Maybe he was guilty, maybe he was innocent - I didn't know. But the whole stupid business of execution, of "justice" and "punishment" and "the full penalty of the law" hit me in the pit of the stomach. It was cruel, it was senseless, it was wrong.
The seconds ticked away. I watched the little hand crawl around the face of the watch and tried to figure it out. One minute Cono would be alive. A jolt of electric current and he'd be dead. Trite idea. But it's the eternal mystery all of us live with. And die with.
What was the answer? I didn't know. Nobody knew. Nobody except the kibitzer. Old Man Death knew the answer. I wondered if he had a watch. No, why should he? What's Time to Death?
Thirty seconds.
Sure, I'd quit my job. I'd try to clear Cono. But what good would it do him? He'd never know. He'd be dead.
Twenty seconds.
The hand crawled around, and the thoughts crawled around. What's it like to be dead? Is it a sleep? Is it a sleep with dreams? Is it just dreams but no rest, no peace?
Ten seconds.
One moment you're alive, you can feel and hear and smell and see and move. And the next - nothing. Or - something. What's the change like? Like suddenly turning out the lights?
Now.
The lights went out.
First they dimmed, then they flickered, then they went out. Only for a second, mind you. But that was long enough.
Long enough for Cono to die.
Long enough for me to shudder.
Long enough for Death to reach out, grinning, and claim his prey in the dark…
I was still in a daze when I hit the railroad station on Saturday morning. So much had happened in the last two days I still couldn't figure it out.
First of all, there was that business about Cono's body. I'd gone to the warden, of course, with the story about the money, and I more or less expected to handle funeral expenses from Cono's funds when I got them.
"His cousin will bury him," the warden told me. "Got a call this morning."
"But I thought he had no relatives."
"Turns out he has, all right. Fellow named Varek. Oh, it's legitimate, we always check. The Doc insists - makes him mad every time somebody shows up and cheats him out of an autopsy."
The warden had chuckled, but I didn't laugh.
And the warden hadn't chuckled long. Because the next day, Louie had confessed.
Louie the contortionist, that is - the man Cono claimed had given him the knockout drops in his drink. The warden got a wire, of course, but the whole story hit the papers that afternoon. It seems he'd just walked into the station-house in Louisville and confessed. Came out with the entire statement without a sign of emotion. Said he just wanted to clear his conscience once he knew Cono was dead. He'd hated Cono, wanted Flo, and when she repulsed him he rigged up the murder to get revenge on both of them.
The story was lurid enough, but it had gaps in it. The report I read claimed Louie was a hophead. He was too calm, too unemotional. "Glassy-eyed" was the way they put it. They were going to give him a psychiatric test.
Well, I wished them luck, the whole lot of them - psychiatrists and district attorneys and smart coppers and penologists. All I knew was that Cono was innocent. And he was dead.
By this time I'd already checked on the Armstrong Shows through Billboard. They were playing Louisville this week, all right. I sent through my wire Friday afternoon. Saturday morning I got a telegram signed by the advance agent in Paducah.
GREAT AHMED LEFT SHOW THREE WEEKS AGO STOP OPENING OWN MITT CAMP IN CHICAGO STOP WILL CHECK FORWARDING ADDRESS AND NOTIFY LATER
So I was on my way to Chicago and eight thousand dollars. I'd hole up in some hotel and wait for news on the Great Ahmed. And after that - well, with the money, my writing problems would be solved.
Actually, I should have been happy enough at the way it had all turned out. Cono's name was cleared, I was out of the whole sordid grind forever, and I had eight grand coming, in cash.
But something bothered me. It wasn't just the irony of Cono Colluri's innocence. It was the inexplicable feeling that things weren't settled, that they were only beginning. That I had somehow been caught up in something that would sweep me along to -
"Chicago!" bawled the conductor.
And there I was, in the Windy City at 5 p.m. on Saturday, May 25th. It wasn't windy today. As I lugged my grip out of the LaSalle Street Station I walked straight into a pouring rain.
