by James Siegel
"Maybe just compared to him," William said. "Maybe compared to him, we all were."
"Look," Weeks said, "Jean thought if parents wouldn't pay the money, then they didn't really care."
"No," William said. "That might be what he said but that wasn't what he thought. What he thought was different. What he said was for us Boy Scouts. There's finding runaway kids and then there's selling them. Jean didn't distinguish. Jean wasn't a Boy Scout."
Mr. Weeks sighed, a sigh that seemed to say a lot, a sigh that said that maybe the jig was up.
"I told him I thought it was a little… sleazy. I told him that," he said.
"Sure. And I bet he cared too. By the way, why did he even bother telling you?"
"He said, you're my conscience, Weeks. That's what he said."
"Not a very big job, was it." Or maybe too big of a job, William thought. After all, there'd be so much to keep track of. You'd need to hire an assistant conscience too, then an assistant to the assistant and so on.
"Do you want me to go on?" Weeks said.
"Sure. I haven't heard how it ends yet. Jean's busy selling runaway kids, that's where we were up to. Sometimes they made it home, sometimes they ended up with the pimps. And then…?"
"Well… this."
"Yeah." William was all ears now. This. What I bequeath to you…
"Well," Weeks said, "to begin with, he was scared."
"Scared? How scared?"
"Very. Because, you see, I'd never seen it before, not from him. Jean wasn't exactly the emotional type. A little cool, if you know what I mean."
Sure. William knew what he meant. And maybe it wasn't coolness so much as coldness, which could be mistaken for coolness if you weren't careful, or if you happened to be a crazy neighbor who happened to like him.
"And then," Weeks said, "he comes in here one night looking like a ghost. Just like a ghost. Sits down in the chair-the one you're sitting on, and just sits. Sits and sits. Doesn't say anything. I think… I think, well…"
"Yeah? You think what?"
"I think maybe he wanted to be near someone, just that, just near them. And then after, oh, I don't know, an hour or so, he says, I've got a case, Weeks. Not some runaway-yes, I remember he says it just that way. Not some runaway."
"So…?"
"So I said, well, what is it, Jean? You look a little… sick. What is this case…?"
"And?"
"Big. That's what he says. Big. The biggest case of my life. That's what he says and that's all he says."
So, William thought. The biggest case of his life. Again. The woman hadn't gotten it wrong. Two people, his neighbor and his neighborhood hooker, and he told it the same way to both of them. I'm not in runaways anymore, he says, I'm back in the big time.
"And nothing more?" William asked.
"Nothing. Nothing said, anyway. But after that, I saw a lot less of him…"
"Nothing about who gave him the case? Who hired him? Nothing?"
"No. Just walked in here and said he had the biggest case of his life. That's all. That's it."
"Okay," William said, wanting to get him back on track now, this track which had seemed to be going somewhere promising but now seemed to be going nowhere fast. "You saw a lot less of him…"
"Yes. Once, when he came in to borrow some medicine…"
"Medicine?"
"Yes. He burnt himself cooking."
"And then?"
"Then, not for a while. More than a couple of weeks. Then he just showed up again. He came in here and told me about the file, told me where he kept it, behind the radiator. And he told me if anything happens to him, in case he ever gets hit by a car, or has a safe fall on his head, to go in and get it. Keep it, he says. Show it to no one. Promise me. It's my last testament, what I bequeath to you. Promise me. So I did promise. And soon after that, it happened, his heart attack. And he died."
And you went in and took the file, William thought. The file and the pictures, a friend to the end.
It was nearly time to go. Sure it was. All the signs said so; the suffocating heat, the sobering quiet, the evident weariness of the storyteller. Time to shove off.
But William thought he'd take one more look at the file, one more shot at seeing if anything struck a bell with Mr. Weeks, the storyteller himself.
