Solomon's Vineyard

by Jonathan Latimer

  The Finn reached in the door and tossed me a newspaper. I unrolled it. It was an extra on the fire and shooting at Gus Papas's. The headline read: Gangster Armies Battle! The first paragraph said that anarchy reigned in Paul County. I read the story. It said that at least thirty men had engaged in a fierce gun battle at the Joyland Recreation Park, and that at least one had been killed. More, it said, were believed to be in the burned building. The shooting had lasted for nearly fifteen minutes. A search was being made for Gus Papas and the owner of an automobile found mysteriously wrecked by the building. The rest of the story was a description of the scene. Pug Banta's name wasn't mentioned.

  If it was anarchy now, I thought, what would it be when they found out one of the bodies was that of Caryle Waterman? Then there would be hell to pay: possibly a state investigation. I put the paper on my knees and inhaled the steam. An investigation was what I wanted. They'd find out the Vineyard's connection with vice and gambling, and that would get the Grayson girl out. Everything would be jake, only I'd probably be dead.

  I wondered about the Princess. Why had she saved me? Was she afraid of what I might do to the Vineyard? Or did she need somebody in bed? My guess was that it was a combination of things. She was bored with herself, and not afraid of me. In fact, the opposite. She said she liked big men. I was a big man. But one thing I knew: if I didn't play along with her, she'd let Pug knock me off, no matter how good I was. That would please Pug.

  I closed my eyes. The steam was beginning to relax me. I thought, almost contentedly, of the things I had to do. I had to get rid of Pug Banta. I had to get the Grayson girl out of the Vineyard. And find Oke Johnson's murderer. And there was my date with the Princess. That was plenty.

  I looked for the Johnson story in the paper. It had dropped back on an inside page. There wasn't much new. The police were following several promising leads, according to Chief of Police Piper. Near the bottom there was a paragraph saying a Mrs. G. A. Kellerman, of 467 Fern Street, had seen an odd prowler about the time Johnson was shot. The story didn't say what was odd about the prowler.

  I tossed the paper on the floor and came out of the steam room. Charles was waiting for me.

  “I want a change of clothes, Charles. And some whisky and breakfast. Eggs and bacon and a sirloin steak.”

  “Yes, sir.” He started to go away.

  “And Charles. You remember Ginger?”

  “Yes, Mr. Craven.”

  “She come in yet?”

  “About an hour ago, Mr. Craven.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Scram.”

  The Finn was a good rubber. His hands were strong, but he was careful of the sore places. I don't know what he thought of my assortment of bites and bruises. He didn't say anything about them. Charles came back with clothes, whisky and breakfast while I was on the table. I made the Finn stop while I had a drink. Then he rubbed me some more. Newsboys were crying 'Extra' in the street. The Finn made me go in a room with dry heat. It was very hot in there; the sweat ran off me. He came with a hose and turned cold water on me. It made me jump around. I dried myself and put on clean underwear. I poured some whisky in my coffee and drank it. Then I drank the orange juice. I felt fine. I went to work on the steak.

  “It sounds so crazy,” Mrs. Kellerman said, giggling.

  “Tell me, anyway,” I said. “You don't want Mr. Johnson's killer to go unpunished, do you?”

  “The poor man,” she said.

  Mrs. Kellerman was a thin woman in a blue dress with worn places on the elbows. She twitched when she talked, as though someone was goosing her with a feather. She'd already told me the story of her life, including the fact that her husband had been dead for five years.

  “What time was it you saw this prowler?” I asked.

  “Just at daybreak.” She shook her head. “The police were so funny about my story. They acted as though they didn't believe me. One of the officers had the effrontery to ask if I might have been dreaming. Dreaming! I get little enough sleep as it is without some policemen...”

  “Please, Mrs. Kellerman; what did you see?”

  “It was just an accident I happened to see him at all. But I heard a noise; it's funny how nervous a woman gets in a house, without a man, I mean.” She giggled, twitching her body.

  “What kind of a noise?”

  “Sort of footsteps, shuffling footsteps. I can tell you it frightened me.”

  It was like pulling teeth. I wanted it, though. I said: “What did you do?”

  “I went to the window.” She paused, looking at me to see if I was impressed. “And there he was.”

  “Who?”

  “I don't know. How would I? He looked like a priest.”

  “Like a priest?”

  “He had on black robes, like priests wear. And he carried a staff.”

  “I never heard of a priest with a staff.” Mrs. Kellerman giggled. “Neither did I. And his face didn't look like a priest's. It was so pale and-uh-sinister-looking.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He just shuffled by the house and disappeared.”

  “In back.”

  “Yes, in back.”

