Suspended Sentences

by Brian Garfield

  Go ahead. Go to pieces. Fall apart.

  “The hell,” she said aloud. “It’s just what he wants me to do. I’ll be damned if I’ll give him the satisfaction.”

  She found the golf ball where she’d thrown it into the bedroom wastebasket. Feeling cold and angry and determinedly calm now, she put the golf ball in her handbag and went downstairs to the parking lot. It was nearly one o’clock. Murdoch would be home for lunch, probably. He sold real estate in a crummy office out west of town but he usually came home for lunch every day. The housekeeper prepared it for him and always had it ready for him when he arrived, which usually was at about 1:15.

  Murdoch was a widower, a very close-mouthed man although not normally a surly one — he had a salesman’s hearty but insincere graces, although his gift of gab was one he saved up for customers and rarely displayed in his home neighborhood. Richard had invited him over once or twice in the old days but he’d been a singularly boring dinner guest and after a while their only contact with Murdoch was an occasional wave from the car as one or another of them went in or out — or a shared beer now and then on Sundays when both Richard and Murdoch would be out mowing the lawns. Murdoch’s life had mostly been wrapped up in his little girl; his wife had died of leukemia quite young, when Amy was only two or so — several months before Richard and Carolyn had moved in.

  Basically her relationship with Murdoch had always been distant — cordial enough, but indifferent. About three months after the divorce Murdoch had made a sort of half-hearted and apparently dutiful gesture of inviting her out to dinner, explaining in a toe-in-the-dust aw-shucks way that since the two of them were the only singles in the whole neighborhood it was almost incumbent on them to go out together. But she’d found some excuse to decline the invitation and he hadn’t asked a second time.

  He was physically unpleasant; she found him nearly repulsive, although she knew women who liked his type — he was muscular enough, a macho character with huge arms and a big chest and military sort of crew-cut, flat on top. He had a beer-drinker’s gut and the hands of a mountain gorilla; he looked more like a heavy-equipment mechanic than a realtor.

  Mainly he sold small pre-war houses, in rundown areas, to blue-collar workers and their families. Presumably he looked to them like the kind of man they could trust. The word around the neighborhood was that his realty operation was a bit on the shady side — something to do with kickbacks to building inspectors and bribes to government mortgage people, Nobody had ever proved anything against Murdoch but he had just a slightly unsavory aura. In any case, she had always thought him unattractive, to say the least. But up to the time of Amy’s death she had not thought of him as menacing.

  Now, however, there was clearly no question but that he was executing a deliberate and careful scheme of harassment against her. Revenge for Amy’s death.

  When she turned the car into the lane Murdoch’s semi-antique Chevy station wagon was in the driveway. Good; it meant he’d come home for lunch. Carolyn got out of the car and walked halfway up the walk toward the Murdoch porch. It was one of those old clapboard places with the porch running around three sides of the house. Part of it, on the left side, was screened in as a sleeping porch. The rest had a little picket-fence type railing which was turning gray in patches and needed paint.

  She fumbled in her handbag a moment and then looked up. Nobody was in sight. She gave the golf ball a good strong throw. It made a satisfying noise when it crashed through Murdoch’s front window.

  And it brought him boiling out of the place, as she’d thought it would. “Damn irresponsible kids —” he was roaring; then he recognized her and his face froze and he went absolutely still.

  She spoke up in a clear strong voice. “I’ve had enough harassment from you. I’m sorry, very sorry, about what happened to Amy and I wish I could make it up to you. I know you don’t understand this, or believe it, but I feel nearly as bad about it as you do. But I’ve had enough. Harassing me won’t bring her back to you — you ought to know that. Now you’ve had your revenge and you’ve had your satisfaction and you’ve made me feel absolutely rotten all these weeks, and now I want you to stop it. Do you understand? Stop it!”

  He hadn’t said a word; he still didn’t. His eyes narrowed down to slits and he merely watched her, unblinking. But she saw that one fist slowly clenched and unclenched. It kept doing that, with a terrible slow rhythm, closing and opening.

