by P. N. Elrod
I worked the phone and Bobbi’s welcome voice said hello and I said hello back and we each made sure the other was healthy.
“Phil told me you were going to lay low for a while,” she said.
“Just until I can locate those bozos. I didn’t have the time last night.”
“You won’t have to look far. Phil called and said they’re parked down the street in a black Ford.”
“Is he sure about that?”
“Fairly sure, and so am I. I took a gander out the window a minute ago and there’s a heap there now that’s new to the usual scenery. Phil thinks they’re waiting for you to come back for your own car.”
“Good conclusion. I’m just surprised that Braxton thinks I need it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Considering his expertise, he’s more likely to suspect me of traveling around as a bat or a wolf.”
She giggled. “They might miss a bat, but a wolf’s kinda noticeable out on the sidewalk.”
“Maybe I should reeducate him. What do you think?”
“I think I’m going to take a cab to the studio.”
“I’m sorry, I know I promised—”
“Oh, don’t be a sap, this is an emergency. Oops, I just remembered, some woman named Gaylen called a minute ago. You running around on me?”
“Never. What’d she want?”
“For you to come by and see her tonight. Who is she?”
“It’s something I’m working on with Charles. He’s out of town, so I gave her your number for daytime calls.”
“Wish you’d told me.”
“We were kind of busy. . . . Did she say anything else?”
“Nope. You going to tune in and listen to me?”
“I’ll be at the studio. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“But what if Braxton follows me there?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll have taken care of him by then.”
“But what if you miss him?”
“I said don’t worry. You aren’t going there alone, are you?”
“No, Marza’s coming with me.”
“Then God help Braxton if I do miss him.”
“Oh, Jack.” She was exasperated. “The man is trying to kill you.”
“He won’t. I’m only trying to keep him from hurting others.”
“And I don’t give a damn about others”—she cut off a moment and collected herself—“I’m worried about you.”
“And about that broadcast, too. All this mess came at a bad time for you. Try to calm down and think about how great you’ll be tonight. You don’t have to worry about me, you know I’ll be fine.” I put a lot of confidence in my tone and it worked. We said a few things and she gave me directions to the studio twice and I told her to break a leg. It was a phrase picked up from Escott and apparently applied to all performers because she was glad to hear it.
I hung up and dialed Gaylen. She was upset because Braxton had been calling her, and now she wanted to see me. The little bastard was becoming a real nuisance.
“I’m pretty tied up tonight. . . .” I was also reluctant to face another emotion-laden talk with her.
“Not even for a little while? Please?”
A supernatural softy, that’s me. Besides, she might have some useful news. “It may take me awhile to get there, and I can’t stay long.”
“I understand, I’d really appreciate it.”
The schedule would be tight. Bobbi’s broadcast was at ten and I was stuck in the house until quarter to eight, or at least until Escott’s delivery came. In between I had to have a heart-to-heart with Braxton, and then go hold Gaylen’s hand. If things went right I could go home with Bobbi, enjoy the party she was throwing, and still have time to visit the Stockyards.
It looked like a busy night ahead, and I wanted to get on with it; the waiting chafed at me like starched underwear. I filled in some of the time by cleaning up and changing clothes, but with that out of the way, the minutes dragged. At five to eight I was annoyed, and at a quarter after I was ready to strangle the driver.
Twenty after the hour a truck finally rolled into the street, stopped two doors down, and backed up. The guy inside squinted at house numbers. I went outside and he asked if I were Mr. Escott. To save him confusion I said yes, unintentionally puzzling any neighbors taking in air on their front steps. We gave them a good show and lugged several crates off the truck and into the narrow hall. He didn’t say much, which suited me, and I signed Escott’s name to the sheet on his clipboard. He gave me a receipt and drove off.
There was one last obligation and I was free. The operator put a call through to Escott’s hotel, and then asked their operator to connect me to Escott.
“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Escott is not here.”
“Then I’ll leave a message for him.”
“I’m sorry, but he has checked out.”
“What?”
“Yes, sir, earlier today. He left Kingsburg as his forwarding address.”
Now, why the hell was he running upstate to a little backwater town like Kingsburg? Gaylen hadn’t mentioned the name. He was probably returning something to one of the many blackmail victims on that list. “Did he leave any messages for a Jack Fleming?”
“No, sir. No messages at all.”
I hung up and pessimistically wondered what was wrong.
My visit with Gaylen was going to be brief, so I told the cabby to wait. He rolled an eye at the meter and agreeably turned me down, having been stiffed once too many in the past.
She was waiting at her door and I apologized for being so long.
“I’m just glad that you could come by.” She eased painfully into her chair.
Nothing had significantly changed since yesterday, except for some watercolor paints scattered on a table with some brushes and a glass of gray water. A wrinkled sheet of paper taped to a board was drying next to it all. I expressed some interest, which warmed her.
