by Jim Thompson
I nodded. “If they couldn’t arrange to get him inside…Why in hell did he do it anyway, Fay? I know the cops probably shot him a big line about how they’d protect him and no one would dare touch him because it just wouldn’t be good business, but—”
“And how! I hated to lose out on that payoff money, but I didn’t think—no one seemed to think that—”
“Jake must have known how it would be. Hell, look at the way he started slipping. Hitting the jug and letting himself go. Look at the way he blew up when he spotted me.”
“Yeah. Well—” She shook her head again. “Why do we do anything? He was going nuts in jail. He felt like he’d been the fall guy for the rest of the crowd, and the money he was getting wasn’t doing him any good. So—”
That was about the size of the matter. I knew it. I’d been briefed on every phase of the deal, just what had happened and why and how it had happened.
But I wanted her to tell me, anyway.
“Why doesn’t he turn himself into custody? Stay in the jug until after the trial is over?”
“Why?” She frowned at me, puzzled.
“That’s what I said. If he’s so sure I’m—someone’s going to bump him off to keep him from talking, why—?”
“But, honey. What good would that do? They’d get him afterwards.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “That’s the way it would be, all right.” Her frown deepened a little.
“Honey…You’re not—not getting nervous, are you?”
“About him?” I forced a laugh. “Not a chance. He’s in the bag and I’m all set to sew it up.”
“How? Tell me, Carl.”
I hadn’t meant to tell her so soon. The safest way would have been to keep it to myself right up to the last minute. But—well, I’d got her a little worried with all that questioning. And it looked to me like I’d better show her I was right on the ball before she got more worried.
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “We’ll pick a weekend night when Ruth’s gone home to her folks, and—”
She, Fay, would set Jake up. She’d meet him downtown earlier and see that he didn’t get too much to drink. Then she’d go on home, after she had him good and teased up, to get ready for what she’d promised to give him.
“Make him believe it,” I said. “Make him want it so bad he can taste it. Know what I mean?”
“I know. Go on, Carl.”
“Okay. You go on home. He gives you a few minutes, and then he follows you. I’ll be watching at the door of the bakery, and I follow him. I catch up with him at the steps, pop his neck and drop him off on his head. I beat it back to the bakery, and you discover him. You heard him stumble, see, like he’s always stumbling on those steps. That’s it.”
“How will you—his neck—?”
“It’s easy. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Well, gosh. It—it sounds so…so simple!”
“You want it hard?”
“Well, no—” Her frown went away and she laughed. “When do we do it, Carl?”
“I’ll let you know. Not for weeks yet.”
“Gee,” she said, wonderingly. “Imagine me thinking you might be getting a little sca—worried!”
“Are you kidding?” I said.
“Gee,” she said, again. “You tough little bastard, you!”
…Kendall was in to see me at least twice a day. He fussed around over me like I was a two-year-old kid, feeling my forehead and asking me if I didn’t want this or that or the other, then kind of scolding me about smoking too much and not taking better care of myself.
“You really must, Mr. Bigelow. So much depends on it,” he’d say.
And I’d say, “Yes, sir, Mr. Kendall. I understand.”
It seemed that quite a few guys had got themselves locked into the cold-storage room at one time or another, and he took it for granted that I’d done the same. He also took it for granted that I’d opened that side door of the bakery for some reason, and left it unlocked.
And, of course, I didn’t correct him. I didn’t point out that he’d done it himself when he was trying out the new key.
Kendall usually managed to be around when the doctor came to see me, but he and the doc didn’t do much talking after the first couple visits. Kendall didn’t want to be told that I was in bad shape, and Dodson apparently wasn’t a guy to pull his punches. So, after the first couple visits, when Kendall argued with him and kept calling him a pessimist, the doctor got sort of grim and clammed up. About all he’d say was I’d be all right this time—but. “But,” he’d say, and let it go at that.
And Kendall would be pretty red-faced and huffy, and almost glare at him until he got out of my room.
“A pessimist,” he’d say, huffily. “Always looking on the dark side of everything…You are feeling better, aren’t you, Mr. Bigelow?”
“Sure. Sure, I feel fine, Mr. Kendall,” I’d say.
Thursday evening, he asked me about a dozen times if I was feeling better and if I was sure I should get up the next day…after that he got pretty quiet for a time. And when he spoke again it was about that little cabin he had up in Canada.
“It might be just the thing for you, Mr. Bigelow. In case, that is, that your health should worsen and you should not—uh—be able to carry out your plans here.”
“I’m all right,” I said. “I’ll be able to carry them out, Mr. Kendall.”
“I’m sure of it. It would indeed be tragic if you could not. But, in case…It would be ideal for you, Mr. Bigelow. You could take my car, and living would be very cheap and—I assume you have some money but I would be very happy to help—”
“I have most of what I got from my filling station,” I said. “But it’s awfully nice of you to offer—”
“Not at all. You’re more than welcome to any help I can give you…What do you think about it, Mr. Bigelow, as a more or less pleasant solution to an unpleasant eventuality? You’d have complete quiet, the most favorable conditions for rest and study. The nearest town is forty miles away, accessible enough by car but far enough distant to insure your privacy. How does it sound to you, anyway?”
