by Hunt-David
Upstairs, I jam the tape into my tape deck, fast-forward a quarter of the way in, then switch the machine to play. I hear thuds, obscenities, Hank Evans making fierce demands, disgusting little whines and howls from Chipper and Buckoboy, who, I imagine, tied up and helpless, are being methodically beaten and kicked.
I can't say that image pleases me much or that it totally disgust me either. Rather I find it satisfying in a repulsive sort of way, since, basically, human scum is getting what it deserves.
No need, I decide, to listen to the cousins whimper their feeble apologies. Any remorse extracted this way will of necessity be insincere. Still, there's something slightly satisfying about having this proof that they were punished — something akin, I imagine, to the meager contentment of a rape victim considering the daily grind of her attacker in prison.
* * * * *
Tonight I phone Vince Carroll. As usual sister Pris answers, then fetches Vince. I hear them quarreling in the background.
"The kitchen's a goddamn mess. Your night to wash dishes."
"Know what, sis? You sound just like Mom."
I hear her laughter dwindle as Vince moves to pick up the phone.
"Hello," he says.
"It's your—"
"—secret admirer. I recognize your voice. Someone did a real good job on Chipper and Buckoboy. You wouldn't have had anything to do with that... by any chance?"
"Don't know what you're talking about."
"Uh-huh." He laughs. "So what's on your mind, nameless one? If it's that goddamn gun again, forget it."
"I already have."
"Really! Well, now we're getting someplace."
"You were an honest cop, Vince. Testified against your partner. Took a lot of heat for that."
"So?"
"Time to be honest again. Tell the truth about how Chap Fontaine was killed."
"Look Ms. Whoever-you-are, honesty suits me fine. But I have no interest in getting killed."
"You won't get killed. All I want is that you come into town, meet with me, then the two of us go see Agnes Fontaine."
"Mr. Fontaine's widow? I remember her. Nice lady."
"She is, and now she deserves to know what happened to her husband. I think she's entitled to that. I believe you do too."
A long silence, which I have no intention of breaking. Vince is either decent or corrupt. If the latter, nothing I can say will affect him.
"Well..."
"Well what?"
"I'll think about it."
"Please do."
"You're not holding my feet to the fire on this?"
"I'm done threatening you, Vince. I only want you to talk to Mrs. Fontaine because you know it's the right thing to do. If you don't see it that way, I won't be happy, but — I mean this — I won't bother you again."
Another silence. I do mean it. I'm done coercing him. He saved me from rape, possibly saved my life. Now that my tormentors are taken care of, I have no further scores to settle. It's Maddy's scores that concern me now.
"I always liked Mrs. Fontaine," he says. I detect something wistful in his voice.
"She thinks well of you too," I tell him, though I have no knowledge whether this is true.
"I didn't think she noticed me. Being just a club employee and all."
"She noticed you. And she knows you're honest."
"Yeah. So tell me something, Ms. What's-your-name—"
"Name's Kay."
"Nice name. So tell me, Kay — how come you know so much? What were you doing the night you fell into Chipper's creature pit?"
I tell him I was looking to take some photographs, background shots in and around the range where Fontaine was killed, which I'd mail to all the witnesses, hoping to provoke at least one to break and talk.
"You're a cop," I tell him. "You know how it works. Takes just one witness to start the ball rolling. The little guys deal, plead and testify. The big guys get convicted and go to jail."
"Wouldn't have worked."
"Probably not."
"What's your connection to the Fontaines?"
"No connection. My interest in this is a very long story, too long and complicated to explain."
Another long pause. Again I wait him out. "I agree with you," he says finally. "I think Mrs. Fontaine is entitled to know the truth. As for my telling anyone else or testifying in court, don't count on it."
I assure him I won't and that there won't be any tape recorders or cops listening in when he and Agnes talk. He agrees to come to San Francisco tomorrow afternoon. I tell him I'll identify myself fully when we meet.
Hanging up, I'm sure he knows that once he speaks to Agnes there'll be no turning back. But like any man contemplating a serious act of betrayal, he has an easier time considering the consequences in increments.
