“To go back to our conversation of some evenings ago, to quote you, I could run an elevator or drive a truck or sell sportswear in some ritzy shop.”
“I suppose,” she said wearily. “I suppose. Let’s not argue now. Let’s forget about it for a while.”
“My proposal of marriage has been tabled, is that what you’re saying?”
“Let’s not talk. Don’t get yourself all lathered now.”
“Okay,” I said. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to compete with a time clock, that’s all. Wait’ll you’ve had a year or so of that grind.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Relax, Pete.”
I was silent, but not relaxed. This was inevitable, this kind of ending to us, I suppose, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept. And from where I sat it looked so final.
Chris had three tickets to the Ram-Bear game, he told me as soon as he opened the door to us. “Paul’s going, too. You and I and Paul. You want to go, Ellen? I can get more tickets.”
She smiled wearily and shook her head. “It’s Gree—it doesn’t make sense to me,” she said.
“Dames,” Chris said, and nudged me. “Who’s going to win, Pete?”
“Who always wins?” I said. “The Bears have the Rams’ number.”
“It’s going to be dry and warm, the weatherman says. You wait.”
I put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. “Okay. We’ll wait.” “Still sick?”
“No. Just—oh, nothing.”
Ellen was walking toward the living-room, and he nodded toward her back. “Giving you a bad time? Quarrel?”
“More or less.”
“Women,” he said. “She’s been working pretty hard, Pete. And up here almost every night.”
I had had some unsatisfactory evenings with Ellen before, but this was a new record. It wasn’t that she was unpleasant, any more than she was unpleasant with the chair she was sitting on. I was another chair, a piece of furniture.
So she’d had a day on her feet and dealing with people. It could have been that. She had very few words for any of us, so it could be that. I kept telling myself.
Mine was the doubtful privilege of escorting her home, and I didn’t mention marriage or even love. I didn’t mention much of anything except the briskness of the night and wasn’t it a hell of a world?
She agreed with me on both of those topics.
I stopped in front of the paint store and said, “Well?” A good all-purpose word.
“Good night, Pete,” she said, and lifted her lips.
It was like kissing a sack of wheat.
“Maybe you meant good-by,” I said.
“I don’t know what I mean. I don’t want to talk, not tonight.” She had the door open on her side.
Some impassioned plea? Some hoarse declaration of my yearning? I said, “Good night. Keep your guard up.”
The Merc seemed to snicker at me as we pulled away from the curb. A thing of steel, the Merc, without compassion or discernment.
You, Ellen Gallegher, can go to hell. Or come to hell, rather, for that’s where I am. I tried to tell myself the woods were full of girls, and they were. But not Ellens.
Some mist in the night air now, getting heavier as I came closer to home, closer to the ocean.
It wasn’t late, and lights were on in the various apartments. There was a light showing in Tommy’s bathroom window. Why not? It was undoubtedly rented again by now.
There was a light on in my apartment; I could see the glow of it through my bathroom window, a light from the main room, the living and bed and study room.
I hadn’t locked the door again, and I paused with my hand on the knob. Not another corpse, please, not tonight. Somebody alive, and somebody besides Art Shadow and not in the upholstered chair. And not with a knife.
I’d probably left the light on myself. It had been around six when I left the place. I’d come back here for my car around six. I opened the door.
No knife, not Shadow, no corpse, but in the upholstered chair.
Mary Gonzales.
CHAPTER TEN
SMILING. Looking lovely in a sweater and skirt, a light coat folded neatly in her lap, her fine ankles crossed, her dark hair glowing under the artificial light.
She chuckled. She said, “Thank goodness you’re alone.”
I closed the door behind me. “Shouldn’t I be? Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I thought you might have some—bimbo with you. Hello.”
“Hello, Mary.” Communion? Compulsion? Commercialism? “You had something to tell me?”
She nodded. “That’s my excuse. But not my reason, I guess. Am I blushing?”
