“I might have had one too many Martinis,” said Raptor.
“You might, at that,” said Taft. “They have a special way of making them here. They’re strong.”
“Hee-hee,” said BZ.
“Heh-heh,” said Ash.
BZ let Raptor’s chair tilt forward again. Raptor seemed to shiver. He chafed his hands together. “God, it’s cold in here,” he said. “It’s fucking cold. Are the windows open? Can’t they close the windows?”
Dangerfield had moved around the table to stand behind Raptor’s chair, between BZ and Ash. We’re wasting time, he whispered.
“We’re wasting time,” said Taft. “We need to wind this business up. Orson is in the clear. Paid up. Never wasn’t paid up.”
Raptor shook himself. He tried to clear his head. He tried to rally. “And I say he’s in default,” he told Taft. “I say he’s in default, and I have the paperwork to prove it, like I told Calvin. Eli. Like I told Eli.”
“Show me,” said Taft.
“No can do, friend,” said Raptor. “You’re talking about court documents. They’re privileged, they’re private. Besides, they’re up in my room, in my case.”
Beside Raptor’s chair, Ash leaned over the table to hand Taft a leather portfolio. Taft opened it and took out a file of papers.
“Hold it,” said Raptor. “How did you get that?”
How does he think? breathed Dangerfield.
Raptor reached his hand toward Taft. “Give that here,” he said. But Taft was examining the file. He drew from it a paper and handed it across the table to Raptor. “This is what you’re talking about?” he asked.
Raptor looked at the paper. “That’s right,” he said. “This is the bank’s standard shithead letter to your deadbeat buddy what’s-his-name?”
“Orson,” said Taft. “The letter telling him he was behind, his loan was in default, foreclosure proceedings would commence, and so on.”
“Right,” said Raptor. “A shithead letter.”
“It’s wrong.”
“You say. But do you know?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Simple,” said Taft. “I made the payments, myself. All of them, all on time. I made them for Orson.”
Raptor curled his lip. “Very generous of you, I’m sure,” he said. “But I have the papers, and the papers are what the court needs. They’re all the court needs. What, do you think the papers are just going to disappear?”
Bingo, murmured Dangerfield.
“Hee-hee,” said BZ.
“Heh-heh,” said Ash.
“Exactly,” said Taft.
“Oh?” said Raptor. “Okay. How? How is that supposed to happen?” For an instant, he felt the ground beneath his feet again—for an instant. For the last time.
“It happens when you put your papers, the whole file, into the fire,” said Taft. He nodded toward the nearby fireplace. Earlier, it had been cold and vacant, but somebody had laid a fire, which now crackled briskly.
“Uh, why do I do that?” Raptor asked.
Tell him, rasped Dangerfield.
“Here’s the thing,” said Taft. “The papers are going into the fire. You don’t decide about that. You decide whether you’re going into the fire with them.”
Raptor swallowed hard. He looked at the hearth, which was now a burning fiery furnace, blazing and popping, its flames licking up toward the mantel, its heat beating uncomfortably upon Raptor’s flank. “That fire?” he asked.
Taft nodded. “You recall our proposition?” he asked. “You might say that’s your performance incentive.”
“That’s some incentive, there,” said Ash.
“Some incentive,” said BZ. “Don’t leave him on too long, though, Boss, will you?” he said to Taft. “He don’t like his meat well done. Hee-hee.”
“Heh-heh,” said Ash.
BZ became angry. He yanked Raptor’s chair back on its rear legs again, until Raptor was nearly horizontal. BZ bent over him and thrust his vast, shining face, like an ebony moon, into Raptor’s. “Calling my venaison du diable leather,” said BZ. “I ought to throw him on the fire this minute. You know what? I think I will.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” wailed Raptor. “Oh, Sweet, Merciful Jesus, help me!”
Will somebody please shut him up? hissed Dangerfield.
