“Nor I,” I told him. “I’ll bet you get to be D.A., though. I’m sorry I couldn’t contribute to the climb.”
“You’re even talking like them now,” he said. “You’ve even got the persecution complex. Come see me about the permit when you want to carry your ray-blaster, Buck Rogers.”
I sat down on the cot and lighted a cigarette. He stood outside looking in at me until the man with the keys came again. He didn’t say good-by.
They came around with the chow a little after that, but it was nothing I could eat. And where was Nick’s lawyer? Or a bondsman, or somebody who worried about Mr. Peter Worden.
It was Martha who came finally. John’s wife and my buddy, the girl with the chestnut hair and the boyish figure and the ready ear for even the corniest of my jokes.
She stood outside the cell door and said, “You’re nuts, Pete Worden. Why, why, why are you always in trouble?”
“Hi,” I said. “Dey framed me, sis. Dey’re puttin’ da heat on.”
“Oh, Pete,” she said, and now both hands gripped the bars. “Murder—Pete—what—”
“Where’s John?” I said. “Don’t tell me he sent you.”
“Of course not. He had to go to Santa Barbara this morning, and he’s not back yet. Pete, what happened?”
“Believe me, Martha, I don’t know. I walked into my apartment this afternoon and there was a dead man in my favorite chair. Beyond that, believe me, I don’t know a damned thing. But it happened to me, and because I’m the kind of drip I am, I’m automatically suspect. If it had happened to John, they’d have apologized and sent somebody in to clean up the mess. Let’s not have any more whys and whos now.”
“You’re lying,” she said. “I can tell. You talk too much when you’re lying.”
“I’m lying very little, Martha. I don’t know who killed him or why he was killed.”
“How much will it take to release you? How much bond do they want?”
“I don’t know. Don’t worry about it. Somebody’s probably working on that right now.”
“One of your—friends, Pete?”
“An acquaintance. Don’t make noises like my brother.”
“I’ll be back,” she said. “I’m going up to see the desk sergeant.”
She turned, and here was the man with the keys coming along the corridor again. Martha said, “How much bond do they want to release my brother-in-law?”
“I’ve no idea, lady,” he said, “but it’s already been deposited.” He put the key in the lock, and I heard that always refreshing sound of the opening door.
Outside it was cool, it was dark, and Martha’s M.G. was parked half a block away.
I got into it groaning, and she said, “No remarks, please. I already have your studied opinion of my baby.”
My opinion was that for a hundred dollars I could have picked up a Model A, for another five hundred converted it for her, and for six hundred then, she would have a jalop that would run this puddle-jumper into the ground.
Of course, there’d be no salesman to call the hood the bonnet, nor gas petrol, nor give her double-talk about how she hung onto the road, being a hard sprung job. Any shocks can be set, and if they can’t, you can buy used Hartfords for ten bucks.
“And besides,” she said, “John says if things go right, he’s going to buy me a Jaguar.”
“For nine hundred fish,” I told her, “I can buy you a Duesenberg, a 1932 job, delivering three hundred and twenty-eight horsepower, just a little more than twice as much as your new Jaguar.”
“And will it do over a hundred and thirty miles an hour?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a friend with a Maling conversion on a Merc that’s been electrically timed on the flats at a hundred and fifty-four miles an hour. You could get that.”
“My,” she said, “aren’t we indignant?”
“Silly, huh? It’s just that I loathe snobbery, and particularly the kind of snobbery that makes you think you can buy superiority, instead of working for it. Or the kind of misinformed snobbery that comes from reading the glossy catalogues with the studied understatement.”
“Are we wound up,” she said. “A murder hanging over your fair head, and we get the hot-rod lingo.”
“It wouldn’t matter, kid, about others. But you’re so damned genuine. You’re—oh, hell—people.”
“Hey,” she said. “Hey, thanks. I’d almost believe you if you hadn’t been neglecting us so much lately.”
I said nothing. The M.G. went along like a cork in a bottle, in and out, snarling and pooping.
