The Day I Died

by Lawrence Lariar

  Masterson was overjoyed with the idea of Miami.

  “A great resort, Coyle.” He smiled. “I don’t blame you a bit for wanting to spend—ah—your last few months down there. A great place for spending money, too. Your ten grand will go fast in Miami.”

  “That’s the way I want it to go.”

  “Twenty-five hundred a month.” Masterson closed his eyes and considered the sum. “Even with semi-inflation, that much money can buy you quite a bit of fun.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  The Rock continued to stare at Coyle. “You’re quite sure you want to go through with this?”

  “Positive.”

  Now that the details were out, now that his plan was told, Coyle itched for some final sign from the Rock. He had set himself against a mighty brain and the waiting added to his uneasiness. Any negative sign from the Rock would swing him into a deep and lasting upset, a depression, an emotional turmoil. He would be back in the dark pit again, back in the closet. He sat rigidly waiting for the big man to make the important move, the smile, the nod, the handclasp that would mean success.

  The thin lips were moving again.

  “It’s a deal, Coyle.”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  “It needs a bit of time,” Masterson said. “It involves a pitch for insurance.”

  “A pitch?”

  “You’ve got to be employed.”

  “You can hire me.”

  “Oh, no,” Masterson said. “You’ll be employed, but not by me. You’ll be placed with a friend of mine—man named Walton Zadek who runs an outfit called International Enterprises, over in the Kimberly Building. Walton Zadek will supply the reason for your visiting Miami. Zadek does business in Miami. Entertainment business of one sort or another. Zadek will hire you and we’ll arrange the phony insurance.”

  “Phony?”

  “Or course, Coyle. Insurance companies don’t pay off on suicides, didn’t you know?” Masterson rose, unsmiling. He was concerned once more with setting the long ash from his cigar in exactly the right place on the ash tray. “Naturally, we will not have a suicide. But accidents, now—they happen, isn’t that so? Shall we have a nightcap?”

  “No thanks,” Coyle said. “When do I get in touch with you?”

  “You’ll hear from me when I want you.”

  Masterson went back to his desk. There was no further need to stay, no indication that the big man would reach across to shake Coyle’s hand. Coyle opened the door and nodded his goodbye and went down the steps to the street level.

  Masterson watched him go. He lifted his big right hand and pressed a buzzer on the intercom. He spoke quickly and purposefully to a man down in the hall at the side door. The man was a half a block behind Coyle when Coyle reached the corner …

  CHAPTER 10

  Nick Bruck knocked once and then came through the door and waited for Masterson to finish reading the letter in his hand. Bruck watched the big man with a patient eye, not stirring, not advancing beyond the chrome floor ash tray until Masterson put down the letter and nodded at him and waved him to a seat near the window. There was a further pause while Masterson lit his cigar and sampled it. Then Nick Bruck lit a cigarette and pulled the chrome ash tray to his side and dropped his hat on the floor beside his right shoe. He produced a small notebook, of the five-and-ten-cent variety, and opened to the first page and scowled down at his fragmentary notes. He was aware that Masterson was smiling icily at the notebook.

  “You learn fast, Nick,” Masterson said.

  “You were right, boss,” Bruck said. “I would have forgot half the stuff if I didn’t write down a couple notes.”

  “He kept you jumping?”

  “Jesus, he’s terrific. I just came back from Brooklyn, over in Flatbush it was. A hole he lives in. Sort of a boardinghouse type place.”

  “You checked it?” Masterson asked.

  “I checked it. A real dump. Old dame by the name of Poll runs it, one of the beat-up joints near Coney Island Avenue. I stopped in and asked her if she had any empties. It’s a cheap dump, cheap as dirt on account of she don’t serve food for the boarders. I saw some of them—crumbs. They—”

  “Get to it, Nick,” Masterson said. “And spare me the gruesome details.”

  “Well, all right,” Bruck grumbled. He had prepared an elaborate report, hoping to please Masterson, to spend more time with him. “Only I just wanted to explain this character, the creep that he is. If he isn’t off his rocker, I’ll flip.”

  “You think he’s crazy?” Masterson asked.