* * * * *
Five p.m., Tuesday afternoon: Vince Carroll and I are standing in the marble foyer just outside Agnes Fontaine's penthouse door. Sam the doorman stands in the open elevator, waiting for us to be let in. I'm nervous. Having seen both sides of Agnes, the ultracivilized patroness of the arts and the angry widow, I'm wondering just how Vince will be received.
The moment she opens the door, I know things will go well. She smiles, embraces me, then greets Vince as a social equal. She ushers us into her art-filled living room, seats us facing the fireplace, pours us each a cup of tea. Then she focuses on Vince, recalling G.G.C. functions at which they've met, adding how grateful she is that he's come to see her and how well she understands the courage that must take.
"I think it's only right you know what happened," Vince tells her with touching awkwardness.
Agnes nods to acknowledge his generosity, then arranges herself to hear his story.
He mumbles something unintelligible, glances nervously at me. I think: Oh, God, he's tongue-tied. But then he finds his voice. Within minutes of our arrival he's describing the events of that Sunday afternoon a year ago as if they only just took place. The stiff way he holds one of Agnes's precious teacups in his brawny hand puts the seal on his sincerity. Hard to think this big burly guy pouring out his heart isn't telling the truth.
"Please understand, ma'am — I liked Mr. Fontaine very much. He was always straight with me, looked me in the eye, treated me with respect the way you have today. Not like some others, I can tell you." Vince shakes his head. "Far as they're concerned, I'm just a servant."
"Anyway, I knew Mr. Fontaine didn't like what was happening around the club. He wasn't the sort of gentleman who'd do those kinds of things. I think it's better I don't go into too much detail. Kay knows what I'm talking about and I guess maybe you do too. Point I'm making is Mr. Fontaine was a real sportsman, not like Mr. Carson and some of his friends. For them the club's a place to do a lot of stuff's got nothing to do with hunting and sport."
Agnes nods, eyes fastened upon Vince with intense interest. Whatever anger she may feel, she conceals it well.
"At ten that morning, Mr. Carson calls me into his office. 'There's going to be a duel this afternoon on the range,' he says. A duel? I look at him. 'Excuse me, sir, what was that?' 'A duel between Mr. Fontaine and me to settle our differences. Club business. Nothing that need concern the staff. I want you to dismiss all employees after lunch.' I stare at him. He stares back, eyes cold as ice. 'You understand what I just said, Carroll? I don't want anyone around not party to the affair. This is an internal club matter. I'm informing you because you're security director, and if someone's hurt or whatever, you're going to be the one to call for medics. In that case we'll have a cover story worked out.'"
Vince shakes his head. "I tell you, ma'am, I saw a lot of strange things take place at that club. Things I've never told a soul. But I never heard anything like what Mr. Carson told me that morning. A duel with loaded guns to settle differences, to — I want to get this right — 'set the direction for the club for the next hundred years.' I thought I knew what he was talking about too, whether G.G.C. was going to be a decent hunting and shooting clu
b or a place for weird parties and the other stuff they were doing, the safaris as they called them."
Agnes nods to show she understands and that he needn't feel embarrassed or worry about giving her offense.
"I did like I was told. No choice if I wanted to keep my job. We had this discussion about what the 'cover story' would be, then I went to talk to the staff. I kept telling myself nothing was going to happen, that this was just another of Mr. Carson's peculiar games. He played a lot of games, the gentleman did — if you want to call him a gentleman. He and his cronies were into a lot of strange stuff. They're not just gun enthusiasts, you understand. They're in love with their guns. They worship the damn things. Guns to them are like gods. They keep an apartment in a seedy part of town where they party like you wouldn't believe. I never attended one of their gala nights, as they called them, but I've been in there afterwards to clean up the mess. Not a pretty sight. So, like I said, after lunch I dismissed the staff. Not many members around that day. Most had left early in the morning. The few who stayed behind were personal friends of Mr. Carson and Mr. Fontaine. So when it looked like things were shaping up to happen, I went to talk to Mr. Fontaine.
"I found him resting in his bedroom with the door closed. I knocked, said my name, and he invited me in. He was lying on his bed in just his undershirt and shorts. He waved to me. I approached, told him I understood there was going to be a duel with a pair of old pistols they kept in the gun room, and I wanted to make sure he was in agreement with that, because if he wasn’t I'd take steps to put a stop to it and escort him safely off club property if that's what he wanted me to do.
