Mark the Sparrow

by Clark Howard

  “All right,” Whitman said at last, his voice habitually lowering. “I’ll level with you. I’ll lay it out for you, and you can handle it whatever way you want. But there are a couple of things that will have to be on my terms. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Weldon Whitman swallowed hard and leaned forward with both elbows on the divided counter. He put his hands on each side of his mouth to cup his words. “I pulled the burglary and all the robberies except the Calder and Luza jobs. And the stolen car; I didn’t do that either. The car was grabbed by the guy who was the lookout for me when I hit that menswear store. That was the last job before I was busted. I had just dropped this guy off and was on my way to put the car and the hot merchandise in a garage we had rented when the radio car spotted me.”

  “This guy was somebody you pulled jobs with?”

  “Yeah, sometimes. We weren’t full-time partners or anything like that. We usually worked alone, but sometimes we threw in together.”

  “Is he the Spotlight Bandit, Whit?” Cloud asked quietly.

  “He could be,” Whitman said. “I learned the spotlight gimmick from him. And he’s just the kind of asshole who would mix business with sex—dumb stunts like the Calder and Luza jobs.”

  “Will you tell me who he is, Whit? Let me go after him to clear you?”

  The condemned man shook his head emphatically. “Definitely not. That’s one thing that will have to be my way. I won’t blow the whistle on another guy. If I had wanted to go that route, I could have done it with the cops or the D.A.’s office.” Whitman jabbed a stiff forefinger into the palm of his hand. “If I beat the Calder and Luza crimes, it will be because we proved that I was innocent, not that somebody else guilty. And if you can’t go along with that, Rob, we’ll have to stop the streetcar right here. I don’t fink—period.”

  “Okay, okay,” Cloud said, raising a placating hand. “It’s your—” He stopped, realizing what he was about to say.

  “You’re right,” Whitman finished the sentence for him. “It is my life. And I’ve got to live it my way. Besides, if I copped out on this guy, he’d get back at me—hard.”

  “How? You’re better guarded right now than the president.”

  “There are other ways to get back at a man besides hurting him personally,” Whitman said darkly.

  Cloud frowned. “Your ex-wife?”

  “Let’s just say there are ways he could do it, and leave it at that, okay?” Whitman’s tone became more irritable. “I thought you promised to forget about my ex-wife. I don’t want her involved in this fucking mess, okay?”

  Cloud’s placating hand came up again. “Sorry I mentioned her.”

  Both men fell silent for a moment, avoiding each other’s eyes. Whitman busied himself putting out his cigarette. Cloud lighted one.

  “What’s the first article going to be about?” Whitman asked finally, his tone calmer.

  “I want to shoot for something dramatic,” Cloud said. “Do you remember what I wrote you about Doris Calder and Klein? We could do an article saying that while Klein’s relationship with Doris Calder may not have influenced his prosecution, it could well influence the D.A.’s office to oppose any appeals you might file.”

  Whitman leaned forward, smiling. “How would you like to convince yourself that I didn’t pull those particular spot-light jobs?”

  Cloud’s eyebrows raised in interest. “How?”

  “The guy I was telling you about: we did time together in Folsom, used to shower in the same group. Naturally when you shower with a guy enough, you’re bound to notice how he’s hung. Well, this ex-partner of mine has never been circumcised, see? He’s got enough foreskin to hold a couple of marbles.”

  Cloud shrugged. “So.”

  “So I have been clipped, man. And clipped good. Now, I don’t know about that Luza kid, she’s kind of young so she, might not know about things like that; but the Calder broad has been around. She would defintely know a circumcised dick from an uncircumcised dick—even in the dark. If you could interview her and get her to tell you whether she had to skin that guy’s joint back before she sucked him—”

  “That wouldn’t be easy,” Cloud said skeptically. But the idea immediately intrigued him. “Still, she doesn’t know me. Klein may have mentioned my name, of course—”

  “It’s worth a try,” Whitman said, “even if it’s a long chance. If you get that broad to make a positive statement—”

  “Suppose I do?” Cloud said. “How do we establish that you have been circumcised?”

