Forbes remembered that he had said, “Not for me, George. I was framed into this place and I’m going to get even.”
George had said, “Maybe you was framed, boy. Maybe in kind of a funny kind a way everybody in heah was framed—whether they did what they say they did or not. But you won’t have the guts to get even, boy. I tell you now. You left your guts all over them fields out there in the sun with them screws a-standin’ and a-watchin’ while you spewed ’em out. You’ll see, boy.”
He walked through the night streets and clenched his fists and felt the muscles of his arms and shoulders writhe under the skin. He smiled once, his lips flattening against his teeth. They put him up there behind those walls and he grew the muscles that would smash them. He tightened his fists harder, felt the calluses under his fingertips.
Ahead was the street. The well-remembered street. He crossed diagonally and walked down the far side, walking more slowly, alert for any sign of someone who might be watching … and waiting … They would know that he was out. They would know.
He stopped on the corner, stood absolutely still and looked back the way he had come. A couple passed, their arms around each other’s waists, the girl giggling at something the boy said in a low, hoarse tone. A taxi rocketed by, the springs smacking against the frame as it hit the potholes in the asphalt.
Forbes crossed the street, walked back the way he had come. The house was just the same, a battered brownstone with a massive front door, always unlocked. Mrs. Lesnovack would be asleep in the room just off the entrance hall. The street was empty. He hurried up to the door, pushed it open far enough to slip inside and let it close softly.
The twenty-watt bulb left shadows in the corners of the front hall. He looked up the wide stairway. The house was asleep. He held his breath, heard the sing of blood in his ears, the steady fast thud of his pulse.
Up the stairs. Quietly. Watch the third step—three years ago it creaked. Stay close to the railing. Good. No light on the second floor. Down the corridor smelling of age and dust and the disorderly lives of a thousand transients. The girl who drank the iodine lived in that room. The trumpet player lived in the next one.
It was the room beyond that that mattered.
She lived in that room.
He stood by the door, suddenly afraid that she would be out. His fear was a tangible, chilling thing.
Tap, tap, tap. Softly. Just loud enough to wake her. Not loud enough to wake anyone else. Tap, tap, tap. How will she look with sleep misting her eyes, with her golden hair falling to her shoulders? Tap, tap, tap. She should have heard that. She should be coming to the door. She wouldn’t open it. You don’t open doors at night if you are a girl and if you live in a place like Mrs. Lesnovack’s.
The creak of the floorboard. Sleepy voice. Plaintive. “Who is it?”
Lips close against the stained wood of the door. “Open up. It’s Jim.”
Hands that fumble with the chain, the door swung wide. Arms high around his neck, the scent of hair against his cheek as he stumbled into the room, shutting the door behind him.
Her broken voice said, lips touching his face, “Oh, Jim! Jim! I didn’t know you’d get here so soon.”
She left him abruptly, saying, “I’ve got to look at you.”
“No lights!” he whispered softly. “Someone may be watching your window.”
She was a vague whiteness against the black. She walked to the window and raised the dark shade. On a building a half block away a sign blinked on and off, on and off. Stanley Beer … Stanley Beer … Stanley Beer …
With the shade up there was a second’s space of light in the room, constantly interrupted. In its light, he saw her moving over to the bed. On and off. On and off. It gave her movement an odd quality, as in a very old motion picture—or a penny arcade.
He sat on the bed and held her hand tightly.
“Was it too awful, my darling?” she whispered.
“It’s over now. It would have been—easier if you’d come to see me once in a while.”
“I know. I know, darling. I should have. But I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you in that horrible place. I’d remember it all my life. It was better that I didn’t come. I wrote you all the time. Don’t you think it was better?”
“I guess so,” he admitted. “You wrote happy letters.”
Hotly she said, “What would you have had me write? Tragic things, stained with my tears?”
“No. No. I only meant that I liked the letters. They helped me wait for now.”
“I couldn’t believe that such a thing had happened to us, Jim. To us! When I sat in that terrible courtroom, heard that horrible man say, ‘Five years,’ I thought I’d die right there. I really did. As it was, I didn’t stop crying for three days.”
“How is Besterson doing?”
“Why—all right, I suppose.” Her hand tightened on his. “What are you going to do about it?”
The light, on and off, on and off, flickered across her pale face, upturned. Lips red. Shoulders smooth. Pale lace at her throat. Clean lines of throat, of brow.
He shrugged. “Do? What is there to do? I was his accountant. He was hard up. He robbed himself, phoned the police, told them I had the combination to the safe. They came to my room and woke me up. They found bills with the right serial numbers in the side pocket of my jacket. Open and shut. Cut and dried. What is there to do?”
He felt her hand relax. “I’m glad you’re not—going after him,” she said softly.
“You wouldn’t like that, would you?”
“Of course not, darling. It would just mean more trouble. A lot more trouble.” He moved closer to her, her head on his shoulder, the warm smell of her filling his nostrils, the sweet, aching smell of her after so long, after so many years.
She stroked the hand that was around her shoulder. Soft woman-fingers. Gentle. Sweet and gentle.