  “Would you know him again, Mrs. Kellerman?” She thought. “I don't know. It was so early. It wasn't very light.” She giggled suddenly. “And I was so frightened.”

  I asked some more questions, but that was all I could get out of her. A man in a black robe with a staff had shuffled by her house. I began to see why the police didn't think much of the story. You don't sec many guys like that, and if you do, other people see them, too. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Kellerman.”

  “Won't you have some coffee? And a piece of cake. My husband used to say my cake was wonderful.”

  “I love cake, Mrs. Kellerman; I really do. But I have an appointment.”

  From there I went around to the Drive-It garage to say that the sedan had been stolen. I told the manager I had parked it in front of the Arkady about eleven the night before and hadn't been able to find it when I came out this morning. He took down the details and said he would report it to the police. He didn't seem worried. I suppose the insurance and my deposit took care of him.

  I had to wait a long time in McGee's outer office. He was busy on the telephone. I almost fell asleep in the wicker chair. Finally the girl said: “He will see you now, Mr. Craven.”

  McGee leaned over his desk and shook my hand. His skin felt clammy. “Have you heard the news?” he asked.

  “I don't know,” I said.

  His eyes, in the triangles of flesh, were bright. “Caryle Waterman,” he said slowly, “was killed in the gun battle at Joyland.”

  “Yeah? Who's he?”

  “The son of our richest citizen.”

  I whistled. “That's something!”

  “Yes. I've been talking with a representative of the Governor. The Governor's going to blow the town open ... if he can.”

  “Why can't he?”

  He began to wash his hands. “He'll find it difficult... as I have.” He smiled and tapped his yellow teeth with a fingernail. I got the feeling he wouldn't be too pleased if the Governor did get somewhere.

  “But what about Miss Grayson?” I scowled at him. “What are we going to do?”

  “I think it would be better if we did nothing for a time, Mr. Craven. It is possible the Vineyard will become involved in the investigation. If it does, and mind you, I'm not saying it will, we will have something to talk to Miss Grayson about.”

  I thought this over. It didn't seem like a bad idea. “I may be able to throw a few things to the Governor,” he said, smiling again. “A few very interesting things.”

  “Well, we'll give it a couple of days,” I said. “When'll I come to see you again?”

  “Would you like to go out to the Vineyard on Sunday? That's the day Solomon's body is on view.”

  “That would be fine.”

  “I'll pick you up at your hotel.” He made the Washing motion with his hands. “Say, about ten o'clock
?”

  “It's a deal, “I said.

  I got Ginger's room number from Charles, the Negro. It was on the third floor: 347. I knocked on the door. I waited and knocked again. I heard someone move. “Who is it?”

  “Telegram.”

  “Stick it under the door.”

  “I can't, miss. You gotta sign.” She sighed. “Okay. Wait a minute.” She moved around the room and then opened the door. She had on a green dressing-gown. “My God! Aren't you dead?”

  “Not me.”

  She stared at me, her eyes wide. I could see her pyjama legs under the robe. Her red hair looked good, hanging over her shoulders. “How about lunch today?”

  “How'd you get away?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “What about lunch, sugar?”

  “Listen, big boy, you're lucky to be alive. We both are. Let's leave dynamite alone.”

  I grinned at her. “I thought you were on my team.”

  “I know what's healthy.” She slammed the door.

  I slept the rest of the day in my room. It was hot, but I didn't mind. I felt a lot better when I woke up around six. I had some whisky and a shower, and then I ate dinner in the coffee shop. I read a paper while I ate. There was even more excitement about Caryle Waterman, and the editor, in a front-page editorial, demanded that his murderer be found. The police were still looking for Papas. I began to wonder if Pug Banta's men had caught up with him. It said three more bodies had been found in the building, but that so far no one had identified them. There was nothing at all in the paper about Oke Johnson.

  I had left the keys in Pug Banta's car so he could take it, but it was still sitting in front of the hotel. I figured that was nice of him. I drove around to Carmel's house, but the Negro maid said she wasn't there.

  “Where is she?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Somebody inside must know.”

  “No. Nobody know.”

  “Like hell they don't,” I told her. “They don't run a joint like this that way.”

  A voice said: “Let me talk to the gentleman, Agnes.” A big woman in a purple evening gown came to the door. She had been fat, but had recently got thin. The skin on her face hung in folds. She wore a diamond bracelet.

  “Carmel is not here,” the woman said.

  “Where is she?”

  “If she wanted you to know, she would have left word.”

  “All right,” I said. “Will you take a message for her?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “For God's sake, why not?”

  “We don't do favours for ill-mannered people.”

  She shut the door. I thought for a minute about kicking it in, and then I went to the car. To hell with it.

