One for Hell

by Jada M Davis

  That damned girl, and who the hell says I missed the dim dark blur of Wesley purposely or if I missed because I just couldn’t hit that twisting dark blur in the darkness, and who says anyway it’s hard to kill a man when it’s not hard to kill a man at all but hard as hell to kill the things a man knows or feels or leaves in other peoples’ minds....

  Damn her....

  It’s no use wishing you could undo a thing. Maybe he should have gone easier with Wesley. Maybe he should have split with Wesley. Because now Wesley’s gone, but he’ll be back.

  A man is what he is and he is the product of other men—I guess.

  Oh, hell, oh hell, oh hell.

  That damned girl....

  Houses loomed before him and he was startled. He tried to think. For the past hour he’d been thinking wrong, confused thoughts, and he told his mind to figure the angles.

  The girl first.

  He walked faster, almost trotted, avoiding the lighted streets.

  It was two-thirty. Not bad. He’d walked faster than he realized.

  Plenty of time, he told himself. For what?

  Feet wanted to turn toward his room, his room and bed. His body was drained of strength and he was hungry. His strength was gone, replaced with aches and pains. He felt the right side of his face with timid fingers, found a lump, crusted blood, and winced at awakened pain.

  What happened? Wesley threw a rock.

  There was no sense to this night. No rhyme, no reason, no sense at all. Nothing gained by any of it. Except money.

  And it all seemed a nightmare, one of those revolving pin-wheel nightmares that begin nowhere and end never, splits in the middle and goes both ways to bounce like a yo-yo and start over again.

  Crazy to think like that—crazy, crazy.

  Forty thousand bucks will pay for a lot of nightmares.

  But Wesley would be back.

  Crazy to think like that—crazy, crazy.

  Wesley offered to split.

  Yes, but a split means half and a half is only part of all and who wants half when all is all and half is all divided in half....

  Crazy, crazy, crazy....

  Wesley couldn’t be trusted. Wesley tried a double-cross. Wesley wanted it all. And Wesley would be back with a bag of trouble.

  He’d have to sack the town and get out.

  He shook his head. There were big buildings, bulky and squat and dark, with shiny, dim shiny windows, like dead eyes.

  What the heck?

  The school!

  Feet must have moved fast. A block, two blocks, nearly there. Next block.

  Her apartment was dark. Well, no wonder. Nearly three.

  He stood before the door, but heard no sound. The door was not locked.

  His fingers found the light switch. He walked across the room and peered into the bedroom.

  She wasn’t there.

  Panic came from the floor, numbing his feet and shooting up his legs.

  She’s got to be here!

  She thinks you killed Wesley!

  And how are you going to prove you didn’t?

  Now, wait a minute. Don’t go off the deep end. What does she know? Plenty. No. Not about the money, and not about Baldy.

  She knows nothing, absolutely nothing.

  Maybe she got scared. Maybe she spent the night with a friend.

  He went to the bathroom and opened the shower curtains, laughing at himself for a fool.

  His face stared at him from the mirror above the sink. The bump, the slight cut, the crusted blood with flesh blue-black beneath the blood, was unbelievable. His eyes were red-shot, glary, stary and wild.

  He was tired.

  It wasn’t worth it, he thought. Not worth it. Can’t quit.

  He muttered it aloud, “Can’t quit now.”

  Can’t undo what’s done, clock turn back come months and days back again time turn back and start all over. Set the pins up again, in the other alley. Come back before then, come back and backward go. Or let me stop dreaming.

  His hands started to work first, and then the rest of him co-operated.

  There was blood on his coat, blood on his sleeve, the left sleeve, and on the front. He unbuttoned the coat and his body slid out. He examined his shirt and found a small spot on the cuff. He scrubbed it with a washrag, but it was impossible to wash it away.

  He rinsed the rag and scrubbed his face gingerly. It wasn’t so bad with the blood gone. The cut was small. The flesh was discolored a bit, but the cut was just small. (What hit you, Ree?) He could put powder over it, a small piece of tape, maybe. (Oh, nothing. Just ran into a door.) He found adhesive and gauze in the medicine chest and applied it over the cut. Swelling’ll go away, he thought.