The light flicked across them, across the taut lines that cut down close to the corners of his mouth. No expression on the brown face. No life in the deep-set eyes.
He said softly, “Three years gives you a long time to think.”
“You can forget it now.” The soft answer. The warm invitation.
“It’s hard to forget. How much do you make, Sally?”
“Hundred and forty a week. It’s not hard work. I get along.”
He reached his left hand over, touched her gown, said, “The fabric is smooth and soft.”
“You’ve been a long time away from such things.” Moments of silence, a small tension coming from somewhere and building. Building. The soft fingers stroking his hand again.
“You always know expensive things, Sally. You sense them. On the tier underneath mine was Hans Reichert, craftsman. Fine paper—engraving. He fingered the strip of paper I tore from one of your letters. Told me it was the best money could buy.”
The stroking of her hand faltered for a moment. “It was a gift. Oh, an aunt or somebody, I’ve forgotten.”
“I thought you broke with all of your relatives?”
“Not all of them. An aunt and I still exchange gifts.”
“If there’s only one, why can’t you remember?”
“Why do we have to bicker about such a pointless thing, Jim? You’re out now, and you’re back with me.”
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
More silence and the tension was there between them. It could be felt, tasted.
“You know what they used to do with the papers we got?” he asked. “They used to cut out all the crime news, robberies, murders. Give us the rest. Said it wouldn’t hurt us to read the rest. You always wondered what had been in those empty spaces. Over a year ago I saw a racetrack picture. Showed the crowd at the races. Besterson was there—with a girl.”
The stroking fingers stopped.
He said, “Her back was to the camera. Couldn’t recognize her.”
Her fingers moved again and he felt the deepness of the breath she took.
“A man�
�s habits are funny. You notice that sort of thing in prison. You think about them a lot. Now, some men, when they’re ready for bed, they stand in front of the bureau and empty every last thing out of their pockets and hang up their suits all right and proper. Me, I just toss things around. I guess I told you that once. Warned you about what an awful guy I’d be to live with. That was before—before they caught me.”
She stopped stroking his hand, put her hand down at her side. When the light flicked on again, he saw that her eyes were wide, that she looked up at the dark ceiling.
He continued. “I always had a good head for liquor. Never believed in mixing my drinks. I guess the only time I ever did was the night out with you, Sally. The night before they came and got me.”
“Why are you talking about this, Jim?” she said loudly.
“Shh! You don’t want to wake up the people. I’m talking because it’s nice to talk to people when you haven’t been alone with anybody for a long, long time. That’s the worst of those places. The fact that you’re never alone.”
Her breathing was easier, but he saw in the next flick of the light that her lips were compressed.
“You know, Sally, Besterson is a coward. Never fired people himself. Always had somebody else do it. Scared to death. Afraid of going broke. Afraid of getting sick. Always worrying. I figured he was going broke a week or so before I—went to jail. You know, it was funny. For the month before I went to jail, he spent a lot of time out of the office. An awful lot of time. Let me see, it started about the time you lost your job, didn’t it?”
She moved quickly away from him.
He caught her shoulders and pulled her back beside him. “What’s the matter, dearest?” he said.
“Get it over with!” she demanded, her voice hoarse.
“Sure, dearest. I’ll get it over with. You met Besterson when you used to wait for me outside the office. You always had your eye on the best chance. All that time Besterson was out of the office, he was with you. You got me tight. You knew my habits. You planted those big bills in my pocket, knowing that I didn’t keep money or cigarettes or keys in that pocket. You made me a sitting duck, darling. They still wonder where I hid the rest of the money that I didn’t take.
“And then Besterson got scared. You were the link. He knows I’m smart. If you moved out of here and moved into the big time, I’d know the answer. So he bought you your pretties and told you to stay here. Expensive writing paper. Fancy nightgowns like the one you’re wearing. Sure, the girl in the picture had her back turned to me, but I recognized the back.
“I know. Besterson is hiding and trembling someplace and waiting for the word from you. You’re supposed to get in touch with him and tell him whether I’ve gotten wise to what you two did to me. Only you could have planted that money on me. Only you, darling.”
She drew a deep and shuddering breath. The light flicked on and off, on and off. In a husky tone, she said, “You’re sick. You’re talking crap.”
“You’re right. It was rotten.” His hand slid past her face, and his hard fingers fondled her throat.
“No! No, Jim!” she gasped, as his fingers tightened. Then she could say no more. Her nails tore at his face, at his hand. She strained her body up in a hard arc like some strange bow and dropped back. Again and again. Her wide eyes bulged. There was no sound except the tiny tearing noises of her nails in his flesh.
He put his lips close to her ear. “Tell me where Besterson is.”
He released the pressure gently. She sucked the air into her lungs and tried to scream. He tightened down again, careful of his anger, nourishing it, knowing that if he released the anger his fingers would crush her throat and she’d never breathe or speak again. He turned his head away as she dug for his eyes.
“Where’s Besterson?” he asked, lips close to her ear.
Slowly he released the pressure. Her breath rattled as she coughed, holding her throat. “Mountain Lodge. Near Star Lake,” she gasped.
