Charles Alverson - Joe Goodey 02 - Not Sleeping, Just Dead

by Charles Alverson

  “Noooo,”he brayed. “It’s you who’s made the mistake, sonny. And now you’re going to pay for it. I warned you bastards not to mess with J. B. Carter, and now I’ve got one of you. Yes sir, I’ve got you.”2

  J. B. Carter. Wheels began to whir, and cogs clicked neatly into place. Mrs. J. B. Carter’s J. B. Carter. I’d sort of wondered whether there was one or whether Mrs. C. was just one of those batty old widows who can’t wait to give away her all to the first swami who comes along.

  “You’ve got me all right,” I said, “but I think you’ve got me out of season. What did you use—a sledgehammer?”

  “No, sir,” he cackled meanly. “This!” He hefted something oblong into view and smacked it into his other palm with a nasty whump. It was a sock—an argyle sock—stuffed with sand, and impressive in a silly way. He stuck his homemade mule-stunner under my nose, and it occurred to me that the only thing worse than being hit with a sock full of sand was being hit with a dirty sock full of sand. In fact, I didn’t much like pointing the finger of suspicion—couldn’t, in fact—but one of us was enjoying a serious case of B.O.

  “Uh, nice,” I said. “Very nice.” The back of my head throbbed in unison with every word. “But I think I can clear up a certain misunderstanding here. You think I am a resident of The Institute. Is that correct?”

  “I know you’re one of those claim-jumping sons-a-bitches,” he said, slapping Old Sockdolager into his palm again. “You’re not fooling me.”

  “I’m not trying to,” I said, a bit testily. You try holding an extended conversation lying on your stomach with your hands and feet tied together behind your back, rocking horse-style.

  “Could you do me a favor, Mr. Carter?”

  ‘‘What’s that?” he said suspiciously.

  “Just reach into my right hip pocket and take out my wallet.”

  “I’m not a thief!” he said haughtily, as if a pickpocket were a notch lower than a blackjack mechanic.

  “I just want you to have a look at my identification,” I said patiently. “That’s all. I think it will prove to you that I’m not with The Institute. In fact, I’m investigating The Institute.”

  “Investigating?” he said, reaching for my back pocket. At least I had him curious. “Hell!” he grunted. “I can’t see a damned thing in this cave.” He reached somewhere and came out with a tiny, key-chain flashlight. A little beam of light lit up the papers in his hand. Carter fumbled in a shirt pocket and came out with a pair of round steel-rimmed glasses. With these on his nose, he started browsing seriously.

  “Jonah Webster Goodey, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Funny name, Jonah,” he said. “Means bad luck or something like that, doesn’t it?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “Some say it’s an old Indian name meaning He-Who-Should-Be-Untied.”

  That didn’t strike him as very amusing, so he just grunted and kept reading. He wasn’t a speed reader.

  “Private investigator?” he said, as if it weren’t written right in front of his nose.

  “That’s right, Mr. Carter,” I said patiently. “I used to be a policeman.”

  “That don’t mean you’re not with them bastards,” he said. “They’ve got cops. They’ve got a big shot from the sheriff’s department in their pocket, and that’s why I haven’t had any success against them.”

  “Look,” I said, truly getting weary, ‘‘I don’t work for The Institute. I’m trying to find out who killed Katie Pierce.”

  At Katie’s name, Carter stopped reading and looked directly at me. With that little flashlight under his chin, I could see his face better, and some of the glitter seemed to have gone out of his eyes. I couldn’t see much of his expression through that bush on his face, but when he spoke, his voice was softer, somehow older.

  “Katie?” he said. “I’ll tell you who killed Katie. That mealy-mouthed faker down there in my house, that’s who. Hugo Fischer!”

  Now, that was an interesting theory that I’d be interested in pursuing a bit further, but preferably from a vertical position. Maybe this old geezer would turn out to be useful.

  “Can you prove that?” I asked, but he ignored the question. Carter had gotten up from his crouching position and stood looking down at me.

  “If you’re not with The Institute,” he asked, “who do you work for?”

