General Advances was open, of course. Through its window you could see handsome young men and sleek young women just waiting to help you, whatever the fiscal jam. He went in and was whisked to a booth where a big-bosomed honey-voiced blonde oozed sympathy over him. He walked out with a check for fifteen hundred dollars after signing countless papers, with the creamy hand of the girl on his to help guide the pen. What was printed on the papers, God and General Advances alone knew. There were men on the line who told him with resignation that they had been paying off to G.A. for the better part of their lives. There were men who said bitterly that G.A. was owned by the Regan Benevolent Fund, which must be a lie.
The street was full of people—strangers who didn’t look like your run-of-the-mill artist. Muscle men, with the Chicago style and if anybody got one in the gut, too goddamned bad about it. They were peering into faces as they passed.
He was frightened. He stepped onto the slidewalk and hurried home, hoping for temporary peace there. But there was no peace for his frayed nerves. The apartment house door opened obediently when he told it: “Regan,” but the elevator stood stupidly still when he said: “Seventh Floor.” He spat bitterly and precisely: “Sev-enth Floor.” The doors closed on him with a faintly derisive, pneumatic moan and he was whisked up to the eighth floor. He walked down wearily and said: “Cobalt blue” to his own door after a furtive look up and down the hall. It worked and he went to his phone to flash Latham, but didn’t. Oliver sank instead into a dun-colored pneumatic chair, his 250-dollar Hawthorne Electric Stepsaver door mike following him with its mindless snout. He punched a button on the chair and the 600-dollar hi-fi selected a random tape. A long, pure melodic trumpet line filled the room. It died for two beats and than the strings and woodwinds picked it up and tossed it—
Oliver snapped off the music, sweat starting from his brow. It was the Gershwin Lost Symphony, and he remembered how Gershwin had died. There had been a little nodule in his brain as there was a little nodule in Oliver’s throat.
Time, the Great Kidder. The years drifted by. Suddenly you were middle-aged, running to the medics for this and that. Suddenly they told you to have your throat whittled out or die disgustingly. And what did you have to show for it? A number, a travel pass, a payment book from General Advance, a bunch of junk you never wanted, a job that was a heavier ball and chain than any convict ever wore in the barbarous days of Government. Was this what Regan and Falcaro had bled for?
He defrosted some hamburger, fried it and ate it and then went mechanically down to the tavern. He didn’t like to drink every night, but you had to be one of the boys, or word would get back to the plant and you might be on your way to another black mark. They were racing under the lights at Hawthorne too, and he’d be expected to put a couple of bucks down. He never seemed to win. Nobody he knew ever seemed to win. Not at the horses, not at the craps table, not at the numbers.
He stood outside the neon-bright saloon for a long moment, and then turned and walked into the darkness away from town, possessed by impulses he did not understand or want to understand. He had only a vague hope that standing on the Dunes and looking out across the dark lake might somehow soothe him.
In half an hour he had reached the deciduous forest, then the pine, then the scrubby brushes, then the grasses, then the bare white sand. And lying in it he found two people: a man so hard and dark he seemed to be carved from oak and a woman so white and gaunt she seemed to be carved from ivory.
He turned shyly from the woman.
“Are you all right?” he asked the man. “Is there anything I can do?”
The man opened red-rimmed eyes. “Better leave us alone,” he said. “We’d only get you into trouble.”
Oliver laughed hysterically. “Trouble?” he said. “Don’t think of it.”
The man seemed to be measuring him with his eyes, and said at last: “You’d better go and not talk about us. We’re enemies of the Mob.”
Oliver said after a pause: “So am I. Don’t go away. I’ll be back with some clothes and food for you and the lady. Then I can help you to my place. I’m an enemy of the Mob too. I just never knew it until now.”
He started off and then turned. “You won’t go away? I mean it. I want to help you. I can’t seem to help myself, but perhaps there’s something—”
The man said tiredly: “We won’t go away.”
Oliver hurried off. There was something mingled with the scent of the pine forest tonight. He was half-way home before he identified it: oil smoke.
