Square in the Middle

by William Campbell Gault

  “Nothing. The report I got, it proved nothing. I’ll be back.” He went into the house through the service entrance door.

  “Did he look jealous?” Rita asked me. “Didn’t he seem annoyed at finding you here?”

  “I didn’t notice it.”

  “He was so formal, calling you Mr. Gulliver.”

  “Mike’s a businessman, and working for me, right now. Do you like him? Do you want him jealous?”

  She shrugged. “I like to think I’m attractive.”

  “You are attractive,” I said, “even though illiterate. Where is your dictionary?”

  “In the house. I’ll get it” She rose and went through the same doorway Mike had used.

  Being single has its advantages. Of course, being married to Rita would have more advantages under the community property laws in this state.

  Rita came back without the dictionary in a few minutes. “I can’t seem to find it,” she told me.

  “You found it and found me right, you mean.”

  Then Mike Chopko came out, tanned and broad and beautiful, and I saw the look in Rita’s eyes. I couldn’t tell if it was love or lust, but I knew it wasn’t disapproval.

  I said quietly, “I’ll go, I’ll go. I’ll just be in the way here.”

  She patted my hand. “You stay, Jim. We’re going to have a good Sunday.”

  “And you never would have known him if it weren’t for me,” I told her. “All right, I’ll stay.”

  I didn’t go into the water again. I stayed in the shade and watched them play, a couple of healthy and attractive animals putting a sunny Sunday to its proper use. Rita had come out from the gloom of Tom’s infidelity and death.

  And then the thought came to me that she had recovered from his infidelity since his death. I shook the thought off. It seemed I was suspicious of everybody.

  We had the steaks around three o’clock, along with a big bowl of salad and some wonderful hot English muffins. And then Rita and Mike gave me a demonstration of the mambo and Rita insisted I try it with her. I thought I did pretty well, but it was a minority opinion.

  We had a few drinks and watched TV and then Mike went out to get some logs for a fire.

  I said, “Nice guy, isn’t he?”

  “Nice, poor guy,” she said. “And proud. I’m dead there.”

  “Has he said so?”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t even know I’ve got the net out. But I can tell. He’s the stiff-necked kind.”

  “I’ll hold my thumbs for you,” I said. “We live in hope.”

  “And I’ll hold mine for you,” she said. “We’ll pray for each other.”

  Mike came in and I said, “Well, it’s been a wonderful day, but I’ve a few things I still have to do before tomorrow. Thanks a lot for the Sunday, Rita.”

  I had nowhere to go and nothing to do, but the girl deserved her chance. I went out into a cold clear night and down to the car and into the Sunday going-home traffic of Sunset Boulevard.

  eleven

  I could have afforded a pool for the back yard. I could have learned to mambo. I could have gone to Lake Arrowhead with Carol, or to a hundred other places. A bar isn’t the only refuge from boredom; it’s just the easiest. And in the long run, it costs more than a pool or dancing lessons or trips to anywhere, including the moon.

  On Wilshire, Heeney’s blinked at me but I drove on to the motel. I took Mike’s reports in with me. I had my coat and tie and shoes off and was preparing to settle down with the reports when there was a knock at the door.

  I opened it and looked out at Sergeant Ernest Dyke.

  “I just happened to be passing by,” he said, “and I saw you turn in. Where have you been?”

  “Visiting a friend. Aren’t you out of your bailiwick, Sergeant?”

  “A little. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  I paused a second, and then stepped away from the open door. He came in, glanced briefly around, and went over to sit in an upholstered pull-up chair. I went over to sit on the bed.

  He glanced around again and said, “TV and everything, eh?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He took out a cigar. “I may smoke?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  He pulled an ashstand near and lighted the cigar. He inhaled and blew out a cloud of smoke.

  “You didn’t drop in just to smoke, did you, Sergeant?”

  “No. I — don’t know where to begin. How did you ever get tangled up with such a bunch of bums?”

  “I didn’t know they were bums. Do you know it?”