  “Frederick M. Crenshaw,” I said. “Katie’s grandfather. Now will you untie me, for Christ’s sake? I’m beginning to turn to stone.”

  Carter stuck his hand into his beard, probably to stroke his chin, and looked doubtful. Then he made a decision. “All right,” he said. “I’ll take a chance.” Reaching into a side pocket, he unlimbered a menacing looking bowie knife and knelt down again. I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but hoped that galloping senility hadn’t made his hand shake too much. Suddenly, my feet and hands were freed from each other.

  Finally, he stood up with the rope in his hands, but I still lay there waiting for life to return to my limbs. Slowly and painfully it did, and I accepted the hand he offered me and got to my still-numb feet. I had to remain hunched because the ceiling of the cave was about six inches shorter than I was.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “I’d have sworn you were one of them. I wondered why you weren’t wearing one of them colorful outfits, but then I figured maybe you were some sort of plainclothes night-fighter out to get me.”

  I shook the fizzy feeling out of my hands, and as soon as I thought I could trust my legs, I said: “Do you think we could go outside, Mr. Carter? It’s a bit—uh—close in here.”

  He looked a bit sheepish, handed my wallet to me and led me out of the cave. As I followed him, I could see that he’d made a sort of bed in one corner and had a little store of pots and pans and other utensils. A pair of binoculars hung on the wall.

  The air was a lot less funky outside, and I stood erect and took several deep breaths. It felt good. We were standing only about ten feet back from the edge of the cliff where I’d become acquainted with Carter’s sock full of sand. I stood looking out to sea while behind me Carter was fussing with the foliage we’d had to pass through to get out of the cave. He panted audibly, as if struggling with something.

  I waited, then got impatient, and asked him: “Mr. Carter, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Fixing up the entrance to my cave,” he said, giving the greenery a final adjustment. “Those dope fiends would give anything to find this place. They’d be up here after me with flame throwers.”

  “No, I mean what are you doing up here living like a caveman, while Mrs. Carter is down there in your mansion, sitting at Hugo Fischer’s feet? At least you say it’s yours. The people at The Institute seem to think your wife is giving it to them.”

  What I could see of his expression was pretty sour. Carter looked up at me and said: “Goodey, if you know anything about the state of California’s community-property law, you know that according to the idiots who run things, everything that is mine is half Emma’s.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect.” Fortunately when my ex-wife, Patricia Berkowitz Goodey, had divorced me the year before, there’d been no property to share. And she’d been so relieved to get rid of me that she wouldn’t have bothered if there had been.

  “Well,” Carter said, “the fact that I spent my life grubbing a fortune out of the mountains of Nevada with these”—he held up a pair of gnarled hands—”didn’t matter when Emma fell under Fischer’s spell and decided that we ought to give the damned place to The Institute.”

  “But you weren’t crazy about that idea?” I asked.

  “Not a bit,” he said feistily. “I could see through that phony messiah from the beginning.”

  “Your wife and the others down there seem to think it’s done your son, Tommy, a lot of good,” I said.

  That slowed him down a bit. “So you saw Tommy, did you?” he said, his face seeming to soften.
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br />   “Yes,” I said. “But only briefly. What about you? Don’t you agree that The Institute has helped him?”

  Carter thought about that one. At last he said: “I don’t rightly know. I really don’t.” He seemed to be struggling to be fair. “I have to admit that he’s not in that nut house anymore. That’s something.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

  “You tell me,” Carter snapped. “I’ve been asking myself that for forty years. He was as pretty a little boy as you ever saw. Bright as a button, he was. You never saw such a lad. Then when he was six years old he took sick. Fever. I don’t know. I was away in the mountains—prospecting. When I came back, he was gone, and a little animal was left in his place. Half the time he was rolled up in a ball like a hibernating raccoon, and then like lightning he was climbing the walls like a monkey and trying to rip the place—and himself—apart. In the end, we had to have him put away. It near broke Emma’s heart.”

  “But then Hugo and The Institute came along,” I said, giving him a touch of the spur.

