Blood on the Boards

by Gault, William Campbell

  She climbed into the Chrysler all huddled up. “Cold, cold, cold. Isn’t there a heater in this monster?”

  “I don’t know if the water’s warm enough yet. We’ll be warm in a few minutes. I’ve some Old Forester in the cupboard.”

  “Don’t flaunt your wealth. Joe, if there was something about the murder you knew, would you keep it from me?”

  “Sure. I’d keep it from everybody but the Department. It’s my training.”

  “But you do know something, don’t you? About Sharon.”

  “Maybe. Do you?”

  “A few things. Joe, that’s why you went with her the other night, isn’t it? It was sort of an—investigation?”

  He hesitated for seconds before he said, “No.”

  “You don’t have to be so honest. You could leave a girl a few illusions.”

  “What are the ‘few things’ you know about her?”

  “Nothing I mean to tell you, policeman.”

  His garage door was open, and he pulled right in. They went through the breezeway from there to the kitchen, and Joe snapped on the light.

  “You turn up the thermostat,” Norah said. “I’ll mix the drinks.”

  Joe set up the thermostat and then went into the den to put records on the player. He put on the Philadelphia’s recording of the Mathis der Maler Symphony and waited for the instrument to warm up.

  Norah came in with the drinks, just as the first record dropped. She stood there a few seconds and then said, “Not Hindemith. Joe, you can’t go from Berlin to Hindemith and if you do, I can’t show you the way. Haven’t you anything a little closer to my level?”

  “Chopin,” he said, “but even I enjoy that. I figured it must be low-brow.”

  She shook her head. “He was the greatest in his field, but it was a limited field. How about something we both enjoy?”

  He frowned. “?orgy and Bess?” She looked doubtful.

  He grinned. “Well, I’ve got Goodman’s 1938 concert at Carnegie Hall.”

  “Put it on,” she said. “Don’t waste any time. I haven’t heard it for a week, and then on my little scratch box.”

  They had it with their first drinks. Outside, the wind had grown stronger. In the den, it was warm and the great ones from the stage of Carnegie Hall were pouring out their uninhibited challenges.

  And after that, for a change of mood, some of George Shearing’s light and sophisticated touch.

  Norah said, “Either this is strong whisky or I’m particularly susceptible tonight.”

  “I’ll drive you to your car if you’re tired.”

  “Well—” she said, and looked at him, her head to one side.

  He kept his face blank. “And there’s food. I stocked up today. Are you hungry?”

  She continued to study him. “You knew this would happen, didn’t you? Alcohol did it last time, and you knew if— You are a dog, Joe Burke.”

  “Here we go again,” he said. “You’re talking yourself into a state of mind. I haven’t laid a finger on you.”

  “So,” she said, “who’s stopping you?”

  • • •

  In the morning, he wakened first this time and he stood for a moment next to the bed, looking down at her. She looked peaceful and beautiful and young in repose. She was on her back and her long, slim body made a narrow ridge under the covers. She would be all he’d want for the rest of his life.

  He went into the kitchen to put water on for coffee.

  Through the window over the sink he could see it was another of those out-of-season, sunny, dry days. This should be a new winter record.

  He was in the bathroom, shaving, when she went down the hall to the other bathroom. He had the orange juice poured and the bacon draining on toweling paper when she came out to the kitchen.

  She stood behind him and put her arms around him. “I’m a tramp. But I feel wonderful.”

  “You are wonderful.”

  “I’m a beast. I never even thought of your poor, cut head.”

  “Neither did I. When are we going to get married?” “You want to buy milk when you own a cow?” He turned around. “Don’t talk like-that. It’s not like you.”

  “It’s like you, though, isn’t it? I want to be like you.”

  “I don’t. I want you to be like you. It’s you I love. How do you want your eggs?”

  She smiled, and tweaked his nose. “In bed. Don’t be stuffy, Joe. It’s such a beautiful day and it was such a beautiful night. I’ll fix the eggs. We’ll pretend we’re married.”

  “We’re not married. I’ll handle the eggs.”