It sounded swell. I’d never heard of a better place to knock a guy off—as I was going to be knocked off if I fell down on the job here.
“That sounds nice,” I said. “But I don’t imagine I’ll be going. I’m staying right here and going to school and—and do everything else I planned.”
“Of course. Certainly,” he nodded, and stood up to go. “It’s just something to think about.”
I thought about it.
It was almost one o’clock in the morning before I could get to sleep.
The next day, the day after that night, rather, was Friday. And I was still awfully weak and wrung out, but I knew I’d better not lie around any longer. Fay would start to worrying again. Kendall would start to wondering whether I could carry on or not. And if he had any doubts, it wouldn’t be long until The Man had them.
I got up early, so that I could take my time about dressing, and ate breakfast with Kendall. I left the house when he did, and headed for the college.
That first morning—Monday morning—I hadn’t paid any attention to the other students. I’d seen them, of course; some of them were passing us or we were passing them all the way to the school. But they hadn’t made any impression on me. I mean, I hadn’t been bothered by them. Kendall had been so free and easy that I’d felt the same way.
This morning, it was different. I felt like a jerk.
There was a regular parade of students going toward the college, and I was right in the middle of it. But somehow I wasn’t part of it. I was always by myself, with the others in back or ahead of me, nudging each other when they thought I wasn’t looking; laughing and whispering and talking. About my clothes, about the way I looked, about—everything. Because nothing about me was right…
I went to my first class, and the instructor acted like he’d never seen me before. He wanted to know if I
was sure I was in the right class and why I was starting to school so late in the term. And he was one of those goofs who keep asking you questions without listening to your answers; and I had to explain, over and over, while the others sat grinning and watching me.
Finally, it sank in on him. He remembered about Kendall introducing me, and he halfway apologized for his forgetfulness. But things still weren’t squared away. I’d been absent for three days, so I had to go to the dean of men for an okay before I could be admitted to classes.
I got it—a cut slip, I think they called it—and got back just about thirty seconds before the class was over. I was just sitting down in my seat when the bell rang.
Everyone got a big bang out of it. You’d have thought it was the funniest thing that ever happened.
In one class, I guess I must have moved a dozen times before I found a seat that didn’t belong to someone else. I’d just get sat down when some dope would trail up and say it was where he sat. And, yeah, I think they were making a game out of it, trying to make me look dopier than I felt, but all I could do was keep moving until the instructor woke up and assigned me to a desk.
The third class, the one just before lunch, was the worst one. It was English literature, and everyone was taking turns at reading a few paragraphs aloud. So it came my turn, and the way I was looking down and talking at the same time, my teeth slipped a little bit. And everything I said sounded sort of like baby talk. The snickers and giggles got louder and louder, and finally the instructor told me to sit down.
“Very amusing, Bigelow,” he said, giving me a glare that would have frosted an orchard. “Is Mr. Kendall acquainted with your talent for mimicry?”
I shrugged and smirked—what the hell could I do or say? And he frowned and nodded for another student to start reading. A little bit later—although it didn’t seem like a little bit—the noon bell rang.
I stopped by his desk on the way out, and explained about the teeth. He was pretty nice about it, said he was sorry he’d misunderstood the situation and so on. So that was taken care of: he wouldn’t knock me to Kendall. But…
I walked down the corridor to the building entrance, and everyone seemed to be laughing and talking about me. And part of it was imagination, of course, but not all of it. It was a small college, and I guess the students were pretty hard up for kicks, and news traveled fast.
I headed toward the house, wondering why in hell I bothered when I know I wouldn’t be able to eat anything. I tried to keep to the side streets, dodging people whenever I could and cursing myself for doing it.
She ducked out of an alley just as I was ducking across it. Looking back, now, I’d say that she’d been waiting for me to pass.
I said. “Oh, hello, Ruth,” and started to go on.
She said, “C-carl. Wait a minute.”
“Yeah?” I said. I paused, waiting.
“I k-now you’re mad at me about something, but—”
“Mad?” I said. “I don’t even know you’re alive.”
“Y-yes,” she said, “I know that, too. I didn’t want to talk to you about that. All I wanted to say was about…about school. D-don’t mind the way they act. Just go ahead, and after a while you get used to it.”
She smiled, tried to. She nodded her head, and pivoted on her crutch.
And I knew that I should let her go like that, a clean hard break. But I couldn’t do it. I stepped in front of her.
“I know you’re alive, Ruthie,” I said. “I know it plenty.”
“N-no…I mean, it’s all right, Carl. I—I guess, I just—”
“I’ve been trying to give you a break. I’m no good for you. I’m no good, period. But—”
“You are, too!” Her eyes flashed. “You’re nice!”
“And there’s Mrs. Winroy,” I said. “I think she might be a little suspicious. If she thought there was anything going on between us, she’d probably fire you fast.”
“Oh,” she said, and her voice quavered a little. “I d-didn’t…has she said anything? I couldn’t lose my job, Carl! If I—”
“You’ll have to watch it, then,” I said. “That’s why I’ve acted the way I have, Ruthie. It’s the only reason. I like you a lot.”
