The Day I Died

by Lawrence Lariar

  “Why don’t you?” Coyle asked anxiously. “You’ve got nothing to lose. I’ll pay you back, with interest. I’ll return eleven thousand for the ten you loaned me.”

  “Loaned you?” Masterson’s voice was a subdued sigh. “Our little enterprise wasn’t developed on the basis of money lending, Coyle. It goes much deeper. There’s the business of a ninety thousand dollar profit involved. Or did you forget that element of the transaction?”

  “I was hoping you’d give it up,” Coyle said.

  “You don’t expect me to make my mind up now? Why not let’s leave it this way for a few days, shall we? Until I return from my fishing trip. And now, I must say good night. I see the boys have got the boat ready, and I don’t want to keep them waiting.”

  Coyle watched the big man move slowly down the boardwalk. On the edge of the pier, the cop Lefarge appeared again, coming out of the shadows under the palms. Masterson exchanged a few words with Lefarge and the policeman saluted once again and came back toward Coyle.

  “Great old man,” Lefarge said with a shake of his head.

  “The best,” said Coyle.

  He stood for a long time looking out at the big boat. Masterson got aboard and disappeared into the cabin. A figure on the dock untied the lines and the cruiser slipped back on the flat wash of the bay, moving soundlessly on the black carpet of water. Then the boat was turning slowly and making the circle around the far side of the pier, the motor throbbing and puffing in rhythmic, muffled bursts, softer and quieter until the white shape lost itself in the ghostly distances.

  The wind caught only the dying mutter of the exhaust now, the fitful coughing, as remote and meaningless as a far-off whisper.

  And then another sound filtered through to the shore.

  A deep-throated and hooting surge of merriment, a fading laugh as it died in the wind.

  But Coyle did not hear the laughter.

  He was in his car at that moment, racing through Miami Beach, his eyes bright with hope, moving down the highway toward Miramar, his mind bursting with song, his hands steady on the wheel, taking chances with traffic lights, aware that he was getting everything out of the car that it could give, the fastest, most reckless drive he had ever taken, because he had to see Ellen right away, to tell Ellen his dream …

  CHAPTER 25

  Sitting around the tiny bar in The Dunes, Coyle chafed and fidgeted because Doug Folger was a member of the party; good old Doug, friendly and open and boyish as usual, completely unaware that he was not wanted. It was already close to one o’clock and Dick Christman had departed. The three of them were sitting at a corner table, making idle conversation.

  “You must lead a hell of an interesting life,” Folger was saying to Coyle. “The theatrical business, I mean. All those celebrities and everything.”

  “You want to know the truth, Doug? I’ve never met a celebrity.”

  “Always kidding.”

  “It’s a fact. I’m more interested in the restaurant business.”

  He found Ellen’s hand under the table and pressed it. He was determined to get rid of Folger now, so that he could talk to her alone. “I’ve been hard at work on our idea, Ellen. The rum drink masterpiece.”

  “Tell me about it,” Folger said brightly. He had a tall glass of liquor to finish, but he only held it and grinned. “What about the rum drink? You mean Ellen’s rum special?”

  Ellen blushed a bit. “Tom thought it might help business if I gave a small drink away before each dinner.”

  “Say now, that’s a swell idea.” Folger gave it the Chamber of Commerce lilt of enthusiasm. “A real selling idea, Tom. We ought to knock ’em dead with that one. Right, Ellen?”

  “Tom’s going to write an ad for the papers,” Ellen said.

  “Have you got it?” Folger asked excitedly.

  “Not quite,” Coyle said.

  “Well now, let’s get together on it right this minute. Three heads are always better than one. How about working out some sort of line with The Dunes in it? Just for an opening, so to speak? The idea is to get our restaurant right into the copy headline, isn’t it? I took a mail-order course in advertising once, and I never did forget that principle. You always have to punch up what you’re selling, right from the start.”

  “That’s right,” Coyle said, without any emotion. “Got any thoughts on it, Doug?”

