“An actor, is that right?” Captain Cartwright looked in the wallet some more, and found all three cards. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “So many unions? Now, why do you have to be in so many unions?”
“It’s for the different kinds of jobs. Equity is legitimate theater, and AFTRA is television and radio work, and SAG is for movies.”
“Movies? You’ve been in the movies, Paul?”
Cole hesitated again, because he didn’t know if he’d ever been in any movies or not, but then a phrase—isolated and unexplained, without reference to anything—came into his mind, and he said it: “Industrial films.”
“Industrial films. The sort of movie they show at conventions, eh, Paul?” Captain Cartwright’s smile got roguish, and he said, “Not the other kind of movie they show at conventions, though, eh?”
“No. I’m an actor.”
“Then, Paul, I’ll be perfectly honest with you, I’m just more surprised and confused than ever. Here you are, an actor, belong to half a dozen different unions, get work in movies and shows, live in Greenwich Village in the heart of New York City, and all at once here you are in this dinky little town, working in the shipping department over to the tannery. Now, Paul, I’m telling you the Lord’s truth, I just don’t understand that.”
“I was with a show,” Cole said. “A touring show, and I had an accident. I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks, and the show went on without me.”
“Ah, I see! I’m beginning to see the light, Paul. And you just didn’t have the money to get back to New York City, is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a shame, Paul, that’s a truthful shame.” Captain Cartwright nodded, looking completely solemn for the first time since he’d come in here. He said, “This touring company didn’t carry any insurance or anything, is that it?”
“It wasn’t an accident on the job, it was...it was off the job.”
“Ah, that must be it. And all the money you had went for the hospital, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Cartwright nodded thoughtfully. “That certainly does explain it,” he said, and it looked as though he were about to smile again, but instead he frowned, saying, “But that wasn’t here, was it, Paul? I don’t remember any touring shows around this town for years and years.”
“This is as far east as I could get with the money I had left.”
“Ah! Of course! You just came as far as you could, eh? I admire that, Paul, I most certainly do. Now where was this that you were in the hospital?”
“Where?”
“Well, the name of the town, you know.”
Cole shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember? Paul, I should think the name of that town would be emblazoned in your mind, that’s what I should think. That was a terrible thing happened to you there. If it was me, I wouldn’t forget that town in a hurry.”
“I didn’t pay much attention to the name of it. We just came in, and then I had my, my accident, and then I was in the hospital for a while, and then I left, that’s all.”
“Well, I guess that’s possible,” said Captain Cartwright. He nodded, and offered a small smile, and looked at the other two men. “That’s certainly possible,” he said. “Jimmy, get that plate, will you? Maybe Paul can identify it.”
The chunky man, possibly O’Hare, said, “Right away,” and went out, closing the door after him.
Captain Cartwright strolled back and forth, his interlaced fingers resting on his paunch, holding Cole’s wallet that way. “Acting,” he said, testing the word. “Acting, acting. All the world’s a stage, eh? That’s one I know. Shakespeare. I’ve done my share of reading. But to be an actor, to live in Greenwich Village, meet all sorts of interesting people, Beatniks and whatnot, that must be something. And now here you are, stuck away in this little hole in the wall. It’s really a shame, Paul. No one you could wire for busfare? No family, friends?”
“No, sir.”
“Parents dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. All alone in the world, a thousand miles from home.” Captain Cartwright shook his head solemnly. “I don’t envy you, Paul,” he said. “I’ll be frank with you, I don’t envy you. Oh, I might,” he said, and flashed his sunny smile just briefly. “I might envy your life in New York, I’ll be honest about that, but here and now it’s a different story, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jeffords is a good town,” said Cartwright, as though all it had lacked was this final commendation. “My home town, Paul. Born and raised here. Oh, I’ve been away, in the Army and whatnot, but I’ve always come back home, and I’ve built my career here, built it around this town. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yes, sir, I guess so.”