• • •
Raptor raised his head from his arms, crossed on the table. He was drained, exhausted, ill. He looked toward the fireplace, where BZ was using the poker to break up the ashes of Raptor’s documents. They had finished by throwing his leather portfolio into the fire along with its contents, and the air in the dining room was heavy with the smell of burning hide. In the corner the young waiter was putting the chairs on top of the tables. At the bar, Eli was settling their bill. The dining room was closing. Miserably, Raptor laid his head back down on his folded arms. Eli came back to their table. Raptor groaned.
“He’s still drunk,” said Eli.
“Kid mixes a hell of a Martini,” said Taft.
A hell of a one, whispered Dangerfield.
“Mr. Raptor’s got a long drive,” said Taft. “Maybe a cup of coffee for him?” BZ started for the kitchen. Ash was no longer in the room. He had left them a few minutes earlier.
Eli looked at Raptor. “He’s going back to New York tonight?” Eli asked Taft.
“Why not?”
“Well,” said Eli. “But what’s to stop him, when he gets back, from starting in on Orson all over again? He’s got copies of the papers. He’ll just come back after Orson, either himself or he’ll send somebody else.”
“What do you suggest, then?” Taft asked him. “Do away with him?”
Never a bad plan, sighed Dangerfield. Can’t go wrong.
Taft ignored him. “What would you do?” he asked again.
“I don’t know,” said Eli.
“It will work out,” said Taft. “We’ll talk it over. We’ll make our case.”
BZ returned with a cup of coffee. He put it down in front of the collapsed and sodden Raptor.
“Mr. Raptor?” Taft addressed the lawyer. “Jack? Can you hear me, Jack?” Raptor hardly stirred.
“Yo!” snapped BZ at Raptor’s side. He poked Raptor in the ribs. Raptor jerked awake in his chair, as though he’d been hit by an electric current.
“Don’t hurt me,” he pleaded.
“Relax, Jack,” said Taft. “Have some coffee. Return to the land of the living. We need you awake. We need to talk. We need to reason together.”
Raptor looked at the coffee but didn’t touch it. “About what?” he said.
“About how you’re going to miss court tomorrow,” said Taft. “You’re going to forfeit. You’re going to drive back down to New York tonight, and tomorrow you’re going to tell your boss to tell his boss to tell the fellows in Bermuda to tell the fellows in Zurich, and in Dallas, and in St. Petersburg, and wherever else they hide, to forget about this valley, forget about Orson Hayes, to let him off the hook, now and forever.”
“And what happens to them if they won’t forget about him?”
“To them? Nothing happens to them.”
“To me?” Raptor said. “Look, I get it, okay, Mr….?”
“Taft.”
“I get it, Taft,” Raptor pleaded. “I understand. You’ve got nothing to worry about from me.”
“I’m not worried, Jack,” said Taft. “Not worried at all. Let me show you why.”
Big Ash was with them again. He was standing to Raptor’s right. Now he placed on the table, beside Raptor’s coffee cup, a pair of gentleman’s shoes, tasseled, highly polished, hand-lasted.
“Are these your shoes, Jack?” Taft asked Raptor.
“Yes.”
“Did you pack them when you came up here for your court date?”
“No.”
“Where were they?”
“In my closet,” said Raptor. “In the dressing room in my duplex.”
“Where’s that, Jac
k?” asked Taft.
“Sutton Place.”
“So, if you left these shoes on Sutton Place, how do they happen to be here now, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” said Raptor. “You do.”
“Yes, I do, Jack,” said Taft. “Ash, here. Ash got them for us. He popped down and picked them up, brought them back. He’s quick, Ash. He can do that kind of thing any time he wants to. Go where he wants, do what he wants. Doors, windows, bars, locks, guards, cops—they’re nothing for Ash. Have any trouble down in New York this time, did you, Ash?”
“Naw,” said Ash.
“How did you like Sutton Place, Ash?” asked Taft.
“Real fine. ’Course, I’ve been before.”
“And Mr. Raptor’s duplex?”
“Fine, fine,” said Ash.
“Nice view?”
“If you like Long Island City.”
“Exactly,” said Taft. “What else, Ash?”
“Man’s got a lot of shoes,” said Ash.
• • •
“God,” said Taft, “look at you. Where in the world did you get an outfit like that?”