  “I’m working,” Folger laughed, his excitement coming through now in a genuine burst, the pencil and pad out of his pocket, the youthful, freckled face screwed up in an attitude of intense concentration. “How about this one: A Rum Idea for Good Eating?”

  “Clever,” said Coyle.

  “You like it, Ellen?”

  “It’s a start,” Ellen said, watching Coyle. “But I’m never good at this sort of thing so late at night. The morning’s my time for concentrating.”

  She squeezed Coyle’s hand gently.

  “I’m just the opposite,” Folger said. “I’m best after midnight.”

  Coyle found it was impossible to maintain a steady, burning anger at Folger. Doug Folger was sincere. He radiated the pure, sweet simplicity of the small-town boy who has never really grown up. He was fresh and bright. And Coyle could not resent his interest in Ellen. It was normal and it was expected, this competitive, open and youthful drive for the girl he wanted most in Miramar. Folger was aiming all his sparkling dialogue, all his corny ideas, directly at Ellen. And knowing the weight of Folger’s regard for Ellen, Coyle could not really hate him. Instead, the rambling, enthusiastic Folger set up a gnawing doubt in Coyle’s mind. It would be wrong to fight with Folger. Not now. Not yet.

  And Coyle allowed the time to pass as Folger wished, in casual banter, until Ellen rose to end it.

  “We’ll talk some more about it tomorrow,” she said. She still held Coyle’s hand at the door, and he would have kissed her good night if the grinning Folger had not insisted on staying even now, for the last broad smile at Ellen.

  Coyle flipped his hand at Folger and started away toward his car. But Folger remained at his side. He took Coyle’s arm.

  “How about a nightcap, Tom?”

  “I just had one,” Coyle said. “Time to hit the hay.”

  “What the hell. Have another one. My place is just up the road,” Folger said pleasantly. “Like you to see the dump.”

  “I’ll take a rain check on it, Doug. Sleepy as hell.”

  But Folger would not release him.

  “I’ll consider it a special favor if you have a snort with me, Tom,” he said with some decisiveness. “I want to talk to you.”

  Coyle allowed himself to be led along the beach, unable to shake off his cordial competitor. There was a light on in the cottage window and Coyle could not kill the idea that the entire scene, all the action in the present, and the conversation to come, all these things had been planned and contrived. Folger had sobered, suddenly. He led Coyle through the porch and into the small, untidy living room, a haphazard type of place, a bachelor’s den, reflecting the taste of its owner. On the archaic cupboard stood a silver cup on which a stiff and awkward golfer swung at a golf ball. Folger explained his prowess on the links while mixing two drinks at the small rococo bar near the window.

  “It isn’t much,” he laughed, “but I call it home.”

  “It’s a swell little place,” Coyle lied.

  “Sit down, Tom. Make yourself at home. You want anything to nibble on? I’ve got some cold cuts in the icebox.”

  “No thanks,” Coyle said.

  Folger got the cold meats anyhow. He was stalling, Coyle knew, making time for the big speech to come, the big pitch. And it came.

  “You really like the place?” Folger asked.

  “Perfect, Doug: You’ve got the ocean right in your backyard.”

  “I mean the house itself, Tom. The house itself is pretty nice,
worth a good hunk of money. What the hell, I do all right here in Miramar. I guess I’m the biggest real-estate man in the town.” Folger ran his eyes over the room and a sadness, a deep and uneasy annoyance, came through. “But look at this dump. I guess I haven’t got any taste, Tom. It needs something, doesn’t it?”

  Coyle smiled. “A woman’s touch?”

  “Jesus, you read my mind,” Folger said.

  “You wanted to talk to me about Ellen, Doug?”

  Folger colored and worked to hide his confusion and embarrassment in a long swallow of his drink. “I don’t know how to start,” Folger said, fumbling for words. “The only thing I wanted to tell you is this, Tom. I guess I’ve been crazy about Ellen ever since she came down here, even when she was married, I mean, when Jim was alive. What the hell, I couldn’t help myself, she’s such a swell girl and all. Then, when Jim passed away, I figured I had a good chance with her. We started to know each other and I thought she was getting to like me after a while.”

