One Lonely Night

by Mickey Spillane

  “I see. I don’t understand, but I see ... if you can make sense of that.”

  I waved the smoke away from in front of him. “I know what you mean. Now about why you wanted to see me. Pat gave me part of it already, enough so I can see the rest.”

  “Yes. You see, Oscar intimated that no matter what happened, he was going to see to it that I was broken, completely broken. He mentioned some documents he had prepared.”

  I crushed the butt out and looked at him. “What kind of documents?”

  Lee shook his head slowly. “The only possible thing he could compound would be our relationship as brothers. How, I don’t know, because I have all the family papers. But if he could establish that I was the brother of a man committed to a mental institution, it would be a powerful weapon in the hands of the opposition.”

  “There’s nothing else,” I asked, “that could stick you?” He spread his hands apart in appeal. “If there was it would have been brought to light long ago. No, I’ve never been in jail or in trouble of any sort. I’m afraid that my attention to business precluded any trouble.”

  “Uh-huh. How come this awful hatred?”

  “I don’t know, actually. As I told Pat and you previously, it may have been a matter of ideals, or because though we were twins, we weren’t at all alike. Oscar was almost, well ... sadistic in his ways. We had little to do with each other. As younger men I became established in business while Oscar got into all sorts of scrapes. I’ve tried to help him, but he wouldn’t accept help from me at all. He hated me fiercely. I’m inclined to believe that this time Oscar had intended to bleed me for all the money he could, then make trouble for me anyway.”

  “You were lucky you took the attitude you did. You can’t pay off, it only makes matters worse.”

  “I don’t know, Mike; as much as he hated me I certainly didn’t want that to happen to him.”

  “He’s better off.”

  “Perhaps.”

  I reached for another cigarette. “You want me to find out what he left then, that’s it.”

  “If there is anything to be found, yes.”

  When I filled my lungs with smoke I let it go slowly, watching it swirl up toward the ceiling. “Lee,” I said, “you don’t know me so I’ll tell you something. I hate phonies. Suppose I do find something that ties you up into a nice little ball. Something real juicy. What do you think I should do with it?”

  It wasn’t the reaction I expected. He leaned forward across the desk with his fingers interlocked. His face was a study in emotions. “Mike,” he said in a voice that had the crisp clarity of static electricity, “if you do, I charge you to make it public at once. Is that clear?”

  I grinned and stood up. “Okay, Lee. I’m glad you said that.” I reached out my hand and he took it warmly. I’ve seen evangelists with faces like that, unswerving, devoted to their duty. We looked at each other then he opened his desk drawer and brought out a lovely sheaf of green paper. They had big, beautiful numbers in the corners.

  “Here is a thousand dollars, Mike. Shall we call it a retainer?”

  I took the bills and folded them tenderly away. “Let’s call it payment in full. You’ll get your money’s worth.”

  “I’m sure of it. If you need any additional information, call on me.”

  “Right. Want a receipt?”

  “No need of it. I’m sure your word is good enough.”

  “Thanks. I’ll send you a report if anything turns up.” I flipped a card out of my pocket and laid it on his desk. “In case you want to call me. The bottom one is my home phone. It’s unlisted.”

  We shook hands again and he walked me to the door. On the way out the cud-chewing switchboard sugar smiled between chomps then went back to her magazine. The receptionist said so-long and I waved back.

  Before I went to the office I grabbed a quick shave, a trim around the ears and took a shower that scraped the hide off me along with the traces of Ethel’s perfume. I changed my shirt and suit but kept old Betsy in place under my arm.

  Velda was working at the filing cabinet when I breezed in with a snappy hello and a grin that said I had money in my pocket. I got a quick once-over for lipstick stains, whisky aromas and what not, passed and threw the stack of bills on the desk.

  “Bank it, kid.”

  “Mike! What did you do?”

  “Lee Deamer. We’re employed.” I gave it to her in short order and she listened blankly.