Dangerfield, seated by the window in a leather easy chair, smoothed the skirts of his dressing gown. The gown was of a rich, purple silk printed with large golden dragons, emerald-eyed.
Hong Kong, said Dangerfield.
“Hong Kong? Do you get out there often?”
As often as I can, said Dangerfield. Now, that is my idea of a city. If you’ve got the money, you can get anything you want, do anything you want. Have you been?
Taft shook his head.
Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me, Chief, said Dangerfield. Not quite your style, is it? But, sure, I go there quite a lot. Not as much as when the British were in charge, but still, several times a year. I told you, we’re global. We’re like Raptor and his people.
“Mmm,” said Taft. He chucked a handful of ice cubes into a glass on his desk and poured in after them a generous measure of Sir Walter Scott. He reached another glass and brought it toward him.
“You interested?” he asked.
Just a taste, said Dangerfield. Taft pushed the bottle and a glass across the desk toward him, then picked up his own glass and tasted his whiskey. He made a face. He leaned back in the chair and regarded Dangerfield for a moment with a speculative, morose expression. At last he smiled and shook his head.
You’re thoughtful, Chief, said Dangerfield. What is it?
“Saw Orson yesterday,” said Taft.
Yes?
“I went out there, I thought I’d tell him he’s clear. He’s safe. He won’t be foreclosed on. Not ever. He doesn’t have to worry, ever. The sun is shining again. Thought he’d be glad to hear it.”
Was he?
“If he was, he had it under control. No, he wasn’t glad. Not at all. In fact, He God-damned me up one side and son-of-a-bitched me down the other. What did I think he was, a charity case? Did I think he couldn’t manage his own affairs? Who the hell did I think I was? And so on and so forth.”
I could have told you. What did you expect, gratitude?
“I don’t know,” said Taft. “I guess not. But, some sign of pleasure? Of relief? I would have thought Orson would at least be happy he wasn’t going to lose his home, for example. Hell, no, he wasn’t happy. Fact is, he didn’t know if he could stand another winter up here. He’d been thinking about selling the place and going to live with his daughter in Tucson.”
Tucson?
“He’s cold all the time, Orson said. Right from September, all through to May, he’s cold. He said in Tucson they don’t have that. In Tucson, it’s always hot.”
Hah, said Dangerfield. If Tucson is his idea of heat, he’s a child.
10
SPLIT PEA
“OH, YES,” SAID CALPURNIA. “I HEARD THAT.” It was Calpurnia’s habit in conversation, Eli had long since observed, never to admit ignorance in any business concerning the valley or its people. Even of doings and actors that it was, as a practical matter, quite impossible she should have knowledge, she would let on to be informed. Had a space ship carrying a delegation from Alpha Centauri landed an hour ago on the town green? “I heard that,” said Calpurnia. Was the new principal of the elementary school in reality the long-missing Russian Grand Duchess Anastasia? “I know.” Had the same woman once played third base for the Red Sox? “Oh, yes,” said Calpurnia. “Oh, yes.”
No, Eli wasn’t surprised that Calpurnia knew of the Polk boy’s working at Taft’s, or said she did. “That poor kid has never had a break,” she said.
“He’s got one now,” said Eli. “He’s painting at Langdon Taft’s.”
“I heard that,” said Calpurnia. “Yes, well, it needed it. I remember when that was the Jackson place. Judge Jackson kept it up like nothing you ever saw. Talk about paint? The painters practically lived there. Your friend has let it go.”
“There you go again,” said Eli. “‘Your friend.’ You keep on saying that. I’ve asked you why you’re so down on Langdon.”
“And I’ve told you,” said Calpurnia blandly. “I’m not down on him. I don’t know him, except for just around and about. He’s polite enough, I suppose. Rides pretty high on his horse, though, doesn’t he?”
“No, he doesn’t. How does he?”
“Oh, ways. The way he talks. The way he goes around. I told you about his parents, what they were like. The apple don’t fall far, you know. Even his name. Langdon. What kind of a name’s Langdon?”
“What kind of a name’s Calpurnia?”
“Calpurnia’s somebody in a Shakespeare play. My mother loved Shakespeare.”
