by Ben Benson
“She won’t show, Ralphie,” he said, starting to walk away. “I’ll lay you odds, ten to one.”
“She’ll show,” I said stubbornly.
But he was right. She didn’t show. I waited at the bar for over an hour, sipping on that one glass of bourbon, watching Harry as he worked.
Then Amy went on stage again and I moved out into the foyer to watch her. She sang only two hurried songs and by then it was midnight. The bar closed. The last few stragglers were finishing their drinks and Harry and his assistants were tidying up.
I left the taproom. The dining room was empty and Carl Podre was gone. I asked a waiter where I could find the dressing room. He showed me. I went around by the kitchen and into a narrow corridor. There was a flimsy, laminated wooden door with a little gold star pasted on it. I knocked.
“Who is it?” Amy’s voice asked.
“Ralph,” I said.
“Go away,” she said.
“Open the door or I’ll lean on it and push it down.”
I waited. There was the sound of a lock being unfastened and the door opened. She was wearing a white towel around her head turban-style, a blue silk robe and blue slippers. Her face was white and smooth, with traces of cold cream near her hairline.
“So you’re a real tough one,” she said. “As much as you’ve tried to hide it, that cop mentality sticks out all over you. Or do they give you a special course in breaking down doors to ladies’ boudoirs?”
“Maybe you’re more familiar with the wolf system,” I said. “What do your wolf friends do? Huff and puff like in the nursery rhyme?”
“If that’s meant as a nasty crack,” she said, “you can get out of here.”
But I moved past her and stepped inside. There was a dressing table. Above it, surrounded by lighted bulbs, was a mirror. She went over to it and sat down. With a sheet of tissue she began wiping cold cream from her face.
“I sent you a note,” I said.
“I haven’t paid attention to notes since I was in the fourth grade.”
“I sent you a note,” I said. “You didn’t have to stay in here and sulk.”
“Sulk? What do I have to sulk about? I’m lovely, I’m becoming famous, I use cold cream.”
“You could have sent me an answer,” I said. “A brush-off like this isn’t cricket. It’s not according to the rules of the game.”
“I don’t owe you a thing, dear,” she said. “I didn’t brush you off, because there was nothing to brush off. Not even a tiny piece of lint.”
“Not lint. You mean some of that sticky, gooey stuff you called love.”
“There’s nothing,” she said. “There never was anything. You walked me home one night and you took me for a ride one afternoon. That doesn’t buy you one teeny-weeny part of me. So don’t flatter yourself, dear.”
“You’re lying,” I said amiably. “I have a feeling toward you. I wouldn’t have it unless you felt the same way about me.”
“Like an electric charge,” she said, laughing shortly. “You feel vibrations.”
“I don’t know what it is. But it’s there and you know it’s there.”
“Don’t get tangled up in my life,” she said. “I don’t sleep well when I get emotional. It affects my voice.”
“The hell with your voice,” I said amiably.
“The hell with you,” she said. “I have to get dressed.”
“Go right ahead,” I said.
“Look, Junior,” she said. “This isn’t the Shubert Theater where the man stands there in his top hat and white tie and the star gets behind a screen and says very gay things while she tosses her stockings and garter belt over the top. This is the sticks. And, as you can see, there’s no screen.”
“I don’t mind about the screen,” I said. “I like it better without the screen.”
“Outside,” she said.
I went outside. She locked the door.
20
I WAITED OUTSIDE IN THE CORRIDOR, LEANING AGAINST THE wall. In ten minutes she came out. She was dressed in a prim, dove-gray suit and black shoes.
“You look like a business woman,” I said, “not like a glamorous singing star.”
“I’m more of a business woman than you think,” she said. “Good night, dear. I have a date.”
“You have a date with me,” I said.
“I have a date with a four-poster bed. It’s one o’clock in the morning. I’ve refused six different dates tonight. You’re a seven-time loser, dear.”
