“I don’t have to be vague. I can spell it out for you in straight ABC’s. There’s you, y-o-u, and there’s him, B-a-l-l-a-r-d. And then there’s my poor little Violet. Quite a threesome, eh? Eh?”
“Be more explicit,” Charlotte said. “You want me to pay you three hundred dollars because of Mr. Ballard and because you think I’m partly responsible for Violet’s suicide. Is that right?”
“Maybe. Maybe you haven’t figured the angles, though.”
“What angles?”
“Think about it.” Voss turned to his companion. “Come on, Eddie.”
“But she didn’t give us the money,” Eddie protested. “We didn’t get the three hundred . . .”
“You heard the lady. She don’t want to give us the money.”
“You said she would.”
“She will. She’s got to have time to figure, is all. Maybe she’s a little slow in the head. Come on, let’s go.”
“Wait,” Charlotte said. She was assailed by an obscure and terrifying feeling that the little moth of a man was threatening to eat away the fabric of her life. Already she felt naked, unprotected.
Voss turned his indeterminate eyes on her, squinting against the light that shone above the door. “You changed your mind?”
“No.” She reached her decision suddenly. “I’ve had enough of this. Get out of here or I’ll call the police.”
Eddie began to edge towards the steps, but Voss still faced her: “I don’t think so. You pore over what I said, and when you change your mind you know where I live. Only you better make it soon. I got lots of important business in the fire, see? Maybe I don’t look it but I’m a big shot, I’m a very important . . .”
“You’re a cheap crook,” Charlotte said. “Get out of here.”
She slammed and bolted the door and stood with her back against it until she heard the squeaking of the gate as it opened and closed again. Then she picked up the phone and dialed police headquarters. She acted on impulse, without planning what she would say or thinking of the consequences.
“Police headquarters. Valerio speaking.”
“H—hello?”
“What’s your trouble?”
“I need some kind of—protection.”
There was a voice in the background, a whining voice made harsh by whisky—“Lost every damn cent of it, and then comes crying to me about it . . .”
“Oh, can it for minute,” Valerio said. “I’m talking on the phone. Hello? What’s your name and address?”
“Charl . . .” Her throat constricted, pressing back the words: Charlotte Keating, 1026 Mountain Drive. I’m being blackmailed. The men involved are potentially dangerous, they should be arrested. No, I can’t give evidence. No, I can’t tell you why I’m being blackmailed, but it’s nothing criminal, nothing bad. I’ve been seeing a married man . . .
She could picture the two of them grinning knowingly if she told them, Valerio and the man with the whine, snickering together: “Seeing a married man, that’s a hot one, that’s a lulu . . .”
“I didn’t get the name,” Valerio said.
She hung up quietly.
She switched on the floodlights in the yard and went out to her car.
9
She phoned Lewis from a small café at the foot of the breakwater where they sometimes met.
“I’m down at Sam’s, Lewis. I have to see you.”
“Aren’t you the same person who phoned here before? You still have the wrong number.”
How quick-witted of Lewis, Charlotte thought. Gwen might be suspicious of two wrong numbers so close together. Pretending the calls were from the same blunderer was clever to Lewis. Too clever. It suggested practice in easy deceptions.
“Please hurry, it’s important for both of us,” she said quickly and hung up before he could reply.
She waited outside in her car, watching the boats at anchor inside the breakwater. A whole city of boats, like a city of people, all kinds, all classes; sleek and lavish yachts with their riding lights twinkling, sturdy fishing sloops, spruce little starboats fast as arrows, flatties and snowbirds, and weathered dinghies barely afloat.
A car drove past slowly and pulled to a stop a few yards ahead of her. Lewis got out, his shoulders hunched against the wind. She hardly recognized him. He wore a topcoat and a fedora and he had a scarf drawn high around his neck.
They walked in silence towards the lighthouse at the end of the breakwater.
“I didn’t even know you owned a hat,” she said at last.
“Now you do.”
“It’s quite a—disguise, isn’t it?”
“I couldn’t find my false whiskers. The hat will have to do.”
“Oh Lewis.”
There was no one else on the breakwater, and the only lights were feeble, from the three-quarter moon and the green signal that flashed off and on from the top of the lighthouse.
She clung to his arm, hiding her face against his sleeve. “Lewis.”
“What is it, darling? Here. Here, sit down.”
He drew her down to one of the stone benches that lined the breakwater. The bench was wet from the spray of the tide that was now ebbing, but neither of them noticed.
“Let’s have it,” he said, smoothing back her hair with his hand. “What’s the matter, Charley?”
“I’m in trouble.”
“Sorry.”
“So—are you.”
“That’s nothing new,” he said wryly. “I’ve been in trouble ever since I met you a year ago.”
“This is worse.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t know how to begin.”
“Begin at the beginning and go on until you come to the end.”
Her smile was faint, sad. “That’s from Alice in Wonderland, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I wish I were Alice.”
“Why?”
