The Good Old Stuff

by John D. MacDonald

  Taffy stayed next to Park. “What is it this time?” she asked in a low voice.

  He clicked open her purse and took out her cigarettes and lighter. “What do you think it is?”

  “Damn you, Park! One of these times you’re going to go too far. Why can’t you just relax and enjoy it?”

  “Baby mine, I’d go mad in a month. Don’t ask me to give up my hobby.”

  “Twisting people’s lives around is a hell of a hobby, if you ask me. I don’t know what you’re doing this time, but it has something to do with that horrid puffy little man named Branneck and that unwholesome Laura Hale and that Steve Townsend.”

  “How sensitive you are to situations, Taffy!” Park said mockingly.

  “Sensitive? I saw Branneck when he got his first look at Laura Hale five minutes after he arrived. He changed from a smug little fat man into a nervous wreck. And she looked as though she had just found a million dollars. I’m just not going to come here to this private island of yours any more.”

  “You’ll keep coming, Taffy, every time I ask you. You have a woman’s curiosity. And deep down in that rugged old heart of yours, you have a hunch that I’m doing right.”

  “Are you, Park?”

  He shrugged. “Who can tell? I’ll be serious for a second or two. Don’t be too shocked, lambie. My esteemed ancestors had the golden touch. Even if there were any point in making more money, it would bore me. The company of my Big Rich friends and relatives bores the hell out of me. So I have some clever young men who dig around in disorderly pasts. When they come up barking, carrying a bone, I just mix some human ingredients together and see what happens. A tossed salad of emotions, call it.”

  “Or dirty laundry.”

  “Don’t scoff. I just make like fate, and certain people get what my grandmother called their comeuppance.”

  “It always makes me feel ill, Park.”

  “And—admit it—fascinated, Taffy.”

  She sighed. “All right. You win. Fascinated. Like looking at an open wound. But someday one of your salad ingredients is going to kill you.”

  “One day a toro may kill Carlos. The profession gives his life a certain spice. And I’m too old to take up bullfighting.”

  She gave him a flat, long, brown-eyed stare. “I wouldn’t want you dead, Park.”

  “After this shindig is over, Taffy, can you stay here for a few days when the others have left?”

  “Have I ever said no?” She grinned. “Goodness! I blushed. I’d better rush right up and put that in my diary. Say, are you flying Carlos to Mexico in the morning?”

  “I can’t leave now, the way things are shaping up. I’ll have Lew earn his keep by flying Carlos and his man over.”

  “And the little girl too?”

  “No. I don’t throw canaries to cats, my love. This evening I’m having Mick drive her back to Winter Haven.”

  Taffy whispered, “Here it comes!”

  Carl Branneck came slowly out onto the patio. He wore pale blue shorts and a white nylon sleeveless shirt. He was lobster red from the sun and his glasses were polished and glittering. His stubby hairy legs quivered fleshily as he walked. He gave Park a meek smile.

  “Guess I overslept, eh?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Branneck. Festivities are just starting. Step over and tell Mick what you want.”

  Branneck moved away uncertainly. Taffy said, “By tonight that poor little man is going to be one large blister.”

  Lew Cherezack, Park’s pilot and driver, came in at a trot. He was young and he had the wrinkled, anxious face of a boxer pup. He grinned and said, “Hello, Taff! Why didn’t I meet you before the war?”

  “Which war?” Taffy asked coldly.

  “What’s up?” Park asked.

  “Well, I see this car boiling out across our causeway, and so I go over to the gate. This large young guy jumps out with a look like he wants to take a punch at me. He tells me he’s come after his girl, Laura Hale, and, damn it, he wants to see her right away and no kidding around. He says his name is Thomas O’Day. I got him pacing around out there.”

  O’Day spun around as Park approached. He glanced at the sarong, and a faint look of contempt appeared on his square, handsome face. “Are you Falkner?”

  “It seems possible.”

  “Okay. I don’t know what the hell you told Laura to get her to come down here without a word to me. I traced her as far as the Tampa airport, and today I found out that your driver picked her up there and brought her here. I want an explanation.”