There's something about a storm in Chicago. It seems to melt all the taxicabs away. I stood there, contemplating the downpour, watching the cars inch along under the El tracks. The sky was dark and dirty. The water dribbled ink stains along the sides of the buildings. I couldn't stand watching it in my present mood.
So I walked. I turned corners several times. Pretty soon there was a hotel. It wasn't a good hotel. It was located too far south to be even a decent hotel. But that didn't matter. I needed a place to stay in for a couple of days until the money was located. And right now, I had to get out of the rain. My suit was soaked, and the cardboard in the luggage had taken a beating.
I went in, registered. A bellboy took me up to my room on the third floor. Apparently he hadn't expected me. At least, he didn't know about my coming in time to shave. But he opened my door, deposited my luggage and asked if there'd be anything else now. Then he held out his hand. It would have taken me all day to give him a decent manicure, so I put a quarter in his palm instead. He was just as happy with that.
Then he left, I opened my grip, changed clothes, and went out to eat. The rain had moderated to a drizzle. I stopped in the lobby long enough to get eyed by the night clerk, the house dick, and a woman with improbable red hair.
During the pause I managed to send off a telegram to the advance man of the carney, giving him my new address and requesting action on locating the Great Ahmed. That concluded my business for the day.
At least, I thought it did at the time.
Nothing happened to change my mind during supper. I ate at a fish joint and contemplated the delightful prospect of returning to my crummy room and holing up for the weekend.
I don't know if you've ever spent a Sunday alone in downtown Chicago, but if you haven't, I offer you one word of advice.
Don't.
There's something about the deserted canyons on a Sunday that tears the heart out of a man. Something about the grey sunlight reflected from grimy roofs. Something about the crumpled bits of soiled paper flopping listlessly along empty streets. Something about the mournful rattle of the half-empty elevated trains. Something about the barred shop-windows and chained doors. It gets to you, does things to your insides. You start wondering whether or not, in the midst of all this death and decay, you're really alive.
The prospect didn't please me at all. I finished my meal, put another quarter in another palm, and wandered out down the street.
After all, it was still Saturday night. And Saturday night was different. The rain had definitely stopped now, and the street was black and gleaming. Neon light reflections wriggled like crimson and gold serpents across my path.
You know what serpents do, of course. They tempt you. These particular neon serpents were saying, "Come in. Have a drink. You've got nothing to do tonight anyway, and nobody to do it with. Sit down. Place your order. Relax. You're due for a little relaxation after six months in prison. It's a long sentence. You know what a con does after he's sprung. You're entitled to a little fun."
There were serpents all around me. Serpents spelling out the names of taverns, night-clubs, come-on joints, clips, dives. All I had to do was take my choice.
Instead, I walked back to the hotel, went in the lobby, and checked with the night clerk to make sure my telegram was really on the way to the carney. Then I went up to my room and rid myself of all money except for a ten-dollar bill. I wasn't taking any chances on getting rolled.
The night was still young. I'd probably feel young myself with a few drinks in me. I went back down to the lobby a
nd toyed with the notion of the hotel bar.
The improbable redhead had disappeared, and so had the house dick. The place was almost deserted now. Almost, but not quite. There was a blonde sitting in a chair near the elevator. I'd looked at her once when I'd come downstairs and now I looked at her again.
She was worth a second look.
Genuine. That's the only word to describe her. Genuine. To begin with, she was a real blonde. No peroxide glint, no unnatural accent in makeup. The fur she wore was real, and so were the diamonds.
Those diamonds really stopped me. The ring was too big to be phoney. Even if the stone were flawed, it must have set her (or somebody) back a pretty penny. And the same went for the big choker that clung to her neck in a glittering caress.
Her smile seemed genuine, too.
And that was the phoney part.
Why should she smile at me? Me, with my forty-dollar suit and my ten-dollar bill tucked away in its watch pocket?