“This is it,” he said softly. His fingers closed on her throat again. “Good-by, Sally. Good-by, dearest. Good-by, you female Judas.”
She found new strength in her terror. But his fingers were tight. Tighter. Tighter …
He stood by the window and the light from the sign flashed across his face. Staccato. Pulse of a mechanical city. Pulse of a heat-sodden city, counterpoint for the littered sidewalks, the stains of sweat under the arms of the doughy women, the foam wiped from lips with the back of a hand.
He seemed to hear the voice of George, close to his ear, “But you won’t have the guts to get even, boy. You wait and see.”
He turned toward the bed, full of a bleak weariness, as though a spring, wound one notch tighter during each day of imprisonment, had suddenly spun free of the ratchets, lay sodden inside him, without tension.
She sat on the edge of the bed, still coughing, gasping and massaging her throat. When the light hit her face he saw the silver streaks of tears across the soft cheeks, the disordered froth of pale hair. With each inhalation, her breath made a rattling sound in her throat, like a parody of a snore. He picked up his coat, stood by the bed, the coat slung over one shoulder, looking down at her as the near-death noises slowly stopped.
She looked up at him and, in the light, her face was cold—the face on a silver coin, the face on a billboard in winter. “You’re going after Besterson,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement and said in the way she would have said, “He is dead.”
He considered her statement. He thought of his hard fists smashing Besterson’s soft face, the blood gouting from the split flesh, the eyes puffing shut, the broken mouth working in a froth of red.
“No,” he said softly.
She straightened her shoulders and there was contempt in her face. “You couldn’t kill me,” she said proudly. “You know why? Because you still love me.”
He stared at the pale oval of her face, shocked by what she had said. “Love you?” he exclaimed. “You!”
It came then. It started as a small spot of delirium deep inside him, spiraling up through his chest, exploding into laughter at his lips. Loud, raucous, pealing laughter.
Somehow he found the doorknob, let himself out into the dark hall. The hoarse wonderful sound of his great laughter boomed along the corridor, blasted the silent air of the stairwell. He clutched his middle with one hand and caught at the railings with the other.
Slowly he managed the stairs, whooping and gasping in an odd glee that was almost too much to bear. The door slammed behind him and he was out in the night heat of the city, weak and panting.
James Forbes walked off through the night streets, a pain in his side, his lips still twisting, and in his heart he knew that he was at last free.
He could hate the two of them no longer.
Hate was a prison with walls that touch the gray sky.
He was finally free.
Unmarried Widow
He was sitting in a place called Stukey’s on Primrose Street, and he had been there most of the afternoon, alone at a table for two, a table with wire legs and the black scar tissue of cigarette burns. At the far end of the bar, a little clot of beer drinkers were making a two-dollar investment cover a whole afternoon of TV. Max dimly realized that they were so hard up for conversation they even watched the puppets on the late-afternoon kid shows.
He wasn’t drinking hard and heavy. But he was working on it. Somehow it had become important to achieve a state of remoteness. Whenever he felt himself sliding back into the uncomfortable reality of the present, he raised one finger and Stukey came out from behind the bar with another shot.
Three days before, the managing editor had climbed up onto a desk in the newsroom and addressed the whole working staff. His words had been as depressing as if he’d played a fire hose on the crowd. The sense of it was that the bankroll had faded, the promised backers had eeled out and thank you all so much for your loyal service and I hope you all find wonderful jobs within the next eleven
minutes.
Max Raffidy sat and drank with a careful effort to maintain a detached state that was neither drunk nor sober. Because when he veered toward soberness he began to think that there were no jobs left in this town, in his town, and he’d have to hit the sticks. And when the shots came along a shade too fast he wanted to go out and punch noses. Being a large citizen with heavy bones and having a background of alley fights in this same city when he was a kid, he knew that if he went out nose hunting, he would land in a cage.
He could have taken his sorrows to one of the bars frequented by his fellow sufferers, but he did not wish to weep on shoulders, nor did he want tears on the lapels of his own tweeds, so he bundled up his misery and disgust and had taken it to Stukey’s—not to drown it, but just to make it swim a little.
He sat alone, and with his big blunt fingers, he peeled paper matches down so that they looked like little people. These he gave names to, the names of the people whose job it should have been to keep the Chronicle running. He laid them, one at a time, with a certain dedication, in the green glass ashtray with the chip out of the rim, and lit their little green heads with the butt of his cigarette, watching them flare up and writhe in unutterable torment.
He was vaguely considering taking his troubles to another bar when the raggedy screen door flapped and banged and the girl came in. She stood a few feet inside the door. The corners of her mouth were pulled down in such an odd way that Max told himself that here was a person with even more trouble than he had.
She saw him then, and her face lit up like a kid’s pumpkin. She ran the three steps to the table for two, collapsed into the chair opposite him. He had his arm outstretched on the table. She grabbed his forearm with both hands, her fingers digging strongly into him. She laid her forehead down against his arm, the breath shuddering out of her.
More Good Old Stuff Page 31