She stood blushing and trembling, the splayed hand gripping the brace of the crutch.
“That’s the way it is, Ruth. Keep it in mind. I think you’re pretty swell. If I don’t show it, it’s because I can’t.”
She nodded, looking like she was a dog and I owned her.
“Now, you can do me a little favor,” I said. “If you want to. I’m feeling a little rocky, but I don’t want to go back to the house and have everyone worrying over me, so—”
“Shouldn’t you, Carl? I mean, don’t you think you should stay in bed for another day?”
“I’m all right,” I said, “but I don’t think I feel up to school this afternoon. If you’ll tell Kendall, or anyone else that asks, that I’m eating lunch at the cafeteria—don’t let on, you know, that everything isn’t okay—”
“It will be, Carl. You’ll get used to it.”
“Sure, I will,” I said. “But I’ve had enough for today. I think I’ll just loaf around town for a couple of hours, get myself pulled together before it’s time to go to work.”
She hesitated, frowning sort of troubled. “You’re not…not awfully discouraged, Carl? You don’t intend to drop out of school, and—?”
“Not a chance,” I said. “Peardale’s stuck with me, and I’m sticking with it. I just don’t feel up to it this afternoon.”
She went on, then, on down the alley, and I went on up the street to a nice quiet bar I’d spotted the day I was with Kendall. I settled down in a rear booth, and I didn’t move out of it until three o’clock.
I wouldn’t have cared much if the sheriff or someone had spotted me there; they’d have had a hard time making anything out of the fact that I was taking things easy my first day out of bed. But no one came into the place that I knew. Hardly anyone came in at all, for that matter. So I just sat there, feeling more relaxed and rested the longer I sat, thinking and smoking and drinking.
I felt pretty good by the time I left.
What there was of me felt pretty good.
I got through my shift at the bakery. I put in a full eight hours there the next day, Saturday, and I got through them all right, too. So I got by all right. Just barely.
Because, like I said, there just wasn’t a whole lot left of me.
I wondered what would happen if something tough came up, something really hard to take. Something that I couldn’t handle in my own way, a little at a time, like I did the job.
And then it was Sunday, and I began to find out.
17
Sheriff Summers belched, and leaned back in his chair. “Fine dinner, Bessie,” he said. “Can’t remember when—ughahh—I et so much.”
“At breakfast,” said Mrs. Summers, wrinkling her forehead at him. “More coffee, Carl? I think, from the sound of things, that His Highness will have to settle for some baking soda and water.”
“Aw, now, Bessie. Why—?”
“No, sir. Not another drop. And kindly stop picking at the meringue on that pie!”
The sheriff grinned sheepishly, and winked at me. “Ain’t she a terror though, son? ’Bout the bossiest one woman you ever seen, I’ll bet.”
“I don’t think I’d say that,” I laughed.
“Certainly you wouldn’t. Only His Highness is capable of it.”
“He’s just being polite.” The sheriff winked at me again.
“But you’re not, are you? Quiet. Carl and I do not care to talk to you, do we, Carl?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, smiling.
And he and she laughed and smiled at me.
It was a nice day, any way you looked at it. Cool but sunny, just enough breeze to ripple the green-brown leaves of the trees. And it had got off to a good start. Kendall had let me set up most of my Sunday batches the day before and leave them i
n cold storage, and he’d insisted that I take all of today off. He’d really insisted, not in the way people do when they expect you to talk ’em out of it.
I was beginning to feel almost as much at home with the sheriff and his wife as I had with that old couple out in Arizona.
Sheriff Summers said he guessed he’d take a little nap, and Mrs. Summers told him by all means to go ahead. He went up to the front of the house where his bedroom was. She and I sat at the table a while longer, drinking coffee and talking. Then she took me outside to show me the yard.
Their house was one of those rambling old cottages which never seem to go out of date no matter how old they are. The yard was almost a half block wide and a block deep, and she’d tried to doll it up with flower beds and a rock garden in the rear.
I told her how I’d fixed up my little place in Arizona, and she said she could just see it and it sounded wonderful. We went from that to talking about the yard here, and hell, it had all kinds of possibilities. So I gave her a few suggestions, and she was tickled pink.
“That’s marvelous, Carl! Will you come over and help me some time—some weekend, perhaps—if I pay you?
“No, ma’am,” I said. “Not if you pay me.”
“Oh. But really—”
“I’d enjoy doing it. I like to see things looking nice. I started to do a little work on the Winroy place—there’s quite a few things, you know, that need—”
“I do know. Yes, indeed!”
“But I haven’t felt like it was appreciated—more like I might be butting in. So I fixed the gate and let the other things slide.”
“Those people. I’ll bet they never even said thank you, did they?”
I shook my head. “For that matter, I guess I wanted to do the work more on my own account than theirs. The gate was the worst off, but those front steps have me worried too. Someone could get killed on those steps.”
It was true. They were in lousy shape, and someone could get killed on them without any help. But I felt ashamed of myself for mentioning it. It was just that I always had to keep pointing so hard at one thing that everything coming out of me—everything I said or did—pointed at the one thing, also.