  “Two of them have serious records. One for pushing dope and one for prostitution.”

  “Which two?”

  “Pete Durkin and Sylvia Lester.”

  “I don’t know either one of them.”

  “They were at the party.”

  “Anybody’s liable to drop in at a Canyon party, Sergeant. It doesn’t mean they were invited.”

  “Okay, then, we’ll narrow it to the local bunch. All dead beats; you’re a pretty solid citizen to get mixed up with people like that.”

  “I was a pretty solid citizen, Sergeant, until you and your scandal-happy friends did a job on me.”

  Silence, except for the hum of traffic on Wilshire. He started to say something, and stopped. A moment, and he said, “This George Wallace has gone through bankruptcy twice.”

  I said nothing.

  “That Teller girl just barely beat a manslaughter rap on a drunken driving charge.”

  I didn’t comment.

  Dyke considered the end of his cigar thoughtfully. “I went over to see your wife yesterday. I saw her, and the kids. Wonderful family, Gulliver. A beautiful wife.”

  I looked at the floor.

  Dyke’s voice was suddenly harsh. “For Christ’s sake, why this Bedloe woman?”

  I looked at him. “I don’t know, Sergeant. I’m not a psychiatrist. But it happens all the time, every night. What doesn’t happen is what happened to me after that. For which you are primarily responsible. Didn’t you ever commit adultery, Sergeant?”

  “Not with a bar pick-up, damn it.”

  “I hope you do, some time,” I said quietly, “and I hope you get caught at it and get crucified. And I’ll tell you something else; I hope I’m in a position, some day, where I can do you some damage.”

  He stared at me, his face shocked and rigid. “Maybe you’re not such a solid citizen after all….”

  “That could be, Sergeant. Maybe I just look like one.”

  He took a deep breath, rolling his cigar in the fingers of one hand. “You hate me, and maybe you’ve reason to. So I’ll overlook the remarks. But there’s no reason for you to dummy up like the rest of them. You know the bunch, but you’re not really part of them. You’re a better breed than they are, and we both know it.”

  “I’m not withholding anything. What makes you think I am?”

  “You changed your original story, didn’t you? You lied to me the first time. And that business about going over to see Edlinger about a house was phony. Your wife told me you weren’t contemplating buying a new house. You turned down a good offer for yours less than a month ago.”

  “I told you that because my real reason for going over there made less sense.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I looked at my hands. “I wanted to talk to Tom Edlinger about Lynn Bedloe. I wanted to see if we couldn’t work out something together to get the kid straightened out.”

  “She’s no kid. She’s twenty-eight.”

  “She’s still a kid, and worth saving. I thought she and Tom liked each other a lot and I thought Tom Edlinger was a prosperous and talented gent. I’ve learned since his death that he was neither, but I didn’t know it at the time.”

  “His former wife had the money?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you paid up Miss Bedloe’s debts, too, didn’t you?”

  I stared at him. “You do get around, don’t you, Se
rgeant?”

  “We work. And people send us information from all over. That would have made an interesting newspaper story, Gulliver.”

  “It probably will.”

  He shook his head. “It won’t. A packet of your firm matches was found in Edlinger’s living room. How did they get there?”

  “I’ve no idea. Somebody at the party could have had them or could have borrowed them from me. They’re advertising matches and we try to spread them around.”

  “Maybe. Who borrowed a match from you that night?”

  “I don’t remember. I remember somebody did. I even remember the person made a crack about whether he’d be charged interest for them.”

  “He …? A man?”

  “I can’t say. I’m just guessing.”

  “It would help if you remembered.”

  “I’ll do my damnedest, Sergeant. I promise.”

  He looked at his cigar, which had gone out. “And — uh, this money you paid to keep Miss Bedloe’s credit intact — what did you expect that would buy you?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  He smiled, and shook his head.

  “It’s crazy,” I admitted. “Maybe I am.”