  “Is she your wife?”

  “No. We’re engaged.”

  “I didn’t notice any ring.”

  “Well, almost engaged. And what the hell business is that of yours? I took time off from my job, Falkner, and I can’t stand here arguing with you. I want to see Laura and I want to see her right now. Go get her.”

  “You’re annoying the hell out of me, O’Day,” Park said mildly.

  O’Day tensed and launched a large, determined right fist at Park’s face. Park leaned away from it, grabbed the thick wrist with both hands, let himself fall backwards, pulled O’Day with him. He got both bare feet against O’Day’s middle and pushed up hard. The imprisoned wrist was like the hub of a wheel, with O’Day’s heels traversing the rim. He hit flat on his back on the sand with an impressive thud. Park stood and watched him. O’Day gagged and fought for breath. He sat up and coughed and knuckled his right shoulder. He looked up at Park and glared, then grinned.

  “So I had it coming, Mr. Falkner.”

  “Come on in and have a drink. I’ll send somebody after your girl.”

  He took O’Day in with him, made a group introduction. O’Day asked Mick for a Collins as Park sent Lew to find Laura. O’Day watched Townsend, finally went over and said, “I’ve got a feeling I’ve seen you before, Mr. Townsend.”

  “That could be.”

  “Are you from Chicago?”

  “I’ve been there,” Townsend said and turned away, terminating the conversation.

  Pamela was working the cape and Carlos was charging her with the wheeled horns. She was very serious about it, her underlip caught behind her upper teeth, a frown of concentration on her brow.

  “A second Conchita Cintrón!” Carlos called as she made a fairly acceptable veronica. Johnny Loomis, his tongue already thickened, began a braying discourse on the art of the matador.

  Lew appeared and caught Park’s eye. He left. Park caught him outside. Lew looked upset. “Park, she isn’t in her room and I’ll be damned if she’s on the island. Come on. I want to show you something.”

  The two men stood and looked down at the blanket. The sun was far enough down so that their shadows across the sand were very long.

  Park sighed heavily. “I don’t like the way it looks. Break out the Lambertson lungs and be quick about it. Tide’s on the change.”

  “How about O’Day?”

  “If he can swim, fix him up. It’ll give him something to do.”

  The sun rested on the rim of the horizon, a hot rivet sinking into the steel plate of the sea. The angle made visibility bad. Park Falkner was forty feet down, the pressure painful against his earplugs, the lead weights tight around him in the canvas belt. It was a shadow world. He saw the dim shape of a sand shark stirring the loose sand as it sped away. A sting ray, nearly a yard in diameter, drifted lazily, its tail grooving the bottom. The oxygen mixture from the back tank hissed and bubbled. He swam with a froglike motion of his legs, using a wide breaststroke.

  The last faint visibility was gone. He jettisoned some of the lead and rose slowly to the surface. The sun was gone and the dusk was gray-blue. He pulled out the earplugs and heard Mick’s shout. Mick was far down the beach. He squinted. Mick and Lew and Townsend were standing by something on the sand. O’Day was running toward them. Park shoved the face mask up onto his forehead and went toward the shore in a long, powerful, eight-beat crawl.

  He walked over and looked down at her. She was as blue a
s the early dusk.

  Mick said in a half whisper, “The crabs got her a little on the arm but that’s all.”

  “Wrap her in a blanket and take her over to the old icehouse. Lew, you phone it in. Take O’Day with you.”

  O’Day stood and looked down at Laura’s body. He didn’t move. Lew Cherezack tugged at his arm. Park stepped over and slapped O’Day across the face. The big man turned without a word and went back toward the house with long strides.

  Mrs. Mick Rogers had laid out a buffet supper, but no one had eaten much. The certificate stating accidental death by drowning had been signed. Mrs. Rogers had packed Laura Hale’s suitcase and placed it in the station wagon. The undertaker had said, over the phone, that he couldn’t pick up the body until midnight.