“No.” The urging in me, and I’d thought I was dead. The awareness growing, the big urge.
“I’m back in high school,” she said. “It’s in geometry class, and you’ve just said hello. In geometry class, I first noticed you, Peter Worden.”
In freshman English, I’d first noticed her, but I was a precocious child.
She said abruptly, “Manny recognized the knife Sergeant Hovde showed him. That’s my excuse.”
“Whose knife is it?”
She shook her head. “Manny doesn’t know. But he’s seen it, he told me. He told me, and nobody else, Peter. I’m telling you and nobody else. Because you’re in trouble, aren’t you?”
“Not too much. Maybe Manny did remember where he saw it, and isn’t telling you.”
“I don’t think so. It was in somebody’s house he saw it, but can’t remember. He didn’t tell the Sergeant that of course.”
“In Nick Arnold’s house, maybe?”
“That’s the first thing he thought of, but can’t place it. I hear a lot of things around that club, and one of them is you might sign up with Nick Arnold. Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Just don’t. Stay the way you are, and were, stay strong.”
I smiled at her. “You’re a sweetheart.”
“Yours?”
“For now you are. There’s nothing but now, anyway.” She stood up.
Different. Her rich body responsive, demanding, active, rebellious, and rewarding. A sense of complete communication, a surging ecstasy at her artistry, a haven in her warmth. Much different from that room at the Ridge Club. Taking all and giving all, demanding, demanding, demanding all. All. All. All.
In the morning she was gone, but I knew it had been no dream. With Vicki it could have been a nightmare, but this had been no dream. Wake up and smile, it’s another beautiful day.
It was foggy out and cool.
An idea started crawling around in my mind. It was a ridiculous idea, but it wouldn’t go away. I let it crawl.
There was nothing to eat except bacon, and this morning for a change, I was hungry. All. I made coffee and ate bacon, and looked at the funny papers in the Times. I took a shower and shaved and decided I was strong enough now to go out for some breakfast.
I went to a place in the village, a place that specializes in thick steaks and thin pancakes. I had ham and eggs. With toast, tomato juice, milk, and coffee.
And then down to the west side station. And Hovde was in. Talking to another detective in the small room with the grimy window. He nodded at me and then ignored me until the other detective had left. I sat in a chair near the window.
“Well?” he said.
“Well, yourself.”
“I see you moved in, up at Nick’s.”
“I was sick, Sergeant.”
“So I heard. What have you heard?”
“Nothing of importance. How closely have you checked Jake Schuster and his girl friend?”
“Why?”
“That dope tie-up. Did Calvano only peddle the stuff, or was he an addict, too?”
“Only peddled it, as far as I know. And I think I’d know.” He ran the tip of his forefinger along his nose. “Why?”
“Mike Kersh tried to give me the idea originally, that Calvano was an addict.”
“Only an addict?
”
“It’s hard to remember, but I think so. At any rate, he didn’t tell me the man sold it.”
“Let’s get back to Schuster’s girl friend, that Vicki Lincoln. What’s she scared about?”
“I didn’t know she was.” I smiled at him. “Because she’s so pale, you mean?”
“No, that isn’t what I meant.” His voice was harsh. “She’s got the jumping jitters. I know fright when I see it, and she’s got it.”
I thought, Maybe she’s afraid Jake will find out I was there. But gave no voice to this thought.
His eyes went past me. “Jake could have been the leak, the anonymous phone call we had. She’d be scared then. Or she could have been the leak.”
“Maybe. How about the knife, the hunting-knife? Anybody identify it?”
“Not directly. Mike Kersh recognized it, though, I’d swear.”
“So would I,” I said.
Hovde stared at me. “What do you mean?”
“The same thing you do. I saw that flash of recognition in Mike’s eyes when you showed it to him.”
The neck rub. “You did, huh? I thought I might have been reading something that wasn’t there. But you noticed it, too.”
