Dying Voices

by Crider, Bill

  For one thing, there were the books.

  That was what had made the bags so heavy, numerous copies of Dying Voices and We All Die Today! Street brought them to the banquet and shamelessly hawked them to all his old acquaintances and to anyone else who would give him a chance.

  There was nothing Burns could do but stand back and listen. He didn't feel that he could ask the guest of honor to stop selling his wares, even if he was acting like a television huckster for diet pills.

  "Don, Don Elliott, how in the world are you? Gosh, it seems like only yesterday that we were sitting in the faculty meetings and griping about the salaries. How'd you like to have an autographed copy of Dying Voices? Not a first edition, of course, those are worth their weight in gold these days. Hell, there were only two thousand in the first printing. How was anyone to know that a book of poetry would be a genuine cultural phenomenon? But this one's signed, and I'll let it go for publisher's list, no charge for the autograph.

  "Why, Miss Darling, what a charming hat! I didn't know that women even wore those things any more. I know a refined teacher of English like you admires good writing of any kind. How about a copy of Dying Voices of your very own?

  "Land? Melinda Land? The one who wrote the interesting paper on my work?" The one you said you hadn't read, Burns thought. "Well, I'm sure you have copies, but they're probably all marked up. Don't you want fresh ones?"

  It was pretty bad. Street was doing everything but offering to accept major credit cards, and Burns would not have been surprised to hear him do that. He had raised self-promotion to an art form.

  And then there was the whiskey, which had apparently been in the bags along with the books.

  Whiskey was pretty hard to come by in Pecan City, and in fact, one of the few liquor stores in town liked to advertise its "convenient drive-up window, located in the rear of the store," the perfect answer for the people—and there must have been many of them—who didn't even want to be seen buying liquor.

  As a former resident, Street had come prepared.

  The problem was that the banquet was being held in the school's only large dining facility, which was on the ground floor of the men's dorm. Liquor was expressly forbidden in any of HGC's buildings.

  Burns had not been aware that Street had the whiskey until the banquet was beginning, when the writer pulled the fifth of black-label Jack Daniels out of the same bag from which he had been dispensing his books.

  While Abner Swan, the chairman of the Bible Department, was asking the blessing—a task that usually required about five minutes, unless Swan was in a particularly expansive mood, in which case seven to ten minutes were necessary—Burns saw Street fishing around in the bag, which he had stashed beside his chair.

  He came up with the whiskey and poured it into his tea glass. He had already drunk the iced tea, leaving only a small amount of ice in the glass. He didn't seem to require a mixer.

  The clinking of glass on glass sounded to Burns like the last trump. He glanced furtively around, hoping to see only piously bowed heads, but it was obvious that the attention of many of the diners had wandered during Swan's lengthy blessing, and a number of them were watching Street in fascinated horror.

  President Miller was one of the watchers.

  Burns had not met anyone's eyes, so he bowed his head and tried to appear incredibly reverent, meanwhile wondering about the possibility of job openings in Outer Mongolia.

  The interminable blessing (six minutes by Burns's estimate) was followed by excellent prime rib, not the usual fare in the dining hall. Burns was sorry that he couldn't really enjoy it.

  After the eating came the speeches.

  Miller welcomed Street to the campus after his years away, though Burns suspected that the welcome had been toned down somewhat in the time since Miller had seen Street's private stock.

  Then Don Elliott recalled the days when Street had been his colleague and congratulated him on his great success.

  Burns got up and spoke for a few minutes on the next day's activities. The papers would be read beginning at nine o'clock on the first floor of Main in room 101, a large lecture hall. Everyone was welcome to attend, and after the papers were read there would be a panel discussion of Street's works in which Street himself would participate. Burns was tempted to add, "If he doesn't have a hangover the size of his suitcase," but he managed to restrain himself.

