by Howard Fast
“I don’t know why, except that we were in school together.”
“And that doesn’t add up. A dying man doesn’t guess that an old school chum lives somewhere in the city and pull his name out of the telephone book. He must have known about you, checked you, known who you were and what you did and where you lived. He must have had a connection with you—perhaps for months.”
“Millie, you’re letting your imagination run wild.”
“Oh, no—no, Al. It’s our lives that have run wild. And as far as this wallet is concerned, the name and the number were left in there for you to see and recognize. Please—please let me call the number, let me try.”
I sighed and surrendered. “OK. Call information.”
She dialed information and asked for an area code in California that would have a 555 exchange. We waited a moment, and then Millie said, “Thank you.” She turned to me. “It’s Big Sur. Shall I call or will you?”
“You call”
She dialed and listened, then put the phone back in its cradle.
“Well?”
“It’s the Big Sur Hunting and Fishing Club.”
“Which brings us where?”
“A little further. We know who Joe Leone is or was. Now we know what the number is.”
“And what do we do about it?”
“Well—we can go to Big Sur.”
Then the doorbell rang.
9
It was all in my mind, ready to be said. We are not going to Big Sur, we are not going to play this demented game any longer, we are not going to pretend that we are private eyes—all of it ready to be said when the bell rang, and we both froze and looked into each other’s eyes and realized, without saying a word, how eminently unfitted for charade we both were.
The doorbell rang again.
“The undertakers,” Millie whispered.
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Maybe you ought to take the poker again.”
“No,” I snapped. “There are men who are built for guns and pokers and spears. I am not one of them. I have never punched anyone in my life. I never hit anyone over the head. You might as well know the truth about me.”
The doorbell rang a third time.
“I’ll answer it,” Millie said, the way a mother tells her child not to be afraid because she is there.
“No. I’ll answer it.” My manhood was asserting itself.
I strode to the front door and flung it open. Two sad-faced young men in black suits stood there, their hands clasped in front of them, their faces gravely appreciative of the finality of death.
“We are from Loving Care,” said the first one.
“For the deceased,” explained the second one.
“We drove the hearse into your garage,” said the first one.
“In certain neighborhoods the presence of a hearse in front of the house is undesirable. We practice sensitivity to the needs of the bereaved.”
“Thank goodness. Come on in,” said Millie from behind me.
I ushered them in.
“If you will show us the way to the garage through the house, we will bring in the coffin.”
“He is to be cremated,” I said.
“Oh, yes, indeed. It’s only a light utility coffin to transport the loved one.”
“Follow me,” Millie said cheerfully, the thought that at long last Andrew Capestone was to depart as a physical presence from this earth evidently buoying her spirits enormously.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Brody, I have been instructed to collect one hundred dollars in cash before we transport the loved one.”
I took out the hundred dollars and handed it to him. He counted it carefully, stowed it in his pocket and then, followed by his co-worker, went out to the garage and returned a few minutes later with a plain wooden coffin.
“I’ll wait in one of the bedrooms with my eyes closed,” Millie whispered to me.
“Good. That enhances my manhood.”
“But, Al, I think we ought to follow them to the funeral parlor.”
“Why?”
“I won’t sleep again until I see Mr. Capestone to his rest. I’ll expect to see him every time I come to the office.”
“If we ever get to the office again.”
Holding the coffin, the two funereal young men were waiting across the room. I motioned for them to follow me, while Millie vanished into Evelyn’s bedroom. I led them into the study.
“Right there—in the chair at the desk.”
“In the chair?”
“That’s right, in the chair.”
“It’s very unusual,” said the first one.
“Heavy,” said the second one, “very heavy.”
“Are you sure …?” asked the first one.
“That he’s dead? Good God, can’t you smell it?”
“It smells of formaldehyde. We’re used to the smell,” the first one explained.
“Well, he’s been dead four days. He’s been in and out of the Hospital of the Immaculate Conception and he’s been cut open and sewed back together and the death certificate has been duly signed.”
They were spreading a rubberized sheet on the floor. The second one said, “In these circumstances, Mr. Brody, the less we know about the details pertaining to the loved one’s demise, the better.”
“He is not a loved one. He’s a bare acquaintance.”
“We’d rather you didn’t go into details,” said the first one.
“It might be better if you stepped out of the room, Mr. Brody,” said the second one, bending over the chair. “It would appear that rigor mortis has set in.”
I needed no second invitation, and I left them and went into Evelyn’s bedroom, where Millie was stretched out on the bed. “You don’t mind?” she asked. “I’m exhausted.”
“You really think we ought to follow them to Loving Care?”
“I do.”
“All right. I guess it makes sense.”
As I returned to the living room, the two young men were carrying the coffin out.
“Will you tell your boss that we’ll be at Loving Care in about a half hour to attend the cremation?”
“To attend the cremation?”
“That’s right.”
“Heavy, heavy,” said the second one.