  “I’ll petition the Marin County Superior Court to order the San Quentin medical officer to conduct an examination of my dick and attest that I have no foreskin. It’s a simple legal move.”

  Cloud thought about it a moment, then nodded enthusiastically. “Okay. Let’s give it a shot.”

  Before Cloud left that day, Whitman, as casually as possible, said, “Incidentally, we’re working against a deadline now. The state Supreme Court affirmed all my sentences. My date has been set for June first.”

  Cloud nodded slowly. June first. Less than four months away.

  Robert Cloud returned to Los Angeles two weeks after he had left. He flew down from Sacramento on a morning commuter flight and checked into the International Hotel across the street from the airport. After quickly unpacking his overnight bag, he dialed the telephone number of Alicia’s Style Shoppe, a beauty salon in the South Bay area where Doris Calder worked.

  “May I speak to Doris Calder, please?”

  A moment later, Doris Calder came on the line.

  “Mrs. Calder, I’m a freelance magazine writer in town to collect material for an article on capital punishment.” Cloud told her. “I’d very much like to interview you about the Weldon Whitman case. It would only take an hour or so, and I’d be happy to pay you for your time.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Doris Calder’s voice was at once scratchy and sensuous. “I haven’t given any interviews about what happened, you know. It’s not something I like talking about.”

  “I realize that, Mrs. Calder. That’s why I’m offering to pay.”

  She was silent for a moment. Then: “How much were you thinking of paying?”

  “For a short interview, an hour or so, I’d pay a hundred dollars. I’m at the International Hotel, if you could come by after work—”

  “Could we do it on my lunch hour?” she asked. “There’s a cocktail lounge near here called Bruno’s; they don’t exactly serve lunch, but you can get a sandwich, and they have cheese bits and such to munch on.”

  “Sounds fine to me,” Cloud said at once. “Why don’t you give me the address and I’ll meet you there?”

  Bruno’s was on the edge of the South Bay shopping center. Cloud arrived a few minutes early and got a back booth, away from the jukebox. He sipped a glass of beer slowly as the noon crowd started trickling in. Doris Calder came in at five of twelve, wearing a green nylon beautician’s uniform that outlined her excellent figure very nicely. Her blonde hair was styled rather conservatively and she was wearing only a trace of makeup. Cloud got up and went over to her.

  “Hello, Mrs. Calder. I’m Robert Cloud.”

  “Oh, hello. How’d you know it was me?”

  “I figured you’d be wearing a beautician’s uniform.”

  As they sat down in the booth, Doris Calder said, “How did you know where to find me anyway?”

  “It’s in the trial record,” Cloud replied truthfully. “Would you like a drink and a sandwich?”

  “I shouldn’t have a drink at lunchtime, I don’t suppose—”

  “One won’t hurt. What would you like?”

  “A vodka martini.”

  Cloud ordered her drink, their sandwiches, and another beer for himself.

  “Which magazine do you work for?” she wanted to know.

  “I don’t work for one particular magazine,” he said. “I’m a freelance writer. I’ll do the article and then sell it to whichever magazine wan
ts it.”

  “Does that mean I don’t get the hundred dollars until you sell the story?”

  “Not at all. You get the hundred as soon as I get the interview.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. For a second I thought maybe you’d got me here under false pretenses.”

  The waitress brought their sandwiches and drinks. Doris drank half her martini and began to eat. “So interview,” she said.

  “Okay.” Cloud took out a pocket notebook and ballpoint. “You said on the phone that this was not something you liked to talk about. Did you mean that it upsets you emotionally to talk about it, or is it just distasteful to you?”

  “Both, I guess. But more distasteful than emotional.” She took a sip of her drink. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “Sure.” Cloud took a bite of his sandwich. “Now that sometime has passed since the incident occurred, do you think the memory of it is fading any? Or is it still constantly on your mind, as you testified at the trial?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s constantly on my mind anymore. I still think about it; just not as much, I guess.”