But Mr. Weeks didn't know even one of the names in the file-Samuels… Timinsky… Shankin… Winters- all strangers. He didn't know what the numbers meant either-all of them mere mumbo jumbo. But when William leafed backward and looked closely at the addresses, so carefully lettered in beneath each name and above each red check, he suddenly realized that they weren't local addresses. This one here was Miami. And so was the next. And the next. And so on. All Miami addresses.
"All these people live in Miami," William said.
"Oh yeah," Mr. Weeks said.
"Oh yeah, what?"
"I think he went there."
"To Miami?" He had a sudden image of Jean at Sea World maybe, of Jean munching bananas in the Keys.
"I'm not sure."
"What makes you think he went to Miami Mr. Weeks?"
"Well, he went somewhere. He said he'd been away. And that last time he came to see me, he was tan. Not just tan. It was the way he acted too. Like he'd been on the best vacation of his life, rejuvenated kind of. Like he'd found something."
"In Miami."
"I'm not sure," he said again.
Something wasn't right here.
"But why did you think it was Miami? I said all these people live in Miami and you said oh yeah."
"I don't understand…"
"That's okay, Mr. Weeks. I do. You thought it was Miami because you'd looked at the file and seen it there. You said you didn't, but you did. You peeked."
Weeks looked just a little sheepish now, maybe even kind of embarrassed. Anyway, he didn't look too well.
"You know what, Mr. Weeks?" It was starting to come together for him now, not perfectly together, not beyond a doubt and eureka together, but at least he had this theory now, a theory he was starting to like, was starting to become even a little fond of. "I think you did what Jean wanted you to do. He bequeathed it to you, didn't he? I think he wanted you to look. I think, in a way, he was counting on it. That's why he gave it to you. I think he was counting on something else too."
"What?" His eyes, his whole tired white face seemed to be asking him, pleading with him, in dire need of an answer. And quick. For William could suddenly see that this, all this, had been a great strain on him. Think about it. He'd been appointed keeper of the flame, but he'd never been told why or for how long.
"Maybe," William said, speaking slowly, laying it out now, not just for Weeks but for him, "he was hoping one day someone else would come knocking on your door, not just anyone, but someone you knew, maybe someone whose picture you'd seen. Maybe even an old Boy Scout asking for donations."
There it was. As theories went, it wasn't half bad. It even made a little sense. Anyway, it'd do. And now, it was time to go, he was absolutely sure of it. But he had one more question, just one.
"Mr. Weeks, why didn't you go to the funeral? You, his conscience, why didn't you go?"
"Oh," Mr. Weeks said, as if he'd just been asked something inexplicably stupid, because he had, "but I don't go out anymore. I haven't gone out in years. Not in years."
And William, looking at the heavily draped windows, so carefully battened down against the light, thought yes, he's telling the truth, isn't he. He'd been sitting in a kind of zombie land, a land of the living dead, without a single spring or a single daybreak, a world stuck in time. And now he thought that maybe he'd been sitting there for longer than he'd realized. Outside was the real world, all they really had, where things were born every minute, and where they died only with a struggle, and sometimes not even then. He could be mistaken, but he actually thought he had a smile plastered across his face. No kidding. All because he was leaving the darkness for blue skies, his red file clutched firmly under h
is arm. Okay, put it this way. He was, in a matter of speaking, coming home.
THIRTEEN
Rise and shine. Up and at 'em. Charge. Ringggg. It was, he supposed, the first time in a long time that he'd picked up a phone in anger. "Directory Assistance-for what city?" the voice said. And all William could think of, other than the fact that the woman who eventually came on the line seemed pissed off for no discernible reason, was that the bill would be pretty steep, or, at least, more than he could afford. Funny thing-the phone. For some time now, it had sort of been reduced to just another aid for the elderly- like those buzzers they put at the bedside of an invalid. Call it a symbol of his own increasingly feeble existence. All his calls: to Social Security, to Con Ed, to the VA, a late check, a high bill, were, of course, all cries for help. Last night's call to that woman hadn't been different, just more alcoholic perhaps.