“I would venture to say I know just about every permanent resident of Jeffords,” Captain Cartwright said. “That’s something, eh? Over nine thousand men, women, and children, and I venture to say I know them all. Oh, not the youngsters so much, the grade school children, but I’ll get to know them as they grown up. Take the Malloys, now. I’ve known Matt for years, known him for years. I stop in at the union meetings now and again, and he’s always there. A very militant man, Matt Malloy, very militant. And a lovely wife, good church-going woman. But of course, you know that yourself. And two fine sons. A fine family all the way around. And then I know the Flynns, Black Jack and Little Jack. You work with them, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Artie Bellman, there’s another one, but a horse of a different color. Loans money at illegal rates, you know. Oh, we know about it, never fear. I like to know everything that happens in Jeffords. And I don’t approve of Artie Bellman; he was a wild boy and he’s never lost his wildness, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he came to a bad end, not a bit surprised. He’s been in this very room, you know, in this very room, and more than once. Never anything really serious, just wildness, getting into fights and whatnot. But not one of our leading citizens at all, and never will be. It makes me unhappy to have someone like Artie Bellman here in Jeffords. A bad influence, Paul. If he was a stranger now, like yourself, and carried on the way he does, I’d march him to the town line and boot him across, and don’t think I’d be too kindhearted to do it. I’m far too fond of my hometown, Paul, I’ll tell you the absolute truth. I’d do it in a minute. But what can I do, he’s a local boy, got a family here, as much right to live here as anybody. So all I can do is bring him into this room every now and again, and try to talk to him, try to straighten him out. Not that it ever does any good.” Captain Cartwright stood in front of Cole and shook his head. “Don’t get yourself involved with him, Paul,” he said. “He’s not the sort of company you want to keep. And whatever you do, don’t borrow money from him. I know there are men on that crew of yours today, right today, who pay Artie Bellman a dollar or two in interest every week on some little loan they made a year ago, and they’ve never yet paid a penny of the principal. It’s a vicious sort of thing to get yourself into, Paul. Steer clear of it. Eh? Will you?”
Cole nodded, as solemn as the Captain. “Yes, sir,” he said.
And Captain Cartwright burst out laughing. “Paul, you’re a wonder!” he cried. He appealed to the thin man, who might have been Blake. “Isn’t he something? A first-class actor, I’m willing to bet a week’s pay on it. Tell an out-and-out fib like that, and never turn a hair.” He beamed at Cole as though he’d invented Cole himself, just this minute. “Why, Paul,” he said, “you owe Artie Bellman money right now! You borrowed thirty-two dollars from him, and you’ve paid him thirty-two back and you still owe him ten. Isn’t that so, isn’t that the way it is?”
Cole was too flustered to say anything at all. He just looked up at the Captain, and gestured vaguely with his hands.
The Captain waved his hand and said, “Oh, don’t be embarrassed about it, Paul, don’t bother yourself, I understand the way it was. I said all those th
ings about Artie Bellman, and warned you away from him, and of course you were embarrassed to say you’d already borrowed money from him, of course you were. I understand that, Paul.” He leaned forward, and closed one eye with a roguish smile, and laid a finger beside his nose. “But didn’t I tell you I know everything that happens in Jeffords? Didn’t I already tell you that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Cartwright straightened, beaming. “Of course I did! Don’t ever fib to Captain Cartwright, Paul, don’t every try to fib to me, I’ll catch you at it every time.” He cocked his head to one side, and studied Cole’s face, the smile still creasing his own. “Any others, Paul?”
“What?”
“Any other fibs? We’ve been chatting here for quite a while, Paul, and I must admit that now I know what an accomplished actor you are, I just can’t help but wonder. Did you tell me any other little fibs, Paul?”
“No, sir, not at all.”