"He thanked me, said he appreciated my concern, and that yes, there would be a duel, and I needn't worry too much about it, he could hold his own as a marksman against any member of the club. Anyway, he said, those old dueling pistols were wildly inaccurate, so probably nothing much would happen beyond a single exchange of shots. At worst, he said, somebody might get clipped in the arm, though he even doubted that. And if someone did get hurt, Doc Petersen would be there to bind the wound.
"He turned serious then, told me this was an important turning point for the club, that he and a number of members didn't like the way things were going, and rather than have a big fight about it and go to court, he and Mr. Carson had decided to shoot it out in a gentlemanly fashion with the understanding that if he lost he'd resign and those who felt the same way would go with him, but if he won, then Mr. Carson and his crowd would resign, and — I remember he winked at me when he said this — that would probably be a relief for staff as well.
"I thanked him for being straight with me and assured him I'd be there and make sure everything was conducted properly and on the up-and-up. and that if at any time he didn't feel right about the duel or decided he didn't want to go through with it, he should tell me and I'd take care of the matter. I also told him that if Mr. Carson won and he resigned, I'd resign my position too."
Vince disengages from Agnes, lowers his eyes, shakes his head.
"I should have listened to him more carefully than I did." Vince looks up at me. "How could there be a winner and loser if there was going to be a single exchange of shots with no one hit? There couldn't. But I wanted to believe what Mr. Fontaine said." He looks at Agnes again. "Ma'am, I'm not saying he lied, but what he told me didn't add up. I'm sorry I only realized that when it was too late."
"He probably didn't want you to worry, Vince," Agnes says. "I'm sure that's why he fibbed. You're right. What he said didn't make sense. If there was going to be a winner and a loser, then someone had to get hit."
Vince, absolved, appears relieved, further confirming my belief in his account. Still he hesitates. Agnes quickly picks up on the reason.
"I know it's not pleasant for you to tell me the details, but it's important for me to know, for our children too — to know how their father died."
"He died honorably, ma'am. You can be sure of that. That's what everybody said, that Mr. Fontaine died honorably on the field." Vince scratches his chin. "Gotta tell you though, I don't put much stock in that kind of talk. I don't see anything honorable about two men firing antique pistols at each other. Seems more like murder to me, especially considering one of them was the better shot, that he'd practiced a lot with those particular old guns, and had the far colder heart — which is what it takes to stand up to a loaded gun aimed at your face."
"See, they weren't standing all that far apart when it started. Offhand I'd guess thirty feet. The other men, the seconds, Mr. Stadpole and Mr. Kistler, together they measured off the distance with a tape. It was extremely hot that afternoon, in the nineties. The glare was such you couldn't look anywhere near the sun, but the line Mr. Stadpole and Mr. Kistler laid out was drawn so there wouldn't be any direct light in anybody's eyes. Mr. Fontaine and Mr. Carson waited at opposite ends of the range. They weren't speaking. Nobody was. Dr. Petersen lay in a lounge chair with his medical bag and a bottle of Scotch. He'd been drinking since before lunch. I'd say he was near blind drunk when it came time for them to start."
"When everything was ready, the two who were going to fight too off their shirts. Then I remember feeling a whole lot better about the thing, figuring they were going to put on bulletproof vests, and that way if someone did get hit he'd probably get knocked down but wouldn't be killed. Then, when I realized they weren't going to put on anything, they were going to face each other half naked like that, I got scared."
"So there they are, two over-sixty guys facing each other, stripped to the waist. Then Mr. Stadpole and Mr. Kistler bring out the loaded guns, announce that one loaded one and the other loaded the other, then Mr. Kistler takes the gun he loaded over to Mr. Fontaine, and Mr. Stadpole takes the one he loaded to Mr. Carson."