“Seven is my lucky number,” I said. “My car is in the parking lot.”
“Good-bye, dear. I’m not going with you. Have fun and all that.”
I smiled at her. “Sure, you’re going with me. You’re scared and you’re panicky and you’re running away from something. I know what’s behind it, honey. That’s why we’ll take a ride and you’ll tell me all about it.”
“Well, well,” she said. “A new twist. An amateur mind reader. If you know some dark deep secret about me, suppose you tell me right now. That will clear it up, won’t it?”
“No,” I said. “That wouldn’t solve it. You have to volunteer it yourself. Otherwise we’ll still have the problem.”
“All right,” she said. “I know when I’m licked. I’m a notorious dope queen from Ypsilanti. The police of fourteen states are hot on my trail. Are you satisfied now?”
“Let’s take the ride, honey. You’ll tell me.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then we’ll have to do it the hard way.”
“What way?”
“We’d have to go to the barracks, Amy. I wouldn’t like it and you wouldn’t like it.”
“Now you’re pulling rank on me,” she said.
“I have no choice.”
“You’re bluffing, of course. But I’ll go along. It’ll be just for curiosity, dear. I’m mad about puzzles.”
We went out to the parking lot. She looked at my battered old Ford. “Isn’t it jazzy?” she said. “I haven’t been in a jalopy since I was seventeen.”
“Let’s not be undemocratic,” I said, helping her in.
“Oh, no. I’m honored. The evening papers were full of a furious gun battle between the notorious ‘Slicker’ Hozak, the famed Trooper Ralph Lindsey, and some inconsequential corporal named Philip Kerrigan. You’ve made the town of Dorset safe to live in again. Hi, killer. Or have you grown sensitive about those things?”
I started the car. “Not me.” I grinned. “I didn’t fire a shot. It was Kerrigan. I was sort of a dumb sitting duck, a decoy.”
“Then the newspapers were very kind to you. They gave you fifty percent of the credit. Didn’t Kerrigan mind?”
“Tickled silly. The real truth would have been very embarrassing to the State Police.”
“Now I suppose you’re taking me to your favorite necking spot along the pond.”
“No,” I said. I didn’t tell her it was too near the Derechy house, where there was a stake-out in case Derechy came back. “We’ll go to Parker River in Rowley. But I’m forgetting my duties as a host. You must be hungry.”
“Only for your arms, dear.”
I grinned in the dark.
“I saw that very engaging smile,” she said. “Let me tell you right now that charm won’t work. I can’t stay long. I’ve got to get some sleep because I’m leaving town the first thing tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I said. “I thought your engagement here ran another week.”
“Cancelled out,” she said. “I’m going to New York.”
“Sudden, isn’t it?”
“When the mood strikes the artist, you know—”
“Doesn’t Carl mind?”
“Not at all. I’ve been off my feed a little.”
“But why New York? I thought your next engagement was at Salisbury Beach.”
“I cancelled it. I have a tryout in a musical. Aren’t I the lucky one?”
“No,” I said. “There’s no tryout in New York. You’re running away.�
��
She didn’t answer that.
I drove out across U.S. 1 onto the Rowley Road, winding around, crossing the dark, sleeping town and over a little stone bridge. I turned to the right. The moon gleamed on the river. I pulled up under some trees and stopped.
She said, “You know all the intimate places where loving couples can entwine.”
“Extensive research,” I said. “I’m beginning to pay attention to small details.”
“What do we do now?” she asked. “Turn the radio on to soft music and wait for a cloud to hide the moon before we start wrestling?”
“No,” I said, “first you take this.”
I took the silver brooch from my pocket and put it in her lap. She stared down at it, not moving.
“Take it, it’s yours,” I said. “And don’t tell me it isn’t. Every time you lie your ears turn pink.”
“You can’t see my ears in the dark.”
“I’ll bring out my flashlight,” I said.
She picked up the brooch and ran her fingers over the thin cobweb strands. “It’s such a worthless bauble to make a fuss about.”