“Then I could wake up and find it was all a nightmare, that I never really met . . .” She lapsed into silence, listening to the cruel crash of the water on the rocks below. “I’m being blackmailed.”
“Why?”
“Someone knows about you and me.”
“Well,” he said quietly. “Well. Who is it?”
“Two men.”
“Strangers?”
“Not exactly. I knew one of them before. I met him last night.”
“On that ‘call’ you made after I left?”
“Yes. Partly.”
“It wasn’t actually a call, was it . . . ? No, don’t turn away. Answer me. Was it, Charley?”
“I went down to see if I could find the girl who was pregnant, the one I told you about last night.”
She had to tell him everything then, about Voss and the old man Tiddles, and Violet and Eddie; about Easter’s visit to her office with Violet’s sea-stained purse, and the ugly scene on her veranda when Voss asked for the money for Violet’s funeral.
When she had finished Lewis said, “The girl killed herself?”
“The police think so.”
“Don’t they know?”
“It’s too early for an autopsy report. She was only found this morning.”
“I see.” He took his cigarette lighter out of his pocket and began playing with it absently, flicking it off and on in unconscious rhythm with the lighthouse signal. “That’s quite a group of characters you’re messing around with.”
“I guess.”
“I’ve warned you before about that informal way you have of picking people up. Well.” He sighed. “I suppose it’s too late for one of my maiden-aunt talks. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s illegal to pay blackmail.”
“I know. I—in a way I’d like to give him the money and get it
over with. Three hundred dollars isn’t very much to pay for my peace of mind. If I could only be sure that it would end there . . .”
“You’re talking crazy, Charley.” He peered down at her, half-puzzled, half-angry. “You’re afraid of this man. Aren’t you?”
“A little, I guess.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure.” Though candor was her habit, she felt unable to speak out, to voice her doubts. The moving sea, which she had always loved, had become a threat to her, and the concrete breakwater seemed insecure, adrift.
Lewis’ hand on her shoulder was strong and steady, but it wasn’t a strength she could lean on, it was a strength that could be used against her.
“Listen to me,” he said harshly. “If you’re willing to pay three hundred dollars to everyone who finds out about us you’re going to end up broke. At least a dozen people already know. It’s not a criminal act . . .”
“You wore a hat and scarf tonight.”
“It’s windy, it’s cold.”
“Not that cold.”
She turned her face away. The rocks below the seawall were slimy with eel-grass exposed by the ebbing tide. She couldn’t see it in the dark but she could smell its presence. The smell reminded her of Violet’s purse and of death.
“You haven’t told me everything,” he said. “What else has Voss got on you?”
“Nothing definite.”
“But he implied something?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“He . . .” She watched his face while she spoke. It was white and blurred. “He said I’d better think over the angles, that Violet and you and I made—a threesome.”
“A threesome?” His jaw dropped in genuine astonishment. “What in God’s name did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know. I thought perhaps he meant that you—that you knew Violet in some way.”
“I never even heard of the girl until you mentioned her last night.”
She knew he was telling the truth. She felt suddenly light-headed, as if a physical pressure had been removed from a section of her brain. “I wanted to be sure, Lewis. Don’t get angry.”
“How can I help it,” he said simply. “This Voss must be crazy. He’s got to be stopped.” He rose from the stone bench and pulled his coat collar up around his neck. “Where does he live?”
“Olive Street, 916. What are you going to do?”
“See him. Talk to him. I won’t stand for him bothering you like this. I’ll scare the bejesus out of him if I have to.”
“There won’t be any trouble, will there?”
He looked down at her grimly. “Of course there’ll be trouble. What do you expect? The man’s blackmailing you and I’m going to stop him.”
The breath caught in her throat. “I’d rather pay him the money than have you get into a brawl.”
“Going soft on me, Charley?” His smile was uglier than a frown. “That’s your trouble. You get involved with people like Voss and O’Gorman, and then you don’t know how to deal with them. You haven’t any defenses because they don’t fight with your weapons.”
In spite of the brisk onshore wind, he was sweating. His face was streaked with moisture, and when Charlotte reached for his hand to be pulled to her feet, his palm was clammy. She knew that he was nervous, perhaps even afraid. His legal practice had nothing to do with crime or criminals; it was confined to wills and trusts and estates, and an occasional discreet and very expensive divorce. She realized what a great effort it had been for him to undertake to go and see Voss himself.
“I’m coming along,” Charlotte said.
“What for?”
“Because I want to. Because . . .”
“Haven’t you gotten into enough of a mess already?” he said. “Look. You can’t deal with a crummy gang like that. You’re sensitive, you’re a woman. You ascribe to these people feelings and thoughts and morals they don’t have. You’ve fallen among thieves, Charley, and you’re a nice, gentle girl for all your knowledge.”
“I’m coming along,” she repeated.
“Stubborn, aren’t you?”
“A little. I have to be.”
“Why do you want to come along? Don’t you trust me?”
