“I even mentioned it to Hovde,” he said. “Hovde seems to think a lot of you. I guess everybody does.”
“You mentioned that to Hovde?”
“Why not? This town’s too big; it’s spread too much for the number of cops they’ve got. I thought it was a good idea.”
“What did he think?”
“He laughed at me naturally. He’s honest, that Hovde, and he was looking for the angle. So he laughed, until he can figure the angle.”
“And what is the angle, Nick?”
“There is no angle.”
A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, Nicholas Nickleby, Oliver Twist, Our Mutual Friend—Just like in John’s study. My brother Nick.
“I’m not such a bastard,” Nick said.
“I’ll buy that for the moment,” I said. “I sure can’t figure you.”
“Who can? That’s why I’m rich. Expenses, Pete.”
I looked at his desk where he’d thrown some fifty-dollar bills. Six fifty-dollar bills—three hundred fish.
I looked at them, and at him. “Are you buying me? I never have discovered what my price is, Nick, but it would be above that.”
“You haven’t got a price,” he said. “If you did have, I wouldn’t be interested in you. That’s so you don’t go hungry while you’re looking for a killer with Mike. Guys like you I don’t want to ever see hungry.”
“Next week, East Lynne,” I said. “What in hell is the angle?”
“You cynical son-of-a-bitch,” he said. “Why don’t you grow up?”
I leaned forward in my chair.
“Don’t get simple,” he said. “I could kill you with either hand.”
And he could. I knew it, he knew it; flexing my muscles was only an involuntary action, leading nowhere.
I looked at the three hundred again. I said, “We’ll pretend Wright’s Widow won the fourth today at Vista Meadows.”
He laughed. “Pete, Pete, Pete—” He watched me pick up the money. “You want a gun?”
“Not until the army gives me one.”
“That,” he said, and took a deep inhalation. “Pete—would you talk to Chris? He’s got some screwy idea he ought to sign up. Could you tell him how it was, what it will be?”
“Every man’s got his own version of it,” I said. “I’ll talk to Chris, but I’m not much of a lad for advice.”
“Just talk to him. Try and see what’s driving the kid.”
“Were you in either one of them, Nick?”
“The first one. My name was still Arapopulus and I was a sucker for flags and bands.”
“You cynical son-of-a-bitch,” I said, “why don’t you grow up?”
He smiled. “Counter-puncher, aren’t you?”
“When did you trade the dream in for the angle, Nick?” I asked him. “When did you join the throng?”
“When I traded the Chev in on the Caddy and changed my name to Arnold.” He came around the desk. “Have you been sick, Pete? You look like it’s been a bad day.”
“It’s been one of the all-time-low days. I don’t know if I’m still sick or just hungry.”
“Eat with us,” he said. “I want my boys to look at you.”
“Now I know where Mike gets his corn. Okay, I’ll eat with you. There’ll be no thirty unhappy years from prudery to degradation to listen to, I hope.”
“Hey, how about that Arranbee? He sure could sell oil stock, right?”
“That’s what he’s doing,” I said.
“Say,” he said, “why don’t you call Ellen? Tell her to grab a cab and we’ll make a party out of it.”
“I tried her this afternoon. I don’t know if she’s home.”
“She’s home. Call her.”
“Yes, boss,” I said.
She wore the yellow dress, this being informal. Her eyes avoided mine at first when she came into the living-room, but I was talking to Chris and I pretended I didn’t notice that.
Just being in the room with her I felt better and worse. Better because I knew she wasn’t with someone else and worse because I’d been rude to her last night.
Chris was saying, “This is no life, waiting, waiting, wondering what those damned Commies are going to do next. I’d rather be some place where I can do something about it. Talk, talk, talk—what do those bastards do but talk and what do they understand but power? Pop’s wasting his money, sending me to college; I’m never going to be his bright son.”
“They’ll call you when they need you, Chris,” I said. “You’ve got to believe the boys in Washington know what’s best. You’ve got to believe, no matter what your party, that all of them are sincere when they’re playing for these kind of marbles.”