  Through all of this, Street looked quite happy to be the center of attention, and indeed he looked even more than merely happy. He seemed to swell visibly in what he must have interpreted as the approbation of his former colleagues, and he continued to suck contentedly at the contents of his tea glass. It reminded Burns of the despised and rejected high school nerd returning as a millionaire to a class reunion. After Burns's remarks came the part of the evening that Burns had been dreading ever since meeting Street at the airport. It was Street's turn to speak.

  Another little problem with Street was that he had not changed clothes. He still wore the blue silk jacket with his nickname in red and a pair of faded jeans.

  There wasn't anything wrong with that, but Street had to know that at HGC, although perhaps not in the rest of the world, banquets were taken very seriously. Everyone dressed to the nines, or what passed for the nines in Pecan City.

  Abner Swan, for example, had clothed his ample form in a tuxedo for the occasion and looked to Burns like a slightly less demented and much larger Burgess Meredith in his appearances as the Penguin on the Batman television show. Without the cigar, of course. All the other men were wearing dark suits and ties, even Burns, who hated ties, and the women were decked out in their Sunday best.

  Burns found himself quite interested in the clothing of Miss Tanner from the library. She was wearing a clingy dress of some kind of man-made material, which Burns found most enticing. In fact, he found Miss Tanner most enticing in general. She had honey-blonde hair and big green eyes that seemed even bigger because they were magnified by the lenses of the huge round glasses she wore. Burns hoped that he might get a chance to talk with her later, but right now he had to worry about Street, who was having some difficulty in getting up. The iced tea was always served in large glasses at HGC.

  But Burns needn't have worried. After only one false start and a bit of awkwardness, Street made it to his feet and started talking.

  He rambled a little at first, understandably, considering the amount of liquor he had consumed, and talked about how he had never forgotten his humble origins, although he had made it bigger than anyone listening to him could ever hope to do, lacking his generous helping of talent and, though he hated to be the one to say it, genius.

  Then he really got started.

  "I thought, at one time, I'd have to spend my life grubbing along at third-rate colleges, that I'd never get out of Pecan City. But I did. I made it on guts and drive and talent. I look out over this group of people, and I see some who have been here twenty-five years. Or more. And they'll never go anywhere else. Never know what it's like to have fame and money. Well not me, buddies. I know what it's like, and I love it."

  He went on to tell them what it was like.

  Flying first class instead of tourist.

  Ordering whatever he wanted to eat at whatever restaurant he wanted to eat in.

  Being on a first name basis with any number of famous movie and television stars.

  Never having to worry about the size of your bank account at the end of the month.

  "Money is freedom," he said. " It's power. It's wonderful."

  He sat down to a mild applause. Very mild.

  Burns glanced at Miller who was glaring at him. Burns had the sudden feeling that the Edward Street Seminar was now all his idea and that Miller would be telling everyone that he was amazed that Burns had ever thought of it in the first place.

  At least there was no one from Newsweek there, Burns thought. Unfortunately, there was someone there from one of the Dallas papers. Burns was sure he would be blamed for that, t
oo, though all publicity had come from Miller's office. Then he chided himself for thinking such a thing. Miller, after all, was not Elmore.

  As people began to leave, very few of them came by to speak to Street as they had been doing before the banquet. For his part, Street didn't seem to care very much, and he dug around in his suitcase, getting out several copies of his books and piling them on the table in case any prospective customers presented themselves.

  The next day's speakers, whom one might think would be interested in meeting the man whose work they so closely studied, were clearly keeping their distance.

  Even Mal Tomlin and Earl Fox headed for the exits. Burns vowed silently that he would make them pay for deserting him.

  But Miss Tanner walked over.

  Burns was sorry to see her coming. Not that he hadn't wanted a chance to speak to her, but he didn't want to have to talk to her in the presence of Street.

  Street, on the other hand, was delighted, his delight no doubt influenced somewhat by the liquor he had consumed.

  "Best-looking woman I've seen all day," he said. "Surely you don't teach at this godforsaken place."