  He wet his hair and combed it. His pants were wrinkled, and there were small rents in the legs, but not too bad. His shoes were dusty and he scrubbed them with the rag.

  His fingers unbuttoned the shirt and reached for the bundle of money. The brown wrapping was taped. Rubber-stamped on the paper was “Johnson Tool Company.”

  It occurred to him that he should hide the money. The girl could have gone to the police about last night.

  But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. Why not?

  If she did—and she might have—they’d be waiting at his room.

  It would be awkward if they found the money on him. They might want to know where he’d taken Wesley. Better hide the stuff. But where?

  He sat on the edge of a chair and smoked. His eyes touched a cut-glass bottle on a table. Whisky.

  He went to the kitchen for a glass.

  He had his drink, a quick one, and he thought of a hiding place for the money. He took his time, pausing for deep drags on a cigarette, and up-ended the red leather arm chair. He cut a slit in the lining, underneath, and stuck the money through the slit. In the bathroom he found adhesive tape and used several strips to seal the slit in the lining.

  That does it.

  Ready to go.

  He switched off the bathroom light and left the house. He didn’t look back.

  But an envelope had fallen from his pocket. It lay, unseen and unmissed, in the middle of the living room floor. The envelope he’d taken from the glove compartment of Wesley’s car.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The whole thing was a nightmare. It all happened too fast.

  At first, when she saw Ree standing with Wesley in the doorway, she thought there had been an accident. And things got out of control.

  First, Ree had hit Wesley.

  When she protested, he slapped her.

  She had the feeling that if things would start over again, at the beginning, with Willa Ree and Wesley in the doorway, she could control what happened after. But, this way, things got out of hand. She couldn’t handle things.

  Everything blurred, went out of focus, and became unreal. She saw Willa Ree kick Wesley. Wesley was on the floor, bloody, bloody. She had to do something!

  The beer bottle was on the table, and then it was in her hand. She hit Ree. Now, she thought, things will be as they should be. But, although there was blood on Ree’s forehead, he didn’t fall.

  “Put it down,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She heard herself say, “Get out of here.”

  He said something. He took a step toward the door, and then pointed at Wesley and said something.

  She looked at Wesley.

  He grabbed the bottle from her hands.

  The blow didn’t hurt, but the jar blinded her and sent lights streaking behind her eyes. She knew he hit her more than once, she knew it. She dropped to her knees and cried. Things blurred again, until Ree forced her to get up.

  “You’ll live,” he said. His lips kept moving, but she heard nothing.

  “I’ll kill you,” she said.

  His lips moved again, as if in pantomime, and there was a smirk on his face. She realized that he had looked that way before, but it was different then. He looked funny with the blood trickling above his eyes, stand
ing there and moving his lips and gesturing with his hands.

  “He’ll kill me,” Wesley said.

  She heard that.

  “Oh, no,” Willa Ree said. “I’ll take you home.”

  But she knew he would kill him, unless— “You go along, Ree. I’ll call a cab for him.”

  Willa Ree refused, as she knew he would.

  Time passed and they were gone.

  She cried again.

  Later, sometime later, she bathed her face with cold water, thinking, I’ll be a mess in the morning. She dressed.

  It was in her mind to call the police, but she couldn’t decide what she would say. If she said that they should arrest the chief of police because he gave the captain of police a beating in my apartment, they’d laugh.

  One thing she knew—she couldn’t spend the night at home. Ree might return.

  She switched off the lights, left the house, and drove across town.

  Rita was asleep. She pounded on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Laura. Open up.”

  Bare feet padding, and then the door opened.

  “For crying out loud! What’re you doing out at this hour?”

  “I’m going to spend the night with you.”

  Rita switched on the light. “What happened to you?”

  “Willa Ree. I’ll tell you about it in the morning.”