XX
Lee swore and said: “I can get up if I want to.”
“You’ll stay in bed whether you want to or not,” Charles told her. “You’re a sick woman.”
“I’m a very bad-tempered woman and that means I’m convalescent. Ask anybody.”
“I’ll go right out into the street and do that, darling.”
She got out of bed and wrapped Oliver’s dressing gown around her. “I’m hungry again,” she said.
“He’ll be back soon. You’ve left nothing but some frozen—worms, looks like. Shall I defrost them?”
“Please don’t trouble. I can wait.”
“Window!” he snapped.
She ducked back and swore again, this time at herself. “Sorry,” she said. “Which will do us a whole hell of a lot of good if somebody saw me and started wondering.”
Oliver came in with packages. Lee kissed him and he grinned shyly. “Trout,” he whispered. She grabbed the packages and flew to the kitchenette.
“The way to Lee Falcaro’s heart,” Charles mused. “How’s your throat, Ken?”
“No pain, today,” Oliver whispered. “Latham says I can talk as much as I like. And I’ve got things to talk about.” He opened his coat and hauled out a flat package that had been stuffed under his belt. “Stolen from the factory. Brushes, pens, tubes of ink, drawing instruments. My friends, you are going to return to Syndic Territory in style, with passes and permits galore.”
Lee returned. “Trout’s frying,” she said. “I heard that about the passes. Are you sure you can fake them?”
His face fell. “Eight years at the Chicago Art Institute,” he whispered. “Three years at Original Reproductions, Inc. Eleven years at Picasso Oils and Etchings, where I am now third figure man in the Blue Department. I really think I deserve your confidence.”
“Ken, we trust and love you. If it weren’t for the difference in your ages I’d marry you and Charles. Now what about the Chicagoans? Hold it—the fish!”
Dinner was served and cleared away before they could get more out of Oliver. His throat wasn’t ready for more than one job at a time. He told them at last: “Things are quieting down. There are still some strangers in town and the road patrols are still acting very hard-boiled. But nobody’s been pulled in today. Somebody told me on the line that the whole business is a lot of foolishness. He said the ship must have been damaged by somebody’s stupidity and Regan must have been killed in a brawl—everybody knows he was half crazy, like his father. So my friend figures they made up the story about two wild Europeans to cover up a mess. I said I thought there was a lot in what he said.” Oliver laughed silently.
“Good man!” Charles tried not to act over-eager. “When do you think you can start on the passes, Ken?”
Oliver’s face dropped a little. “Tonight,” he whispered. “I don’t suppose the first couple of tries will be any good so—let’s go.”
Lee put her hand on his shoulder. “We’ll miss you too,” she said. “But don’t ever forget this: we’re coming back. Hell won’t stop us. We’re coming back.”
Oliver was arranging stolen instruments on the table. “You have a big order,” he whispered sadly. “I guess you aren’t afraid of it because you’ve always been rich and strong. Anything you want to do you think you can do. But those Government people? And after them the Mob? Maybe it would be better if you just let things take their course, Lee. I’ve found out a person can be happy even here.”
“We’re coming back,” Lee said.
Oliver took out his own Michigan City-Chicago travel permit. As always, the sight of it made Charles wince. Americans under such a yoke! Oliver whispered: “I got a good long look today at a Michigan City Buffalo permit. The foreman’s. He buys turps from Carolina at Buffalo. I sketched it from memory as soon as I got by myself. I don’t swear to it, not yet, but I have the sketch to practice from and I can get a few more looks later.”
He pinned down the drawing paper, licked a ruling pen and filled it, and began to copy the border of his own pass. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do?” Lee asked.
“You can turn on the audio,” Oliver whispered. “They have it going all the time at the shop. I don’t feel right working unless there’s some music driving me out of my mind.”
Lee turned on the big Hawthorne Electric set with a wave of her hand; imbecillic music filled the air and Oliver grunted and settled down.