I didn't get it. And I didn't want it. I walked towards the lobby entrance to the hotel bar. She stood up and followed.
I walked into the dimly-lit bar, around it, and out the front door to the street. I'd do my drinking somewhere else, thank you.
There was a little place across the street down the block. I ran into it, crossing in mid-traffic. Before I opened the door I glanced back to make sure that she wasn't following. Then I went in.
The joint was small - an oval bar and five or six booths grouped on either side of a juke-box. The bartender on duty was lonesome.
"What'll it be, Mac?"
"Rye. Top shelf."
He poured. I drank. Just like that. Fast. The stuff was bonded, like a bank messenger.
"Refill, please."
He poured. I watched his black bowtie. It was beginning to wobble in anticipation of the conversation forming in his larynx. Abruptly it stopped wobbling.
Because the door opened and she came in. Big as life, and even blonder. The neon on the juke-box did things to her diamond choker.
There was no place to hide. No real reason for me to hide, for that matter. She came right over, sat down, motioned to the bartender. "The same," she said. Nice, rich, husky voice.
She watched the man pour, then transferred her gaze to me. Her eyes matched the diamonds she was wearing.
"Let's sit in a booth," she suggested.
"Why?"
"We can talk there."
"What's wrong with right here?"
"If you prefer."
"What's the proposition?"
"I want you to come with me, to meet somebody."
"You'll have to talk plainer than that, lady."
"I said we should take a booth."
"Nothing wrong with mentioning names right here in the open."
"No." She shook her head. Those diamonds shed enough light to blind a pedestrian walking across the street. "I am not permitted to mention names yet. But it will be to your advantage to come with me."
"Sorry, lady. I'd have to know more about it." I looked down at my glass. "For example, who sent you to me. How you found me. Little details like that. Maybe they're nothing to you. Me, I find them fascinating."
"This is no time to make jokes."
"I'm serious. And I say I'm not playing unless you tell me the name of the team."
"All right, Bob. But - "
That did it. The name. Of course, she could have picked it up off the hotel register easily enough. But it jarred me more than anything else up to that point. It jarred me right on down to my feet.
"Good-night," I said.
She didn't answer. As I walked out, she was still staring at me. Blue diamond eyes winked me out of the tavern.
I walked out. I didn't go back to my room and I didn't go to another tavern. I headed north, crossed under the El tracks into the Loop. There was a burlesque show. I bought a ticket and sat through a dreary performance of which I remember nothing except the old blackout skit about the photographer in the park who complained that the squirrels were nibbling his equipment.
I spent my time trying to fit the pieces together. Who was this girl? A friend of Cono's? A friend of Flo's? A friend of the Great Ahmed's? A friend of the carney advance man? Or just a friend?
Cono was dead and Flo was dead. They couldn't tell her where to find me. Ahmed didn't know I existed, let alone where I was. The carney advance man wouldn't know my address until the telegram arrived.
Could it be that she had a line into the prison and had learned I was about to receive eight thousand dollars?
Was she simply working the hotel, picking my name from the register at random?
But if so, what was this story about a proposition, and meeting somebody?
It didn't make sense. I sat there a while and tried to figure the deal out, then I left.
Eleven o'clock. I headed back to the hotel. This time I peeked into the lobby before entering. She wasn't around. I slid unobtrusively past the entrance so the night clerk wouldn't pay attention. He was reading a science fiction magazine and didn't look up.
The elevator operator took me to the fifth floor without removing his eyes from the Racing Form. Quite a bunch of students in this hotel. Probably working their way through mortician's school.
I walked down to the door of my room very quietly. I listened at the keyhole before I unlocked the door. Then I opened it fast and switched on the light.
No blonde.
I examined the closet, the washroom. Still no blonde. Then and only then I went to the phone, called room service, and ordered a pint of rye and some ice.
It was still Saturday night and I was still entitled to a drink, without strange blondes butting in.