“It’s only a hobby, just to pass the time,” she demurred, but held it up for inspection. The light gleamed off some damp patches. There was no model in the room of the pink, blue, and yellow flowers on the paper, so it had come out of her own head. As in most amateur efforts, it was noticeably flat, but the colors looked nice, so I complimented her and knew from her reaction that she would someday make a gift of it to me.
“Sorry I got held up, but I really don’t have a lot of time,” I explained.
She took the news without visible disappointment, because something else was on her mind. “That Braxton man tried to get in to talk with me. I had to have the manager throw him out.”
“That’s good. I’m very sorry you were bothered.”
“Then he started calling. I kept hanging up until I finally decided to talk and tell him to go away.”
“What’d he say?”
“All kinds of things. He was very excited and asked if you had hurt me, and practically begged for the chance to talk to me face-to-face. My legs were aching and made me a bit short with him. I said it was the phone or nothing. He asked if I knew what you were and what kind of danger I was in, and what did I know about Maureen, and if I would help, and a lot of other nonsense. I told him he was a very silly and stupid man and never to bother me again, or I’d get the police on him. After that he stopped calling.”
“Good for you.”
“But he still frightens me; not for myself, but for you.”
“I’m safe enough. Anyway, the next time I see him, I’ll talk him into going back to New York.”
Her expression was sharp. “But how can you do that? What will you do?”
“Only talk to him, I won’t hurt him. Please, Gaylen, don’t worry about it.”
Her gaze dropped and she looked away. “What will you do?”
Had I been breathing I would have sighed. “Remember telling me about Jonathan Barrett and how he talked to you just before Maureen came back? That’s how I’ll talk to Braxton.”
“And you’ll ask hi
m about Maureen?”
“Yes.”
She was quiet a moment, thinking.
“I’ll let you know what he says. Charles says even negative information is better than none at all.”
“What about him? Has he left yet?”
“He left sometime last night. I guess he was in a hurry to get on with things.”
“But you haven’t heard anything from him?”
“Not directly. I tried calling him, but he’s gone to a little town called Kingsburg. . . . Does that ring any bells with you?”
She went still and thought, her heart racing. “I’m not sure. I think I once got a letter from Maureen from there, but memories fade—I don’t know.”
“It could be some other errand as well. He’ll let us know.”
“Yes, please, I want to know everything.” But there was a hollow note to her voice, something else was bothering her.
“What is it?” I asked gently.
She made a brief gesture with her blue-veined hands. “This is hardly the time. . . . I wish . . .”
I stayed quiet. She would either talk or not, with or without my encouragement.
Her eyes had changed color. The blue had faded and now they were light gray. Maureen had been the same way when she was upset over something. “Oh, Jack, how can I put it in words? How can I ask you?”
“Ask what?”
“You can see how it is for me. I’m not well and it seems that with each passing day it grows worse; not just my legs, but other things. It’s so awful to be like this, to feel so weak and helpless all the time.”
I waited her out, for the moment unsure.
“And I haven’t seen Maureen in so long. What if I never see her again? That could happen, I am so afraid it will.”
What she wanted was right in front of me now, and I didn’t want to look. She saw the answer in my face long before she could word the question.
“Oh, please, Jack, you can’t deny me in this!”
I wanted to get up and put some space between us, but her eyes held me, eyes full of anguish and asking for something I could not be able to give her.
“I’m sorry.”
“But why not?”
I had no answer. That was the really hard part. I had no answer, no real excuse—and she must have known it. “Because I can’t. You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“But I do. I’m asking for a chance to live. I’m asking for a body that doesn’t hurt all the time. Is it so much to want to be young and healthy again?”
“I’m sorry.” I had to turn away and pace or blow up. Her pleading gaze followed me up and down the small room until I stopped in front of the window to stare out at nothing. “You don’t know what it’s like. I’d give anything to go back, to walk in the sun again, to eat food, feel real heat and cold, to feel my heart beating. I have no stability. I can’t go back to my family and will never have one of my own. Worst of all, Maureen’s gone.”
“And yet she changed you. If the life you have is so awful, why did she do that?”
“Because the kind of love we had would have made it all bearable. There was no guarantee that I even would change, but it was a hope we shared. At the very least we would have been together for as long as I was . . . alive. But something happened and she had to leave.”
“And if she ever comes back, you’ll still be here. I don’t have that luxury. She was going to change me, she promised me that in our last talk. You are all of her left to me. All I ask is for you to fulfill a promise she could not keep.”
“Why didn’t she do it earlier?”
“I don’t know.” Her look held me steadily, still pleading, then dropped to her lap. “I don’t know.”
She knew and Maureen knew. I didn’t and would have to go by my own instincts. A lot of emotions were getting in my way, and I wasn’t sure if I was right to say no, or reading things into her manner that weren’t there. I could do as she asked, the chances were very great it wouldn’t work, but everything in me recoiled away from taking that step.
“I’m truly sorry, but it’s impossible. I can’t.”