Her eyes were on the traffic. “New girl, Pete?”
“Same girl. New attitude. Now, I’m jealous. Me. Gawd.”
“That’s bad?”
“Possessive? Me? That’s bad. A guy can get hooked that way.”
“That’s bad, too, getting hooked? Like John is?”
“Like John is, that’s good. But, Lordy, sis, what am I?”
“The hot-rod kid,” she said. “The All-American boy. First string, too, and practically unanimous. Lover of Saroyan, soldier of renown, fatherless, motherless, chip on the shoulder, ants in the pants, drunkard and bar brawler, dying to be loved.”
“Not dying, living. Living to be loved, and as Saroyan says, what else is there?”
“Kids,” she said. “Wives. Spraying the rose bushes and meeting the mortgage. Playing golf with the boys and dancing with the wife and half-believing that even over this ridiculous world there could be some kind of God. And kids again. How our kids love you, Pete.”
“Old Uncle Pete, the licentious bachelor.”
No words from her, no words from me. The M.G. went bouncing along Sunset, in and out, like a pony back through the Minnesota tacklers.
Up the drive that led to the proud, fine home, and the lights out, the ignition off, and she said, “I hope John’s home. I wonder if he’s seen the papers.”
We went into the dimly lighted entrance hall, and through that to the living-room, and there was no light in John’s study.
“I’ll bet you’re hungry,” she said. “I don’t think cook’s in the kitchen, but I could make you some eggs, and there’s probably some ham.”
Ham and eggs in the breakfast nook, and toast, and then we sat in the big living-room, listening to some Gillespie, and waiting for John.
The kids were asleep, the traffic on Sunset was muffled by the long lawn and the big trees and the high hedge. How would it be with Ellen, sitting in a living-room like this, listening to the record player, the kids asleep, the day well spent at labor?
It would be all right. It would be great.
Martha said, “Who paid for your bond, I wonder?”
“Don’t pry,” I said. “They’re not part of this life, Martha. They’re my other friends.”
“They’re not friends,” she said. “They’re just some squirrels that got into your cage by mistake. And this girl—”
“I love her, Martha,” I said.
“Now you love her. But for how long?”
“I don’t know. Who knows? Is it something they can give you a guarantee on?”
“I’ve seen you with her. Some build the girl’s got, some figure. Generously endowed in the proper places.”
“Smart, too, she is,” I said. “She’s read a hell of a lot more than I have. Sensitive and a good small-town background. I’m not good enough for her.”
And then headlights came into the drive, but didn’t continue around to the garage. Footsteps on the porch, in the front hall, and then John stood in the entrance way. And he had a newspaper in his hand.
“In the study immediately, Pete,” he said.
Martha started to say something, but didn’t. I stood up and looked at John for seconds before heading for the study. He stayed behind a few seconds.
Book-lined, this study. Dickens and Thackeray and the Brontës in the fine sets, always in sets, for John. The modern boys in the two-bit editions for yours truly, but the solid and the dull in the
gold-lettered sets for John.
He came in and closed the door and said, “What kind of damned mess is it this time? Have you absolutely no regard for any of the decencies?”
I turned around to face him but said nothing.
He was white; he was a ragged shred this side of being out of control. As a kid I’d seen him almost kill another lad one frightening day. But he’d learned control not long after and his temper rarely got out of hand now.
“Damn you,” he said, “speak up.”
“I haven’t got anything to say,” I told him. “What would you say if you came home and found a murdered man in your living-room? That’s what happened to me.”
He stared and stared and stared, and when he finally spoke his voice was hoarse. “Are you trying to tell me it was some kind of damned fool coincidence?”
“What do you mean, coincidence?”
“That a man you struck the night before should just happen to be found dead in your apartment?”
“Is that in the papers?” I asked. “Does it say I struck him?”
“It doesn’t say it’s true, but the police have received an anonymous call stating that. And the caller said it happened at a party, a party Nick Arnold was giving.”