Then I went into the study to make sure that Capestone had departed. He had. I decided that I would bring in some professional cleaners to go over the study and fumigate it. As for my desk chair, I would send it to the Salvation Army. I had no desire to sit in it again.
“The coast is clear,” I called out to Millie.
“Did you look in the study to make certain he’s gone?”
“I did. He’s gone.”
10
At Loving Care, the director informed us that it was most unusual for the bereaved to watch the actual cremation.
“We’re not terribly bereaved,” Millie explained.
“Still, ours is a profession of great integrity. We are licensed by the state, you know. I would hate to think, Mr. Brody, that we should have to answer for this.”
I took the hospital papers out of my pocket. “Here they are—death certificate, pathology report, hospital discharge—all open and aboveboard. Put them in your files. All we are asking is that Mr. Smith should rest in peace and not be carted here and there like so much luggage. Is that too much to ask?”
“No indeed. Such is the normal desire of the bereaved,” he agreed, studying the papers. “Still, to find the deceased sitting at a desk, fully clothed.”
“My friends have a macabre sense of humor.”
“Well—if you insist.”
“Do you cremate the body in a coffin?” Millie asked.
“Usually not, unless the loved ones so desire. Do you both wish to observe?”
“No. He will,” Millie said. “I’ll wait here.”
“The ashes will not be available until tomorrow.”
“We’ve arranged about the ashes,” I
told him. “Could we get on with the cremation?”
They got on with it and I watched, and then I returned to the lobby, where Millie sat waiting.
“Done?”
“Done,” I said. “Poor Capestone is gone. I feel rotten. I feel like the worst damn heel on earth.”
“You did what you could. A man died. You took care of the arrangements. What else could you have done?”
“I could have let him go in peace.”
“He went in as much peace as he could have. Whatever happened since, they did. Not you.”
In the car I thought about it some more. “That whole damn African thing.”
“We’ll call it the end of apotheosis. We’re good press agents and we make a living at it. It’s not as good as what Father Berrigan does, but it’s not as bad as selling dope and maybe not any worse than working on Madison Avenue.”
“Dope. What made you say dope?”
“I don’t know. It’s been on my mind.”
I nodded. “It’s been on my mind.”
“I’m hungry,” Millie said.
“How can you talk about food?”
“Very simply, very plainly. It’s nine o’clock, and I haven’t had any dinner.”
“You’re not frightened anymore?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think they’re trying to frighten us, Al. I think they’re saying, every step of the way, we’re with you. You tried to put a dead man away quickly, quietly—oh, I know. You were doing a simple, decent act. I know it. You know it. They don’t. According to them, your motives were different. So they interfered—ghastly, but I presume they’re ghastly people. Then you set up the African thing, and they hired an actor, made a few telephone calls. They’re saying—we know. We know what you’re up to.”
“What am I up to?”
“I don’t know—any more than you know. But perhaps we’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Because we’re going up to Big Sur, aren’t we, Al?”
PART THREE
The Deluge Continues
1
We ate steaks and drank beer at Musso Frank’s, and then I smoked a cigar and Millie relaxed in her chair and regarded me thoughtfully.
“I’m not going home,” I told her. “I feel liberated now that you know I am a total coward.”
“You can stay with me. You’re not a coward, Al. You’re just all mixed up about what courage is. A stupid man is brave about all kinds of things. I think when you have more sense, you’re selective.”
“I am not going to Big Sur.”
“Well see. Did you really mean that about marrying me?”
“I meant it. But I am not going to Big Sur. I’m pretty contemptible. Why can’t you get that through your head and accept it?”
“I don’t know. It takes time.”
“You’ve known me six years.”
“Nobody knows the boss,” she said, smiling at me fondly. “About that partnership, suppose I took it. Who would have the say on clients?”
“We’d have to agree.”
“You know, if you turned down people like Senator Bellman, we’d still make out all right with nice neurotic clients like the actors and directors and producers who have to have an ego trip and are willing to pay for it. We’d be able to handle your wife’s alimony and still draw three or four hundred a week. We couldn’t live in Beverly Hills, but we could have a little place in Brentwood or Santa Monica, and you could cut down on the beer and go on a reasonable diet.”
“You have a nice personality but a short memory. Why don’t you figure the odds on living until tomorrow?”
“I don’t think they want to kill us. I don’t think they can afford to. They want to shake us up and show us that they have the upper hand, but if they wanted to kill us they would have killed us the way they murdered Leone. We know too much, and maybe we’ve passed it on to others. So they can’t afford to kill us. Maybe they’ll decide to cut us in.”
“You are marvelous, marvelous. How do we come to know all this?”
“Obviously Capestone told you everything before he died.”
“Come off it.”
“Al, think—do I know what Capestone told you?”
“He told me nothing.”
“But I wasn’t there when you spoke to him.”
“Millie,” I said, “do you think I’m lying to you?”