  He didn’t respond to her words at all. She looked at the massive strength of him and felt appalled by her own temerity but, just the same, she stepped forward — five paces, six, seven — until she was nearly nose-to-nose with him, and she shouted in his face with blind thundering rage: “Leave me alone, Murdoch! Do you hear me? Leave me alone!” And she slapped him, as hard as she could, across the face.

  He didn’t even move. He was like some sort of immutable granite rock.

  She stood trembling, hyperventilating; she raised her arm again, to strike him, but he stirred then. It was as if he didn’t even see her threatening rising arm. He merely turned slowly on one heel and walked back up the steps to the porch.

  She screamed at his back: “Did you hear me, Murdoch?”

  He didn’t answer. He just disappeared inside; the screen door slapped shut behind him.

  Lacking the courage to follow him into his house, she was forced to turn away and get in the car. She sat trembling for quite a while. She kept expecting to see his face at a window but he never appeared. Finally she drove off.

  The phone: Charles. “Hi. I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. I was out of town.”

  “That’s what your secretary said.”

  “I, uh, hell, this is awkward. Look, my wife and I — we’ve, uh, well, we’re going to give it another try. We’re trying for a reconciliation. For the sake of the kids, you know, and — well, we’ve been together a long time, nearly twenty years now. A lot of shared experience there. A lot of understanding. I think we may make it. I know it doesn’t usually work out, but we want to give it a try. I thought I’d better tell you…”

  “I understand, Charles. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Are you all right? No more trouble with Murdoch, I hope.”

  “He made a little trouble. I had it out with him today. I don’t know if it will do any good, but at least it gave me the satisfaction of telling him off.”

  “That was a gutsy thing to do. What did he say?”

  “Nothing. Maybe he’s just chewing on what I said, thinking about it. Maybe something of what I said penetrated that little pea brain of his. I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. Anyhow he didn’t do or say anything nasty.”

  “Well, maybe that’s a good sign.”

  “Maybe. I hope so. Listen, Charles?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wish you good luck and every happiness. I mean that.”

  “I know you do. You’re a damn good person, Carolyn.”

  “Good-bye.”

  She went to bed and hugged the pillow to her; she felt acutely alone tonight. I have got to get out in the world, she told herself with force, and start making friends again. This was ridiculous. She was a healthy thirty-six-year-old woman without any entangling attachments or encumbrances; she was no beauty but she was reasonably attractive in her chunky short-waisted way — after all, there were men who liked freckles and big chests on their women — and it was idiotic to confine herself in this kind of self-pitying isolation; there was no need for it.

  Tomorrow, she resolved, she’d start making phone calls. Even if it made her look like some sort of shameless wanton.

  She fell asleep filled with determination; she awoke filled with the harsh scent of smoke. She couldn’t place it at first but then she coughed and tried to breathe and coughed again, choking.

  The apartment was on fire.

  The red glow flickered through the living room doorway. She leaped out of the bed, flung the window open, and climbed out onto the narrow ledge. It was merely a decorative
brick escarpment but it gave her purchase for her bare feet; she held onto the window sill and yelled for help.

  It was only a one-story drop and finally, when the heat and smoke got too much for her, she jumped to the lawn below, managing to hit the grass without breaking anything. The fire engines were just arriving — she heard the sirens and saw the lights and then it was all a welter of men and machines and hoses and terrible smells.

  By morning half of the building was gutted but the fire was out, and she was taken, along with a dozen other displaced tenants, to City Medical to make sure there were no serious injuries.

  The fire apparently had started in the furnace room immediately below her apartment and had come up the air ducts, spreading through the building; the hottest part of it had attacked her apartment and it was there that the worst damage had been done, both by the fire and by the tons of water that had been used to extinguish it. The superintendent was a skinny little Italian man with sad compassionate eyes who kept shaking his head back and forth like a metronome. “I’m sorry but it’s a total loss. You’ll want to get in touch with the owner about the insurance, of course, but I doubt that will cover your own personal things. Were you insured?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad, Miss. I am very sorry. If there’s anything at all I can do —”

  “You’ve been very kind. I think I want to sleep a while.” He went, and she thought vaguely, in song-like rhythm, Sorry-sorry-sorry-sorry…

  She took a room in a residential hotel. Furnished. With daily linen and maid service. She bought a few clothes, enough to get by. She thought of moving to some other city.