  “I’ll get some salve for your lip.”

  She put the salve on her lip, mind racing. The sheriff? Would he do anything? Maybe they’re all in it together. What did Ree want from Wesley? What did he want Wesley to tell him?

  She slept, but before daylight she was awake.

  I’ve acted like a tramp, and I’ve taken a tramp’s beating. It’s my fault, and now I’m soiled....

  The sun was rising when she drove across town to her apartment.

  He’s been back here, she thought. She felt it. At first glance, she saw nothing changed. All was as she left it. And then she saw the envelope.

  It was on the floor, and she picked it up. It was addressed to Wesley. It had been opened, and now she opened it again.

  Pictures of Ree—front and profile. Hair clipped short and a number across the bottom, right-hand corner—68397642.

  She sat down.

  Was this what Ree wanted? Couldn’t be if he left it behind. It must have fallen from Wesley’s pocket when he was lying on the floor.

  There was a sheet of paper in the envelope. Ree’s record. Armed robbery, three years, she read.

  She replaced pictures and papers in the envelope, and slid the envelope beneath the cushions of the couch. And then she had breakfast, dawdled over coffee, and smoked a cigarette. She had a shower and fixed her hair, applied make-up and scowled at the cut lip and bruised face, promised herself she’d get even.

  One question burned her mind: Had Ree killed Wesley?

  The day was a nightmare, as the night had been. She cleaned house, made plans, discarded plans.

  Go to the police? she thought. What could she prove? She could discredit Ree, give him some explaining to do, even reveal that he was an ex-convict. But, what if they knew that?

  Go to the city council. What if they knew that? They wouldn’t hire a man without checking his background. Would they? Suppose she told them Ree killed Wesley? She didn’t know for sure. Wesley could be on the job this morning, for all she knew. They’d want to know why she thought so in the first place. Well, she’d say, he beat Wesley in my apartment. For all I know he killed him later. And Ree is an ex-convict. So? But Ree brought him, Wesley, to the apartment and beat him! Beat him unmercifully! Prove it, they’d say. Show us the body.

  No, the police are out, she decided. The sheriff. What about the sheriff? But, so they say, the sheriff’s department is worse than the police. And they say the county attorney is a stooge for the sheriff, and both work for that man Halliday.

  And something inside her said, Keep your mouth shut, Laura. Keep quiet, keep still, know nothing, do nothing. Wesley may be O.K.

  She had a sandwich and glass of milk for lunch, washed the dishes, mopped the kitchen floor, took out the garbage.

  She examined her face again, applied more make-up, and left the house.

  It was a long day, a hard day. No one asked her if she had run into a door. Her mind was numbed, fuzzy-foggy numb, and she kept seeing Ree’s face looming before her, lips moving and twisting and moving. It had been a nightmare, as this day was a long drawn-out nightmare.

  But the workday ended, and she drove home. She showered, mixed a drink, and sat on the couch, smoking.

  There was a piece of paper on the coffee table—a note.

  Her father had written, “Laura, I’m fixing up a new study at the church and the red chair will fit it nicely. Was in town and thought I’d pick it up. Write soon. Your mother has been worried. Dad.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The cut wasn’t so bad, and there was little swelling. The flesh was discolored around the cut, but he’d shaved and used fresh tape over gauze.

  Ree combed his hair, patting at a wave with the side of his hand, and went to the closet for the new tan suit.

  It was seven-thirty when he left the room and strolled toward the Hall.

  The sergeant looked up when he entered.

  “Mornin’, Chief,” he said.

  “Good morning, Swing. What’s new?”

  “Not much. Drunks. A Negro for a knifin’ job. Wesley’s car was found out on a country road.”

  “Whose car?” he said, and then cursed under his breath.

  “Wesley’s. He must have hung one on last night. I dunno, though. There’s something funny about it. There was blood all over the seat.”

  “Yeah? What else?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Where’s Wesley?”

  “Hasn’t been in. Probably sleeping it off—or maybe he’s just sore. He sure wanted to be top dog around here.”

