He had told Bob how he had met Helen—she had been a typist at the precinct station, and he had been attracted to her first because of her uncomplaining, or uncomprehending, friendlessness—and how, he guessed, they were happy together, even if he did feel—and she did too, he knew—that theirs was in a way an arranged marriage, as marriages had been in the old days, and that he should call her Mrs. O’Connor when he spoke to her, instead of Helen. ‘Helen’, somehow, was too informal. But —and he had even told Bob this, which was very surprising, because he was really very shy, not to say prudish, about such things—they had a satisfactory sex life together, and she was a good cook, and very tidy, so he had no reason to complain.
Finally, over a second can of beer, and encouraged by Bob’s silence, he had told Bob about his vision and his fear; about his dream of a society in which the weak and guilty were allowed, or encouraged, to destroy themselves, so for the rest, for the strong and innocent, there would be peace, and freedom; and about his terror—a terror so strong at times that he felt himself being consumed by it—that this dream, this vision, never being allowed to flower, as it were, to open up and be exposed to the sun, and never, really, having any future, any chance of becoming reality—for he realized that by now it was too late for society to go any way but downwards into chaos and destruction—would either go bad within him, and become madness, or worse, would die altogether; crushed by the outside world, killed by a lack of air. And if that happened, he would be left only with the great hulk of his own body, and with other people’s ideas and opinions of him. He would become a vast, dumb zombie; he would cease to exist. Because, he said urgently, passionately, leaning towards the silent Bob, clutching his empty beer can, and forgetting to keep even half an eye out of the window, his dream was the only thing that kept him alive; was the only thing that was, really him. His beautiful dream of an ordered, planned world, where everything was written down, prescribed, so that one merely had to follow the steps as of the most rigidly choreographed dance; steps that could always be improved and polished over the years, until the dance was perfect…. His beautiful dream of an ordered, planned world whose order was an imitation of the order that existed even within the separate elements of great, disordered nature. There was order in clouds, he had whispered to Bob, there was order in forests, there was order in the lives of such animals as were still free; so why wasn’t there, why couldn’t there be order in ourselves; in the lives of we humans who had to be, if we were to survive, the masters of clouds, and forests, and all the animals of the earth? Oh sure (he had said defensively, and not really believing it), he knew it wasn’t a very original dream, and he knew it was probably full of holes, so that some smart kid of ten could have picked it to pieces and proved that he was a fool—but it was his, and he clung to it, and he would fight for it to the death, and he was terrified of losing it. If only, he had said, quite loudly now, to Bob, and not being able to explain what he felt in a better way, we had space within ourselves where we could keep our dreams; where they could grow peacefully and be in no danger of being destroyed; where we could go and visit them and look after them; where we could love them…. Oh if only, if only we had space within.
And then, at last, he had sat back in his seat in that shabby bar on Avenue B, looked up again at the window he was supposed to be watching, and waited for Bob, finally, to talk to him; to give him some proof that this secret, tender life he had pulled out and shown him was not going to be abused; to reassure him that he had not, by exposing himself to him, put himself in danger of some knife of mockery or contempt.
But Bob had told him only one thing. Sadly, as if it were a tragic condition of life rather than a choice he had made, he had told him that he, Bob Garitano, accepted bribes, and was, in short, a corrupt cop.
At which, Fred had laughed.
But Bob hadn’t seemed to hear him; at least, he hadn’t taken any notice of him. He had said—and if this was a proof of his trustworthiness Fred would have preferred not to hear it—that he had always resisted until two years before, when his father had been found to have cancer and had needed an urgent, and expensive, operation; and at exactly the same moment he had had a great deal of money almost flung at him, in return for some help that certain important people needed in relation to a case involving some ten-and eleven-year-old prostitutes. He had taken the money, and his father had died before he could have his operation. It had been sort of ironical. And ever since, every now and then, after that first betrayal, he had accepted bribes—almost to punish himself, he had said bitterly to Fred, for having accepted the first one.
And Fred, who at any other time would have laughed at this, too, hadn’t then; and strangely, in fact, had believed him.
And when Bob had gone on to say that he had often wondered what to do with all the money he had got, which was sitting collecting interest in some bank—he didn’t have expensive tastes —and had often thought that it should be invested in some better way—after all, since it existed, there was no point in pretending that it didn’t, and one might just as well make the best of it—he hadn’t even laughed at that; at that evidence of just how sorry Bob was, and just how easily people could accommodate their morality where money was involved. He hadn’t laughed at it, nor even thought that Bob was, according to his rules, one of the weak and guilty; one of the despicable; one of the truly corrupt. No. He had simply sat, looking out of the window, and waited.