"I remember how Carson sort of waved his around. He aimed it here and there, sighted along the top of it, then held it by his side and pulled it up fast like he was practicing to raise and fire it in the duel. But Mr. Fontaine, he didn't do any kind of rigamarole, just held his weapon in his right hand pointed down, watching Mr. Carson with this curious expression on his face. He was cool, Mr. Fontaine was. I don't think he'd had even one drink before he came out. But Mr. Carson was more than cool, he was so cold he damn near froze you with his eyes. Not that he looked at Mr. Fontaine once. All through it he acted like Mr. Fontaine was just a target he was aiming to hit, never mind he was flesh and blood."
"Time comes for them to take positions. Each stands behind his line, looking at the other, gun held by his side.
Mr. Stadpole and Mr. Kistler stand opposite each other too, so the four of them make this kind of diamond shape. Then Mr. Stadpole asks if each man is ready. Mr. Fontaine nods. Mr. Carson calls out, 'I am ready, sir.' Then Mr. Kistler says in this deep voice he had: 'Gentlemen, you may fire at will.'
"Mr. Carson, he seems amused, like he thinks the situation is funny. Mr. Fontaine, I can tell, doesn't like that one bit. He raises his pistol, aims it carefully at Mr. Carson, who then, I swear, laughs aloud. Suddenly Mr. Fontaine swivels ninety degrees and first at a target across the range. And — this really got to me — even with that antique weapon he hits it near the bull's-eye."
"Mr. Carson looks over at the target. 'Nice shot, Chap,' he says. Then he raises his gun, aims it straight at Mr. Fontaine, smiles this wide Cheshire cat smile of his and fires. Just then a big hole appears between Mr. Fontaine's eyes.
"I couldn't believe it! Mr. Fontaine fires at a paper target, then Mr. Carson shoots him in the head! Mr. Carson's still smiling when Dr. Petersen runs over to Mr. Fontaine to check his heart. Dr. Petersen turns and announces Mr. Fontaine is dead. Mr. Carson nods, cold as can be, hands over his gun to Mr. Stadpole, then tells me to take care of business. While I go inside to call the sheriff's office and the medics, they move a few things around to fit the cover story they worked out earlier."
Listening to Vince's narrative, amazingly similar to Bee Watson's account of the duel Carson and Tommy Dunphy fought forty years be
fore, I'm filled with a troubling sense of déjà vu. The same chill in Carson, the same smirk to intimidate his opponent, force him to fire first, and of course, the same failure of nerves in Chap as in Tommy, the refusal to fire directly at his adversary. Tommy fired his gun off wildly. Chap Fontaine turned his on a target to demonstrate by his accuracy that he could kill Carson if he wished. But, I understand now, a duel isn't about marksmanship, it's about, in Vince's words, coldness of heart.
"So Chap never fired at Ram?" Agnes asks, tears forming in her eyes.
"That's how it was, ma'am."
"Ram shot him down in cold blood?"
"No doubt in my mind."
"And no one said anything?" Now the tears start to stream down her cheeks.
Vince lowers his head. "I should have, ma'am. I know that now."
He describes the arrival of the sheriff's deputies and the story the seconds told about how Mr. Fontaine had been fooling around with a pair of old pistols when one went off by accident and caught him between the eyes. Then how they called Agnes to give her the news, and how, afterward, Carson, Stadpole and Petersen went to the club bar to celebrate, and how even after Carson had downed half a dozen vodkas, Vince could still see the ice in his eyes.
"What about now, Vince?" I ask.
He looks at me, not sure what I mean.
"Are you going to speak up now?"
He goes silent for a time, then looks up at Agnes and nods.
"I decided last night, I'm going to tell what happened. I'm hoping Mr. Kistler will back me up. He went into the bar when they were celebrating, had harsh words with the gentlemen about the way the duel had gone down. He resigned from the club, as did quite a few other folks, all Mr. Fontaine's friends. I think when word got around, everybody felt bad about it. Except Mr. Carson's group. They were happy as larks."
"It's going to take a lot of courage to speak up," Agnes says.
Vince nods. "I know. I thought about it all night. There's an assistant DA I know up in Mendocino name of Jules Lampone. He's young, smart, true-blue. I'll go to him, tell him my story, ask him to put me up before a grand jury. Kay told me about the antidueling statute and how Carson killed a man in a duel once before. When the grand jury hears what I've got to say, it'll be pretty hard for them not to indict the creep."