  “Maybe. You’re not out of the woods, understand, Gulliver? The fact that you sent personal checks to Miss Bedloe’s creditors is in your favor, but the fact that you paid them at all would count against you. You beat me, frankly; I can’t figure you a nickel’s worth.”

  “It’s mutual, Sergeant,” I said.

  He didn’t answer. He stood up and looked wonderingly at me. Then he said. “Well, you’ve some powerful friends. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of them.” His smile was sarcastic.

  I stood up. “Don’t let me keep you from more important duties, Sergeant.”

  “Gutty, too,” he said mildly. “Good night, Gulliver. Work with us and you could still come out on top.”

  I nodded. “Good night, Dyke.”

  “Sergeant Dyke,” he corrected me.

  “And Mr. Gulliver,” I added. “I’m not in the line-up, yet, Sergeant.”

  “All right, all right … Good night, Mr. Gulliver.” He gave me one more small sarcastic smile before going through the door.

  Anger stirred in me and I went to the window to watch his car drive out of the parking area. I was restless and I knew I wouldn’t sleep. I put on my shoes and a clean shirt and a heavy sports jacket and walked over to Heeney’s.

  Heeney was behind the bar. I looked over at the corner booth, but none of the gang was there. Heeney said, “What’ll it be, Mr. Gulliver?”

  “Bourbon and water. You look sick, Al.”

  “I’m all right. I get sick of this business, at times.” He put some ice cubes into a glass and poured a shot of whiskey over them. He added water.

  “I understand Tom Edlinger had quite a bar bill here,” I said.

  He shrugged.

  I asked, “Have many credit losses, Al?”

  “No more than any of the others, I guess. When you sell booze, you’re bound to run into some bad risks.” He went over to wash out some glasses.

  A moralist, and behind a bar. He’d take the profit from it without approving of the trade. I asked him, “Don’t you use soap?”

  “On glasses?” He shook his head. “Especially beer glasses.”

  “If you used soap,” I pointed out, “you could get your hands clean at the same time.”

  He stopped washing and looked at me. “I don’t quite understand that, Mr. Gulliver.”

  “Work on it,” I said. I gulped my drink, turned around and walked out.

  I walked east on Wilshire for block after block, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. I’d had a good day up until Sergeant Dyke’s visit; he and Heeney had managed to put a sour night cap on it.

  I’d walked farther than I’d meant to and I was tired by the time I’d made the return trip. I took a hot and soapy shower and was asleep only a few minutes after hitting the sack.

  • • •

  The morning was gray and cold, tinged with carbon monoxide. In the room above, somebody seemed to be walking around in wooden shoes. I closed the window and turned up the heat.

  Shaving, I thought back on the week end and my two social calls. What had I learned? Nothing. Had I gone out to learn anything, or just to find an ear? I wasn’t sure in my own mind. Maybe I didn’t want to learn anything; maybe I was getting infected with the plague of the Heeney gang, group loyalty.

  I went through the leisurely breakfast routine again and then, walking slowly to the office, I almost passed an open flower shop. I paused for a few seconds and went in.

  I ordered fifty dollars’ worth of roses sent to Mrs. Rita Edlinger of Bel Air, and I enclosed a card:

  With love, with hope and prayer for both of us.

  Jim

  I was going to add a “Gulliver” to that “Jim,” but the way it turned out, it was lucky I didn’t.

  Max was talking to Miss Padbury when I entered the office. Miss Padbury was saying “… and he certainly didn’t look like any deal was off when he left here Saturday morning.”

  Max looked at me and shrugged. “Miss Padbury thinks we’re still working with Colonel Dean. She wants in.”

  Miss Padbury looked at me, too. “You promised me, Mr. Gulliver.”

  I nodded. “I know I did. But we’re not buying the property we originally planned on buying. If Mr. Schuman needs your money on the new deal, I’ll agree to his accepting it. But let me warn you, it’s highly speculative and you might get burned. And if you do get burned, I don’t want to see any tears.”

  Miss Padbury said stiffly, “I haven’t cried since I was five years old, Mr. Gulliver.”