And when Bob, taking it for granted that he, too, was corrupt, had asked him what he thought of the idea of their going into partnership together, and buying some real estate that would be a good investment, he had nodded, and murmured, ‘Great.’
It was only after they had bought the apartment on Central Park West and had sort of moved in, that Fred had realized that (a) he had found the space that he needed for his dream to be safe in, and (b) that Bob, apart from being weak and guilty and corrupt, was also, appallingly, sorry for him; had spotted that flame in him and had breathed on it, fanned it, simply because he had thought it was a desperate, terrible signal for help. And he just loved to help the desperate….
He had been so mad with anger when he had realized this—mad with Bob, but even madder with himself for having been taken in—how could he have been?—that he had insisted on their peculiar use, or non-use, of the apartment, and had laid down so many rules and regulations, that the apartment, instead of being an investment or a pleasure for Bob, was simply a drain on his income; because the monthly maintenance payments were high. He had done all this hoping that Bob would fight; would say he wanted to get out of their agreement and their partnership, and leave the apartment to him alone. But Bob hadn’t. Silently, without a murmur of protest, and with just the occasional soft smile of one who really understands, he had agreed to everything. And he had agreed, Fred was certain, because he felt that this way he was both being properly punished for his crimes, and also, he was, as the ultimate act of charity, providing asylum for a soul in agony. It was as if Fred were both his guilty conscience, and his pet lunatic; his own private, special patient, to whom only he could go, and to whom only he could minister. Which was why, Fred became convinced the more he thought about it, he had made the suggestion in the first place. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for Bob….
He sat for a while longer in the armchair in the living room, and then stood up, went down the corridor, past the kitchen, and, without saying a word to Bob, let himself out and closed the door behind him.
*
Next morning he returned to the apartment before going on duty; he had been there only fifteen minutes, and was just drying himself after his shower, when the doorman called up and told him that there was a Mr. Smith in the lobby to see him. Fred exploded, shouting over the phone that he had said only yesterday that he was not at home to anyone; that he was not to be disturbed for any reason. The doorman sounded puzzled, and apologized, and as he did so Fred realized that it was not the same doorman as yesterday.
How ever many of them were there, for God’s sake? He apologized himself for having exploded, and asked that instructions be given to all the doormen that he was not to be disturbed.
The doorman murmured that Mr. Smith said he had to see him urgently. He insisted.
Quietly now, Fred repeated that he was not at home to anyone, to anyone. Was that clear?
‘Yes sir.’
Fred intended to go to the window of one of the rooms overlookingthe street, to try to look down—though there was a cornice blocking his view, he knew—to see if he could see this Smith as he left. But before he got to the window, or even into the room, he felt so sick he had to go into the bathroom, and vomit.
He was in the bathroom for ten minutes, retching into the toilet; and when he came out he felt too tired, too depressed to go and change; to go and put on his fine suit, and pour himself a glass of whisky. So he sat on the floor of the corridor, with a large damp towel wrapped round his middle, and rested his head against the wall, and didn’t move; didn’t move until he suddenly realized that there were tears running down his wide rough red cheek. Then he wearily lifted an arm, and wiped his eyes.
*
He and Bob rarely saw each other when they were on duty, and even more rarely spoke to each other; and when they did it was only, strictly, about police matters. No word of the apartment, no hint, no glance of complicity ever passed between them, and if it hadn’t been for the occasional flicker of compassion that Fred saw in Bob’s brown dog eyes, he would have been able to forget that they were involved in any way, or had any relationship at all except for that which existed between a lieutenant and a detective attached to the same Bureau.
He was, therefore, surprised, when coming off duty that evening, and making his way—his direct way, since he was going back to his two rooms in Brooklyn—to find Bob waiting for him in the street, with the obvious intention of talking to him. He was surprised—because he and Bob were working different hours at present, and because it had never happened before—but he was not, as he would have been any other time, angry. He couldn’t be angry; he didn’t have the strength. He was feeling too miserable, too confused to be angry. He had been thinking about Smith all day, and he hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything else. He hadn’t even been able to play his part as a quiet, shy, neat man, that normally came so naturally he forgot it was only a part. Today he had spoken too loudly, and he had sworn at someone, and he had spilt some milk down himself when he had been having a snack he didn’t want. Today he had felt like a whale stranded on a beach with only his size left him, and a consciousness—now that he couldn’t swim or send messages through the deep water in which he was used to live—of his size. He had been able to think of nothing but Smith, and to ask himself, again and again, who he was and what he wanted. But he hadn’t been able to think of any answers to his questions. All he knew was that, whoever Smith was, and whatever he wanted, he was the Enemy, and he was dangerous, and if he continued to haunt him in this way, something terrible would happen. He tried to tell himself again that Smith’s desire to see him might be quite innocent. He even tried to tell himself that since Smith knew he had the apartment, there was no point in keeping him out of the place itself, and he would have done better to have him sent up; to face him, find out what it was he did want, and cope with the problem right away, rather than flee from it, and postpone it. But though he tried to tell himself all these things, he couldn’t convince himself, and could only think that every moment he did manage to put off that dreadful meeting was good for him, was to his advantage, and might even —if he put it off for long enough—give him time to think of some way to effectively deal with it, or put it off forever.
