to the lighted entryway, and I held the door for her, and she went through.