“No, please don’t leave yet.” She stopped my move for the door. “Please . . . will you at least just think about it?”
If I said yes, she would know it for a lie. I crossed the room, hat in hand, head down.
“Jack?”
I paused, my back to her. “I’m sorry. If there’s anything else you need, you can call me. But not this.” Then I walked out, my guts gone cold and twisting like snakes.
The cab dropped me within sight of a two-year-old Ford parked across the street from Bobbi’s hotel. Gaylen’s voice still lingered in my head. None of my reasons to refuse seemed very good now, but even after discarding them all, I was not going to do it. Something was bothering me; I wanted advice, or at least to have someone tell me I was right. Escott might be back in a day or two; I’d talk it over with him. Or maybe not.
Hands in pockets, I made myself small behind a telephone pole and tried to see the driver of the Ford. From this angle, he wasn’t too visible. He was slouched down in the seat, it could have been either Braxton or Webber. They worked as a team; why was only one on watch? On the remote chance that there was a third member on their hunt, I copied the license-plate number in my notebook for Escott to check. The plates were local. They might have rented it, wanting something less conspicuous than the big Lincoln.
The Ford was parked in with a line of other cars. If Bobbi hadn’t tipped me, I’d never have noticed it or the man inside. The rest of the street looked clean. No one was loitering in any doorways, it seemed safe enough to approach. I strolled along the sidewalk, breasted the open passenger window, leaned over, and said hello.
The man inside turned a slow, unfriendly eyeball on me. He wasn’t Braxton or Webber and looked bored to death. I landed on my feet and asked if he had a light, hauling out my face-saving cigarettes.
He considered the request with indifference, then pawed around the car for some matches. It took some hunting before he found them; the seat was littered with sandwich wrappings, unidentifiable paperwork, crumpled cigarette packs, and smoked-out butts. I offered him one from my pack and he took it.
“Been here long?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?” He lit his cigarette on the same match that fired mine, his long fingers shielding the flame from the faint night breeze. He was a good-looking specimen, with a straight nose, cleft chin, and curly blond hair. Up on a movie screen he might have stopped a few feminine hearts. I pegged him to be a college type, but he was too old and had seen enough to have a cynical cast to his expression.
“You’re making the hotel dick nervous.”
“I should if I’m doing his job for him. He send you or are you from Mrs. Blatski?”
“What’s the difference?”
“He sent you then.” He blew smoke lazily out the window.
“What if I am from Mrs. Blatski?”
“No skin off my nose. She has a right to hire someone as long as they leave me alone—or are you the guy she’s sleeping with?” He eyed me with a shade more interest.
“You a dick?”
“Got it in one, bright eyes.”
I pushed away from the Ford in disgust. Not Braxton or any connection to him, just a keyhole peeper trying to get the goods on his client’s wife. Three steps later a crazy thought occurred and I was back at the window again.
“Charles, is that you?”
He gave me an odd look and I deserved it. A second and more detailed check on his face was enough confirmation that he wasn’t Escott got up in disguise. The eyes were the wrong color, brown instead of gray, and his ears were the wrong shape, flat on top, not arched.
“What’s your problem?” he asked, squinting.
“Thought you were someone else.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Eleanor Roosevelt. I was gonna ask for an autograph.”
“Hey, wait up.”
I waited up
. He got out of the car slowly, stretching the kinks from his legs and back. He was average in height and build, but it wasn’t padding that filled out the lines of his suit. He didn’t look belligerent, so I wanted to see what he wanted. He came around to the front of the car without any wasted movement and rested his backside against the fender.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Nothing much, you just look familiar to me.”
“I got a common face.”
“Naw, really, you from around here?”
“Maybe. What’s your game, anyway?”
“Minding other people’s business.”
“That can be dangerous.”
“Nah. Like this job, nothing to it but following some old bitch around to see what kind of flies she attracts. She’s filthy rich and all that dirt attracts plenty.”
I nodded. “And you think I’m one of them?”
“It don’t hurt to ask. Sometimes you can do a fella a good turn, keep him outta the courts, then maybe he feels like doing me a good turn.”
A shakedown artist to boot. Well, it’s a big nasty world and you can meet all kinds if you stand still long enough. “You got the wrong man this time, ace.”
“Malcolm,” he said, holding out a hand.
My manners weren’t quite bad enough to refuse, so we shook briefly and unpleasantly. He had a business card palmed and passed it on to me.
“Just in case you need a troubleshooter.” He smiled, tapped the brim of his hat, and went back around to the driver’s side. “You never know.” He slid behind the wheel, still smiling, his lips pressed together into a hard, dark line. He had dimples.
I barely smiled back in the same way, but without dimples, and took a walk. Creeps make me nervous and I felt sorry for Mrs. Blatski, whoever she was.
Oozing through the back door, I found my way to the lobby, kept out of view of the front windows, and got Phil’s attention by waving at the night clerk. He crossed over casually.
“How’d you get in? The back’s locked.”
