From his looks, I knew he was going to be a bone-crusher, and he was. At least he tried. When nothing snapped, he, too, tried the little-finger trick. He was a hell of a big man, not quite my height—very few are— but much wider and heavier with the craggy face of the professional muscleman. His nose had been broken many years ago. It could have happened in college football, but somehow I didn’t think so.
You get so you can recognize them. There’s something tight about the mouth and eyes, something wary in the way they stand and move, something contemptuous and condescending that betrays them to one who knows. Even Tina, bathed and shampooed and perfumed, girdled and nyloned, had it. I could see that now. I’d had it once myself. I’d thought I’d lost it. Now I wasn’t so certain.
I looked at the big man, and, oddly enough, we hated each other on sight. I was a happily married man without a thought for any woman but my wife. And he was a professional doing a job—whatever it might be—with an assigned partner. But he would have been briefed before he came here, and he would know that I’d once done a job with the same partner. Whatever his success in extracurricular matters—and from the looks of him he’d be the lad to give it a try—he’d be wondering just how successful I’d been, under similar circumstances, fifteen years ago. And of course, although Tina was nothing to me anymore, I couldn’t help wondering just what her duties as Mrs. Loris involved.
So we hated each other cordially as we shook hands and spoke the usual meaningless words, and I let him grind away at my knuckles and signal frantically, giving no sign that I felt a thing, until the handclasp had lasted long enough to satisfy the proprieties and he had to let me go. To hell with him. And to hell with her. And to hell with Mac, who’d sent them here after all these years to disinter the memories I’d thought safely buried. That is, if Mac was still running the show, and I thought he would be. It was impossible to think of the organization in the hands of anyone else, and who’d want the job?
3
The last time I saw Mac, he was sitting behind a desk in a shabby little office in Washington.
“Here’s your war record,” he said as I came up to the desk. He shoved some papers towards me. “Study it carefully. Here are some additional notes on people and places you’re supposed to have known. Memorize and destroy. And here are the ribbons you’re entitled to wear, should you ever be called back into uniform.”
I looked at them and grinned. “What, no Purple Heart?” I’d just spent three months in various hospitals.
He didn’t smile. “Don’t take these discharge papers too seriously, Eric. You’re out of the Army, to be sure, but don’t let it go to your head.”
“Meaning what, sir?”
“Meaning that there are going to be a lot of chaps”— like all of us, he’d picked up some British turns of speech overseas—“a lot of chaps impressing a lot of susceptible maidens with what brave, misunderstood fellows they were throughout the war, prevented by security from disclosing their heroic exploits to the world. There are also going to be a lot of hair-raising, revealing, and probably quite lucrative memoirs written.” Mac looked up at me, as I stood before him. I had trouble seeing his face clearly, with that bright window behind him, but I could see his eyes. They were gray and cold. “I’m telling you this because your peacetime record shows certain literary tendencies. There’ll be no such memoirs from this outfit. What we were, never was. What we did, never happened. Keep that in mind, Captain Helm.”
His use of my military title and real name marked the end of a part of my life. I was outside now.
I said, “I had no intention of writing anything of the kind, sir.”
“Perhaps not. But you’re to be married soon, I understand, to an attractive young lady you met at a local hospital. Congratulations. But remember what you were taught, Captain Helm. You do not confide in anyone, no matter how close to you. You do not even hint, if the question of wartime service is raised, that there are tales you could tell if you were only at liberty to do so. No matter what the stakes, Captain Helm, no matter what the cost to your pride or reputation or family life, no matter how trustworthy the person involved, you reveal nothing, not even that there’s something to reveal.” He gestured towards the papers on the desk. “Your cover isn’t perfect, of course. No cover is. You may be caught in an inconsistency. You may even meet someone with whom you’re supposed to have been closely associated during some part of the war, who, never having heard of you, calls you a liar and perhaps worse. We’ve done all we can to protect you against such a contingency, for our sakes as well as yours, but there’s always the chance of a slip. If it happens, you’ll stick to your story, no matter how awkward the situation becomes. You’ll lie calmly and keep on lying. To everyone, even your wife. Don’t tell her that you could explain everything if only you were free to speak. Don’t ask her to trust you because things aren’t what they seem. Just look her straight in the eye and lie.”