"Miami Directory Assistance," the woman intoned, slightly more pissed off than before.
So, okay, this was a cry for help too. But this was offense instead of defense, action instead of reaction; this felt different. Though there was always the chance, William thought now, that he was kidding himself. Back as he was in the real world, there was always that chance, and given his track record, that likelihood.
Back in the real world, you can fail. Absolutely.
He'd fed the operator the first name in the file, and she'd answered "No such listing."
Okay, the fifth word in the Boy Scout Pledge: I promise to be faithful, loyal, thrifty (that one wasn't hard), courteous, and diligent.
Diligently, he fed her two more names. Which turned out to be the limit for one call. So he called back. And guess who came back on the line? You guessed it. But interestingly enough, it seemed that her level of courtesy began to increase in direct proportion to his level of futility. He could swear it did. As each name came back empty, her responses to him became more sympathetic, as if she sensed his frustration and was trying to soothe it.
"I'm sorry, sir, there isn't any listing under Joseph Wal- dron," she said in answer to his ninth, tenth?… inquiry.
Several names turned up several numbers, but those names lived at addresses different from the ones listed in Jean's file. What the hell-he took them anyway.
Finally though, the list was exhausted. And so was he.
It was past ten. The boarding house had long ago settled in for the night. He could just make out the buzz of Mr. Leonati's TV; it sounded like June bugs flying kamikaze-like into a zapper. Outside, someone was bouncing a basketball; someone else was giggling; two cats were screwing each other in the alley.
They were the same sounds he heard every night, more or less. But they didn't sound the same. Think about it. They were like the commotion of a neighborhood parade- July 4th maybe, the kind that used to make his pulse pound with excitement till he grew old and it made his head pound instead. From wanting to join up to wanting to tune out in the blink of an eye. But now? He'd say he was definitely in the wanting-to-join-up camp again. Yes, now there was a parade down there that he wouldn't mind joining, or at least tagging along with for a while. Nope, he wouldn't mind that at all. Then again, he wasn't exactly Toby Tyler anymore and this running-after-parades stuff took a bunch of things he'd thought he was fresh out of. Like hope for instance. Yeah, he was running a little low on hope these days. Still…
He dialed the first number: a Mrs. Ross.
"Hello," a woman answered.
"Am I speaking to Mrs. Ross-to Mrs. Alma Ross?"
"That's right. Alma Ross. What can I do for you?"
"You've got it backward," William said. "I'm about to do something for you. For if you're the Alma Ross, lately of 1629 Collins Drive, you're due for some money. An inheritance actually."
"I don't live at 1629 Collins Drive."
"No, of course not. But you did, didn't you, at one time?"
"I don't live at Collins Drive," she said again. "What inheritance?"
"Oh," he said, sounding very disappointed, which, actually, he was. "Perhaps there's been a mistake. You weren't contacted by our representative-a Mr. Jean Goldblum?"
"Never heard of him."
"And you never lived at 1629 Collins Drive?"
"No."
"Then there has been a mistake. I'm sorry for bothering you."
"What inheritance was that-"
He hung up, then put a line through her name. Different addresses, different people. Well, he thought, what had he expected?
He tried the other three as well. Two of them were home, one wasn't, but the two that were home weren't the two he wanted. One of them wanted to know if this was his cousin Bob, prankster Bob, the other one sounded nearly catatonic and wouldn't have cared if he'd just been told he'd won the lottery. Both had never lived where the file indicated they did, both had never heard from representative Goldblum.
A blank. Yet Jean had gone to Florida and Jean had found something there. Rejuvenated, Weeks had said. And there they were, a check under each name, a red check too, red to match the file, to indicate he was coming into the home stretch. But where exactly was he coming from?
It seemed like irony itself, as if irony had said ho hum let's go pay a visit on old William, when later that night, sitting before his rather shaky rabbit-eared TV which tended to sputter and reduce its picture to a single line across the screen, a commercial for Florida came on.