  “And then,” Coyle said, “I came along.”

  “That’s right. It all happened kind of fast; but I suppose you had the edge on me, knowing her back in Camberton, and all.” Folger paused, then: “You’ll probably hate my guts for what I’m going to tell you, Tom, and I wouldn’t blame you a bit. I checked up on you. I tried, that is. I went down to the Carrillon and asked about you. But nobody could tell me much. Then I even tried to call your office in New York—what is it? International Enterprises? But they hung up on me there. I was all mixed up about you for a long time; that was why I had to check you.”

  “I don’t blame you, Doug,” Coyle said gently. “You didn’t want Ellen running around with a phony, isn’t that it?”

  “I just wanted to make sure that Ellen would be all right.”

  “And are you sure now?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I asked you here, Tom.”

  “You want to know my intentions? You want to know how I feel about Ellen, isn’t that it?”

  “That’s it, I guess.”

  Folger was on his feet and restless again. He went to the bar and poured a drink and then didn’t really taste it at all. He stood there at the window, the glass at his lips, looking out into the road forlornly. And Coyle could no longer hate him in any way.

  “You want the truth, Doug?” Coyle asked. “I won’t really know for a few days.”

  “What the hell? I don’t get it, Tom.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “You’re nuts about her,” Folger said, “but you don’t know what you’re going to do about it? That sounds crazy.”

  “Business,” said Coyle, and set down his glass and started for the door. “I have a business deal coming up, Doug. Everything depends on the outcome of the deal.”

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Folger said.

  Coyle left it that way, aware that his rival was standing at the door and watching him walk away, a fresh confusion in his eyes. He would be gaping into the night for a long time, because the pitch was strange and queer and impossible to understand.

  And Coyle could not hate him any longer.

  Driving home along the straight black lane to Miami Beach, Coyle did not speed. He needed the night and the darkness again, the great loneliness that might spell out his innermost thoughts and make them clearer. Folger was a lucky accident tonight, a brake on Coyle’s impetuous hopes and enthusiasms of a few hours ago, after the talk with Masterson. There could be no real hope for Coyle. Not yet. Not until the great man returned from his fishing trip. And Folger had driven this fact home, jerking Coyle back to reality by reminding him that Ellen had a flesh and blood suitor, a man with a real future, the incumbent President of the Miramar Chamber of Commerce, the youngest officer in the Chamber from here to Bangor, Maine; the freckled representative of all that was good and clean and ambitious in young American manhood.

  But nothing could kill Coyle’s basic good humor tonight. He would allow no stray idea to break the continuity of his enthusiasm, the bright promise of tomorrow, the memory of Masterson’s laughter. He was almost beginning to have faith in Masterson, remembering the softness of the man. And it would all come true! In three more days, in seventy-two hours, he thought, my ship will come in.

  Coyle skidded the convertible to a stop under the palms in the parking lot. He was whistling as he crossed the garden and strolled down the path toward his cottage. He picked up the tune from the Marine Bar, a tricky little rumba that bounced and bumped on the light wind from over the bay. He continued to whistle the fresh melody on his patio, sucking the last few drags from his cigarette and then breathing deep of the night air, a final tonic breath before opening the door to his living room.

  And then the whistle died on his lips.

  Because there was a man on the floor, a man who lay in an incongruous pose, his arms flung out, his head askew, his body frozen and stiff.

  And the man was Barney Diaz!

  CHAPTER 26

  Barney Diaz!

  The light from the picture window was a thin and faded glow, a fogged radiance, but strong enough to outline the figure on the floor. Coyle did not move. The impact of the gory head down there froze him at the door and he stared down at the body, feeling the sickness grow inside him.

  Barney Diaz!