  “Does he hang them on very often?”

  “Two or three times a year.”

  “Tell him I want to see him the minute he comes in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who’s getting the gravy in this town, sergeant?”

  “Sir?”

  “Who gets the gravy?” Willa Ree repeated. “Who really gets paid off in this town? Who pulls Halliday’s strings?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” the sergeant said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, if I wanted to find out, I’d see the sheriff and the county attorney.”

  Ree walked to the window and stood looking out. He thought, So, O.K., you punk, be cagy. But maybe I worked too fast.

  He said, “Maybe I will, sergeant. In the meanwhile, do what I say and I’ll see if I can raise your standard of living.”

  “I could stand a raise of some kind,” the sergeant said.

  “Get me a list of the call houses in town and the names of the girls. I want every single girl at the health center for a checkup once a week.”

  “They’re supposed to be doing that now, but....”

  “Yeah, I know. They’re donating to somebody’s favorite charity. You see to it they get a checkup every week. I want the sick ones escorted out of town. You see to that, too.”

  “O.K.”

  “No rough stuff. Be gentle, but firm. And get me a list of the bookies and spot their ticker, if they’ve got one. Ought to have one in a pool hall.”

  “It’s over at the Black Gold.”

  “O.K. I want the dope on the gamblers. Give me the inside on everything from floating games to the swank spots. The honky-tonks and night clubs must have rooms.”

  The sergeant snuffed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. “You want it sewed up tight, O.K. I’m your boy.”

  “Don’t drop any hints. Don’t make any threats. Just do what I told you. Do it yourself or use a flunky you can trust.”

  “Don’t give it a second thought. It’s good as done.”

  Ree started fo
r the door. “Tell Wesley to wait here for me.”

  He winked at the blonde in the outer office.

  “Hey,” she called, “what happened to you?”

  “Ran into a door.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  He paused. “I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”

  She bent over a ledger, saying, “Eight o’clock.”

  He went outside, down the steps, whistling.

  A car, he told himself, is what you need. A nice, shiny car like Wesley’s convertible.

  No.

  Just a bad dream, and forget it. Today’s a new day and nothing happened yesterday. You have the world by the tail, so twist it.

  Maybe he could take care of Wesley—when Wesley returned.

  He must have known where he was going when he left the Hall, but he was surprised to find himself in front of Halliday’s store. It was a good store. Tile front and fancy windows, and cool inside. Air conditioning and thick carpets and classy fixtures and good lighting.

  A clerk came bowing and scraping. “May I help you, sir?”

  “I want to see Halliday.”

  The clerk pointed to an office door at the rear.

  Ben Halliday was sitting behind a metal desk, reading a paper. He smiled and said, “I was hoping you’d come, Ree. Have a seat. Cigarette?”

  “Thanks.”

  “I was just reading something about you in the paper.”

  “Telegraph?”

  “Traveler.”

  “Then it probably wasn’t complimentary. Who runs that rag, anyway?”

  “Couple of kids—brothers. Looks like they’re out to make trouble too.”

  “Wonder what they’ve got against me and so soon?”

  “Not you, Ree. Me—and Sam Byrd. They’ve been sniping at us for a long time.”

  “Are they well fixed?”

  “No. To tell the truth, they’re in a jam. They’ve been owing the bank for some time. Irvin’s been good to them and they’ve had three or four extensions on their notes.”

  “And they can’t pay?”

  “They can’t pay.”

  “Can they borrow anywhere else?”

  “Not if Irvin—well—not if Irvin passes the word.”

  “Then they’ll go broke.”

  “No. Fact is, they’ve got a good thing. Started with a shirttail full of type and a lot of guts and ran them into a nice business. They’ve expanded too fast, of course. Had to borrow some money now and then. The fact is, they’d clean up if they got a little backing and entered the daily field. The Telegraph is weak, you see, and these boys print what the people like to read. Not what I like to read, of course, but they’ve got a good thing if it’s properly developed.”