Violation

by Sally Spencer

  *

  The den is large and square. A huge brick fireplace dominates one wall, and a picture window another. The furniture blends with the house – late colonial, early republic. It could all be fake as hell, but somehow, I don’t think it is.

  Craddock gestures that I should sit on the couch and takes an old rocking chair himself. “A drink, Lieutenant?” he asks.

  “Bourbon would be good. On the rocks.”

  On the coffee table in front of Craddock is a porcelain figurine of a shepherdess. If I’d been asked to guess, I would said it was made in Dresden, sometime in the 19th century – and I would have been way off the mark.

  Craddock leans forward and touches the shepherdess on her bonnet. It is a light touch – scarcely more than a momentary brush by – but, somewhere else in the house, a bell rings.

  Craddock seems pleased that I seem surprised. He picks up the figurine to show me that there are no wires underneath.

  “It took two of my factories to produce that,” he says. “My German factory to make the figurine, and my Massachusetts factory to fit her with the infra-red – or whatever it’s called – to ring the bell. It’s a wonderful way to summon the servants, don’t you think?”

  “Real neat,” I say, and then, because I am a dumb Polak who doesn’t know when to shut up, I add, “I must get one myself.”

  “Oh, you can’t buy them,” Craddock says, missing the point. “This is one of a kind.”

  And so are you, I think. Or at least, you’re the only one I’ve ever met.

  A door opens, and a guy in a white coat walks in. He is around 40 years old, with Eastern European features so rigid that they could have been made out of wood.

  “Yes, sir?” he says, in an accent that comes straight out of an old black-and-white Boris Karloff movie.

  “Mr Kaleta would like a bourbon with ice, Richard,” Craddock says.

  “And you, sir?”

  “A white wine, I think.”

  Richard goes over to the large cupboard which runs along the wall opposite the window. He opens the door and I can see a built-in cocktail cabinet, complete with refrigerator.

  “Until fairly recently, Richard was a high-ranking Communist Party official in the Ukraine,” Craddock tells me. “He drove a big car, drank imported liquor and ordered a great many people around. Now it is he who is ordered around,” he laughs, “but he still drives a big car and drinks imported liquor.”

  Richard’s face is as blank as it was when he entered the room, but I am starting to feel uncomfortable. I’m not happy talking about people like they weren’t there, because though servants may be invisible in Craddock’s world, they sure as hell ain’t in mine.

  And what’s with this Richard shit? The guy certainly wasn’t born Richard. The truth is, he probably had some difficult Slavic name Craddock couldn’t be bothered to learn, and, like the slave masters of old, this new master had given his servant a name he could get his tongue around.

  So what’s the bottom line? I ask myself. And the answer is that I might need Craddock’s help – need it badly – but I just don’t like the man.

  Yet that isn’t quite the truth – not the whole truth, anyway. My feelings about Craddock are a lot more complicated than that. When most people don’t know which way is up any more, there’s something fascinating about a man so convinced of his own rightness. And his certainty gives him power – the power to lead, the power to inspire. He’s the kind of guy men will gladly follow to their deaths in times of war. It’s people like him who start cults.

  And I find his power frightening, because while I mostly want to stay a free person who makes his own choices, there’s just a little corner of me which feels the urge to submit to the comforting certainty of Craddock’s world view.

  Richard returns with our drinks. On a silver salver – what else? He stands perfectly still while I remove my bourbon from the tray, then carefully positions Craddock’s white wine so that he has only to make the barest movement of his wrist to pick it up.

  Craddock waits until Richard has discreetly withdrawn before he speaks again.

  “I’m going to ask you to do something for me, Lieutenant Kaleta,” he says.

  He waits for me to ask in what way I can be of service, but I say nothing.

  He frowns. “I would like you to report directly to me on any progress you might make in the case of this young man …”

  “His name’s Bobbie Hopgood.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” he say, in such a way that suggests it was in some doubt before, but now he’s confirmed it, Bobbie can finally claim the name as his own. “I wish to be informed every step of the way.”

  “I’m prepared to cooperate with you,” I say, selling my independence dearly, “but first I’m going to have to ask you some questions.”

  He frowns again. For a second, I think it’s touch and go whether he orders me out of his house.

  Then he sighs deeply – like he’s made some major concession – and says: “Very well, you may ask.”

  “What made you decide to bring Craddock Industries to Harrisburg?”

  Craddock crosses his legs and drapes his hands over his uppermost knee.

  “I’m a businessman. Opening factories is what I do.”

  “Not good enough,” I say.

  Craddock raises an elegant eyebrow. I didn’t think people really did that outside of historical romances – but I know enough to recognize it when I see it.

  “In what way is it ‘not good enough’, Mr Kaleta?” he asks.

  “There are hundreds of cities you could have chosen to site your new plant – places where there’s already a solid infrastructure – all the service industries you’re going to need. There’s none of that in Harrisburg yet, and until it comes – if it ever does – you’ll be running at a loss.”

  “True,” he agrees. “Quite a large loss, in fact.”

  “The only people who find Harrisburg an attractive proposition are the ones desperate for tax breaks – and you don’t look desperate to me, Mr Craddock.”