  When I finished she said, “You’ll never find a thing, Mike. I know you won’t. You shouldn’t have taken it.”

  “You’re wrong, chick. It wasn’t stealing. If Oscar left anything that will tie Lee up wouldn’t you want me to get it?”

  “Oh, Mike, you must! How long do we have to put up with the slime they call politics? Lee Deamer is the only one ... the only one we can look to. Please, Mike, you can’t let anything happen to him!”

  I couldn’t take the fear in her voice. I opened my arms out and she stepped into them. “Nobody will hurt the little guy, Velda. If there’s anything I’ll get it. Stop sniffling.”

  “I can’t. It’s all so nasty. You never stop to think what goes on in this country, but I do.”

  “Seems to me that I helped fight a war, didn’t I?”

  “You shouldn’t have let it stop there. That’s the matter with things. People forget, even the ones who shouldn’t forget! They let others come walking in and run things any way they please, and what are they after—the welfare of the people they represent? Not a bit. All they want is to line their own pockets. Lee isn’t like that, Mike. He isn’t strong like the others, and he isn’t smart politically. All he has to offer is his honesty and that isn’t much.”

  “The hell it isn’t. He’s made a pretty big splash in this state.”

  “I know, and it has to stick, Mike. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Promise me you’ll help him, Mike, promise me your word.”

  Her face turned up to mine, drawn yet eager to hear. “I promise,” I said softly. “I’ll never go back on a promise to you, nor to myself.”

  It made her feel better in a hurry. The tears stopped and the sniffling died away. We had a laugh over it, but behind the laughter there was a dead seriousness. The gun under my arm felt heavy.

  I said, “I have a job for you. Get me a background on Charlie Moffit. He’s the one Oscar Deamer bumped.”

  Velda stopped her filing. “Yes, I know.”

  “Go to his home and his job. See what kind of a guy he was. Pat didn’t mention a family so he probably didn’t have any. Take what cash you need to cover expenses.”

  She shoved the drawer in and fingered the bills on the desk. “How soon?”

  “I want it by tonight if you can. If not, tomorrow will do.”

  I could see her curiosity coming out, but there are times when I want to keep things to myself and this was one of them. She knew it and stayed curious without asking questions.

  Before she slipped the bills inside the bank book I took out two hundred in fifties. She didn’t say anything then, either, but she smelt a toot coming up and I had to kiss the tip of her nose to get the scowl off her puss.

  As soon as Velda left I picked up the phone and dialed Ethel Brighton’s number. The flunky recognized my voice from last night and was a little more polite. He told me Ethel hadn’t come in yet and hung up almost as hard as he could but not quite.

  I tapped out a brief history of the case for the records, stuck it in the file and called again. Ethel had just gotten in. She grabbed the phone and made music in it, not giving a damn who heard her. “You beast. You walked right out of the cave and left me to the wolves.”

  “That bearskin would scare them away. You looked nice wrapped up in it.”

  “You liked ... all of me, then. The parts you could see?”

  “All of you, Ethel. Soft and sweet.”

  “We’ll have to go back.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

 
“Please,” softly whispered.

  I changed the subject. “Busy today?”

  “Very busy. I have a few people to see. They promised me sizable ... donations. Tonight I have to deliver them to Com ... Henry Gladow.”

  “Yeah. Suppose I go with you?”

  “If you think it’s all right I’m sure no one will object.”

  “Why me?” That was one of the questions I wanted an answer to.

  She didn’t tell me. “Come now,” she said. “Supposing I meet you in the Oboe Club at seven. Will that do?”

  “Fine, Ethel. I’ll save a table so we can eat.”

  She said so long with a pleasant laugh and waited for me to hang up. I did, then sat there with a cigarette in my fingers trying to think. The light hitting the wall broke around something on the desk making two little bright spots against the pale green.

  Like two berries on a bush. The judge’s eyes. They looked at me.

  Something happened to the light and the eyes disappeared. I picked the phone up again and called the Globe. Marty was just going out on a story but had time to talk to me. I asked him, “Remember the Brighton family? Park Avenue stuff.”