  “Like a bedbug.”

  “Break it down for me.”

  “Take the way he sleeps, for instance. Always in the daytime. I checked him and he don’t do no tricks. He comes home late and hits the hay all day, like a goddamned actor, until maybe four, four-thirty. Then he comes out and he’s off again. First he takes the subway uptown, the BMT to Times Square. After that he’s limping all over town. Like today, for instance. Today he gets off at Times Square and walks all the way up Broadway, just looking around, at the windows and stuff. He winds up in an Automat for a cup of coffee and a doughnut.”

  “He met no one?”

  “He don’t know anybody in town.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “After a week on his tail, I’m positive. I would have seen him bump into somebody and say a fast hello, at least. I would have seen him step into a phone booth and call a number, right?”

  Masterson nodded. “But you didn’t see anything like that, of course?”

  “This character hasn’t got a friend in the world, boss. A kid his age, why you’d figure him for a steady dame somewhere in the city. Nothing. He’s got nothing at all. Is that crazy?”

  Masterson did not say. He had eased back in his great chair and closed his eyes. He seemed fast asleep. But Nick Bruck knew this as a signal, a sign, a gesture that meant Masterson was lost in thought and did not wish to be disturbed. The cigar stump hung from his lip at a stupid angle, no spark of life showing. More than ever, Bruck hated the business of watching and waiting for the cigar to spark into life, for the great body behind the desk to stir and speak. But he said nothing.

  After a long moment, Masterson said: “What did Willis report about him?”

  “Willis said he didn’t come back. Not since the night you saw him here.”

  “Willis likes him?”

  “Yes and no. It added up the same as I add the kid up. A little bit off his rocker, maybe.” Nick laughed, a gruff and quick bark of amusement. “I’m positive he’s nuts.”

  “Why?”

  Bruck adjusted himself for a long and descriptive speech. This was the part of it he had been waiting for, the chance to air his conclusions about Coyle. He thumbed the pages quickly and reached the one with all the writing on it.

  “First off,” he began, “I figure this boy is nuts for one important reason. He never seems to notice me on his tail. Anybody in his right mind would have smelled me behind him, but fast. Like the time he goes into the shooting gallery. Well, the place has three doors, you understand. I follow him in and watch him from the inside, because maybe he could pull a sneak on me and I’d lose him. But this never enters his head. I’m right next to him, under his nose all the time he was there. Once, he even turns to me and asks me to make change for him so he can play one of the goddamn machines. I tell him I don’t work in the dump, but when I’m telling him this, he’s looking right through me. He don’t know what he’s doing, so help me. You might figure he thought I was just another customer. But that don’t make sense, because when he leaves the place, he goes next door into a one-arm joint for a bite. I walk in and buy myself a cup of coffee and watch him some more. Well, he sees me, all right. He looks right at me twice, but I can tell from the way he does it, he’s not really looking at me at all.”

&n
bsp; “Dreaming?”

  “Mopey, I’d say.”

  “What did he eat?” Masterson asked.

  “Coffee and a cruller, is all.”

  “And other times?”

  Bruck stared at his notes, playing with the pages and pretending to be searching for further material concerning Coyle’s eating habits. “I didn’t see him eat too often,” Bruck said, finally.

  “No other restaurants in a week?” Masterson asked. There was a note of petulance in his voice now, not too strong, but out of key and significant. “Think, Nick. It may be important.”

  “The kid is fruit for the birds, boss,” Bruck said. “He just don’t eat much, is all. Once, over on Broadway, he went into a pretty nice place. A regular restaurant this time, not high class, but no one-arm dump. He was in there for a long time, but what he was eating you could put in your right eye. There’s a doll at the cash register near the door, a nice piece, a blonde, stacked real good. Well, he’s sitting near the window so I could watch him easy from the street. He sits and chews a bun, but he’s really eating this doll up with his eyes all the time. Ha! Maybe I don’t blame him too much, because this one has what it takes to make a man lose his appetite. After he’s finished, he gets up and stands there talking to her, but I can see she’s brushing him off. He sort of got angry with her and came out fast. Then, right away, he ducks into another movie. Jesus, this boy sees more movies than I go to in a year. How do you figure a guy like that?”