Lee and Charles listened, fingers entwined, to half an hour of slushy ballads while Oliver worked. The news period announcer came on with some anesthetic trial verdicts, sports results and society notes about which Regan had gone where. Then—
“The local Mobsters of Michigan City, Indiana, today welcomed Maurice Regan to their town. Mr. Regan will assume direction of efforts to apprehend the two European savages who murdered James Regan IV last month aboard the ore boat Hon. John Regan in waters off Michigan City. You probably remember that the Europeans did some damage to the vessel’s reactor room before they fled from the ship. How they boarded the ship and their present whereabouts are mysteries—but they probably won’t be mysteries long. Maurice Regan is little-known to the public, but he has built an enviable record in the administration of the Chicago Police Department. Mr. Regan on taking charge of the case, said this: ‘We know by traces found on the Dunes that they got away. We know from the logs of highway patrols that they didn’t get out of the Michigan City area. The only way to close the books on this matter fast is to cover the city with a fine-tooth comb. Naturally and unfortunately this will mean inconvenience to many citizens. I hope they will bear with the inconveniences gladly for the sake of confining those two savages in a place where they can no longer be a menace. I have methods of my own and there may be complaints. Reasonable suggestions will be needed, but with crackpots I have no patience.’”
The radio began to spew more sports results. Oliver turned and waved at it to be silent. “I don’t like that,” he whispered. “I never heard of this Regan in the Chicago Police.”
“They said he wasn’t in the public eye.”
“I wasn’t the public. I did some posters for the police and I knew who was who. And that bit at the end. I’ve heard things like it before. The Mob doesn’t often admit it’s in the wrong, you know. When they try to disarm criticism in advance…this Regan must be a rough fellow.”
Charles and Lee Falcaro looked at each other in sudden fear. “We don’t want to hurry you, Ken,” she said. “But it looks as though you’d better do a rush job.”
Nodding, Oliver bent over the table. “Maybe a week,” he said hopefully. With the finest pen he traced the curlicues an engraving lathe had evolved to make the passes foolproof. Odd, he thought—the lives of these two hanging by such a weak thing as the twisted thread of color that feeds from pen to paper. And, as an afterthought—I suppose mine does too.
* * * *
Oliver came back the next day to work with concentrated fury, barely stopping to eat and not stopping to talk. Lee got it out of him, but not easily. After being trapped in a half dozen contradictions about feeling well and having a headache, about his throat being sore and the pain having gone, he put down his pen and whispered steadily: “I didn’t want you to worry friends. But it looks bad. There is a new crowd in town. Twenty couples have been pulled in by them—couples to prove who they were. Maybe fifty people have been pulled in for questioning—what do you know about this, what do you know about that. And they’ve begun house searches. Anybody you don’t like, you tell the new Regan about him. Say he’s sheltering Europeans. And his people pull them in. Why, everybody wants to know, are they pulling in couples who are obviously American if they’re looking for Europeans? And, everybody says, they’ve never seen anything like it. Now—I think I’d better get back to work.”
“Yes,” Lee said. “I think you had.”
Charles was at the window, peering around the drawn blind. “Look at that,” he said to Lee. She came over. A big man on the street below was walking, very methodically down the street.
“I will bet you,” Charles said, “that he’ll be back this way in ten minutes or so—and so on through the night.”
“I won’t take the bet,” she said. “He’s a sentry, all right. The Mob’s learning from their friends across the water. Learning too damned much. They must be all over town.”
They watched at the window and the sentry was back in ten minutes. On his fifth tour he stopped a young couple going down the street studied their faces, drew a gun on them and blew a whistle. A patrol came and took them away; the girl was hysterical. At two in the morning, the sentry was relieved by another, just as big and just as dangerous looking. At two in the morning they were still watching and Oliver was still hunched over the table tracing exquisite filigree of color.
* * * *
In five days, virtually without sleep, Oliver finished two Michigan City-Buffalo travel permits. The apartment house next door was hit by raiders while the ink dried; Charles and Lee Falcaro stood waiting grotesquely armed with kitchen knives. But it must have been a tip rather than part of the search plan crawling nearer to their end of town. The raiders did not hit their building.