  Max shook his head and looked between us. Then he said, “All right, Miss Padbury. I’ll let you know this afternoon.” He followed me into my office.

  He closed the door before asking, “Where the hell were you all through the week end? I phoned you a dozen times.”

  “At a Bel Air retreat, meditating. Why did you want me?”

  “I wanted you to spend Sunday with us.” He looked away, seemingly embarrassed. “I — was worried about you, Jim.”

  I smiled. “To use your phraseology, you bury me, Max, you simply bury me.”

  He looked at me curiously. “What do you mean?”

  “This new — tenderness of yours. You’re like a mother hen. I’m a big boy, Max.”

  “You’re a big farmer. Who lives in Bel Air?”

  “Oh, a number of my wealthy friends. This one, unfortunately, is a Democrat.”

  He stared at me. “I know. That Mexican broad, that Edlinger dame.”

  “A Spanish lady, not a Mexican broad.”

  “Oi …” He grimaced. “You sure stick your neck out, don’t you? When the hell did you get on this quail kick?”

  “Nothing happened, Max. It was as clean as that Sunday air. Wasn’t it a beautiful day?”

  He nodded, still staring at me. “You’re feeling better, aren’t you? You’ve made up with Carol.”

  I shook my head. “Nope. But I’m feeling some better. I’ve a Pollyanna streak in me, I guess. I gave George Wallace the bad news.”

  “You didn’t give it to him strong enough. He phoned me yesterday and talked for forty minutes. Man, he’s desperate. If he was any kind of risk at all, we could bleed him white.”

  “You’re talking like the Beverly Hills boys now, Max. We don’t bleed anybody white.”

  He smiled. “No, just a sort of putty-gray. Are you going to stay in the office today? I have to see some people.”

  “I’ll be here,” I said, “holding down the fort.”

  He glanced at me suspiciously and went out. I went over to study the portraits of Carol, Sue and young Jim and then went to my desk to study the business report of the Security-First National Bank.

  We were in a slightly inflationary period, according to the report. The Southern California building boom had slackened a trifle, but indic
ations were that it was only temporary. The movie studios showed greatly increased third-quarter earnings and studio employment was up.

  At its peak, the studios only employed about twelve thousand people. The aircraft industry out here employed nearly two hundred thousand but the current boom in that was geared to defense demands. We needed the threat of war to keep it humming.

  The threat of war we had, and might have through this generation. The threat of war was better than the reality of war, but probably sent a lot of men into bars who would be of more use in the army.

  I went through all the mail, and dictated a dozen letters to Miss Padbury. Then I went over the books, analyzing our present state of solvency and return. It was amazing the amount of our own money we had out working, all from an original capital of six thousand dollars. And the total of our clients’ money was eight times as much as our own, and these were just our regular clients, not the fast deals on which we took our commissions and got out.

  It was an inflationary time and an inflationary area. But even against that background, we had done exceptionally well. And I knew that more than fifty percent of our success was due to Max Schuman. Max could make figures dance and money sing.

  I had lunch sent in and continued to check the books, looking for slow accounts, for low return items we could discount for more working capital.

  I didn’t hear Max come into my office around 3:30. He said, “Shylock’s got his nose in the books again. What crumby little thirty percent return are we discounting next?”

  I smiled at him. “Don’t call me Shylock, Max. It’s anti-Semitic.”

  He laughed. “What did you find, Casanova?”

  “Oh, a few. You look happy. Good day?”

  “Good day. I’ll sit out the rest of it here. Go and get some of that sun that came out an hour ago.”

  I hadn’t even noticed it. I went over to the window to look out at a newly bright day. My phone rang, and Max picked it up.

  “Yes?” he said. “Just a moment, please.”

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece and said softly to me, “George Wallace. He wants only you.”

  “Tell him I just left.”

  Max said, “He just left, George.” A pause. “I … I’m not sure. One moment, I’ll see if Miss Padbury has it.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece again. “He wants your number.”