  “Yeah,” J.B. said reflectively. “And a couple of years ago Hugo talked Emma into bringing the boy—what was left of him—home. It’s not the first time Tommy’s been back with us, you know. Happened several times, but every time he had to go back. He’d seem to improve, but then he’d get so wild that we’d have to send him back. He’s strong as an animal, you know.”

  “I got that feeling,” I said. “Do you think he’s improved since he’s been home this time?”

  Carter was thoughtful. “Yes, I’ll give them that much. But he could go bad again any day. I wouldn’t trust Hugo if he walked from here to Japan and tap-danced back. After he tried and failed to ‘sell me the dream,’ as he puts it, he fell back to the idea that if Emma and I only signed the place over to him, Tommy would have a nice, safe home for life. Good deal, eh?”

  “I’ve heard better,” I said. “What happened?”

  “Well, as I said, I played along until this big signing-over ceremony down at the house. They made a real festive occasion out of it. A couple of tame movie stars hailed up from Los Angeles, people from the newspapers, that noisy goddamned band blaring away. Everything but a three-ring circus and the pope to give his blessing. Say,” he said, peering at me keenly, “you’re not Catholic, are you?”

  “Not this year,” I said. “Then what?”

  “Well, it was all mighty festive. Fischer was grinning like a mule eating sweet corn through a barbwire fence. Everybody gathers around that oval oak table in the big living room, Fischer gives Emma a fountain pen, and she dutifully signs the contract, simpering like a ninny. Then he hands the pen to me. But I surprised him a little. I took that contract, ripped it in about a million pieces and would have shoved it down his fat throat if a couple of his thugs hadn’t grabbed me. It was quite a hoo-ha, I can tell you. I thought Fischer was going to have a stroke.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “Last October.”

  “And that’s when you took to this cave, and started playing hide and seek?”

  “No,” he said. “That was a bit later. After his pretty ceremony was ruined, Fischer threw out all the outsiders, beat his chest and howled like a scalded baboon. And everybody else looked at me as though I’d sat on the birthday cake. But then pretty soon he calmed down a little, and called a megathon.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Sorry,” the old man said. “When you’re around The Institute for any time you start using the same gibberish they do. A megathon is sort of a long meeting of the big shots of The Institute, which gives Hugo Fischer an opportunity to rant and rave and howl for as long as he likes. Some of them have gone on for a week, day and night. Usually he calls them when he wants to straighten somebody out who’s threatening to throw a monkey wrench into Fischer’s master plan to rule the world.”

  “And in this case,” I said, “that was you.”

  “Yep, that was me, all right. Only for the first few hours, you wouldn’t have known I was there. Fischer started out taking names and kicking asses among the faithful, sorting out internal feuds, putting down minor rebellions and just enjoying making his pet animals crawl around on their bellies.”

  “Sounds like good clean fun,” I said. “But I imagine that Fischer got around to you eventually.”

  “Oh, he did that, sure enough. After about eighteen hours straight, when we’re all supposed to be about on the ropes, Fischer turned loose his dogs—Moffitt, Jim Carey, Pops Martin, the whole bunch—on me. They really ripped up the floorboards and went after me. I was an ungrateful old bastard; I was standing in the way of great human progress; I was condemning my own son to life in a strait jacket. Then, Fischer pushed Emma’s button, and she lit out after me, drawing on over fifty years of ups and downs and sideways. When she was done, there was nothing left you could call me. She didn’t miss a stop. She ended up screaming that she hated me because I was causing so much pain and trouble to this great, decent, beautiful man —she was talking about Fischer, mind you.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “Well, about this time I was supposed to melt into a great big puddle of remorse. They were all prepared to leap up and embrace me as a brother once I’d admitted the error of my ways. I just waited until Emma had finally wound down to a quiet boo hoo, stood up and walked right out of there. I haven’t talked to any of them since.”

  “What have you been doing all this time? Not hiding in that dinky cave?”