“But it’s yours,” I said. “That’s the point I want to make.”
“All right, it’s mine,” she said with sudden vehemence. “So what does it prove? That I was at the pond last summer, parking with somebody?”
“More than that,” I said. “Next I want you to tell me why you found it necessary to lie about it.”
“Because I thought you were the insanely jealous type. If you knew I had been to that sacred spot with another Romeo you might have throttled me.”
I smiled at her. “This isn’t a tryout for a musical comedy, honey. This happens to be for keeps.”
“No laughs?”
“No laughs,” I said. “A twenty-one-year-old girl has been murdered. The kind of girl you see every day in every town. A pretty girl who wouldn’t harm a flea. Next, a twenty-two-year-old boy was murdered. He was important, too. Even though he didn’t care much about living after the girl was killed. That’s why there are no laughs in this, honey.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muted. “Will you believe I’m really and truly sorry?”
“Yes,” I said. “I believe you. We’re getting along fine now, Amy. We’ve established the fact that you were at Dorset Pond last summer. The next question is who was the man with you?”
“My lips are forever sealed. He is now married and has five lovely children. The oldest boy is—” She broke off and buried her face in her hands. “There I go again,” she said, her voice muffled. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I can’t help it.”
“I know,” I said. “Every time you get into a tight corner you try to laugh it off.”
“It’s to stop the tears from coming to my eyes. I’m the original Pagliacci.”
“Maybe I should remind you of this, Amy. I know who the man is, but I have to hear it from you.”
“I’m getting terribly weary of this game.”
“It’s not a game. You know it isn’t a game. Give me his name.”
Her hands twisted around the brooch. “His name is Carl Podre. There. Does it give you a sadistic pleasure to have made me say it?”
“No. It gives me no pleasure at all. What’s the rest of it?”
“Nothing. I was lonesome and he took me riding. We held hands and ate popcorn like two depraved characters.”
“Strike the last sentence,” I said. “I want the rest of it.”
“There is no more.”
“Yes, there is. There’s the part where the fear comes in, the scared-rabbit look, the running away. A date with Carl Podre a year ago didn’t cause all that.”
“It’s you, dear. I just tremble when your masculinity comes near me.”
“We can sit here and swap wisecracks until dawn. But we’ll just be wasting time. I’ll say it once more. You’ll have to tell me. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’re going to be in a bit of a mess.”
“That’s all there is, dear. I’ve told you everything.”
“I can wait for the answer,” I said. “I’m in no particular hurry.”
“Fine,” she said. “I propose to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer. Didn’t a famous general say that?”
“U. S. Grant. But he had a bigger army than you, honey. You’re fighting this alone.”
She cuddled in against me, her head resting in the hollow of my shoulder. I put my arm around her, bent and brushed my lips against her scented hair.
“I’m so weary,” she said. “I could fall asleep in your arms.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “When you wake up you’ll feel better. Then you’ll tell me.”
“It means that much to you?”
“Yes. Everything has to be clean and honest between us. I might want to marry you some day.”
Her head turned up to me. “I thought you said no more wisecracks?”
“It’s not a wisecrack, Amy.”
“I said before you were a young man in a hurry. You seem to have made up your mind very quickly.”
“When the opportunity strikes, you have to grab it. I might never meet another one like you.”
“It’s spring. Love is in the air.”
“For you, too?”
“Not quite, dear. I’m older and I’ve fought it every inch of the way. I’ll admit you have a habit of sending little shivers up my spine. But it’s no good for me and I know it’ll never work out. That’s another reason I’m leaving. I don’t want any foreign entanglements.”
“You’re fighting a natural feeling, honey.”
“I know. Why do you think I wanted you to stay away from me? I don’t want to be carried away by emotion. I’m not ready for marriage. Nor for the little vine-covered cottage and the mortgage that goes with it.”