She hesitated briefly before she answered. “I don’t trust your temper, your mood.”
“I see. You think the situation is going to call for a woman’s soothing influence.”
“Perhaps. Why should that make you angry?”
“I’m not angry.”
“You are . . . Did you have a quarrel with Gwen?”
“Gwen doesn’t quarrel,” he said heavily. “She sits around looking very, very pained.”
“I saw her this afternoon.”
“She told me.”
“I can’t go on treating her anymore,” Charlotte said. “Get me out of it, Lewis.”
“How?”
“Tell her you’ve heard rumors that I drink or something. Anything.”
“That’s absurd,” he said. “I refuse.”
They walked back towards the café in strained silence, Charlotte keeping a little ahead of him, her step firm and stubborn.
He put her in her car. “I suppose there’s no use reasoning with you? You’re coming?”
“Yes, I am. Don’t you see, perhaps I can help, perhaps I can . . .”
“Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. All right, I won’t argue.” He closed the door of the car. “I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”
“It won’t take that long, will it? It’s only on Olive Street.”
“I have to stop at my office. I have some business to attend to first.”
“At this time of night?”
“Yes. It’s something Vern asked me to look after and I forgot about it.” Vern Johnson was his partner in the law firm. “He wanted me to put some more food in the aquarium.”
“I see.” She knew he was lying; Vern would never dream of letting anyone else feed his precious fish. “Meet me in twenty minutes, then.”
“All right.”
“And park on Junipero Street,” he said. “There’s no point in advertising our visit.”
He stood for a minute looking down at her through the open window, his head bent. She thought he was going to kiss her. She wanted him to. Instead, he turned suddenly and walked back to his car.
10
On Olive Street the adolescent Vosses and Eddies flocked sheeplike in front of the bars and poolrooms, crept singly down alleys like hungry cats, pressed together for love or warmth like rabbits in the dark between the walls of shacks.
But the people on Olive Street were not animals, as Lewis seemed to think. Charlotte had made calls among them by day and night, and knew them. They’re people like myself, she thought, only they haven’t had my luck, so I owe them something. I owe them tolerance, understanding and even faith. Faith in Voss and his wife, in Eddie? No, no, it was too late. They were already too crippled for therapy; the damage was done, the muscles atrophied, the nerves degenerated.
She turned off on Junipero Street and parked in front of a brown wooden cabin. There were no blinds on the windows and she could see the family inside—a withered little Mexican woman ironing, and a young couple dancing without music, oblivious to the woman and the ironing board, the girl lean and lithe, the boy with his hair worn long and parted sleekly in the middle all the way to the nape of his neck.
Lewis’ blue Cadillac slid up behind her, looking as conspicuous in that neighborhood as the little Mexican would look at the opera with her ironing board. Charlotte stepped out of her car and they came together on the broken sidewalk.
“Did you—feed the fish?”
“Fish? No.” He avoided her eyes. “Vern was there. He stopped by to check up on one of the black mollies. He thinks she’s pregnant
.”
Bubbles of laughter rose suddenly in her throat and stung her eyes to tears. She clung weakly to his arm and pressed her face against the sleeve of his coat.
“What’s so funny, Charlotte?”
“I don’t know. Everything. Vern fussing over a pregnant fish . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry I laughed.”
“Here.” He gave her a handkerchief. “Wipe your eyes. You weren’t laughing.”
“I was. I was laughing.”
“I don’t think so.” They were talking in whispers, as if Voss might be in ambush behind a tree, or hidden in the trunk of one of the cars, listening. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, then.”
He held her arm as they crossed the street.
Except for a square of flickering light in the attic, Voss’s house was dark, a corrupt monster with one dying eye. The porch smelled of wet wood, and where the warped planks slipped towards the center there was a small puddle of water. Within the past hour someone had hosed down the porch and it hadn’t had time to dry. Charlotte leaned over the railing. The hose had been flung into a pyracantha bush and it was still connected, still dripping water through the tiny thorny leaves. Someone (Voss?) had washed the porch in a hurry and then run away or gone into the house to hide in the dark.
No one answered Lewis’ knock. He rapped again and waited, jabbing his hands nervously in and out of his pockets.
“Lewis . . .”
“Yes?”
“You’ve got a gun in your pocket.”
“Are you surprised?”
“Very,” she said in a whisper. “Very surprised.”
“I carry it to improve my morale.” He rapped on the door again. “Sometimes it sags.”
“Lewis, don’t threaten these men, it wouldn’t work. Voss is a psychopath, he’s dangerous when he’s cornered or frightened or feeling inferior . . .”
“All right, I’ll tell him what a hell of a fine fellow he is, then I’ll hand him three hundred dollars as a slight token of my esteem.”
“I hate guns,” she said passionately. “I hate violence.”
He turned away with a little shrug of his shoulders. “Go ahead and hate it, but don’t pretend it doesn’t exist.”
Do Evil in Return Page 6