“You don’t have to, you know. Not with me. I’m an understanding fellow, Paul, I think you’ll find me a very understanding fellow.” He waited, as bright and alert as a parrot, and then said, “Is there anything you want to tell me, Paul? Anything you want to change in your story, anything you want to add?”
“No, sir.” Cole had thought, for a split second, of telling the Captain about his memory problem, but he rejected the idea immediately. The faulty memory was a weakness, and something prevented him from exposing a weakness to Captain Cartwright.
O’Hare, if that was the chunky man’s name, came back into the room then, carrying a square piece of metal about a foot on a side. It was bright and polished, like a mirror, and the color of an aluminum pen, or automobile chrome. He was holding it by the edges, the way some people handle phonograph records.
“Ah!” said Captain Cartwright. “There it is! Recognize it, Paul?”
Cole looked at the piece of metal, and tried to think if he’d ever seen it before. Maybe he had, and just couldn’t remember. But if he had, and Captain Cartwright knew he had, and now he denied it, the Captain would think he was lying again. He shook his head doubtfully, and said, “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Take it,” the Captain offered. “Look it over.”
Cole took the piece of metal and looked at it. He could see his own face reflected in it. He turned it over, and both sides were alike. It was about a quarter of an inch thick, and absolutely featureless. He studied it, trying to make it click something in his memory, and nothing happened at all. He said, “I’m sorry, sir. If I ever saw it before, I just don’t remember.”
“Ah, well, that’s all right. Take it back, Jimmy.”
The chunky man took it back, holding it the same way as before, and the thin man opened the door for him. The chunky man left, and the thin man closed the door again.
Captain Cartwright said, “If it’s all right with you, Paul, I’d like to hold onto this discharge of yours for a few days. No problem, of course, you’ll get it back in a day or so, but I’d just like to study it a bit more.”
“Why?”
Captain Cartwright smiled disarmingly, and shrugged his shoulders. “Just a whim,” he said. “I know you plan to go on back to New York City eventually, and— You do plan to go back, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what I thought. But still, it won’t be for a while, not for a few weeks anyway. You weren’t planning on leaving tomorrow, for instance, were you?”
“No. I don’t have the money yet.”
“Of course not. You have to finish paying Artie Bellman back first, and then you can start putting money aside for your fare, right?”
Cole nodded.
“So there’s really no hurry. You’ll have this discharge back in plenty of time.” He smiled as easily and pleasantly as before, and handed Cole his wallet back, but held the discharge form in his other hand.
Cole took the wallet and looked at it, and out of his confusion and fright felt suddenly again that deep mournful depression that came over him every once in a while these days. He felt like crying, exactly like crying; his eyes stung, but no tears came. Not looking up from the wallet, he said, “Why are you doing this to me?”
“What’s that, Paul? I didn’t hear you.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Doing? Doing what?” Captain Cartwright seemed surprised and bewildered. “Nobody’s done anything to you, Paul. We’ve just had a little chat, that’s all, got to know one another. I told you, I like to know everyone in Jeffords, and you’ve become a resident now, haven’t you, at least for a while, so I wanted to get to know you. Now we’ve met, and we’ve had a pleasant little chat, and that’s all there is to it. We’ve gotten to know each other, and I want you to feel if there’s ever a problem of any kind, any way at all that I can help you, get you situated better in town here, anything at all, you can come to me at any time. I want you to think of me as your friend, Paul, and I mean that sincerely. You ask anyone in town, they’ll tell you Captain Cartwright will do anything in his power to help a fellow townsman in trouble, anything in his power, any time at all. I want you to remember that, Paul.”
“But why do it this way? In the middle of the night? And being picked up without anybody explaining anything or telling me anything and just—”
“Now, Paul! I realize you’re tired, Paul, but really now. Nobody explained anything to you? Haven’t I been explaining and explaining, the last half hour here? Isn’t that what this is all about?” Captain Cartwright rested a hand on Cole’s shoulder. “You’re just tired,” he said. “Now, we’ve had a nice chat and all, but it’s time for you to get some sleep, and you don’t want to stay here all night, do you?” He laughed, but the words and the laugh both had something menacing in them, or at least it sounded menacing to Cole. “You just go on home and get your beauty sleep, Paul, and if you want to talk about anything tomorrow, why just come on in, the door is always open. All right, Paul? Good night now.”