  His face seemed turned toward an invisible assailant, the mouth strangely calm and quiet, the eyes unafraid, looking up at the ceiling in a flat and empty and meaningless gaze. Coyle forced himself to walk forward. He crossed the fringe of the oval rug, every movement an effort, every second a frightening tick of time. There was no need to inspect the fragile corpse. Barney was dead. Somebody had shot him through the right ear, from close range. The close-up of the battered head, the great stain of gore on the rug, the horrible laceration that was once Barney’s face; all these things set up a screaming, burgeoning panic in Coyle.

  He found himself rigid and stiff with fright. He stood flatfooted in the silence, listening to the wind out there, still hearing the rumba from the hotel. How long did he stand this way? How long to send him headlong into the blackness of his past? A minute, to turn the mind inward and backward to the memory of the bloody rock and Joey Bader? A quick and fluttering second to build the old moods, the creeping horror? Coyle stepped away from the rug, fighting for reason, working to bring his mind back into this room, into the present, into the realm of reality. The telephone was a pale white blob on the small table near the window. He would cross the room and telephone the police. Now …

  “Stand where you are, Coyle.”

  The voice came from behind him, in the gloom beyond the desk, a gruff and slippery voice, measured and calm and oiled with composure. Coyle stood his ground, not yet at the window, not close enough to the wall for a quick stab at the light switch.

  But the voice had read his mind.

  “Pull the drapes, Coyle.”

  And when the curtains were tight on the long picture window, a light went on in the far reaches of the room, near the hallway, one of the decorative lamps on the desk. Coyle turned to the voice. He found himself looking into the face of Masterson, the huge bulk of the man settled deep in the easy chair back there. And at his side, grinning his perpetually inane grin, was Bruck.

  “Sit down, Coyle,” said Masterson. “Not over there. Drag a chair into the center of the room and relax.”

  “I’d rather stand,” Coyle said.

  “Get him the chair, Nick.”

  Nick Bruck came forward with one of the modem chairs. He slid it to the dead center of the room. He tapped the chair and waved to Coyle, inviting him to sit down. Coyle did not sit.

  “Still the individualist,” Masterson chuckled. “Still the lad with the stubborn mind.”

  Was Masterson drunk? He had his chair up alongside one of the end tables, close to the tiny bar. There was a hooker on the table, and beyond it,
a bottle of Scotch. He poured himself a drink and swallowed it in a gulp. He poured again, holding the bottle up for Coyle.

  “A drink, Coyle?” he asked.

  Coyle did not answer, his mind locked against all speech, his whole body tightening now.

  “You’ve gone on the wagon?” Masterson asked. “You were quite right, Nick,” he said, shifting only his eyes toward Bruck. “You were absolutely accurate when you told me our friend Coyle had changed. He seems to be a new man.”

  Masterson drank again, more slowly this time, letting the silence grow, allowing Coyle to suffer the pause. But Coyle could no longer remain silent.

  “You had a quick fishing trip,” Coyle said.

  “I caught the fish I was after,” Masterson said evenly.

  “You didn’t go out, after all?”

  “Not for long. Nick and I had a job to do.”

  “A job of murder,” Coyle said.

  “Not at all,” said Masterson. “We came back only for you, Coyle.”

  “You didn’t kill Barney Diaz?”

  Bruck began to laugh. He was too close to Masterson to continue his merriment for long. Masterson stabbed out at him with his open hand, catching his man low on the neck, a flat slap that silenced Bruck immediately. Masterson said nothing, his browned face still rigid in its classic, masklike ease. He did not smile when he said: “You’re wrong, Coyle. Turn a bit and examine the floor carefully. I’m afraid it was you who killed Barney Diaz.”

  Coyle turned stiffly. Now that the lights were on, the tableau seemed deliberately staged, designed by a skillful hand, like the picture of crime in the cheaper detective magazines: the body here, the window there, the sofa beyond. And near the edge of the sofa, glimmering with a sharp highlight, was an automatic. Coyle began to sweat when he remembered the gun. It was the same automatic Bruck had handed him in the convertible, on the beach near Miramar. Its square of decorative pearl was bright with light. It would be heavy with fingerprints, this gun. And the fingerprints belonged to Coyle.