  He looks at me with mild interest, as if I’ve presented him with a problem – but not a big one.

  “Do you come from a rich family, Mr Kaleta?” he asks.

  Sure I’m rich. All this is just a hobby to me. I’m sitting here – getting ready to eat shit – for the pure fun of it.

  “I only ever had one close relative,” I say. “My father. He was a carpenter in Brooklyn – when he was sober enough to work.”

  Craddock smiles.

  “Then you couldn’t possibly understand why I chose Harrisburg,” he says.

  I may not be able to understand – but he’s going to explain it anyway. He wouldn’t give up the satisfaction of making me look small for a million bucks.

  “Try me,” I invite him.

  “You can have no idea of what it is like to be raised wealthy, to know from your earliest days that you will never want for anything – ever. But if you are well brought up – and I was – you are also made to realize that your wealth carries with it a responsibility.”

  “You mean you only have stewardship of your money?” I ask.

  Craddock chuckles. “Hardly that. Of course, I’ve heard some of my rich friends advance that argument, but it’s always seemed cant and hypocrisy to me. No, the money is mine, but I do have a duty to use it well.”

  “And so you became a capitalist?”

  I am baiting him – which I know I shouldn’t do. But there is something in Craddock’s patrician attitude which is really getting to me. Maybe anybody’s patrician attitude would.

  “No, I wasn’t always a capitalist,” Craddock says, taking a small sip of his wine and really seeming to savor it. “When I was younger, I thought the way to discharge my responsibility was to donate large sums to charity. My wife – my late wife – shared my view.”

  A look of pain flashes across his face, and for the moment he is no longer Mr Bigbucks, just a middle-aged man who has nobody to share
his life with.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Craddock shrugs like he doesn’t care.

  But he does – I can see that he does.

  “It happened seven years ago,” he says. “Quite suddenly. But even before my wife’s death, I had already stopped giving my money away.”

  He wants to get the conversation back on track, and I can’t say that I blame him.

  “Why did you stop?” I ask.

  “Because it doesn’t work. It’s like pouring money into a bottomless pit. The only way to really improve people’s lives is to create wealth. And that is why I came to Harrisburg – to create wealth where it is most needed.”

  “But on your own terms.”

  “Of course on my own terms. As I told you, it’s my money.”

  Craddock takes another small sip of his wine.

  A moderate drinker.

  Probably moderate in his whole approach to life.

  I look down at my bourbon glass.

  It is empty.

  “How does Bobbie Hopgood fit into all this?” I ask. “Why is your lawyer defending him? Is it because you think he’s innocent?”

  “I have absolutely no idea about his guilt or innocence. But it was clear to me yesterday that the tin-pot council which calls itself the Board of Elders had already found him guilty – and I don’t like that.”

  “So you want to see him get a fair deal?”

  “Partly, but more importantly, I want to see if is possible for him to get a fair deal. In Victorian England, you know, charity workers always drew a distinction between the deserving and the undeserving poor. That’s what I’m doing – seeing if Harrisburg is worthy of my help.”

  “In other words,” I say, “the way you look at it is that it’s not Bobbie Hopgood who’s on trial – it’s the city of Harrisburg.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you want me to help you play God?”

  Craddock is ready for this, and because he knows he has me by the balls, he is prepared to take it with good humor.

  “I will play God – as you call it – whether you want me to or not,” he says. “But at least this way you have a chance of contributing towards my being an even-handed deity.”

  “How do you know you can trust me?” I ask.

  He looks at me firmly – levelly. “Because you are still an idealist, Mr Kaleta. You have no wish to play God yourself, but you wouldn’t want to see God mocked.”

  13

  Instead of coming off the Interstate at the first exit for Harrisburg, I stay with it as it loops round the edge of the city. Darkness has fallen, and below me I can see thousands of lights twinkling from thousands of homes. Looking down on these houses – on these people – I begin to understand how Craddock must feel, knowing that he has the power to change lives.

  I take the last exit before the river and park at the corner of 35th and Davies. To my left is the Saratoga Tavern – subdued lighting, dark wood walls, leather couches and framed hunting prints. To my right is Spiro’s hamburger joint – overhead fluorescents, ceramic tiling, molded plastic chairs and fading soda posters.

  I weigh up my choices.

  The Saratoga sells bourbon – but no food.

  Spiro produces Class A hamburgers – but has nothing stronger than beer.

  I hesitate for a moment, then head towards Spiro’s.

  What the hell – we ethnics gotta stick together.

  A group of teenage boys are sipping their Cokes in one corner. A couple of semi-professional hookers are sitting on the high stools at the counter, their tight skirts hiked up high for comfort. The boys are talking about football, but whenever the hookers are not looking in their direction, they’re gaping open-mouthed at the working girls.

  Apart for these two groups, the place is deserted – nothin’ here but zits and slits, as Ringman might say.

  Spiro, all black curly chest hair and thick moustache, is standing by the hot-plate.

  “Mike,” he says, with a smile. “Long time, no seen.”

  Long time, no scene?

  Ain’t that the truth!