The Captain smiled and nodded, and strode out of the room, carrying the reduced laminated photostat of Cole’s Army discharge paper in his hand. Cole was left with the thin man, who said, “Can you find your own way out?” His face and voice were expressionless.
“Yes,” said Cole.
The thin man—was he Blake? Cole wanted to know, but didn’t dare ask—the thin man stood waiting by the open door. Cole got to his feet and left the narrow room and walked down the corridor to the front of the building. He glanced back, and the thin man was gone.
Up front, the same uniformed man sat stolid and half-asleep behind the high desk; above his head on the wall was a round white-faced clock, with black numbers and hands and a red sweep second hand. The clock read twenty-five minutes past one. Cole glanced at the uniformed man behind the desk, but there was no reaction to his presence, or to his leaving. He went out of the building and down the slate steps, and stood on the sidewalk a minute, looking at the car in which he’d been driven here.
There were too many things to think about all at once; he couldn’t keep them straight in his mind. Why had they picked him up? Why had they kept his Army discharge? What was the metal plate, and had he ever seen it before? What did Captain Cartwright really want from him?
He stood thinking, staring at the car parked in front of the station, and then some movement or some instinct made him turn his head. The thin man was standing at the top of the slate steps, by the door, looking down at him. He looked as though what he was was Cold & Merciless Competence. He said, “You’re loitering, Cole.” His voice was so thin and soft that Cole could barely hear it.
Cole looked up at him and blurted out, “Are you Blake?”
“Move on, Cole,” said the thin man.
Cole moved, starting off in the direction from which he’d been brought here, but he didn’t know this section of town at all, and before he got to the first corner he knew he was lost. He went on to the corner, and looked back down the block, and there was no one visib
le around the police station, which was in a cone of fuzzy yellow light by itself, plus the green globes, with darkness all around it.
The only thing to do was move. Sooner or later he would find a store open or someone walking, and he could ask directions. Or he would eventually come to a neighborhood he recognized.
He walked almost at random. It seemed to him that the car that had brought him to the police station had made more right turns than left turns, so in going back it should be just the reverse; from time to time, therefore, he came to a corner and went down the street to his left.
It was as though the town had been chloroformed. Silence, emptiness, darkness. Automobiles were standing here and there in driveways, because all-night parking on the street was illegal. When the automobile was parked back in the driveway, next to the house, it looked like the rear end of some snug bear in a warm den, but when the automobile was just barely onto the driveway, just clearing the sidewalk, so it was flanked by lawns, it made the whole section look like part of the construction around a model train layout. As though Cole could walk across those lawns—which would crackle like paper, being paper—and look in through those cellophane windows and see only make believe, no ceilings and no walls and no furnishings and no reality. As though Cole himself were one inch tall, crawling slowly across the table; and what looks like a black and overcast sky above is only the ceiling of the playroom.
Cole was getting exhausted when he finally saw a light ahead of him, some light other than the steady march of streetlights. It was on the other side of the street, a few blocks away. He hurried toward it, hoping it was some sort of landmark he would recognize, and when he was within a block of it he could see it was the bus depot. He smiled with relief; from here, he could find his way with no trouble at all, first to the tannery, and then from the tannery on home.
He came closer, and was just about to cross the street to the depot side when he stopped in his tracks, seeing the highly polished brand new black car parked in front of the depot, in the bus zone. It didn’t necessarily have anything to do with him. The car could be there for another reason entirely. In fact, there was no way they could have known he’d be coming by here.
Memory (Hard Case Crime) Page 9