In fact, he couldn’t help admitting to himself as he saw Bob, and murmured a prim and unfriendly ‘hi’ to him, not only was he not angry to see him but he was, in a way, almost glad to; and almost, for the first time, thought he would quite welcome Bob’s look of compassion. He felt he deserved it.
But strangely, tonight, as Bob said—with just a little too much gentleness—‘Hi Fred, I’m sorry to waylay you like this, but I gotta speak to you,’ his eyes—which normally stared so brownly and understandingly directly into Fred’s eyes when he spoke to him—were lowered, and his expression was not so much one of concern for suffering humanity, as very slightly sulky, and one of concern for suffering Bob.
Fred nodded without saying a word, and continued to walk slowly down the street, waiting for Bob to walk with him, and speak.
Bob said: ‘I don’t want to put you on the spot Fred, but I’ve decided—I mean, I’ve been thinking about this for some time, but I really just decided today, and as I don’t often see you—there—I mean I wanted to talk to you last night, but you left, and—well, look Fred, I want to quit. I mean—I don’t know how you are for money, but I thought perhaps—you know, if you’re okay—maybe you could buy out my half. I don’t want to make any profit on it, and I’d sell for what we bought it for, but like—you know, with Lenore, I sort of feel I’m betraying her. It’s like that place is another woman, and you know if she ever found out—’ he paused.
Fred stopped walking, and turned to Bob; turned to look at his soft handsome face and his lowered eyes, at his expression now of apprehension, and nodded. He didn’t need to hear him say any more; didn’t want to hear any more of that awkward, disjointed speech that was so unlike his normal, measured, reassuring bedside manner. And then, again for the first time, he found himself adopting the tone of the friendly doctor. ‘That’s okay,’ he muttered. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. I got plenty of money. We’ll go see a doc—’ he checked himself, and gave, surprisingly, a brief laugh—‘I mean a lawyer next week, and get it all settled. I understand. And you’re right about Lenore. She really wouldn’t like it if she found out. And you don’t want to put your marriage in danger. Especially not with someone as great as Lenore.’ He stopped, and looked down at Bob’s lowered head, and wondered, for an instant, whether he should pat him, and say, ‘Good dog, go home now.’ Of course he didn’t, but he did smile—without any effort at all—and say, ‘Just don’t worry. I’ll fix everything. And then you can just sign and it’ll all be over. What you going to do with the money? Buy some place in the country?’
Bob, defeated now, shook his lowered head. But then, obviously making an effort and remembering that he wasn’t alone in being a member of poor, wretched mankind, murmured, ‘No. I think I’ll just give it away.’
And now, unable to resist, Fred did pat him on the arm, and say, ‘Thanks for talking to me Bob, and thanks for everything. You better be getting on home now.’
Bob nodded. ‘See you around,’ he said.
Fred stood still and watched him walk slowly, dejectedly away, and then called after him with a sort of laugh, ‘Watch out for the cop-killer.’
Bob turned, and said, ‘I’ll do that. And you watch out too.’ And as he did so he finally stared Fred right in the eyes—and gave him what earlier he had half hoped to receive. He gave him —along with a look of unmistakable fear—a long gaze of the greatest, most profound pity that Fred had ever seen in his life.
*
That gaze stayed with him as he made his way to the subway, and as he waited on the platform. It stayed with him as he got on the Brooklyn express and it stayed with him as he looked around the car and saw the pale weary faces and the dark weary faces about him. It stayed with him as he thought that he should be happy, overjoyed that Bob was finally leaving, and it stayed with him as he realized that he wasn’t; when he realized that Bob’s leaving him now was simply like a rat leaving a sinking ship. It stayed with him as he thought that rats were really very sharp animals, and it stayed with him as he realized that he was —or soon would be—alone at last; and that he was frightened.
The Order of Death Page 4