  “You’re making it easy.” Masterson smiled. “What about any other girls?”

  “There was one he tried to make a play for, a hustler in the lobby of the Castleton.”

  “The Castleton? That’s over on the West Side, isn’t it? A cat house?”

  “That’s the one. Somebody must have tipped him off about it, because one day, Tuesday, I think it was, he makes a beeline for the joint. He—”

  “Hold it,” Masterson said sharply. “You said somebody must have tipped him off. Who? Do you know?”

  “I was never close enough to him all the time,” Bruck apologized. “Jesus, he talked to a couple of people when I couldn’t get in close. You take the bus boy at one of the restaurants, for instance. You take the guy in uniform, up at the museum. Also, a couple of college kids up in the park, near the lake. Listen. Sometimes this boy is natural as hell, boss. Sometimes he gets the bug to talk, why he looks almost human. So lots of people could have tipped him off about the Castleton.”

  “I see. Go on,” said Masterson, waving away the last idea as though it might be a wisp of smoke. “What happened at the Castleton?”

  “He made a pitch for a dame. He came out of there with a big broad. They started down the street and when they get to the corner, why he stops and they talk. I didn’t hear what they were yakking about, but all of a sudden I hear him yell at her and she yells back and walks away from him, mad as hell. And he just stands there watching her. Then, he starts walking fast after that, across town. He sure can walk fast, even with that gimpy leg. He heads up Sixth Avenue to Central Park. By this time it’s getting pretty dark, so I can come up real close to him when he puts his tail down near the lake. It’s so quiet there you can hear the birds yap, so help me. Anyhow that was when I saw him bawl.”

  “He cried?” Masterson asked, suddenly alerted.

  “Like a baby. He just sat there and bawled, quiet like, for maybe ten, fifteen minutes. I sort of felt sorry for the kid. Jesus—maybe all he needs is a quick piece. Or maybe—”

  “Never mind the theories, Nick. Did you hear him cry again?”

  “Just that once.”

  “All right. You checked with Zadek? He signed him on?”

  “Right away.”

  “Good.” Masterson carefully put out his cigar. He opened the long drawer in the top of his desk and drew out a yellow folder. He opened the folder and studied a sheet on which somebody had typed carefully. He read this and dropped it and lifted another paper, an index card of the larger variety. This he tapped in his hand. “You don’t have to follow Coyle any more, Nick.”

  “Thanks. I was beginning to lose weight, honest.”

  “But you’re not finished,” Masterson said easily. “You’re going on a little trip, Nick. You leave tonight, by plane, for a place in Pennsylvania, a town called Camberton. Now here’s what I want you to do …”

  Nick Bruck sat down and listened carefully …

  CHAPTER 11

  The first thing that hit Coyle was the overwhelming size of the room. It was square, the richest living room Coyle had ever visited; a combination of fine woods and elegant décor and the plush and velvet of upper-class society. Against the background of formality, the Rock seemed specially designed, as though he belonged here permanently, like a figure in a painting. Coyle watched him rise from the throne-like chair in which he rested and walk to a small, brightly polished bar and handle the bottles, lifting one to hold it up to the lamp on the marble mantel.

  Masterson examined the bottle with the eye of a connoisseur, rolling it against the light as though he might discover hidden imperfections in the clear liquid.

  “A very good Armagnac,” Masterson said. “Would you like a nip, Coyle?”

  “No thanks.”

  The big man shrugged and said something about the southern part of France and the brandies he imported from there. Coyle listened without hearing, feeling the inevitable unrest among trappings of such elegance. His eyes were dry and hurting, the way they always pained after a sleepless night. And last night was worse than wakeful, because of the anxiety about what might happen now, in Masterson’s living room. Coyle heard the Rock laugh gently.

  “You’re on the wagon?” Masterson asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  Masterson sipped his Armagnac daintily, returning to the big chair and letting himself sink into it slowly. He watched Coyle for a sign, a movement that would mean he was waking up, bringing his eyes off the design in the rug and up level with his gaze. And then the big man said: “I thought you liked the stuff.”