  “Yes, master.” She went over to the nook and sat down. She sipped her orange juice and opened the Times. “I like my eggs scrambled.”

  He was beating them when she said, “Nothing about the murder on the front page. I suppose there’s nothing new.”

  “I suppose.” He added a little cream and finished beating the eggs. “You can put some bread in the toaster.” He put the eggs on the griddle. “Where’d you go yesterday?”

  Silence. He turned to look at her and found her staring at him. She said, “You sounded exactly like a policeman when you asked that.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I meant to sound like a lover, or husband.”

  “Well, then, I started for La Quinta, but changed my mind. And what did you do, yesterday?”

  “Looked up some of my criminal friends. Learned something, too.” He brought over her eggs and a few strips of bacon.

  “Thank you, sir. Learned something. About Sharon?” “Maybe. What made you guess that?” “Who else among the Players ever had any criminal friends?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.” He brought over his own eggs and sat across from her.

  “I knew a few,” she said. “You can’t gad about Hollywood for very long without getting to know a few.” She paused. “Dick Metzger knew some rather loathsome specimens. He introduced me to them.” She paused again. “Wait—You weren’t checking on me, Joseph Burke?”

  He shook his head. “But thanks for the lead. I’ll blackmail you into marrying me. How about the sport pages?”

  She gave them to him and immersed herself in the drama page. He read that Cal had sewn up the Southern Division basketball title and Washington had cinched the Northern crown. The principals in a fight at the Olympic were being investigated. The fight had a bad odor. UCLA had won a soccer match from Stanford, one way to get around the spring football limitation. Indiana had the Big Ten basketball crown and was rated the best in the country by the U.P.

  Norah asked, “Anything exciting in the world of sports, Mr. Burke?”

  “Not much. How about the theatrical world?”

  “That story Bruce Dysart was going to film has been turned down. So the poor author shouldn’t have been so stubborn. He’d have had his money if he’d taken Bruce’s offer.”

  “Somebody else will buy it, probably.”

  “But no other producer will give it the Dysart treatment. He played fair with everybody, according to Leonard. I guess, if Alan’s really the heir, that should prove Leonard is right. Because Alan despised him, openly and vocally.”

  “That I’ll give the kid—he’s open and vocal.”

  “And sensitive and talented,” Norah added.

  “Maybe. He’s bright enough. Or let me say he sounds bright enough. Some of these lippy boys sound brighter than they are.”

  “Yes, officer.” Norah stood up. “It’s too nice a day to work, but I’m going to. I need the money.” She started to put the paper together and then stopped. “What’s that? Did you hear that noise?”

  “No. What kind of noise?”

  “From the living-room. It sounded like someone knocking.”

  Joe rose and went into the living-room. A window was open there, and the shade was flapping against the frame. It wasn’t a window he remembered opening.

  He closed it as Norah came through from the kitchen.

  “Thank heavens,” she said. “I
thought it might be Sharon again. Are you going to drive me to my car?”

  “Of course. Norah, I don’t remember opening that window.”

  “Stop it,” she said. “I’m getting back to normal. What kind of prowler would prowl a policeman’s house? Let’s go.”

  Something came to Joe’s mind and went away before he could identify it. He went to the bedroom to get the keys for his car.

  He drove her to her car and then went over to Smith’s house. Leonard was in front, spading a flower bed, digging in peat moss.

  Joe asked, “Are we going to haul furniture today?”

  Smith nodded. “I suppose. You look like you’ve swallowed a canary. What makes you so pleased with yourself this morning?”

  “My money.”

  “I’ll bet. Go get a couple cans of beer from the refrigerator, will you? I don’t want to track up the house.”

  When Joe came back with the beer, Leonard was sitting on the bale of peat moss. Joe sat on the low porch.

  Leonard looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry about yesterday, Joe. It was—adolescent. I hate to see anybody being—casual about Norah.”

  “I asked her to marry me. How casual is that?”

  Smith stared at him. “Well, that is different. And what did she say?”

  “She said ‘maybe.’ Though not right now.”