  I drove around town until dusk, stopping at the bar once for a whisky, and then I went to the Vineyard. I went past the main gate to the lane and turned in and parked by the bushes at the end. I took the keys out of the car this time. I began to feel ticklish in the pit of my stomach. I didn't know if it was fear or excitement. I guess it was excitement; I kept remembering what the Princess looked like lying naked on the floor of Pug's fishing shack. I went down the path to the women's building. Somewhere people were singing; I could just hear the voices. They were singing a hymn. The path ended by a flight of steps. I looked around for the door on the ground level. After I found it I didn't go in, but walked around the building wondering what would be a good way to get hold of Penelope Grayson in case I ever wanted to. There were doors at the top o£ the front and back stairs but the windows were all out of reach. I thought the doors would probably be locked at night. It didn't look so good. I walked around to the lower door and knocked. The Princess smiled when she saw me. “Come in, honey. I went in. She led me up two flights of stairs and into a room lit with indirect lights. It was a hell of a room. There was a thick blue carpet over the whole floor, and a silken divan as big as an ordinary double bed. The windows had black silk drapes. There was a fireplace and some tables and big chairs.

  “Like it, honey?”

  “It's swell.”

  I looked at her. She had on a crimson robe, something like a hostess gown, I think, with a gold belt and gold bracelets and gold slippers. She looked smaller in the robe, but I could still see the curve of her hips. I felt warm in the pit of my stomach.. “Sit down.”

  I sat by her on the divan. It was like sitting on feathers. It seemed as though I sank down to my hips. I could smell her perfume; heavy and sweet, like the jasmine they have down in New Orleans. “Are you going to play?”

  “What else can I do?”

  “You're smart.” She patted my leg with a hand that flashed a square cut diamond as big as a lump of sugar. “But, honey, you'll have to give up trying to take the Gray-son girl away.”

  I wasn't surprised she knew about that. Penelope Grayson would have told her. That was probably another reason why she hadn't let Pug kill me.

  “I got to make a pretence,” I said. “That's what I was hired for.”

  “Sure.” She rubbed my leg. “But don't go any further.”

  “All right.”

  “Be sure,” she said. “They want her for the Ceremony of the Bride.”

  “What's that?”

  “Never mind. Only, get this. They aren't people you can cross.”

  She smiled. She had me, and she knew it. She liked the idea. In a way, I did, too.

  “What do I do?”

  “Let's have a drink, honey. Then I'll tell you.”

  She got a decanter and a couple of tall wine glasses. She filled the glasses and we drank. It was brandy. “Not bad,” I said.

  “We make it.”

  I could feel it mix with that other burn in my stomach. I moved so her shoulder touched my arm. I began to like the perfume.

  She said: “I'm so sick of this joint.”

  “Why?”

  “No freedom. I can't go out. I can't get drunk or gamble or wear swell clothes....”

  “They look swell to me.”

  “Shut up, honey. I'm trying to tell you something. I like to dance. I like good restaurants and night clubs, and movies. Here all I'm supposed to do is think about God. It's getting me down.”

  “You don't like God?”

  “I can take him or leave him.”

  I laughed.

  She said: “I was a kid when Solomon picked me up. Eighteen. I wouldn't join the Vineyard as a regular Daughter so he made me Princess. Soly wasn't so bad.” She looked at me. “He was a big man, too.”

  “You like them big, don't you?”

  “The bigger the better.” She was smiling now. “Soly let me run certain things, and when he died I just kept running them.”

  “Where'd he find you?”

  “In New York.”

  “In what chorus?”

  She looked mad, and then she laughed.

  “Wise guy.”

  “Sure.” I reached across her and got the decanter and filled both glasses. I was getting a buzz from the brand “Why don't you leave the Vineyard?” I asked. “I'm going to.” She got up and went to a desk. The silk robe clung to her buttocks. She didn't have much on under the robe. She came back with a small leather book.

  “Look.”

  It was a deposit book and in it was a folded bank statement. It was the account of Bethine Gleason. She had a balance of $87,567.46. I blinked at the figures.

  “When it says one hundred grand, I scram.” She put the book away. She sat down by me and drank her drink. I drank mine, too.

  “Now, what do I do?”

  “You're to work for me.”

  “Okay.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “On the surface you're to take Pug's place-work for the Vineyard. The Elders want to get rid of him.”

  “What do I do for you?”

  “You hand over part of the take.”

  “To build up mat hundred grand?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do I get out of it?”

  “Well, for one thi
ng, you don't get knocked off by Pug Banta.”

  “That's certainly something.”

  “And a salary.”

  “How much?”

  “A couple of grand a month.”