“Anonymous calls,” I said, “mean nothing. Even to the police.”
“Well—” he said.
“Well, what?”
“Is it true, or isn’t it?”
“That’s none of your business, John,” I said.
He took a step forward, and one fist was clenched.
“Don’t be foolish, John,” I said. “You’re not that good. Since I was seventeen I’ve been too much for you. And don’t think I won’t hit you back.”
He stared some more, and it looked like he wavered there on his feet. Then he said, “Get out. You’d better get a job. You’ll not get another nickel from the estate until you do. I don’t give a damn if you starve.”
Brother talk. My brother, John. Love thy brother. I turned and went out, and Martha was a ghost in the living-room.
“Pete, wait, Pete—John, in the name of whatever reason you might have left—Pete, wait—John, for God’s sake—”
Crying, Pete Worden crying. Twenty-nine years old and that son-of-a-bitch had me crying. Cold outside, no Santa Ana any more. Foggy. I walked down toward the traffic of Sunset no longer crying.
A spell, a quick flash of emotion because he hadn’t asked, or tried to understand, or wanted to believe. He’d just walked in with the big stick and thrown his weight around.
He’d get over it. He’s solid and too Republican but he’s straight and fair and incorruptible, and he loved me. I knew. And wasn’t he my idea of what a real citizen should be? He’s my boy, my good old third-string guard, like Chris.
I was a long way from home and this is a place where public transportation is practically nonexistent. I watched the headlights going by and then, from across the street, someone called, “Hey, halfback.”
A black Lincoln, its lights off, and I couldn’t see the face, but the voice had been Mike Kersh’s.
I went across and it was Mike. He said, “I was waiting at the station, but you came out with that doll, so I followed you. You sure get the fine numbers, hot-head.”
“My brother’s wife. Watch your tongue, slugger,” I said. “Are you furnishing me with transportation?”
“Yup. We never did get to that canasta game. You didn’t break, did you?”
I climbed in. “No, but I don’t know why. What do I owe you, or Nick? You’re not my kind of people, as I’ve been told repeatedly all evening.”
“I wonder,” Mike said, “who phoned the police.” The motor was running, and he moved out smoothly into the light traffic flow. “I’ve been going over all of them, every one, and nothing comes. It don’t seem possible.”
“Turn right here,” I said. “You can turn on the red.”
“Still the funny man.” He swung the big black beauty around the corner, and I wondered if I shouldn’t go and see Ellen. I wanted to, more than I ever had before. But this might not be the best time.
“You boys are surely concerned about me,” I said. “I’m not used to this much attention.”
“Maybe Nick figures to work you into the organization.”
“I’m not for hire. No canasta tonight, Mike. I’m going to hit the sack.”
I knew I wouldn’t sleep, but I didn’t want any of Mike’s corn-fed philosophy this night.
“Damn it,” he said. “It just doesn’t make sense. And the knife, and arranging the stiff in the chair like that. What the hell kind of deal is it, Worden?”
“I don’t know.”
“It gives me the shivers,” he said.
My laugh was weary. “You? Gives you the shivers?”
“That’s right, me. It ain’t my kind of operation, and I don’t like things I can’t understand.”
“Mike,” I said gently, “libraries all over the world are full of things you can’t understand.”
“That’s different. This is in my line. I don’t like things I can’t understand in my line.”
Down Westwood, past the UCLA campus to the village, and past that, past Wilshire with the pretty Christmas decorations, up the slight grade, to park across the street from the Worden abode.
“Want me to come up and case it?” Mike asked.
“No. Thanks for the lift, Mike.”
“I ought to come up. You get bumped, and Nick’s going to be hot at me.”
“I’m not going to get bumped, not tonight. Thanks for the lift.”
I climbed out, and the Lincoln moved away like some big cat, purring off into the mist.
There was a party going on somewhere, yackety-yackety-yackety-yackety-yak. It got louder as I climbed the stairs, and reached its peak at the apartment next to mine.