  Smith smiled dimly. “I’ve still hope, then. I’ll get some of those elevator shoes and wear a girdle and plaster my hair with perfumed pomade. I’ll go down fighting.”

  The sun glinted off the beer cans. Across the street, a mailman was warily keeping an eye on a watching Doberman. Joe said nothing, feeling uncomfortable.

  Smith chuckled. “I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself. I was painting a picture of me for me.”

  “Tall girls don’t seem to scare Mickey Rooney,” Joe suggested. “You’re not as short as you think you are, Leonard.”

  Smith smiled. “Thank you. I’ll put this spade away and then we’ll go and rent a trailer.”

  Smith had a list of the donors; they made the rounds. One of the items was a secretary, and they had a bad time with that. When they had finally maneuvered it onto the stage, Smith was breathing heavily.

  He went over to sit on the davenport. “My doctor would scream if he saw me. I’ve a heart murmur, you know.”

  “You should have told me, Leonard. Somebody else could have helped with this.”

  “They all work for a living,” Smith said. He looked around him. “Well, we’ve done our bit, haven’t we? And it’s going to look pretty good.”

  Joe nodded.

  “A nothing,” Smith went on. “All this work to put on a trite piece of Broadway corn without even the partial solace of being paid for it. Why?”

  “That’s what Alan Dysart wanted to know. He said there was artistic satisfaction in experimental theater but this kind of little theater was worse than TV.”

  “No. No wrestlers, no Skelton, no nauseating commercials; it’s not worse than TV. But that’s a weak comparison. It’s still not worth the effort some of us put into it.”

  Joe laughed. “God, you’re sour lately. Nobody’s twisting your arm, Leonard. Get out of it.”

  Smith shook his head. “It’s the only theater that will have me. I think I’ll go home and take a nap.”

  Joe dropped him at home and then stopped off at the Point Realty Company. Norah was out, the office girl told him, showing a house.

  He went home for lunch. After that a shower, and then he went out to the patio for some sun. Great life; no work, no worry, no time clock. Great life for a man of eighty.

  He lay on the pad and stared at the foliage overhead through his sun glasses. He could travel, of course, but bored people usually carried their boredom with them. And he didn’t like to travel alone.

  With Norah, it would be fun traveling. Or with Sharon, for that matter. Or with any of a half dozen others he knew. But most fun with Norah. Yes, he had to have her, and not just in a bedroom. She would give some meaning to his days.

  He thought back to his days in the Department, the foot-weary, corpse-filled routine of the later years in Homicide. What had he learned? He’d learned to play it safe, get along with the newspaper boys and not let his politics show. He’d learned not to talk back to his superiors and stay clear of controversial topics.

  Hell, Alan was more of a man than he was in a lot of ways. Alan was loud and opinionated but at least he’d never learned to butter up to people who might help him. But then, he’d never had to learn. Somebody else had been paying his way. He could afford his opinions.

  Larry Puma couldn’t. So Larry polished the tired trivialities of past Broadway years, hoping the burnish would attract the eye of someone who could pay, pay, pay….

  And Sharon? That one he’d bank on. Who would ever stop that drive of hers, who could remain perpetually immune to the universal allure she projected? Sharon knew where she wanted to go and it wasn’t too far for any single-minded person with her equipment. The surprise to Joe was the fact she hadn’t made it by now.

  From a bough of the eucalyptus tree at the back of his yard, a squirrel considered him brightly, its head cocked.

  “Not yet,” Joe said. “Another couple months of this and you can have me. But not yet.”

  The squirrel went around to the other side of the trunk and disappeared.

  Joe heard the scrape of a foot and turned to see Krivick coming through the gate from the side yard. The sergeant looked tired.

  He asked Joe, “Who were you talking to?”

  “A squirrel. You look beat, Sergeant.”

  “Not enough to talk to squirrels. You wouldn’t have a beer in the joint, would you?”

  “Sit down, Sergeant. I’ll get you one.”