“Why didn’t she name you Shakespeare, then?”
“That would have been pretty peculiar, wouldn’t it?”
“So’s Calpurnia,” said Eli.
“My, my, we’re quick on the trigger today, aren’t we?”
“I’m just saying.”
“’Course, you stick up for him,” said Calpurnia. “But you know as well as I do what he is. The bottle, and all.”
“Langdon’s mostly on the wagon, these days.”
“Hah,” said Calpurnia. “On the wagon, is it? It looks like to me if you have to have a special word for not being a drunk, you are one.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“That is right,” said Calpurnia. “You heard it here. Mind you, nobody wants a plaster saint. I never did. No teetotalers need apply. They’re sneaky. A man should take a drink. There should be something he loves besides you. The thing is, with the bottle boys, they start by loving the bottle besides you, then they love it as much as you, then they love it more than you, then it’s all they love, and you’ve got no show at all.”
And you know this how, exactly? Eli thought but did not say, Calpurnia never having married, and being, as far as anyone then living knew, quite chaste.
“You men,” she went on. “You never get set up just right, do you? If you’re fond of the bottle, you aren’t to be trusted. If you’re not fond of the bottle, you aren’t to be trusted. What are we girls to do?”
“You girls just have to roll the dice, it looks like,” said Eli. “Guess and go.”
The door of Calpurnia’s room opened, and one of the Hospice workers stuck her head in. “Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had a visitor.”
“Come on in,” said Eli. “We were just getting ready to start drinking in here. Plenty for you.”
“Hush,” said Calpurnia.
“Kitchen wants to know if split pea is okay for you for lunch,” said the Hospice worker. “It’s all they’ve got.”
“That sounds fine, dear,” said Calpurnia. “Thank you.” The Hospice worker withdrew. “If it’s all they’ve got, why ask?” said Calpurnia. “Still, she’s a nice girl, that one.”
“Cecelia,” said Eli. “She’s in that Polk family, too, somehow, isn’t she?”
“Somehow, I guess. But really, that poor kid, that Lucas? What chance did he ev
er have? That family?”
“Sally’s alright,” said Eli.
“Sally is alright. I say nothing against Sally. She does the best she can. But her husband, her jailbird husband?”
“Reggie,” said Eli.
“He never was any good. He went from bad to worse. It’s hard on the boy. A boy takes after his father. A boy needs a father.”
“I don’t know if a boy needs Reggie for a father, though.”
“Reggie’s main trouble was he’s lazy,” said Calpurnia. “That’s the heart of it. He got exactly what he deserved. He never wanted to work. Work? Not Reggie. He was too smart, he thought.”
“It doesn’t look like the boy took after Reggie that way, at least,” said Eli. “It’s not like he wouldn’t work. He worked over McKinley’s pretty good.”
Calpurnia sniffed. “McKinley,” she said. “Don’t give me McKinley. That’s the best thing about this, ask me. They ought to pin a ribbon on that boy.” Her opinion of McKinley was known to Eli. It was known to everybody in the valley.
“That man is so tight he squeaks when he walks,” said Calpurnia. “Pays the store help poverty. You want to buy a quart of milk, you find half the dairy case is gone by. Hardly heats the place in winter. Sells for cash only. Cash only? Whoever heard of a little country store that wouldn’t let you run a bill? Years ago, when I worked there for Mr. Wilson? Two thirds of the customers were on the books. Tom Wilson didn’t go broke.”
“Yes, he did,” said Eli. “That’s why it’s McKinley’s now.”
“Well, alright, I guess he did. Still, Emmett McKinley’s a—I won’t say it.”
“I’ll say it, then. He’s a cheap bastard.”
Calpurnia giggled. “No, really,” she said. “’Course, Sally’s boy oughtn’t to have done what he did. You can’t have that. But part of me’s glad Lucas broke his window, the other stuff, wrecked that stuck-up wife of his’s fancy car. Thinks she’s so great. Good on Lucas Polk.”
“Good on Lucas,” said Eli.
“What’s the boy going to do when he runs out of work at Jackson’s, I mean your friend’s?”
The Devil in the Valley Page 9