  I wish I had a woman tonight – if only to share my burger and problems.

  “So,” the Greek continues, “you taken up eatin’ again, have you?”

  I grin. “Looks that way.”

  “What you want? A cheeseburger?”

  “A cheeseburger would be good.”

  I watch him as he slams the half-pounder on the hot-plate. It starts sizzling immediately, and I can already smell the onions browning.

  “How’s business?” I ask.

  Spiro shrugs. “Not too good.”

  “Same all over,” I say sympathetically.

  “There ain’t a lot of monies about now, even for burgers,” Spiro tells me. “Maybe things get better when that new factory in Prosperity Park open.”

  “Maybe they will,” I agree.

  I ask for a beer and take it, and my burger, over to one of the tables. There is a squat, rounded Wurlitzer jukebox next to me, its selections lit up by purple neon tubes. It looks like part of a Fifties revival, but it isn’t. It was here when Spiro – and the previous three or four owners – bought the joint. It owes its survival to its size. It’s so damn big that nobody can figure out how it ever got through the doorway in the first place. And if they don’t how it got in, there’s no way they’re going to try and take it out. It will probably still be here when the building’s demolished, and maybe – realizing how special it is – they’ll construct the next building around it,

  One of the whores slides into the chair opposite me. She is 30 … 31, I guess. She has black hair, kind green eyes and a wide mouth which must cost her a fortune in lipstick. She’s wearing a red halter top and a black, imitation leather skirt. Her figure is pretty good, I note in passing.

  She reaches into her purse, and takes out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Gotta light?” she asks.

  “Sorry, I don’t smoke anymore,” I tell her.

  “That’s the trouble. Nobody does.” She sounds almost sad about it. She sits there for a few seconds, the unlit cigarette in her hand, then says: “Wanna party?”

  I shake my head. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Come on!” she encourages. “Business has been real slow, so we kinda got a special on tonight.” She grins. “All I can eat for thirty bucks.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask her.

  “Elaine.”

  “I’m a cop, Elaine.”

  “Shit!” she says. “Does that mean I gotta give you a freebie?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re gonna bust me, ain’t you?” she says with resignation.

  “Not that either.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a bill. “I’ve got some serious thinking to do. Why don’t you put some music on the juke box and then go and talk to your friend.”

  She looks down at the money I’ve just handed her.

  “This is a twenty?”

  “So?”

  “You want twenty bucks worth of music?”

  “A buck’s worth will do. You can keep the rest. Consider it a payment for services offered.”

  Elaine gives me a searching look. “Are you sure you’re a cop?”

  “Yeah. Want to see my badge?”

  She shakes her head. “They sure are hiring some strange policemen these days.”

  She slips the twenty into her purse, and pulls out some change. Then she goes over to the juke box and feeds four quarters in. By the time she has made her last selection, the first one, a C & W number full of whining chords, has already started playing.

  She comes back to the table. “Listen, what I said about a freebie – I really don’t mind. Hell, it ain’t as if there’s gonna be any other trade tonight.”

  “I hate to look a gift-mouth in the horse,” I tell her, “but like I said, I got some serious thinking to do.”

  “Weird,” Elaine says, and makes her way back to the counter.

 
The whining guitar is still playing on the record, but now it has been joined by a singer with a voice so syrupy you could pour it over pancakes. I don’t intend to listen to the words, but somehow my mind picks up on the chorus.

  ‘Please, mister, please, don’t play B59!’

  I get interested – even though I don’t want to be.

  What the fuck is a B59, and how would I play it?

  I listen some more, and learn that B59 is a selection number on a juke box, and the syrupy singer doesn’t want it pressed because the song it will bring forth reminders her of a guy she loved, who ran out on her.

  I wonder if the selection number for the song is B59 on this juke box.

  Round and round.

  Wheels within wheels.

  Just like my problem.

  Harrisburg isn’t only Mayor Pine. It is more than a bigoted, blinkered Board of Elders. One hundred thousand people live in the town. Decent people like Spiro – and Elaine, the whore with the bargain basement mouth. And these decent people have all had things pretty rough since the Mustang factory closed down. To them, Prosperity Park represents hope, an end to scraping by and living on the margins.

  At the center of that hope is Thurston Craddock, and what he has done in a few short sentences tonight is to give me the power to alter the future of Harrisburg.

  Pine and Ringman have come under heavy fire from the voters, the press, and the other industrialists considering relocating to Prosperity Park. Bobbie Hopgood is a gift to them – a gift which will keep on giving at least until the contracts have been signed and the ballots have been cast.

  They want him to be guilty.

  They need him to be guilty.

  And the longer they maintain he is guilty, the harder it will be for them to back down.

  So if I find out there is no real case against Bobbie Hopgood, I will have two choices. I can lie to Craddock, and the construction of his factory – and other factories following in its wake – will go ahead. Or I can tell him the truth, in which case he will pull out of Harrisburg, and Prosperity Park will wither and die.

  I begin to weigh the issues in my mind, balancing the fate of one mentally retarded 24-year-old against the future of a whole society. And though the moral choice is obvious, I find that I can’t tip the scales one way or the other.