“I understand,” I said. “May I ask a question?”
“Yes.”
“No disrespect intended, sir, but how are you going to enforce all that, now?”
I thought I saw him smile faintly, but that wasn’t likely. He wasn’t a smiling man. He said, “You’ve been discharged from the Army, Captain Helm. You’ve not been discharged from us. How can we give you a discharge, when we don’t exist?”
And that was all of it, except that as I started for the door with my papers under my arm he called me back.
I turned snappily. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re a good man, Eric. One of my best. Good luck.”
It was something, from Mac, and it pleased me, but as I went out and, from old habit, walked a couple of blocks away from the place, before taking a cab to where Beth was waiting, I knew that he need have no fear of my confiding in her against orders. I’d have told her the truth if it had been allowed, of course, to be honest with her; but my bride-to-be was a gentle and sensitive New England girl, and I wasn’t unhappy to be relieved, by authority, of the necessity of telling her I’d been a good man in that line of business.
4
Now, in the Darrels’ living room, I could hear Mac’s voice again: How can we give you a discharge, when we don’t exist? That voice from the past held a mocking note, and the same mockery was in Tina’s dark eyes as she allowed herself to be led away, accompanied by the Herrera girl, whom Fran had also taken in tow. I’d forgotten the color of Tina’s eyes, not blue, not black. They were the deep violet shade you sometimes see in the evening sky just before the last light dies.
The big man, Loris, gave me a sideways look as he followed the trio of women; it held a warning and a threat. I slipped my hand into my pocket and closed my fingers about the liberated German knife. I grinned at him, to let him know that any time was all right with me. Any time and any place. I might be a peaceful and home-loving citizen these days, a husband and a father. I might be gaining a waistline and losing my hair. I might barely have the strength to punch a typewriter key, but things would have to get a damn sight worse before I trembled at a scowl and a pair of bulging biceps.
Then I realized, startled, that this was just like the old days. We’d always been kind of a lone-wolf outfit, not noted for brotherhood and companionship and esprit de corps. I remembered Mac, once, saying that he made a point of keeping us dispersed as much as possible, to cut down on the casualties. Break it up, he’d say wearily, break it up, you damn overtrained gladiators, save it for the Nazis. I was falling right back into the old habits, just as if the chip had never left my shoulder. Perhaps it never had.
“What’s the matter, darling?” It was Beth’s voice, behind me. “You look positively grim. Aren’t you having a good time?”
I turned to look at her, and she looked pretty enough to take your breath away. She was what you might describe as a tallish, willowy girl—well, after bearing three children I guess she was entitled to be called a woman, but she looked like a girl. She had light hair and clear blue eyes and a way
of smiling at you—at me, anyway—that could make you feel seven feet tall instead of only six feet four. She was wearing the blue silk dress with the little bow on the behind that we’d bought for her in New York on our last trip East. That had been a year ago, but it still made a good-looking outfit, even if she was starting to refer to it as that obsolete old rag—a gambit any husband will recognize.
Even after all this time in the land of blue jeans and squaw dresses, of bare brown legs and thong sandals, my wife still clung to certain Eastern standards of dress, which was all right with me. I like the impractical, fragile, feminine look of a woman in a skirt and stockings and high heels; and I can see no particular reason for a female to appear publicly in pants unless she’s going to ride a horse. I’ll even go so far as to say that the side-saddle and riding skirt made an attractive combination, and I regret that they passed before my time.