He looked at me. “Do you believe that, Pete?”
“I believe that.”
“You enlisted last time, didn’t you?”
“So, I’m punchy.”
“I don’t think you’re punchy,” Chris said. “I think we’re a lot alike, even if you can’t play table tennis. And I’m not punchy. I’m ignorant, but I’m not stupid.”
“I’m ignorant, and stupid, too,” I said. “Why, Chris, I had a girl would make you drool, up to last night. And then I went and acted like a spoiled child of six and—”
I looked over to where she was talking with Nick and Paul, but there was no sign she’d heard me.
Chris said, “Do you mean Ellen Gallegher? Hey, that’s my girl.” He almost shouted it.
Miss Gallegher gave no sign.
“I’ll play you a game of table tennis for her,” Chris said. “Winner take all.”
“Give me eleven points,” I said.
He only beat me twenty-one to eighteen. I’d made seven points while he’d made twenty-one.
So he sat next to Ellen, with Paul on the other side and I sat next to Nick.
Miss Gallegher was civil as the small talk went here and there while the onion soup went down. Miss Gallegher answered when spoken to by me and spoke without reservation to the others. My lady was still miffed, and be more thoughtful in the future, Mr. Worden. I’m not some tramp you picked up on one of your binges. I can do better than you, if I so desire.
Please don’t so desire, Miss Gallegher; I am properly humble, chastened, and miserable. Give me a break, Miss Gallegher.
Paul and Miss Gallegher were discussing Hindemith and throwing the musical terms around with fine abandon. Nick was telling Chris about the fiendish cruelty of first sergeants, past, present, and future. Mr. Worden was eating his filet and broccoli Polonaise and mixed green salad with garlic dressing just as though he hadn’t been a sick man a few hours back.
And wasn’t heartsick, even now. Speak to me, if only with thine eyes, my Eau Claire beauty. Look my way and smile.
Nope. If she didn’t intend to be nice, why had she agreed to come? Because Nick was throwing the dinner, because it was at his house? Or because I was here, and she’d assumed I’d finally sold out, like she’d wanted me to?
Who can understand women? To hell with her. To hell with all women. Feed ‘em beans, to hell with ‘em. Nuts to you, Miss Ellen Gallegher. Who won the dress you’re so proud of? You and your fine words and graceful phrases. Paul should know you at your best. Hah. Front, front, all front in more ways than one. “Pete,” she said.
“Yes, darling. Yes, honey, sorry, I didn’t know you were talking to me. What, dear?”
Her face no colder than a paddle pop. “I was telling Paul about your new sport coat. Where did you get it?”
“At Poole’s.”
“Thank you.”
Back to Paul and dialogue not meant for the ears of Mr. Worden. From sport coats, they went up the ladder to Albright, Shahn, Hopper. I’ll bet they didn’t even know that Bob Fitzsimmons won the title at thirty-five years of age. Ruby Bob, and what a lad. After dinner we went into the living-room and relaxed with brandy and Mr. Mozart. Don Giovanni—all of it.
The lights were dim and my love at some distance. The escapades of that great seducer
and all around rogue, Don Giovanni, came to us from the Capehart, and his final and inevitable destruction left the room thunderously quiet.
Ellen rose and said, “It’s been a trying day. I’m afraid I’ll have to be saying good night, Nick. And thank you very much.”
“You’ll take her home, of course,” Nick said to me.
“Of course,” I said. “If she doesn’t mind?”
“I don’t mind,” she said.
Shaking hands all around, and Chris said, “Don’t forget. Golf one of these days.”
“Three ways,” Nick said. “Half a dollar a hole, double on the birds.”
Not a clear night. The stars not visible even up here in the Valley, the fastest growing area in the world. My girl walking silently by my side and my Merc waiting patiently.
“Are we annoyed about something?” I asked.
“No.”
I held the door open for her and she got in. I went around to my side and climbed in. “What were you trying today?”