  Johnny Loomis had passed out and Mick had put him to bed, just before leaving for Winter Haven with a subdued and depressed Pamela. Carlos had complained bitterly about the death, saying that it was bad luck before tomorrow’s corrida. He had gone nervously to bed after the arrangements had been made for Lew to fly him and his helper to Monterrey at dawn. Park Falkner sat on the lowest terrace facing the sea. Taffy was in the next chair. Townsend, Branneck, and O’Day were at the other end of the terrace. A subdued light shone on the small self-service bar. O’Day, with an almost monotonous regularity, stepped over and mixed himself a Scotch and water. It seemed not to affect him.

  The other three were far enough away so that Park and Taffy could talk without being overheard.

  “Satisfied?” Taffy asked in a low tone.

  “Please shut up.”

  “What was she, twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? Think of the wasted years, Park. Having fun with your tossed salad?”

  “I didn’t figure it this way, Taffy. Believe me.”

  “Suppose you tell me how you figured it.”

  “Not yet. Later. I have to think.”

  “I’ve been thinking. The little gal was vain, you know. Careful of her looks. You know what seawater will do to a woman’s hair, don’t you?”

  “Keep going.”

  “I know she had a bathing cap. She didn’t wear it. So she drowned by accident on purpose. Suicide. That’s a woman’s logic speaking, Park.”

  “I noticed the same thing, but I didn’t arrive at the same answer.”

  “What … do … you … mean?” Taffy demanded, each word spaced.

  “You wouldn’t know unless I told you the whole story. And I don’t want to do that yet.”

  Branneck stood up and yawned. “Night, all. Don’t know if I can sleep with this burn, but I’m sure going to try.” The others murmured good night, and he went into the house.

  O’Day said thickly but carefully, “I haven’t asked you, Falkner. Can I stay until … they take her?”

  “Stay the night. That’ll be better. I’ve had a room fixed for you. Go up to the second floor. Second door on the left. Mick took your bag up out of your car before he left.”

  “I don’t want to impose on—”

  “Don’t talk rot. Go to bed. You’ll find a sleeping pill on the nightstand. Take it.”

  Only Taffy, Townsend, and Park Falkner were left. After O’Day had gone, Townsend said dryly, “This is quite a production. Lights, camera, action.”

  “Stick around for the floor show,” Taffy said, her tone bitter.

  “I can hardly wait. Good night, folks,” Townsend said. He left the terrace.

  Taffy stood up and walked over toward the railing. She wore a white Mexican off-the-shoulder blouse. Her slim midriff was bare, her hand-blocked skirt long and full. She was outlined against the meager moonlight, her silver hair falling an unfashionable length to her shoulder blades. In the night light she looked no more than twenty. In the hardest light she looked almost thirty.

  Park went to her. “We’ve known each other a long time, Taff. Do you want to help me? It won’t be … pleasant.”

  She shrugged. “When you ask me like that …”

  “Go on up to your room and get one of your swimsuits. Meet me by the garages.”

  She came toward him through the night. He took her wrist, and together they went into the icehouse. When the door was shut behind them, he turned on the powerful flashlight, directed it at the blanket-wrapped body on the table. Taffy shuddered.

  “I want to show you something, Taff. Be a brave girl.”

  He uncovered the head, held the flashlight close, and thumbed up an eyelid. “See?” he said. “A ring of small hemorrhages against the white of the eye. Something was pressed hard there.”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “I found it right after they examined her. Both eyes are the same. Other than that, and the sea damage, there’s not a mark on her.”

  “Wouldn’t contact lenses do that?” Taffy asked.

  “They might, if they didn’t fit properly, or if they had been inserted clumsily. But I don’t think she wore them. She was grateful to me for having her come down here. She … attempted to show her gratitude. The offer was refused, but in the process of refusing it, I had a good close look at her eyes. I’d say no. I have another answer.”

  “But what?”

  He took the plastic cups out and held them in the flashlight glow.

  Taffy gasped. “No, Park. Someone would have had to—”

  “Exactly. Pressed them down quite hard on the eyes. No point in it unless the pressure also served some other purpose. Smothering her. Evidently she was smothered while in the sun, while on her back. Maybe she was sleeping. The smotherer dragged her into the sea, forgetting the cap or ignoring it.”