“No, but I wasn’t there and neither were they. So for all they know, Capestone told you everything. By the way, what ever happened to Capestone’s wife?”
“Did I ever mention a wife?”
“Didn’t you?”
“Was there anything in the wallet about a wife, something I overlooked?”
“No, I’m sure there wasn’t.”
Suddenly worried, I asked her, “Where is the wallet? You didn’t leave it in the kitchen?”
“No. It’s right here in my purse.”
“Good.”
“Why? I don’t think they give two figs for the wallet. In fact, they must have left it in your desk on purpose.”
“We’ve been through that. What made you ask about Capestone’s wife?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure you said something about it.”
“Of course!” I cried. “Of course—Capestone told me.”
“What?” she said eagerly. “What did he tell you? Don’t you see, Al, you may not have been listening then. You may have been thinking about getting the doctor or the ambulance. Try to remember.”
“Well, I asked him whether there wasn’t someone to get in touch with. A wife, kids. No kids, I think. But he said something about a wife—married and divorced. I think he said he divorced her twelve years ago.”
“Great. Tomorrow we’ll find out who his wife is.”
“How do we do that?”
“Before we go to Big Sur, you’ll call Warren Beard. You knew him pretty well, and if he was on a committee that meant something to Capestone—and it must have meant something or the card would not have been in the wallet—then surely he knew who Capestone’s wife was.”
“We’re not going to Big Sur tomorrow,” I said.
“We’ll see.”
2
The alarm awakened me at six-thirty in the morning, and from the kitchen of Millie’s apartment came the smell of bacon frying and coffee perking. I stumbled into the kitchen and informed her that she was mad and that it was still the middle of the night.
“It’s a long ride to Big Sur.” She was dressed and fresh as a new-cut flower, plaid skirt, white sweater top, flat-heeled brown shoes. “You’d better shower and shave. You can use my razor. Do you like a big breakfast?”
“At six o’clock in the morning it’s obscene. Anyway, I am not going to shower and shave. I am going to have this out with you right now.”
“In your underwear, Al? Why don’t you shower and shave and get dressed, and then you’ll have all your wits about you and you’ll be able to convince me intelligently—won’t you?”
I showered and shaved and dressed and then sat down in a bright yellow and white kitchen to one egg, two strips of bacon, one slice of toast and black coffee.
“I usually have two eggs and corn muffins.”
“The simplest way to diet,” she said, “is to go on eating what you have been eating but cut the quantity in half.”
“I don’t want to diet. Does a condemned man diet?”
“You’ll feel better after you have your coffee. We could get to Big Sur early in the afternoon, even if we stop somewhere for lunch and don’t rush. Or perhaps we should make it brunch. There’s a lovely place I know in Montecito, just short of Santa Barbara. It’s very restful.”
“That’s reassuring. Anyway, the club is probably in the Wild Area, a dozen miles short of Monterey, and we’re not going, so it doesn’t make one damn bit of difference. We’ll get to the office early and clear up this whole dismal thing.”
“How?”
“How do we get to t
he office?”
“No, Al. How do we clear this up? We have been through it, over and over. Either we go to the cops and blow the publicity business and starve, or we try to work it out ourselves.”
“The hell with it! We blow the business. I’m tired of being a lousy flak anyway.”
“You’re not a lousy flak. You’re the best one in Los Angeles. And you made me a partnership offer. You can’t blow your end of the business without blowing mine.”
“You never accepted,” I protested.
“I accept now. OK? I am an ambitious, greedy, liberated woman. I am tired of living in a three-room apartment. I want a swimming pool. Any cookie in this town who goes to bed with a rich man can have a swimming pool. Why can’t I have a swimming pool?”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Like hell I am. Or do you rescind the offer? Are you copping out, or did you sincerely offer me a partnership?”
“I offered it. I’m not copping out.”
“I accepted it. Do you want to shake hands on that?”
“You’re not serious.”
“You’d better believe it.” She reached across the table. “Will you shake hands?”
I shook her hand. It was a strong, firm handshake.
“Then we have a deal?”
“We have a deal.”
“All right. Let’s do the dishes and take off for Big Sur.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You became a partner, you got responsibilities. You can’t just take off like that. There are things to do at the office.”
“What things?”
“Well, you were going to call Warren Beard—about Capestone’s wife.”
“All right. I’ll call Warren Beard. It’s after ten in New York, and he should be in his office.” She dialed New York information, asked for the North American Peace Institute and jotted down the number.
“Hold on,” I said. “It’s a long-distance call.”
“So?”
“We’ll make it at the office.”
“If we go to the office, we’ll stay in the office. You know that, Al. If out of the goodness of your heart you’re worried about my phone bill, well charge it to the firm.”
“I don’t know if I want you for a partner.”
“Too late.” She dialed the number, asked for Warren Beard, informed them that Al Brody was calling from Los Angeles and then handed me the telephone. A moment later I heard Beard’s voice, the perpetually cheery voice of a dedicated and hopeful man.