  When he came back with a couple of cans, the sergeant was stretched out on the redwood chaise longue. “What a life you lead, you lucky dog.”

  “It’s great. I’ve pretty sure information that Goetz is dead, Ernie.”

  “So have I. Where’d you get yours?”

  “Just between us, from Ray Brennan. He saw him get on the plane.”

  “You went up against Brennan, without a badge? You have got guts, haven’t you? Or is it your dough impressed him?”

  “He owed me a favor, more or less.”

  Krivick took a deep pull at the beer. “That blonde, that Norah Payne, knew some of that kind of people, too. Including Dick Metzger.”

  “Metzger? Was he a criminal?”

  “A pimp. Don’t you remember him? Five-hundred-dollar call girls. Nobody ever nailed him, but I thought every cop in town knew what he was.”

  “My God!” Joe said. “I’m sure Norah Payne didn’t know about him though, Ernie.”

  “Sure? How can you be sure? Have you known her long?”

  “No. But I’m sure.”

  Krivick took another pull of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Love. It must be love.” “Yup.”

  “No wonder you talk to squirrels. What a life. You lucky bastard.” Krivick reached down to unlace his shoes and kick them off. “Strange you should mention Ray Brennan.”

  “Why?”

  “Because his wife buys her shoes at Sam’s Shoe Salon. She just happened to be in there today, when I walked in to talk to this Puma.”

  “A coincidence,” Joe said.

  “That you mentioned Brennan? Sure. But not that she buys her shoes at Sam’s. Dames like her don’t buy cheap shoes, and that’s all Sam sells. And I’m sure she doesn’t go in there to see Sam; he hasn’t got that kind of a face.”

  “Maybe a pattern’s starting to show, huh, Ernie?”

  “Maybe. Though Goetz and Metzger aren’t going to do us much good where they are. And who’s going to get rough with Ray Brennan’s wife just because she buys cheap shoes? Not this cop.”

  “I’ll get you another beer,” Joe said.

  When he came out again, Krivick’s eyes were closed and his breathing was heavy and reg
ular. Joe went in again and brought out a blanket. He covered Krivick carefully so as not to awaken him.

  Then his phone rang and he went in once more. It was the pigeon named Arty. He said, “Goetz is dead, all right, Joe. I got it right from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Thanks, Arty. Drop over tomorrow and I’ll have the hundred for you. It’s the gospel, eh?”

  “Got it right from the widow,” Arty told him. “She never married again, though she’s been set up here and there. Anything you want at Santa Anita, Joe?”

  “Not this week. The widow wouldn’t lie about it, would she?”

  “I doubt it like hell. But who can be real sure about women? Right, Joe? Except for Vera, of course. But there aren’t many like Vera. Right?”

  “Right,” Joe said. And after he’d hung up: “Thank God.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE SUN was below the rear wall of the patio now, and it was cool. From the redwood chaise longue came the soft sound of Krivick’s snoring.

  Joe went into the kitchen and started to prepare dinner. Five-hundred-dollar call girls…. Had Norah known? Had Norah. … He stopped that thought half-born.

  He snapped on the small kitchen radio to the news. From the neighborhood came the sounds of returning cars, of slamming garage doors. In the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed and the small radio was warning citrus growers about the possibility of frost in Pomona.

  Krivick came into the kitchen, the blanket over his arm. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep, Joe.”

  “Relax, Ernie. Get a beer from the refrigerator. I’m fixing you a porterhouse.”

  Krivick paused to look at it. “I’ll phone the wife.”

  “Do that. Do you like Roquefort dressing on your salad?”

  “Hell, yes. Where’d you learn to cook, Joe?”

  “On twelve years of Department pay, could I eat out? I had to learn.”

  “How come you never married, Joe? You ain’t queer, I hope?”

  “Queer enough to know two can’t live on what I made. I’m going to get married now. I can afford it.”

  Krivick shook his head. “Now you can afford not to be married. Well, I’ll call the wife.”

  Over their pre-dinner cans of beer, Joe said, “We open the show tonight. Maybe, if you hung around, you’d learn something.”