Oliver had bought clothes according to Lee’s instructions—including two men’s suits, Oliver’s size. One she let out for Charles; the other she took in for herself. She instructed Charles minutely in how he was to behave, on the outside. First he roared with incredulous laughter; Lee, wise, in psychology assured him that she was perfectly serious. Oliver, puzzled by his naivete, assured him that such things were not uncommon—not at least in Mob Territory. Charles then roared with indignation and Lee roared him down. His last broken protest was: “But what’ll I do if somebody takes me up on it?”
She shrugged, washing her hands of the matter, and went on trimming and dying her hair.
It was morning when she kissed Oliver good-bye, said to Charles: “See you at the station. Don’t say good-bye,” and walked from the apartment, a dark-haired boy with a slight limp. Charles watched her down the street. A cop turned to look after her and then went on his way.
Half an hour later Charles shook hands with Oliver and went out.
Oliver didn’t go to work that day. He sat all day at the table, drawing endless slow sketches of Lee Falcaro’s head.
Time the Great Kidder, he thought. He opens the door that shows you in the next room tables of goodies, colorful and tasty, men and women around the tables pleasantly surprised to see you, beckoning to you to join the feast. We have roast beef if you’re serious, we have caviar if you’re experimental, we have baked alaska if you’re frivolous—join the feast; try a little bit of everything. So you start toward the door.
Time, the Great Kidder, pulls the rug from under your feet and slams the door while the guests at the feast laugh their heads off at your painful but superficial injuries.
Oliver slowly drew Lee’s head for the fifteenth time and wished he dared to turn on the audio for the news. Perhaps he thought, the next voice you hear will be the cops at the door.
XXI
Charles walked down the street and ran immediately into a challenge from a police sergeant.
“Where you from, mister?” the cop demanded, balanced and ready to draw.
Charles gulped and let Lee Falcaro’s drilling take over. “Oh, around, sergeant. I’m from around here.”
“What’re you so nervous about?”
“Why, sergeant, you’re such
an exciting type, really. Did anybody ever tell you you look well in uniform?”
The cop glared at him and said: “If I wasn’t in uniform, I’d hang one on you sister. And if the force wasn’t all out hunting the lunatics, that killed Mr. Regan I’d pull you in for spitting on the sidewalk. Get to hell off my beat and stay off. I’m not forgetting your face.”
Charles scurried on. It had worked.
It worked once more with a uniformed policeman. One of the Chicago plain-clothes imports was the third and last. He socked Charles in the jaw and sent him on his way with a kick in the rear. He had been thoroughly warned that it would probably happen: “Count on them to over-react. That’s the key to it. You’ll make them so eager to assert their own virility, that it’ll temporarily bury their primary mission. It’s quite likely that one or more pokes will be taken at you. All you can do is take them. If you get—when you get through, they’ll be cheap at the price.”
The sock in the jaw hadn’t been very expert. The kick in the pants was negligible, considering the fact that it had propelled him through the gate of the Michigan City Transport Terminal.
By the big terminal clock the Chicago-Buffalo Express was due in fifteen minutes. Its gleaming single rail, as tall as a man crossed the far end of the concourse. Most of the fifty-odd people in the station were probably Buffalo-bound…safe geldings who could be trusted to visit Syndic Territory, off the leash and return obediently. Well-dressed, of course, and many past middle-age, with a stake in the Mob Territory stronger than hope of freedom. One youngster, though—oh. It was Lee, leaning, slack-jawed, against a pillar and reading the Green Sheet.
Who were the cops in the crowd? The thickset man with restless eyes, of course. The saintly-looking guy who kept moving and glancing into faces.
Charles went to the newsstand and put a coin in the slot for The Mob—A Short History, by the same Arrowsmith Hunde who had brightened and misinformed his youth.
The Sixth Science Fiction Megapack Page 50