“Trying?”
“You said it was a trying day. Were you trying a new boy friend, for instance?” The Merc was going down the drive.
She shook her head, staring out through the windshield.
“A new hat, or shoes. You weren’t home. I phoned.”
“Did you?”
“You—heard about Tommy, of course?”
“Tommy? Tommy Lister? What about him?”
“He was murdered today. Didn’t you know that?”
“Pete— Pete— My God, Pete—what is—”
I didn’t look at her. “Nick wants me to work on it with Mike Kersh. It sounds silly, but I said I would. But I’m going to talk to Sergeant Hovde about it first.”
“Tommy Lister,” she said quietly. “Of all people, why Tommy Lister?”
“He probably saw the killer come into my place. One of his friends thinks Tommy might have been blackmailing the killer or trying to.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “That doesn’t—that isn’t— No.”
Very little dialogue down the Pass, or along Sunset, or down the hill to the paint store. Unusually quiet, both of us.
I pulled around in a U-turn and in front, but left the motor running.
“Well, good night,” I said.
“Not here,” she said. “This is no place to say good night. Come up and hold me, Pete. Hold me tight. I’m scared, and lonely, and I’ve been blue.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
IN THE MORNING the papers were full of it. The knife angle made it worth the extra ink and the fact that Tommy must have been an innocent bystander. And the universal dread that some kind of human beast was at large in the town, some special kind.
This is a town alive with beasts and perhaps the knife wielder epitomized all of them in the public mind. He (or she) could be the symbol for all their enemies, real and imaginary.
The papers would get letters and the police would get letters, indignant letters, fury masking the fear of those who wrote. Indignation clothing their own self-identification with the killer. In an unhappy time, people write a lot of letters to editors.
Ellen said, “Do you remember when papers were fun to read?”
“Just the funny papers. Why was yesterday a blue time?”
“I don’t know.” She poured more coffee. “I was home all day. I didn’t answer the phone.”
“Nick knew you were home. How did he know it?”
“I phoned him and asked about you, if you’d called him. I told him I’d be home.”
“He offered me a partnership in a business he’s going to capitalize at a half million.”
Ellen’s coffee cup rattled on the saucer. “Pete—A partnership?”
“Right.”
“Pete.” She stared at me, her thumb and forefinger still on the handle of the coffee cup. Her eyes were asking the big question.
I don’t like to lie, but I didn’t want to bicker now. I said, “I haven’t decided. Maybe he’ll up the ante.”
Her eyes went past me. “A half million.”
“It won’t break him. There’s plenty more.” Her eyes came back. “What do you imagine he’s worth?”
“A few million. Who knows? You could probably get a credit report on him if you knew the right people.”
“Don’t be nasty. And besides, I don’t know the right people.”
“Now we’re even,” I said. “Kiss me good-by. Mike is probably waiting at my place for me right now.”
She came with me to the door. “Pete, watch your temper. Be very careful, won’t you?”
“Yes.” I put my hands on her shoulders. “Where are you heading, Irish?”
“I don’t know. The folks keep sending me money. I lie to them, Pete, in my letters. They want me to come home.”
I said nothing.
“But I’m not going. Not back there. Be careful, Pete.”
“Sure.” I kissed her.
Sure, look carefully for a killer with Mike Kersh. Don’t stick your neck out; the knife is waiting. Move quietly, like the killer.
Clear day and lots of traffic. Christmas shoppers. I simply won’t go above two dollars for Aunt Minnie. Your father can always use shirts and socks, don’t be silly. These aren’t times to be silly or extravagant, Egbert. These are bad times and socks will serve for your father. Merry Christmas, Father, look at the lovely socks Egbert bought you.
Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.
In Korea, there was snow for Christmas. The boys were sleeping in the snow. In the UN the Bear huffed and puffed and the little Bears mimicked him. Huffed and puffed, smiled and scowled, and uttered but a single word.