  “Sure, Mike. That’s social, but I know a little about them. Why?”

  “Ethel Brighton’s on the outs with her father. Did it ever make the papers?”

  I heard him chuckle a second. “Getting toney, aren’t you, kid? Well, part of the story was in the papers some time ago. It seems that Ethel Brighton publicly announced her engagement to a certain young man. Shortly afterwards the engagement was broken.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Nope,” he grunted, “the best is yet to come. A little prying by our diligent Miss Carpenter who writes the social chatter uncovered an interesting phase that was handled just as interestingly. The young man in question was a down-and-out artist who made speeches for the Communist Party and was quite willing to become a capitalist by marriage. He was a conscientious objector during the war though he probably could have made 4-F without trouble. The old man raised the roof but there was nothing he could do. When he threatened to cut Ethel off without a cent she said she’d marry him anyway.

  “So the old man connived. He worked it so that he’d give his blessing so long as the guy enlisted in the army. They needed men bad so they took him and as soon as he was out of training camp he was shipped overseas. He was killed in action, though the truth was that he went AWOL during a battle and deserved what he got. Later Ethel found out that her father was responsible for everything but the guy’s getting knocked off and he had hoped for that too. She had a couple of rows with him in public, then it died down to where they just never spoke.”

  “Nice girl,” I mused.

  “Lovely to look at anyway.”

  “You’ll never know. Well, thanks, pal.”

  He stopped me before I could hang up. “Is this part of what you were driving at the other day ... something to do with Lee Deamer?” His voice had a rasp.

  “Not this,” I said. “It’s personal.”

  “Oh, well call me any time, Mike.” He sounded relieved.

  And so the saga of one Ethel Brighton. Nice girl turned dimwit because her old man did her out of a marriage. She was lucky and didn’t know it.

  I looked at my watch, remembered that I had meant to buy Velda lunch and forgot, then went downstairs and ate by myself. When I finished the dessert I sat back with a cigarette and tried to think of what it was that fought like the hammers of hell to come through my mind. Something was eating its way out and I couldn’t help it. I gave up finally and paid my check. There was a movie poster behind the register advertising the latest show at the house a block over, so I ambled over and plunked in a seat before the show started. It wasn’t good enough to keep me awake. I was on the second time around when I glanced at the time and hustled into the street.

  The Oboe Club had been just another second-rate saloon on a side street until a wandering reporter happened in and mentioned it in his column as a good place to relax if you liked solitude and quiet. The next day it became a first-rate nightclub where you could find anything but solitude and quiet. Advertising helped plenty.

  I knew the headwaiter to nod to and it was still early enough to get a table without any green passing between handshakes. The bar was lined with the usual after-office crowd having one for the road. There wasn’t anyone to speak to, so I sat at the table and ordered a highball. I was on my fourth when Ethel Brighton came in, preceded by the headwaiter and a few lesser luminaries.

  He bowed her into her seat, then bowed himself out. The other one helped her adjust her coat over the back of the chair. “Eat?” I asked.

  “I’ll have a highball first. Like yours.” I signaled the waiter and called for a couple more.

  “How’d the donations come?”

  “Fine,” she said, “even better than I expected. The best part is, there’s more where that came from.”

  “The party will be proud of you.” She looked up from her drink with a nervous little smile.

  “I .. , hope so.”

  “They should. You’ve brought in a lot of mazuma.”

  “One must do all one can.” Her voice was a flat drone, almost machine-like. She picked up her glass and took a long pull. The waiter came and took our orders, leaving another highball with us.

  I caught her attention and got back on the subject. “Do you ever wonder where it all goes to?”

  “You mean ... the money?” I nodded between bites. “Why ... no. It isn’t for me to think about those things. I only do as I’m told.” She licked her lips nervously and went back to her plate.

  I prodded her again. “I’d be curious if I were in your shoes. Give a guess, anyway.”