  “I don’t dislike it,” Coyle said.

  “I see. But you’re not in the mood?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I can understand why,” Masterson said. “You’re a bit anxious about our deal, is that it?”

  “All right,” Coyle said, “I’m anxious.”

  “It’s arranged,” Masterson said, making an elaborate gesture out of the simple business of putting down the liquor glass and then reaching for a fresh cigar in the teakwood box at his side. He lit the cigar. “You proved an acceptable risk for the Continental Surety Company. They’ve insured your life for one hundred thousand dollars, as a valued employee of International Enterprises.”

  Coyle stirred. “Can I have that drink now?”

  “By all means,” Masterson said.

  Coyle got out of the chair and crossed the room, taking long, stiff strides, just in time to stop Masterson at the Armagnac bottle.

  “Not that,” Coyle said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take Scotch.”

  “Not at all,” Masterson said. “Neat?”

  “With a bit of soda,” Coyle said hastily. “But no ice.”

  “English style, eh? They don’t tolerate ice, Coyle.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  The conversation was zany and Coyle hated himself for the foolish, aimless words. It was bad enough to be nervous without emphasizing his jumpiness by hesitant schoolboy conversation. He walked away from the bar and sat down in the easy chair opposite Masterson’s, on the far side of the fireplace. The Scotch was already warming him. How much of the stuff would he be putting away from now on? He busied himself with a cigarette and did not mind the silence while the Rock sipped and toyed with his Armagnac. At length he said:

  “They thought well of you at the Camberton Hospital, Coyle.”

  �
�They? Who?”

  “Doctor Linden,” Masterson said, “and a nurse named Miss Cumber.”

  “You spoke to them?”

  “I checked them, of course.” Masterson waited again for Coyle to refill his glass at the bar, to turn and display a full incredulity, partially screened by his cocky smile. But not enough. In many ways Coyle resembled a punchy fighter, not the completely foggy type, but the sort of pugilist who becomes jerky and uncoordinated, so that you have to repeat anything important to make it sink in. “Doctor Linden was pleased to hear that you had a job at International. He’s quite fond of you, Coyle. Has lots of confidence in you.”

  “Doc Linden is a good egg.”

  “He says you’ll do well if you forget about being moody and lose yourself in a job. Are you still moody, Coyle? Maybe you’d like to change your mind about the deal? It isn’t too late, you know.”

  “I didn’t come here to change my mind,” Coyle said angrily. “What are you getting at, Masterson?”

  “Nothing at all,” Masterson said. “Don’t upset yourself. It was only a suggestion.”

  “You’re pretty thorough,” Coyle said.

  “I’m a business man, Coyle. It always pays to be scrupulously careful about business arrangements. Would it surprise you to know that I went deeper into your background?” Masterson sucked at his cigar, amused by the expected show of surprise. It was perfectly simple to work on Coyle’s basic emotions. It must give the psychiatrists a dizzying sense of power, Masterson thought, to be so close to the mechanics of a man’s inner being. Was it fear that clouded Coyle’s face now? Or only the bitterness of an unexpected memory?

  “Deeper?” Coyle asked.

  “I know all about you, Coyle. You lived with Ella Coyle as an adopted son, after your mother killed herself. Your adopted mother gave you her name and you grew up with her and had no difficulties at all. She sent you to college and you majored in journalism, but you couldn’t find anything much to do when you got back to Camberton. You worked for a while on The Camberton Leader, but your boss, J. D. Ohlsted, reports that you didn’t seem geared for the job. He thinks you’re a dreamer, Coyle. You were sort of marking time in Camberton, writing short stories and stuff when your mother died. There’s a split opinion about what happened to you after that. Some Camberton people seem to think you tried to commit suicide. Others say that it was an accident; that you wanted to make yourself some coffee and turned on the gas, but forgot to light it up. It might interest you to know that almost everybody in your home town thinks highly of you. Good, upstanding, honest boy, they say. They call you the quiet type, moody sometimes, but basically all right. You see, I have a pretty intimate knowledge of your past history, all the way back …”