  “Did he use a towel to do it?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. A little air would get through. She’d struggle longer and the plastic cups would have slipped and made other marks. And I don’t think a pillow was used. Look.”

  He curled back her upper lip. Up above the ridge of the gum was a fine dark line of damp sand.

  “No,” Taffy said in a whisper. “No.”

  “It wouldn’t be hard to do. Taffy, maybe I won’t ask you to do what I originally planned.”

  She straightened up. “Try me.”

  “I want that swimsuit. She’ll have to be dressed in yours. You go on along. Leave your suit here. I’ll change it.”

  Taffy said tonelessly, “Go on outside, Park.” She pushed him gently.

  Outside he lit a cigarette, cupped his hands around the glow. The luminous dial of his wristwatch told him that it was after eleven. The sea sighed as though with some vast, half forgotten regret. The stars were cool and withdrawn. He rubbed the cigarette out with his toe. She came out into the darkness and silently leaned her forehead against his shoulder. He held her for a moment, and then they walked back to the house together. He took the damp swimsuit from her. When the door shut he went up the stairs to his own room. He sat in the darkness and thought of Laura Hale, of the way the hard core of her showed beneath the blue of her eyes. Mick came back after driving Pamela home, and later he heard another car, heard Mick speak to a stranger. Soon the strange car drove back across the causeway, the motor noise lost in the sound of the sea.

  Mick knocked and came in. “Sitting in the dark, hey? They took her off with ’em. I delivered Pamela. She thinks Carlos is coming back to see her after he fights.”

  “He might. Go get Branneck. Don’t let him give you an argument or make any noise. Get him up here.”

  The lights were on and Park was sitting cross-legged on his bed when Mick Rogers shoved Branneck through the door. Branneck’s pajamas were yellow and white vertical stripes. His eyes were puffy. He sputtered with indignation.

  “I demand to know why—”

  “Shut up,” said Park. He smiled amiably at Branneck. “Sit down.”

  Branneck remained standing. “I want to know why your man—”

  “Because seven years and three months ago, in a very beautiful and very complicated variation of the old badger game, a wealthy Chicago citizen named Myron C. Cauldfeldt was bled white to
the tune of two hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. He was in no position to complain to the police until he was visited by the girl in the case. She explained to him that her partner, or one of her partners, had run out with the entire take. She was angry. She went with Cauldfeldt to the police and made a confession. In view of her age—twenty—she was given a suspended sentence and put on probation. The man who had run out with the take disappeared completely. Now am I making any sense?” He paused, waiting.

  Branneck gave a blind man’s look toward the chair. He stumbled over and sat down. He breathed hard through his open mouth.

  Park Falkner stood up. “Some day, Branneck,” he said lightly, “you ought to do some research into the lives of people who run out with large bundles of dough. They hide in shabby little rooms and slowly confidence comes back. A year passes. Two. They slowly come out of cover and take up the threads of a new life. Sometimes they are able to almost forget the source of their money.”

  Branneck had slowly gained control. He said, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Falkner. It wasn’t true, was it, what you said about wanting to buy some of my properties? That was just to get me to come down here.”

  Mick leaned against the closed door, cleaning his fingernails with a broken match. He gave Branneck a look of disgust.

  “Let’s review, Branneck. Or should I call you Roger Krindall?” Park said.

  “My name is Branneck,” the man said huskily.

  “Okay. Branneck, then. You are a respected citizen of Biloxi. You arrived there about six years ago and made yourself agreeable. You did some smart dealing in shore properties. My investigator estimates that you’re worth a few million. You belong to the proper clubs. Two years ago you married a widow of good social standing. Your stepdaughter is now sixteen. You are respected. A nice life, isn’t it?”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “You came here thinking that I was a customer for the Coast Drive Motel that you just finished building. Selling it would be a nice stroke of business. I might be willing to buy it. I’ll give you ten thousand for it.”