  This time there was nothing but fear in her face. It tugged at her eyes and mouth, and made her fork rattle against the china. “Please ...”

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Ethel. I’m not entirely like the others. You should know that.”

  The fear was still there, but something else overshadowed it. “I can’t understand you ... you’re different. It’s well....”

  “About the money, give a guess. Nobody should be entirely ignorant of party affairs. After all, isn’t that the principle of the thing ... everybody for everybody? Then you’d have to know everything about everybody to be able to really do the party justice.”

  “That’s true.” She squinted and a smile parted her lips. “I see what you mean. Well, I’d guess that most of the money goes to foster the schools we operate ... and for propaganda, of course. Then there are a lot of small things that come up like office expenses here and there.”

  “Pretty good so far. Anything else?”

  “I’m not too well informed on the business side of it so that’s about as far as I can go.”

  “What does Gladow do for a living?”

  “Isn’t he a clerk in a department store?”

  I nodded as if I had known all along. “Ever see his car?”

  Ethel frowned again. “Yes. He has a new Packard, why?”

  “Ever see his house?”

  “I’ve been there twice,” she said. “It’s a big place up in Yonkers.”

  “And all that on a department store clerk’s salary.”

  Her face went positively white. She had to swallow hard to get her drink down and refused to meet my eyes until I told her to look at me. She did, but hesitantly. Ethel Brighton was scared silly ... of me. I grinned but it was lost. I talked and it went over her head. She gave all the right answers and even a laugh at one of my jokes, but Ethel was scared and she wasn’t coming out of it too quickly.

  She took the cigarette I offered her. The tip shook when she bent into the flame of my lighter. “What time do you have to be there?” I asked.

  “Nine o’clock. There’s ... a meeting.”

  “We’d better go then. It’ll take time getting over to Brooklyn.”

  “All right.”

  The waiter came ov
er and took away a ten spot for his trouble while the headboy saw us to the door. Half the bar turned around to look at Ethel as she brushed by. I got a couple of glances that said I was a lucky guy to have all that mink on my arm. Real lucky.

  We had to call the parking lot to get her car brought over then drove the guy back again. It was a quarter after eight before we pointed the car toward the borough across the stream. Ethel was behind the wheel, driving with a fixed intensity. She wouldn’t talk unless I said something that required an answer. After a while it got tiresome so I turned on the radio and slumped back against the seat with my hat down over my eyes.

  Only then did she seem to ease up. Twice I caught her head turning my way, but I couldn’t see her eyes nor read the expression on her face. Fear. It was always there. Communism and Fear. Green Cards and Fear. Terror on the face of the girl on the bridge; stark, unreasoning fear when she looked at my face. Fear so bad it threw her over the rail to her death.

  I’d have to remember to ask Pat about that, I thought. The body had to come up sometime.

  The street was the same as before, dark, smelly, unaware of the tumor it was breeding in its belly. Trench Coat was standing outside the door seemingly enjoying the night. Past appearance didn’t count. You showed your card and went in the door and showed it again. There was the same girl behind the desk and she made more of me than the card I held. Her voice was a nervous squeak and she couldn’t sit still. Deliberately, I shot her the meanest grin I could dig up, letting her see my face when I pulled my lip back over my teeth. She didn’t like it. Whatever it was scared her, too.

  Henry Gladow was a jittery little man. He frittered around the room, stopped when he saw us and came over with a rush. “Good evening, good evening, comrades.” He spoke directly to me. “I am happy to see you again, comrade. It is an honor.”

  It had been an honor before, too.

  “There is news?” I screwed my eyebrows together and he pulled back, searching for words until he found them. “Of course. I am merely being inquisitive. Ha, ha. We are all so very concerned, you know.”

  “I know,” I said.

  Ethel handed him another of those envelopes and excused herself. I watched her walk to a table and take a seat next to two students where she began to correct some mimeographed sheets. “Wonderful worker, Miss Brighton,” Gladow smiled. “You would scarcely think that she represents all that we hate.”