  "I'm the head librarian," she said. She had a deep, husky voice, and Burns wondered if she was a smoker.

  "A librarian," Street gushed. "I love librarians! I'm sure you have copies of my books in your stacks, but do you have copies of your own? I'm sorry I can't offer you a copy at a library discount, but then I don't get that good a deal from the publisher when I buy my own copies. The autograph is free, though."

  Burns wanted to hit him.

  "I already have copies," Miss Tanner said, to Burns's disappointment. "I love your books."

  Street stood up a little straighter and tried unsuccessfully to suck in his stomach. "I—" he began, but he was interrupted by the reporter from the Dallas paper.

  "Mr. Street?" the man said. "My name is Harold Duncan. I'm a reporter for—"

  "A reporter?" Street said. The gleam in his eye that Miss Tanner had inspired increased in intensity. Street was the kind of man who liked reporters even better than librarians.

  "That's right," the man said. "A reporter." He was a short, unattractive man with sparse brown hair that he had fluffed up to make it appear thicker. He was holding a notebook and a pen in nicotine-stained fingers.

  "I always love talking to reporters," Street said. He must have been telling the truth. He didn't even try to sell Duncan a copy of either of his books.

  "Good," the man said. "I'd like to take a little of your time and ask a couple of questions."

  "Fine," Street said. "Fine. Ask anything you'd like."

  "First of all, I think my readers might like to know about a letter we received at the paper several days ago."

  "Letter?" Street said, obviously puzzled. "I don't know anything about any letter."

  Burns didn't like the sound of this. There was some kind of insinuation in the little man's voice. He looked at Miss Tanner, and she had caught it, too.

  "Yes," Duncan said. "A letter which claims that you are not the true author of Dying Voices."

  Street's face, already red from the black Jack, changed to mottled purple.

  "That's outrageous! That's . . . that's. . . ."

  "That's what the letter alleges," Duncan said. "Would you care to comment?"

  "I'll comment, all right. That letter is full of bullshit! Just absolute bullshit!"

  Several people who had been standing in the doorway, looked back inside at the sound of Street's raised voice. Franklin Miller turned and started back to see what was going on.

  This is great, Burns thought. Just great. He looked at Miss Tanner, who didn't seem to have been offended by Street's language. In fact, she was almost smiling.

  "What seems to be the problem here?" Miller asked, arriving on the scene without having heard exactly what Street had said.

  "No problem," Duncan said. " I was just asking Mr. Street about the allegation that he is not the author of Dying Voices."

  "What?" Miller was nonplused. "What allegations?"

  "They're contained in a letter received by my newspaper two days ago," Duncan said.

  "I want to see that letter!" Street bellowed. "I demand to see that letter!"

  "We will produce it at the proper time," Duncan said. "You're standing by your comment that the allegation is `bullshit'?"

  "Of course I am, and you can print that. It's bullshit."

  Miller looked around to see if anyone had overheard. "Bullshit" was not a word that HGC faculty and administration bandied about in their conversations, at least not in public.

  "Very well," Duncan said. "I'll be looking forward to your panel discussion tomorrow." He folded his notebook, in which he had not written, and turned to leave.

  "You come back here, you little slug," Street said. "You come back here and I'll stomp you to jelly!"

  "Bad idea," Burns said. "You can't just stomp reporters to jelly and get away with it."

  "Who's responsible for that little bastard being here?" Street said, obviously not seeing any humor in the situation. "I'll have his balls, by God."

  Another vague reference, Burns thought. Did "his" refer to the reporter or to whoever invited him there?

  "We have a free press in this country," Miller said, covering his ass. "There's no way to keep reporters out."

  "Well, he'd better not be there tomorrow if he doesn't want his butt kicked," Street said. "That's all I've got to say." He turned to Burns. "Get me out of here."

  "All right," Burns said. "I'll get your suitcase."