I’d been thinking, while he’d been talking, and now I said, “Sergeant, this is between us, understand? I don’t want it to get back to Jake Schuster. If it gets back to him, you’d be the man who told him.”
“I’m listening,” he said.
“I was with Vicki Lincoln the other afternoon; that’s where I went into the breakdown, at her place. Marijuana was a partial cause, and I got the reefer from her. By mistake, probably. But that could be why she’s scared. Because Jake, I hear, is a very jealous man.”
He shook his head sadly. “You sure have some appetite, haven’t you? Boy—that—”
“I went to find out if she knew anything,” I said. “Don’t read anything into it beyond that.”
“Playing cop?”
“Guilty. I learned my lesson.”
“And nothing else? You’ve practically moved in, up there. Isn’t there any little tidbit you could throw my way, Mr. Worden?”
“Nothing solid.” And then the idea started to crawl through my mind again, the absurdity, and I gave voice to it.
He was silent for seconds. And then, “What in hell ever gave you that idea?”
“The evidence, so far, though I didn’t realize it until I started checking back. I must have been cataloging the evidence unconsciously and it gave birth to that.” I named the angles that stood out.
“But why?” he said. “Why, why, why?”
“That’s it. I’m no cop. The same thing that ties it all together. I understand my friend, Mr. Lister, might have been trying for a little blackmail on his own hook. That’s just a rumor, but sound enough.”
“I could check some of those angles,” he said. “You know, at first I thought you were crazy, but looking back—” He slapped his desk. “Damn it, Worden, it’s insane.”
“Sure,” I said. “Don’t let it bother you, Sergeant. The whole business is insane.”
“That Vicki Lincoln,” he said thoughtfully, “was in a private san in Hollywood for a while. And they wouldn’t be taking marijuana patients. It’s up a couple grades from that; a very expensive joint. But—” He shook his head. “You sure pulled one out of the hat.”
“And Nick?” I asked.
“Was talking to Jaekels at the time Lister must have died. I guess he couldn’t be covered any better than that. Look, Worden, I’m not going up against this sanitarium right away. A cop would scare them silly. Stay available, won’t you?”
I smiled at him. “Sergeant, I haven’t any ray-blaster.”
“All right, all right—make me eat my words.” Then he smiled. “I’ll check these other angles first. I guess I wasn’t wrong about you. I guess I know quality when I see it.”
“Not when you buy your ties, if that one’s any indication. Keep your chin clean, Sergeant.” I stood up.
“Now we’re tough again,” he said. “Now we’re nine years old.”
“I suppose,” I said agreeably. “What were your plans for me, and why should you care if the director of the sanitarium is scared silly?”
“I don’t care, unless it should make him clam up.”
“There’d be records.”
“Records can be destroyed. If there’s enough money involved.” His voice was dull, almost defeated. “Money can do anything, Worden, anything.”
I didn’t argue with him.
“Everybody’s got some price,” he went on in his dispirited way. “Though the price tag isn’t always showing.”
“You used to handle sports, and now you’re on editorials,” I kidded him.
“Get out,” he said. “Go some place. I’ll get you when I need you, Worden.”
I nodded, winked at him, and went out.
Nobody likes cops, but this Scandinavian was getting to me. So hard he worked, and for what? For the scorn of the yuks and the contempt of the wolves and the security of his pension? There must be some more powerful reason; he’d outgrown his Dick Tracy days.
Go some place, he’d said, and I went. I was a whole man again, and I went to the Red Cross and lay on the hard cot while they drained off a pint of the Worden’s vintage 1950, late season.
Came out again into the dull day and headed toward Beverly Hills. Toward my people’s home. I was sane and conscious and knew who my people were, this gray and misty morning.
Sunset is some street. From town to the ocean, Sunset has everything. Was there a connection between my trip to the Red Cross and driving out to Beverly Hills? Money can do anything, but what about blood? What about brotherhood? And, while we’re on the topic, what about the blood of Tommy Lister, all over the front of his white cotton shirt? Or the blood staining the snow in Korea? There’s where your brothers are, in Korea, Pete Worden. Get hep, jerk.