“Maybe it’s a different type of marriage you want. The money marriage. The Cadillac convertible, the three mink coats in the closet, the houseman in white coat and silver buttons. The paunchy, bald-headed husband who’s been twice divorced or widowed, so every time you go to bed you have to take a stiff slug of brandy so you won’t be sick about it. Is that what you really want? If it is, tell me straight.”
“You think I’m like that?” she asked.
“No, I don’t. Not you. There are a lot of people who think that way. But not you. If I thought you were like them I wouldn’t be here now.”
“Thank you, dear. No, it’s not that. It’s the itch inside me. The career. Amy Bell in lights. Amy Bell in a hit Broadway musical. Amy Bell in pictures, in CinemaScope. Amy Bell on television singing to forty million people. That’s the itch. It gnaws right into my heart.”
“Nobody ever gave you a guarantee any of that would happen. It could end up the other way. In a strip joint in the Chicago Loop, singing for pennies, mixing with a lot of dirty, unwashed, foul-mouthed drunks, so they’ll buy more drinks. And every once in a while a customer in an upstairs room for another few bucks. It could end that way, too.”
“I know. But I have to have my chance. It’s there. I’ve made my start. You have no right to cut me off from it.”
“We’d make a nice couple,” I said.
“A lovely couple.”
“Sleeping in a barracks wouldn’t be half-bad if I knew, when I came home, you’d be waiting at the little swinging gate for me.”
“And how often would you come home?”
“About every four days.”
“And what if I didn’t want you away from me four days at a time? What if I wanted you home every night? Would you make the sacrifice?”
“Yes. I don’t have to be a trooper. It takes five minutes to resign.”
“You’d do all that for me?”
“Well, I’m not a very good cop, anyway. I think they’d be happy to take up a collection and give me a big send-off.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re a very good trooper. You stick to the State Police and let me stick to my career.”
She looked up at me. “Can’t you see, dear? It wouldn’t work. The vine-covered cottage would pall on me. I’d sit there and eat my heart out because you took me away from the bright lights, from the brilliant career. It might start out all lovey-dovey, but soon I’d be blaming you because you took me away from my big chance. I’d picture myself on Broadway or in Hollywood, all slick and glamorous instead of being a grubby housewife. I’d blame you for everything that went wrong. I’d begin to hate you.”
“I’d remind you of the strip joint in the Chicago Loop.”
“I wouldn’t believe it,” she said. “I’d dream the other dream. I’m sorry, dear, but I’ve got to keep going. I have to make my try.” She squeezed my hand. “Now if you’ll take your prisoner home, dear—”
I looked out into the darkness for a moment. “There’s still some unfinished business,” I said. “We stay here until it’s cleared. We ended with you and Carl Podre on the bluff near the pond. That was last summer. We’ve got to bring it up to date.”
She sighed. “I’m very tired, dear. Can’t we postpone it until tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow will be too late, Amy.”
She squeezed her eyes, then opened them. “Do you mind if I catch an hour’s sleep in your arms?”
“No,” I said. “Maybe it would do a lot of good. You’d wake up with a refreshed mind and a better recollection.”
She curled up, her legs under her, resting her head on my shoulder. I sat there looking out into the night, at the silently moving, luminous band of the river. Soon she was breathing slower and more deeply.
The minutes ticked by, then an hour. She slept on. I thought of many things. Of Amy Bell, in my arms, wanting a career above everything, who wanted to run away in her determination to save it. Of Carl Podre and his bland smoothness and false affability. Of Trooper Keith Ludwell, who was also concerned with a career and who was relentless, ruthless and calculating every inch of the way. Of an eager, intense waitress named Marsha Gordioni, who would hope in vain but would never marry Keith Ludwell. Of two murdered youngsters named Mary Ann Fedder and Russell Westlake, who had done nothing more than to appear at a certain spot at a certain time. Of granite-faced Captain Roger Dondera, who did not tolerate mistakes in judgment.