Please don’t think this means I’m prudish and consider it sinful for women to reveal themselves in trousers. Quite the contrary. I object on the grounds that it makes my life very dull. We all respond to different stimuli, and the fact is that I don’t respond at all to pants, no matter who they may contain or how tight they may be. If Beth had turned out to be a slacks-and-pajamas girl we might never have got around to populating a four-bedroom house.
“What’s the matter, Matt?” she asked again.
I looked in the direction Tina and her gorilla had taken, and I rubbed my fingers and grimaced wryly. “Oh, those strongarm guys just get my goat. The louse almost broke my hand. I don’t know what he was trying to prove.”
“The girl is rather striking. Who is she?”
“A kid named Herrera,” I said easily. “She’s writing the Great American Novel, or something, and would like a few pointers.”
“No,” Beth said, “the older one, the slinky one with the black gloves. You looked quite continental, shaking hands with her; I thought you were going to kiss her fingertips. Had you met her somewhere before?”
I glanced up quickly; and I was back again where I didn’t want to be, back where I was watching myself every second to see how I was going over in the part I was playing, back where every word I spoke could be my death warrant. I was no longer working my facial muscles automatically; the manual control center had taken over. I signaled for a grin and it came. I thought it was pretty good. I’d always been a fair poker player as a boy, and I’d learned something about acting later, with my life at stake.
I put my arm around Beth casually. “What’s the matter, jealous?” I asked. “Can’t I even be polite to a good-looking female… No, I never saw Mrs. Loris before, but I sure wish I had.”
Lie, Mac had said, look her in the eye and lie. Why should I obey his orders, after all the bloodless years? But the words came smoothly and convincingly, and I squeezed her fondly, and let my hand slide down to give the little bow at her rear an affectionate pat, among all those chattering people. Briefly, I felt the warm tautness of her girdle through the silk of her dress and slip.
“Matt, don’t!” she whispered, shocked, stiffening in protest. I saw her throw an embarrassed glance around to see if anyone had noted the impropriety.
She was a funny damn girl. I mean, you’d think that after more than a decade of marriage I could pat my wife on the fanny, among friends, without being made to feel as if I’d committed a serious breach of decency. Well, I’d lived with Beth’s inhibitions for a long time, and normally I’d have thought it was just kind of cute and naive of her, and maybe I’d have given her an additional little pinch to tease her and make her blush, and she’d have wound up laughing at her own stuffiness, and everything would have been all right But tonight I didn’t have any concentration to spare for her psychological quirks. My own demanded my entire attention.
“Sorry, Duchess,” I said stiffly, withdrawing the offending hand. “Didn’t mean to get familiar, ma’am… Well, I’m going over for a refill. Can I get you one?”
She shook her head. “I’m still doing fine with this one.” She couldn’t help glancing at my glass and saying, “Take it easy, darling. Remember, you’ve got a long drive tomorrow.”
“Maybe you’d better call Alcoholics Anonymous,” I said, more irritably than I’d intended. As I turned away, I saw Tina watching us from across the room.
For some reason, I found myself remembering the wet woods at Kronheim, and the German officer whose knife was in my pocket, and the way the blade of my own knife had snapped off short as he flung himself convulsively sideways at the thrust. As he opened his mouth to cry out, Tina, a bedraggled fury in her French tart’s getup, had grabbed his Schmeisser and smashed it over his head, silencing him but bending the gun to hell and gone…
5
A short, dark individual in an immaculate white jacket was presiding over the refreshment table with the grace, dignity and relaxed assurance of an old family retainer, although I knew he was hired for the occasion as I’d been meeting him at Santa Fe parties for years.
“Vodka?” he was saying. “No, no, I will not do it, señorita! A Martini is a Martini and you are a guest in this house. Por favor, do not ask me to serve a guest of the Darrels the fermented squeezings of potato peelings and other garbage!”