  “Do you think you’re going to have any permanent psychological problems as a result of what happened?”

  She sipped at the martini again and frowned. “I’m not sure I know what kind of problems you mean.”

  “May I be rather personal with you?”

  “Why not?” she said, shrugging. She finished her drink and Cloud signaled for another one.

  “What I mean is, do you think you’ll be able—or have you already been able—to resume a normal sex life?”

  Doris Calder did not answer at once. Cloud waited, sipping at his beer. The cocktail waitress brought Doris Calder’s fresh drink.

  “Am I being too personal?” Cloud asked. “I don’t intend to be. I mean, you’re obviously a very sophisticated, very attractive woman—”

  “You’re not getting too personal,” she assured him, patting his hand. She sipped at her fresh drink. “I haven’t had any problem at all with my sex life, either before or after,” she said candidly.

  Cloud made some illegible marks in his notebook. “Do you still remember Whitman? I mean what he looked like, the sound of his voice, things like that?”

  “Sure,” she said nonchalantly. “I can even remember how he smelled. He smelled kind of woolly, you know what I mean? Did you ever smell wet wool? Well, that’s how he smelled, or at least how his clothes smelled. I thought afterward that he might have been wearing a wool shirt; it was kind of cool that evening, and it had been raining earlier. But when I told the police about it, they didn’t seem too interested.”

  “Was there ever any doubt in your mind that it was Weldon Whitman who kidnapped you?” Cloud asked quietly.

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why would you ask a question like that?”

  “No reason,” Cloud told her, shrugging it off. “I just want to be able to quote you, that’s all.”

  Doris Calder finished her second drink. “The guy’s going to the gas chamber, isn’t he? How could it not be him?” “You’re right,” he said placatingly. He noticed she had finished eating. “Listen, how about another sandwich?” She shook her head. “Okay, just one more drink then and that’s all.” He signaled the waitress again before she could protest.

  “You know what would really help me sell this story?” he said when she was working on her third martini. “If you could give me some little something to put in it nobody’s used before.”

  “What kind of some little something?” she asked. “You mean like the woolly smell?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Only something that you haven’t even told the police. Something that might have occurred to you since then.”

  “I sure as hell don’t know what it would be,” she said.

  “Think about it,” Cloud prompted. “You were in the car with him for about twenty minutes, if I remember your testimony right. There must be something that we can use to really personalize this interview—”

  Doris Calder drank some more and shook her head. “You might be able to think of something, but I sure as hell can’t—”

  Cloud leaned a little closer to her. “Listen, do you mind if I get personal again?”

  “Go ahead. It’s your money.”

  “Suppose I could think of something? Something, well—a little intimate, but something I’m sure no one else has ever asked you—”

  “How intimate?” she asked curiously.

  “Very intimate,” he asked, “but not difficult to answer, not if you remember that night as well as you say you do.”

  “I remember it,” she assured him.

  “Then tell me something—”

  “What?” Doris Calder leaned as close to him as she could. Cloud’s next words were a whisper.

  “Did you have to skin his penis back before you put it in your mouth?”

  For a moment she frowned; then sat back from Cloud and nodded with sudden, surprising emphasis. “Did I! I’ll say I did! That guy had enough foreskin for two pricks—oops, excuse my French.” She pushed her glass away. “I think I’ve had a little too much too quick. I’ve got a color rinse this afternoon that’s liable to come out red, white, and blue if I take another single sip.” She looked at her watch. “Jesus, it’s one already. Times sure flies when you’re having fun. Did you get your hundred dollars’ worth?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Cloud said quietly. He gave her an envelope containing a hundred dollars that he and Genevieve Neller had chipped in together.

  “Listen, be sure and let me know which magazine the story’s going to be in—”

  “I will,” Cloud promised.