The word was No. The little Bears learned the word and there were the few Noes against the chorus of Yesses but the big No gave the Bear time. And the blackness of the Bear spread throughout a formerly free world. And brave men died, resisting that black spread.
And others went yackety, yackety, yackety, yak. Words, to a threat that had changed the meaning of all words, to an organization that had established a new school of semantics.
Merry Christmas.
The Lincoln wasn’t waiting in front, nor one of Nick’s Caddys. The M.G. was in front.
Martha wore a sweater and skirt, pale green. Martha’s face was thin and pale, tilted up to mine.
“I’ve been waiting two hours. Come home, Pete.”
“This is home.”
“Out all night, Pete?”
“Are you your brother-in-law’s keeper, Martha Worden?”
“We’re more than that. You’re my brother, Pete. You’re my son. You’re my boy, Pete.”
“You’re made in His image, on the distaff side, Martha Worden. But I can’t come up to Beverly Hills right now. There’s work to be done. I’m going to work.”
“For whom, Pete?”
“For the law, more or less. For the anti-killers.” She stared at me, trying to read things I hadn’t said in my face with the bent nose. “Pete, you’re all right.”
“Nobody’s all right. I’m as all right as the next man. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got three hundred and ten dollars in my wallet and a momentary mission. And a sudden hope for the world.”
“Hope, Pete? What hope?”
“Hope for a world that still holds Martha Wordens.”
Crying, she was. Her fine face tilted up to mine, the clear eyes wet. “You’re—driven, aren’t you? You’re like a—a doomed man.”
“Don’t cry for me, honey,” I said.
Big tires on the pavement, and I turned to see the black Lincoln come to a stop across the street. We watched Mike Kersh climb out and then I heard the M.G. pop into life.
I looked back and Martha’s smile was tight. “Your friend, Pete. Take care of yourself. Call us if you need us.”
The little car moved away and Mike was standing next to me.
“I’ve got to shave,” I said, “and check the mail. You can come up and read the Times.”
He was not
voluble this morning. He looked puzzled and grim. I’ll bet in his younger days he was a terror in Chicago.
Christmas cards in the mailbox. People I remembered dimly and people I knew well. One card from Joe Devlin, the one-armed night watchman in Milwaukee.
He’d scrawled a few words below the Merry Christmas:
This town’s knee deep in snow. You lucky stiff.
You’re right, Joe, I’m lucky. If you want to cry, cry for Joe Devlin. Or Martha Worden or Tommy Lister. Don’t waste your tears; you’ll be needing them. Ration them for the worthy.
“A knife again,” Mike said. “What kind of people use knives?”
“Scared, Mike?” I asked him.
“I’m—nervous.”
We came into my humble abode, and he sat on the studio couch while I prepared to shave.
“You’ve probably scared a few in your time, too, Mike,” I said. “Though not Mickey Walker.”
“I never fought him,” he said. “Only in my dreams, and there I won. I never scared anybody that didn’t have it coming.”
I ignored that. “What are your plans?”
“Dope, we’ve been figuring, Nick and me. We know a guy here and there and we’ll bounce ‘em around, you and me.”
“First,” I said, “I talk to Hovde about it.”
“You crazy? Nick didn’t say nothing about Hovde.”
“I’ll do the thinking, Mike,” I said. “Nick told me I’d do the thinking.”
“I’m going to call him,” he said.
“Call him.” I had my face warm and wet now, and I was rubbing the lather in.
I heard him call and ask for Nick. I heard him state his case and then, “Okay, Nick, if you think—Okay, Nick, don’t get hot.”
I whistled as I shaved.
“You think you’re something,” he said.
“Nick must, too. Unless there’s an angle. Call the west side station and see if Hovde’s there, Mike.”
He looked at the phone. “It would be the first time in my life I ever called the law,” he said.
“What do you want, a trumpet flare? Call ‘em.”
Hovde wasn’t there. They didn’t know when he’d be in. Yes, tell him Mr. Worden called, Mr. Pete Worden.
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