Martha was out in front, pruning some shrubs. In denim pedal pushers and tee shirt. She stood there, smiling at me, the clippers in one gloved hand.
“Welcome home,” she said. “Where’s your luggage?”
“I’m not moving in yet. John home?”
She shook her head. “He will be for lunch, though. You’ll stay for lunch, of course, such as it is.”
“Of course. Doing the gardener’s work, are you? Mrs. John Worden, popular hostess in the younger married set, photographed in front of her charming Beverly Hills home. Clippers courtesy of Grotz Hardware.”
“You’re a great sneerer, aren’t you? There is no gardener. Nor second maid, Mr. Wiseguy. There is a new austerity regime in the Worden household.”
“So?” I said. “Now what?”
She set the clippers on the porch. “Who knows? Taxes. Bad investments. I’m no financier. Have you a cigarette?”
“Two,” I said. “Both crumpled. How would you look, smoking a crumpled cigarette, if a photographer should happen by?”
“Shut your big and ridiculous mouth and give me a cigarette.”
I gave her one and held a light for her.
She blew smoke in my face and considered me through it. “You’re something of a phony yourself, tough guy. Two drinks and a cigarette and they have to put you to bed. What did you want with John?”
“Not with, from. Money. I think I’ll go into business.”
“Oh?” A faint frown. “Any particular kind of business?”
“Filling-station. What else would I know but grease and gas and motor work?”
“Big future in that, I’m sure.”
“I’d like the work. The only kind of future I want is work I like.”
“Ambitious, aren’t you?” She was sitting on the porch step now. “Is that going to be good enough for Miss Wellshaped?”
I sat down next to her. “Why don’t you confine your mothering to your own kids? Look, I’m straightening out like you’ve always wanted me to. Now that doesn’t mean I’ve softened enough for your mold. L
et’s not quarrel.”
“Right,” she said, and patted my hand. “I’ll tell cook you’re here for lunch.” She stood up and left me.
I was still sitting there when the Chrysler pulled into the drive. My brother John had a smile on his face when he came across the drive to where I sat.
“Well, Pete—”
“Well enough. How’s by you, John?”
“Oh, we live. Staying for lunch, of course?”
I stood up. “Yup. And some serious talk. I want to go into business, John.”
He frowned, as had his wife. “Business? What kind?”
“Filling-station. Service station, some garage work.”
He chuckled and put a hand on my shoulder. “Pete. Pete— Whimsey, eh?”
“I’m serious. I’d like it, I think.”
His hand was still on my shoulder as we went up the steps. “We’ll talk about it after lunch.”
Martha had changed to a coarse yellow-linen dress for lunch. The lunch was mostly asparagus on toast, which was carrying austerity to a new American low, for my money. A can of beans would have been as austere and much more filling.
I sat down hungry, and rose with my hunger unallayed. There had been some small talk with the asparagus, and for some reason it had seemed strained. Martha had looked faintly worried as John and I headed for the study.
There he closed the door and went over to sit behind his desk. Big deal.
The customer’s smile, and, “Well, Pete, let’s have it.”
I let him have it, in my fumbling way. Some corners I’d seen in my prowls, and neighborhoods building up, and my lifetime love for things that go chug-chug. And how I never wanted to work for anybody else.
“But a filling-station—” he began, and shook his head. “Well, we’ll look at it purely from the financial standpoint. About how much would you need to start?”
“About eight thousand dollars.”
He stood up and went over to stand next to the glass doors that led to the patio. He didn’t look at me as he said, “I don’t—believe I could raise it, right now, Pete.”
“Raise it? Isn’t my half of the estate that large?”
He turned to face me. “It—it was.” He took a deep breath. “Pete, there are some things about the estate I should have told you before this.”
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