  “Some of the time,” he said cagily, “but I’ve got a dozen places on this estate where I could hide out from an army. If I hadn’t decided to find you tonight, you’d never have found me.”

  I rubbed the back of my head and admitted that he was probably right. “But is it really necessary for you to do all this hide-and-seek stuff?”

  He looked a bit put out at the question. “Hugo Fischer is never going to drive me off my own land. I’ll outlast them. I’ll still be here when every last one of those drug-crazed maniacs and bloodsuckers is out on the highway, even if Emma goes with them.”

  “You probably will,” I agreed, “but is all the hiding and commando stuff necessary? You don’t really think Fischer or anyone else from The Institute would hurt you? I seem to recall that they believe in nonviolence.”

  Carter cocked an eye at me like a cunning old bird. “No, Goodey,” he said. “I don’t believe Fischer would. Not him. But not all of his flunkies are so choosy about high ideals. So, just to be on the safe side, I keep moving.”

  “I can see your point,” I said, “but…”

  Just at that moment, we both heard voices. They were coming in our direction. Suddenly, Carter was as alert as a jack rabbit.

  “I’m gone,” he said, and started moving toward the bushes.

  “Wait,” I said, grabbing his arm. It was thin, but tough and sinewy. “I’ve got some more questions. How can I find you?”

  “You can’t,” he said, jerking out of my grip easily. “If I want to talk to you, I’ll do the finding. If you come looking for me, you’d better be mighty careful.” Then he was gone like a wisp of smoke.

  I walked back over toward the edge of the cliff and tried to look casual. The voices got louder, and in less than a minute, the two security guards I’d dodged down below came out of the trees to the little clearing.

  They didn’t look friendly. It may have been my imagination, but I thought the little one got a better grip on the sawed-off baseball bat he was carrying.

  “What are you doing up here, Mr. Goodey?” he asked.

  “Oh, just admiring the view,” I said carelessly. “Why do you want to know?”

  That wasn’t the answer he’d been looking for, but he said: “Security is very important here at The Institute. We have enemies. We like to know just what’s going on at all times on our property.”

  “Oh,” I said innocently. “In that case, I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you that I was talking with a friend.”
r />   “A friend.” They were surprised.

  “Who’s that?” demanded the big one.

  “Just a friend,” I said. “He lives”—I made a vague gesture up toward the woods—”out there someplace.”

  “In the woods?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “J.B.,” said the taller one. “This guy’s been talking to that old bastard, Carter.” He turned back to me. “Where’d you see him?”

  “Around,” I said. “But he’s gone now. He said he had to go to see a man about buying some dynamite.” They both looked startled, then realized that I was putting them on.

  “He belongs in a loony bin!” exclaimed the tall one. “He’s nothing but an old…”

  But the other guard was tugging him away from me along the cliff’s edge. I wished them a lot of luck trying to find J.B.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said as they walked away rapidly. “Look out for his sock.” They disappeared into the woods.

  The mansion was dark and deserted when. I got back to it, and nobody challenged me as I crept up the stairs to my room. I opened the door and was groping for the light switch, when a girl’s voice said: “Don’t turn on the light.”

  11

  I peeked warily around the door and found Genie Martin looking at me from the bed. My bed. The pink coveralls were gone, and a sheer silk nightgown didn’t hide the fact that she was stripped for action. She was sitting propped up against the pillows, and the expression on her face was probably meant to be seductive. Instead of removing her make-up for bed, she’d obviously added more and none too subtly. Her heavily kohled eyes made her look like a raccoon in heat.

  “Hello,” I said, never at a loss for an original opening, “aren’t you in the wrong room?”

  “I hope not,” Genie said, switching on the bedside lamp. “You’d better close the door or we’re likely to have more company.”

  “Like who?” I said, taking her advice. “Pops?” But I felt better with the door closed.

  She snorted prettily, showing a nice set of sharp little teeth that didn’t do anything to dispel the raccoon impression. “Not a chance. The great lover is upstairs practicing breathing through his mouth. You never heard anything like it. Did you know that he keeps his teeth in a glass of water by the side of the bed? Ugh!”