“Reprints and slow reports, and it’s only the beginning. We’ll see the half-cent days again and worse. You mark my words.”
My neighbor and occasional friend, Tommy Lister, writer for the pulps. Science-fiction and sports and murder and the range; you name it, he’ll write it. Three months of champagne, Tommy had had, at MGM and how many years of beer? Good boy.
I’d forgotten I’d locked my door and turned the knob without thinking. The door opened.
Somebody was sitting in the upholstered chair, a magazine in her lap. In a yeller dress, her hair low on her neck, smiling at me.
“You gave me a key once long ago. Remember?”
I nodded, not daring to believe. I said, “Ellen, why—Ellen, are we—Ellen, why?”
“Why? You simple boy. Why?”
I locked the door and took my love in my arms.
CHAPTER FOUR
SOMETIME IN THE NIGHT, I thought of John, his face white. And Al Calvano, his face blank, and the anguished cries of Martha Worden. But these were passing images, mere nothings in the glory of the night.
The murmur next door rose and fell, pulsating, in cadence—the pulps will never die, the pulps are dead, the pulps will never die, the pulps are dead, the pulps will never die, di da da da, di da da da da da, di da da da—
In tune with the universe, in cadence with the infinite, together and alone.
In the morning she was shaking me, and she was dressed like a lady again. She said, “You haven’t got a damned thing to eat in this place, Peter Lance Worden.”
“We can go out and eat,” I said.
“We’ll eat here,” she said. “Get up and get out to the A and P.”
I thought of an old gag and said nothing, just looking at her, smiling.
“Don’t grin at me, you Tom cat. On your feet.”
“Yes, dear,” I said. “Didn’t you even make the coffee yet? All my other girls have the coffee ready.”
“There is no coffee,” she said. “Come on. Move.”
“You sound like Detective-Sergeant Hovde, but I’ll admit you’re better looking. Give me time to stretch, will you? And bring me my cigarettes.”
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“Before breakfast, cigarettes? What kind of animal are you?”
“An old soldier. It’s an old army custom.”
“You get your own cigarettes. Please, Pete, I’m starving.”
I got up, and there were my cigarettes on an end table. And my copy of Ulysses. Three paragraphs of that I’d read years ago and realized it was beyond me.
I said, “I see you’ve been going up against that Joyce again.”
“Not me,” she said. “Not at that level. I was reading your Cosmo. Who can understand Ulysses?”
“Tommy Lister,” I said. “And Spinoza, too, he can understand and explain. And Sartre, and like that. He’s a bright boy.”
“Never heard of him,” she said.
“Tommy Lister, the famous author, you never heard of him? You should be ashamed to admit it.”
She frowned at me. “Author? What did he write?”
“Oh, This Way to Mars and Deadeye Dick’s Last Dish of Prunes and Tinsel Tailback. He’s prolific and varied, a real master.”
“Oh,” she said, “him. The lad next door, you mean.”
“Right, princess. Give the lady a box of Jars Bars.”
“Next door, Pete,” and now she was staring at me. “Next door, and he reads Joyce, and your book out of the case, and—”
“Here we go again,” I said. “A new role for Irish, the girl of many faces. We present her now as the famous woman sleuth who can take any clue, however small, and build it into any conjecture, however ridiculous. Miss Gallegher can be seen at Fox’s—”
“Oh, shut up,” she said. “Did you tell the police about the book?”
“I never even noticed it until this minute. Look, lovely, Tommy’s murders are all confined to the pages of the better pulps. Tommy is a lad who needs help to butter his toast. What do you want for breakfast?”
“Surprise me,” she said. “I surprised you last night. It’s your turn.”
“I’ll get eggs,” I said.
The Merc waiting patiently at the curb where I’d left it aeons ago. Grind of the starter and coughing into life, and chopping them off, my Merc with the Creager pots and heads and Edson Hot-Shot Coil.
Into Westwood we sallied, where the filling-stations look like churches, and Sears Roebuck looks like Saks.
Don't Cry For Me Page 5