  "The hell you will." Street went back to his chair and got his own bag. It was almost as if he suspected that Burns might steal the whiskey, now that he knew it was there.

  "Interesting man," Miss Tanner said.

  "Do you think there could be anything to what that reporter said?" Miller asked.

  Burns had no idea, and said so.

  "Who would send a letter like that?" Miller wondered. "I just can't believe anyone would do that."

  Burns didn't have any answers for him, but he intended to ask Street as soon as he got him in the car.

  "I have a feeling that this seminar might turn out to be more interesting than I thought," Miss Tanner said.

  "Let's go, Burns," Street said. "I want to get out of here."

  "I'm sorry this happened," Miller told him. "I'm sure he won't cause any trouble tomorrow."

  "He'd better not, if he knows what's good for him," Street said. "I'll kill the little prick."

  "Please," Miller said, looking around, whether because of the death threat or because Street had said "prick" Burns wasn't sure.

  Burns took Street's elbow and guided him out of the room.

  Chapter 5

  Street had nothing to say to Burns during the short ride to the motel, and Burns couldn't think of a polite way to ask him what was going on, so he simply dropped him off and told him that he would pick him up at eight-thirty the next morning.

  Street grunted and slammed the door. "Those bastards will be sorry!" he yelled over his shoulder as Burns drove away.

  Burns went home and watched the ten o'clock news and went to bed, but he didn't sleep well. He was too worried about the next day.

  Street was not waiting for him when Burns arrived at the motel in the morning, so Burns parked the Plymouth and got out. He knocked on Street's door, but there was no answer. Thinking Street might have overslept, Burns knocked harder. There was still no response.

  He checked the restaurant, in case Street had gone in for breakfast, but Street was not there. There were mostly locals, drinking coffee and eating watery scrambled eggs.

  Burns went back to the room and knocked on the door again, getting a little worried now. Good grief, what if Street had gotten so mad he had left town, just taken off without a word to anyone?

  Still no answer.

  Burns began to sweat, thinking of other horrible possibilities. Street had drunk a lot of liquor at the banquet, and he might ha
ve continued to drink after getting to his room.

  What if he was still asleep in there, deep in the throes of alcoholic dreaming, so deep asleep that Burns would not be able to wake him? Worse yet, what if Burns could wake him, only to find a man with a hangover so bad that his eyebrows ached?

  What if he was so hung over that he couldn't get himself together to appear at the seminar?

  Well, whatever the case, Burns had to find him first.

  Burns went to the desk and explained his problem. The clerk checked the computer and discovered that Street had not checked out. Then she called the manager, who agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to let Burns into the room.

  "He might be sick," Burns argued. "Or hurt." He didn't mention the hangover idea, which probably came under the heading of "sick," anyway.

  Burns and the manager, a short, bald man with a sour face, walked back to the room. There was more knocking on the door, this time by the manager, but the result was the same: no answer.

  The manager put his pass key in the lock and turned the knob. The door would not open.

  Uh-oh, Burns thought.

  Apparently the manager thought the same thing. Somehow he got the key to work and opened the door.

  Street was there, all right, still wearing his blue jacket. He was lying sprawled across the still-made bed, an insignificant-looking spot of red on his forehead. The Jack Daniels bottle was in one hand, the remains of its contents having run out onto the bedspread to cause a dark stain.

  There was another dark stain, too, this one behind Street's head. It was suddenly obvious to Burns that Street would not be attending the seminar, nor anything else in this life.

  "Oh, shit," the manager said, his mouth twisting and causing his face to look even more sour than before.

  Burns didn't say anything. He just stood there and stared.

  Boss Napier, the Pecan City Chief of Police, did not appear happy to see Burns again.

  "It seems to me, Burns, you got a bad habit of finding dead bodies," he said.

  "This is only the second one," Burns said, worried because Napier had gotten his name right. The chief hardly ever got names right, and Burns was sure that his doing so in this case was a bad sign.