This time the picture held, this time the only sputtering was his. A dreary-looking man on a dreary-looking street on a dreary-looking summer day. A crowded subway ride, a sweltering walk through human traffic, followed by him slinking into the house as if he'd just been raped, or as if he'd committed one. Then, sparkling blue waters, oiled-up girls on pastel lounges, on water skis, on view, and the man, no longer dreary-looking, but looking pretty good indeed, looking like someone who's just screwed the Playmate of the Month and doesn't care who knows it. When you need it bad, someone sang, we've got it good.
Yes, William thought. You could say I need it bad. You could say that.
And now, suddenly, it seemed to him that he'd reached the moment of truth. In the old days, Julie-or Sandra or Lillian or Miss Whoever (whichever underpaid, overworked minion happened to have the bad fortune to be employed as their Three Eyes secretary at that particular time)-would always buzz them exactly five minutes after a client walked in. It took five minutes to know if a client was legitimate or just crazy, to know if he or she could pay you or couldn't (craziness and poverty both being sins, though not equal ones, poverty taking precedence). In five minutes they'd answer Julie or Lillian or whoever's call, and either tell the client that they'd have to get back to them-urgent business and such-or tell their secretary to get lost-how many times do I have to tell you not to bother me when I'm with a client. Three Eyes secretaries took a lot of abuse then. This five-minute system had been Santini's idea-William had gone along with it only reluctantly, because being less perceptive than Jean, and less brutal than Santini-who opened every interview by stating his fee-he found he often needed more than five minutes to tell whether a client was legitimate or not, and even then he often lacked the heart to refuse them.
But sometimes, that's what he did.
And now, he felt as if the five minutes were up and Julie was waiting on the line. The client was sitting across from him, but the client was dead, so it wouldn't matter if he told him that he'd have to get back to him, would it? He could show this client the door and not feel a thing.
But that, of course, wasn't exactly true, or at least, not true anymore. This client really needed him, sure, but while Jean might be the client, Jean might not be. What needed him was him. He was the client. Okay, he knew it sounded silly. He knew after years of playing the wallflower, he had no business trying to get back out on the dance floor. It's not like they were still doing the rhumba out there either. Or even the boogaloo. He knew he was liable to trip over his two left feet. On the other hand he knew if he said goodbye to this client, if he said sorry, have to get
back to you, if he showed this client out, he'd be slamming the door on you know who. Again. And for good.
We didn't much like each other, he'd said to Weeks, but we covered for each other.
So maybe now he had to cover for himself, do himself a professional courtesy.
Which meant, crazy as it seemed, that he just might have to take a trip. Either that, or take a sedative. Or at the very least, take a night to sleep on it.
That's what he'd do-he'd sleep on it.
The only problem was, he couldn't. He tried counting sheep. Then he tried counting glasses of Jim Beam. Then he tried drinking glasses of Jim Beam. No dice. Now that he had the old heart pumping, it was proving difficult to shut down. He'd forgotten how annoying the old heart could be, how it wanted what it wanted and fongul to everything else.
Now what. The first ghostly light of morning was already wafting through his venetian blinds. The first traffic horns were already crowing. When he opened his refrigerator he stared point-blank at an absolutely empty container of OJ.
Now if that wasn't a sign, what was? Oh well-he supposed he'd just have to go down to Florida to get another one.
Okay. He had several thousand dollars put away in the bank. Burial money, he'd thought. He had a life insurance policy, and his monthly Social Security, and a little stock that sometimes paid dividends and sometimes didn't.
He had a theory that wasn't half bad.
He had a file red as blood.
He had a reason. He had a cause.
He had a screwed-up shoulder.
He had a recently addled brain.
All things being equal though, he had a chance.
He didn't know what planes to Florida cost these days, he didn't know what planes to anywhere cost these days, but he could find out. Sure he could-he had a phone, didn't he? Perhaps there were midweek specials, perhaps there were senior citizen rates. Maybe he'd just hitch a ride there.