  Charles seemed very distant. He lent her money but not a shoulder to cry on; she could understand that but she needed a shoulder and resented his not providing one. All he said was, “Try not to persuade yourself that Murdoch set the fire. If he didn’t, you’d be making an unjust accusation. If he did, you’ll never prove it. Either way it’s no good torturing yourself.”

  She was walking home from a solitary supper trip to the delicatessen when a car came up on the curb behind her at high speed. She heard it — she’d always had acute hearing — and dived flat against the display window of a furniture store, and the car swished past her, inches away. It was a shadowed place in the middle of the block and the car wasn’t running with any lights on, but she saw its silhouette vaguely in the darkness as it roared off and it looked like an old car. An old station wagon, with tailfins.

  It had damned near killed her. She had that thought and then she crumpled and sat on the pavement for quite a while before she regained strength enough to walk.

  Go to the police? And tell them what?

  Call Charles? No, he’s got other things on his mind now.

  Move away. Nothing to hold her here anymore. No real ties here. Go away. California maybe. Back to Illinois. New York. What difference did it make? Just get away from that madman.

  That was it, then. Run. Run away.

  And let him think he’s won?

  She watched him get out of the old station wagon, lock it, put a cigarette in his mouth and light up. Then he turned and began to walk across the wide parking lot toward the low square stucco building that housed his realty office.

  She let him get halfway across the parking lot. Right Out in the open. Then she put her car in gear.

  “Sorry, Murdoch,” she muttered. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. It was an accident. I just couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.”

  And she ran him down.

  THE

  SHOPPING LIST

  “The Shopping List” was written out of a simple desire to write a detective story — red herrings, clues, solving a mystery puzzle, building to a surprise ending, all that. I rarely try to construct such plots; call it laziness if you like. The story was written to satisfy a curiosity. If it fools you, it worked.

  It was awkward. She wouldn’t tell him the truth, obviously, but she’d always had trouble lying.

  He phoned, as she’d known he would, on Tuesday afternoon. “I’ll be out of town on business until Friday. Not sure what time I’ll get back — don’t count on me for Friday dinner. But I’ll get tickets for that play Saturday night —”

  Marie closed her eyes. “Oh, Severn, I’m sorry, I just can’t make it Saturday.”

  There was a moment’s silence but then his deep reassuring voice rumbled down the line: “Sunday, then. I’ll get tickets.”

  “Sunday’s fine.” She closed her eyes in relief. He really was marvelous. He took her on faith — no questions, no protestations. She said softly into the phone, “I don’t know if I can wait that long to see you. I do love you, darling — and I’m sorry about Saturday.”

  “See you Sunday then. Around six, so we can have dinner first. Love you, honey.” Then he was gone and she cradled the phone, but her hand remained on it as if to prolong the thread of contact.

  After a while she bestirred herself. She went through the apartment to the foyer and rummaged in her handbag for the list.

  The handbag was on the sconce below the oval mirror and she examined her reflection briefly and wondered what Severn could possibly see in her: plump plain Marie, dark brown hair she never could do anything with, creases here and there that presaged the looming fortieth birthday — not a whole lot to draw the attraction of a man like Severn. He was thirty-five and successful; he’d been divorced for several years. When she’d asked him why on earth he wanted to keep seeing her, he’d only said, “You’re comfortable, love. I’ve had my fill of abrasive ambitious women.”

  His ex-wife, she’d gathered, was a beautiful but brittle careerist — some sort of talent agent or casting director; Marie wasn’t sure — Severn rarely talked about her. “It wasn’t really a marriage. We both backed into it, trying to get out of things.”