But when the drinks came, I found the blonde was still with me. Prancing around inside my skull, making propositions, winking her diamonds at me.
It didn't take me long to finish the bottle and it didn't take the bottle long to finish me.
Somewhere along the line I managed to undress, don pyjamas, and slump across the bed. Somewhere along the line I drifted off to sleep.
And that's when it started.
I was back in the burlesque house, sitting in the crummy seat, watching the stage. This time the performance was more interesting. There was a new comic in the cast - a tall fellow with a shaved head. He looked something like Cono. In fact, he was Cono. Big as life. A chorus line danced out behind him; eight, count 'em, eight nifty little numbers. They danced, kicked, whirled. Cono noticed them. He did a little shuffling dance of his own, gyrating to the end of the line. Then he reached out - in the old familiar gesture used by the late Ted Healy in chastising his stooges - and flicked them across the neck. One by one. As his fingers touched each girl in turn, she changed.
Heads dangled limply from broken necks. The eight dancing girls became eight dancing cadavers. Eight, count 'em, eight. The dancing dead. The dancing dead, with skulls for heads. Skulls with diamond eyes.
Dead arms reached out and scrabbled in dead skull-sockets. They picked out the diamonds and threw them at me. I twisted and turned, sweated and squirmed, but I couldn't dodge. The diamonds hit me, seared me with icy fire.
Cono laughed. The girls danced off stage and he was all alone. All alone except for the chair. It stood there in the centre of the stage and the lights went down. As the spotlight narrowed, Cono moved towards its centre, closer to the chair. He had to stay within the circle of light or die.
Then the circle narrowed still further and he was sitting in the chair. As if by magic, squirrels danced out on the stage. They each carried a tiny thong, and each bound the thong around Cono's arm or leg or neck until he sat there crisscrossed with thongs that lashed him to the chair.
I don't have to tell you what kind of a chair it was. What else would it be?
And I don't have to tell you what was going to happen next. Even in my dream I knew it, and I struggled frantically to wake up.
But I couldn't. I couldn't even leave my seat in the theatre. Because while I h
ad been watching Cono getting bound into the chair, somebody had bound me!
Now I was sitting in an electric chair, hands tied, feet tied, electrodes clamped and ready. I tugged and tore, but I couldn't move. They had me, all right. It had all been a trick, a dirty trick to get my attention away from myself.
I knew that now. Because suddenly Cono burst his bonds with a flick of his fingers, the same fingers that had killed the dancing girls. He stood up and laughed because it was a joke. A joke on me.
He wasn't going to die. I was. He'd live. He'd get the eight thousand dollars and the blonde, and I'd fry. Just as soon as they turned on the juice. The bonded juice. The neon lights were winking now and the bartender was ready to pull the switch as soon as the conductor called out "Chicago!" and now they were getting ready to give the signal. While waiting, Cono stood on the stage and amused me with card tricks. He pulled the Ace of Spades out of his mouth and held it up for me to see.
Then it was time. Somebody came onstage and handed him a telegram from the carney and that was the signal for them to yell "Chicago!"
The switch was ready. I felt the cold sweat running down my spine, felt the electrodes bite into the side of my leg, the side of my head. And then, they pulled the switch -
I woke up.
I woke up, sat up in bed and stared out the window.
Through the windowpane, the blonde stared back at me.
I could only see her face, and that was funny, because it was a full window. Then I realized it was because she wasn't vertical, but horizontal. And only her face was pointed towards me.
Shall I make it plainer?
I mean she was floating in empty air outside my window.
Floating in empty air and smiling at me with her icy eyes aglitter.
Then I really woke up.
The second dream, or the second part of the dream, was so real I had to stagger over to the window and convince myself that there was no one outside. It took me a minute before my trembling legs would support me and carry me that distance, so if she really had been at the window there'd have been enough time for her to get back down the fire escape and disappear.
Stephen Jones (ed) Page 52