Barbara Herrera answered the man laughingly in Spanish, and they tossed it back and forth, and she agreed to settle for another honest, capitalist cocktail instead of switching to the bastard variety from the land of Communism. After he’d filled her glass, I stuck mine out to be replenished from the same shaker. The girl glanced around, smiled, and swung about to face me with a clink of bracelets and a swish of petticoats.
I gestured towards her costume. “Santa Fe is grateful to you for patronizing local industry, Miss Herrera.”
She laughed. “Do I look too much like a walking junk shop? I didn’t have anything else to do this afternoon, and the stores just fascinated me. I lost my head, I guess.”
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“California,” she said.
“That’s a big state,” I said, “and you can keep all of it.”
She smiled. “Now, that isn’t nice.”
“I’ve spent a few months in Hollywood from time to time,” I said. “I couldn’t take it. I’m used to breathing air.”
She laughed. “Now you’re boasting, Mr. Helm. At least we get a little oxygen with our smog. That’s more than you can say up here at seven thousand feet. I lay awake all last night gasping for breath.”
With her warm dark skin and wide cheekbones, she looked better in her squaw dress than most. I looked down at her, and sighed inwardly, and braced myself to do my duty as an elder statesman of the writing profession.
I said in kindly tones, “You say you’ve been doing some writing, Miss Herrera?”
Her face lighted up. “Why, yes, and I’ve been wanting to talk to somebody about… It’s at my motel, Mr. Helm. There’s a rather pleasant bar next door. I know you’re leaving in the morning, but if you and your wife could just stop on your way home and have a drink while I run over and get it… It’s just a short story, it wouldn’t take you more than a few minutes, and I’d appreciate it so much if you’d just glance through it and tell me…”
New York is full of editors who are paid to read stories. All it takes to get their reaction is the postage. But these kids keep shoving the products of their sweat and imagination under the noses of friends, relatives, neighbors, and anybody they can track down who ever published three lines of lousy verse. I don’t get it. Maybe I’m just a hardened cynic, but when I was breaking into the racket I sure as hell didn’t waste time and effort showing my work to anybody who didn’t have the dough to buy and the presses to print it on—not even my wife. Being an unpublished writer is ridiculous enough; why make it worse by showing the stuff around?
I tried to tell the girl this; I tried to tell her that even if I liked her story, there was nothing I could do about it, and if I didn’t like it, what difference did it make? I wasn’t the guy
who was going to buy it. But she was persistent, and before I got rid of her I’d consumed two more Martinis and promised to drop by and have a look at her little masterpiece in the morning, if I had time. As I was planning to leave before daybreak, I didn’t really expect to have time, and she probably knew it; but I wasn’t going to spoil my last evening at home reading her manuscript or anybody else’s.
She left me at last, heading across the room to say goodbye to her host and hostess. It took me a while to locate Beth in one of the rear sitting rooms of the big, sprawling house. We’ve got plenty of space in this southwestern country, and few houses, no matter how large, are more than one story high, which is just as well. You wouldn’t want to have to climb stairs at our altitude. When I found my wife, she was talking to Tina.
I paused in the doorway to look at them. Two good-looking and well behaved and smartly dressed party guests, holding their drinks like talismans, they were chatting away in the bright manner of women who’ve just met and already don’t like each other very well.
“Yes, he was in Army Public Relations during the war,” I heard Beth say as I came forward. “A jeep turned over on him while he was out on assignment, near Paris I think, and injured him quite badly. I was doing U.S.O. in Washington when he came there for treatment. That’s how we met. Hello, darling, we’re talking about you.”
She looked nice, and kind of young and innocent, even in her Fifth Avenue cocktail outfit. I found that I wasn’t annoyed with her anymore; and apparently she’d forgiven me, also. Looking at her, I was very glad I’d had the good sense to marry her when I had the chance, but there was a feeling of guilt, too. There always had been, but it was stronger tonight. I’d really had no business marrying anybody.
Tina had turned to smile at me. “I was just asking your wife what you were a celebrity at, Mr. Helm.”
Death of a Citizen Page 2