  Doris Calder got out of the booth, took a second to steady herself, and headed for the door, turning and saying. “’Bye,” as she left. Cloud nodded and watched her leave.

  That settled it: Weldon Whitman was innocent.

  Cloud began work on his first Whitman article that afternoon, working on his portable typewriter in the hotel room. The title he gave it was “Is Jealousy Sending This Man to the Gas Chamber?” He set forth all he knew about the relationship between Doris Calder and G. Foster Klein, including Klein’s role in her son’s case. The implication of the story was clear: it was not impossible that Klein had overzealously prosecuted Weldon Whitman after becoming emotionally involved with one of the leading witnesses against him.

  The story further implied that Klein, as an officer of the court obligated to introduce evidence favorable as well as damaging to a defendant in a criminal case, would be derelict in his duty if he failed to pursue the irrefutable information obtained from Doris Calder: namely, that Mrs. Calder’s assailant was uncircumcised, while Weldon Whitman had been certified as circumcised.

  It was a good story; the writing went well. Cloud did ten pages before going downstairs for dinner at six. He was back by seven and was on page sixteen when he heard a knock at the door. He stopped typing. Who in the hell could that be? No one knew he was staying there except Doris Calder—

  The knock sounded again. Cloud went to the door. “Yes?”

  “Police. Open the door, please,”

  Cloud opened the door and found G. Foster Klein and two other men in the hall.

  “Hello, Cloud,” said the dapper little prosecutor. He walked right in, followed by the two men. “Lieutenant Kretz and Sergeant Lowe of the Sheriff’s Department. We don’t need a warrant to enter, since we have permission of the hotel manager.” He turned in the center of the room and faced Cloud. “Understand you’re now a freelance magazine writer.”

  “That’s right,” Cloud said coolly.

  Klein walked over to the desk, looked at the stack of finished pages, and read the title aloud: “‘Is Jealousy Sending This Man to the Gas Chamber?’” His eyebrows went up. He started skimming rapidly—a few lines here, a paragraph there: enough to get the general idea of the piece. Twice he grunted softly, twice he shook his head in amusement, once he paused to look at Cloud in
utter disgust. “What a lot of unadulterated bullshit,” he said when he finished reading. “You’re not seriously thinking of having this printed in a magazine?”

  “You bet I am.”

  Klein snorted. “Why, I could sue for libel eighteen different ways on the basis of this.”

  “That would be between you and the magazine.”

  “Which magazine is it?”

  Cloud shrugged. “Whichever one will give Weldon Whitman’s story the broadest coverage.”

  “Then you really are going through with this insanity?”

  “You bet I am.”

  “Well, we’ll see just how far you get,” Klein bristled. He began gathering up all the typed pages.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Cloud snapped. He started to move toward Klein, but as he did so the two sheriff’s detectives stepped in to intercept him. Cloud stopped. “You have no right to take those pages,” he said angrily.

  “I’m confiscating this story on the ground that I have reasonable cause to suspect that its contents may constitute criminal libel—”

  “Talk about unadulterated bullshit!” Cloud snapped. He stepped back and folded his arms defiantly. “Okay, go ahead and take the pages. I can’t stop you, not with your two Gestapo men here. But you’re not really taking anything, you know. The story’s not just on those pages; it’s in my head. How do you plan to take that?”

  G. Foster Klein looked intently at Cloud. His indignation, so dominant just seconds before, wavered now and dissolved. Despite the bluster, Cloud thought he detected a troubled look in the little prosecutor’s eyes.

  Klein finally sighed wearily and put the types pages back down in a neat stack. He turned to the detectives.

  “Gentlemen, I wonder if you’d mind waiting for me in the lobby.” When they were gone, Klein clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders. “Cloud, I’d like to discuss this matter with you on a man-to-man basis. May I sit down?”

  “Go ahead,” Cloud said. Klein moved Cloud’s typing chair away from the writing desk and sat down. Cloud sat on the edge of the bed.