  Marie looked away. At first, after her mother had died and she’d moved into this apartment, she’d meant to take down the mirror from the foyer wall — she didn’t like mirrors; they only reminded her of her unattractiveness. But occasionally Aunt Leah and Uncle Arthur would come around to dinner or one of the office girls would give her a lift home and stay for a drink — mainly, Marie thought, because most of the office girls lived out in the Valley or down in Orange County and it was easier to have a drink at Marie’s while the Freeway traffic thinned out before driving home — and guests always liked to have a mirror by the front door so they could make sure their faces were on before they ventured out onto the Beverly Hills sidewalks.

  She found the list in her handbag and studied it. She never remembered to do things unless she wrote them down. Severn kidded her about it.

  She’d miss him desperately in his absence for the next few days; but in a way she was grateful for it. She’d be able to get everything done and she wouldn’t have to tell lies to Severn to explain why she was going to be out so much this week.

  A few of the items had already been checked off — she’d taken care of them ten days ago during Severn’s last business trip out of town; but there was still a great deal to do.

  1. Toy gun. Must look real. Revolver type.

  2. Suitcases (2).

  3. Clothes. Ned’s suit size 44 short. Shirts 16 neck, 33 sleeve. Waist 38, inseam29. Shoes 10 1/2-C. Socks, shorts, etc. Remember Ned prefers brown, doesn’t like blue.

  4. Car. Can be old but must run well.

  5. Make airline reservation: San Diego to Mexico City for late Monday afternoon Feb. 18th, in name of Arnold Creber.

  7. Sunglasses. Reflector Type.

  8. Blond wig, man’s. Ned’s bat size is 7 1/4.

  9. Ned arrives LAX Feb 16th, 730p.m. Take suitcases, etc. Leave envelope at Delta information desk.

  10. Make reservation in Creber name at a Burbank motel, Feb. 16th & 17th.

  She’d taken care of all the easy things on the list and left the difficult ones for last. Tomorrow on the lunch hour she’d take care of the toy gun. Then Thursday she’d have to take a sick day and visit the used-Car lots. />
  She hated all of it. It was complicity — she’d be a criminal. But it was the price Ned had exacted from her. The insurance hadn’t come anywhere near covering all the expenses of Mom’s last illness and Ned had been despicably, and typically, cold-hearted about it. “Let her die and get it over with. Pull the plug — let her go.”

  “Ned!” She’d been astonished, shocked. “She’s your mother too, you know.”

  “She’s a dying old woman. Making a few doctors rich won’t change that.” Then he’d given her that quick easy selfish smile. “I’ll make you a deal, sister. You want to lavish money on the old woman, fine. I’ll let you have the money. But I want a quid pro quo. You’ve got to do a few things for me. Now get out your notebook and let’s see you make one of those lists of yours. First I’m going to want a toy gun…”

  That had been a year ago, at the prison in Atlanta. She’d only visited him once more after that, to tell him about the funeral and ask him when he expected to be released on parole. She’d left quickly, unable to face his indifference to Mom’s death.

  Now he was getting out, just as he’d planned, and she had to keep her part of the bargain. But it would be all right. After Monday he’d be far away in some distant part of the world and she’d never have to see, or even think about, her brother again.

  Thurston found a parking space just off McDonough Boulevard and walked to the entrance gate. The long gray building had a forbidding institutional massiveness. Only a discreet plaque identified it: Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. The “Big A.”

  Thurston was expected. His credentials got him in. A guard escorted him to a small outer office where he waited a few minutes with a magazine before he was admitted to the Deputy Warden’s sanctum.

  The Deputy Warden was a large man with a bushy sand-colored mustache and a beer gut and the plaid-shirt look of Good Ole Boy who spent his free days hunting with coon hounds and swapping lies in roadhouse taverns.

  “Well, now, Mr. Thurston, they didn’t tell me exactly what you want down here but we be happy to oblige you if we can. Now you represent the insurance company, that right?” He pronounced “right” as if it were “rat” and put heavy emphasis on the first syllable of “insurance.”