Whom Gods Destroy

by Clifton Adams

  There was nothing he or anybody else could do and we both knew it. That convertible was- a twisted, smoking mass of scrap, and Sid was under it somewhere. What was left of him.

  I got the Dodge into gear, turned it around and headed back across the bridge.

  As soon as I got back to Big Prairie I called Vida. It wasn't the smart thing to do, but the only thing I wanted or could think of was Vida. To hold her, to rest against her. Somewhere in Big Prairie all hell was breaking loose, and I knew it, but that didn't seem to matter right now. The mail would have been delivered, and probably Seaward and Keating and Lola had already heard their copies of the recordings. The highway patrol would have Already started their investigations at the bridge. I was too tired to worry about it. The only thing I could think of was that red convertible going through the railings. I hadn't even seen Sid's face. What had he been thinking of? I wondered. Why hadn't he done something to save himself? I hadn't even touched him; it was almost as though he had wanted to kill himself. I tried not to think about it.

  I left the car on a side street at the edge of town and caught a cab to Vida's place. She was waiting at the front door when I got there and the look of her shocked me. She looked as if she had aged ten years since I had seen her last; she seemed thinner, tireder, as she clung to me.

  “Roy—”

  “It's all over,” I said. “I fought it out with Seaward, and I won. We're going to be all right, Vida. But I feel a hundred years old. I've got to rest.”

  My legs almost gave way under me. Vida put her arms around me, half holding me up as we went through the front room and into the hallway leading to the bedroom. “You can stay here,” she said. “Barney sent Sid to Ardmore and he won't be back until tonight.”

  I had almost forgotten about him. Sid won't be back tonight, I thought. Or ever.

  “I'll make you some hot chocolate,” I heard Vida saying. “It will help you sleep.”

  I didn't want it, but it didn't seem to be worth the trouble of saying so. I dropped on the edge of the bed and sat there woodenly and Vida went out to the kitchen. I lay back, without even bothering to loosen my tie, but the minute I closed my eyes I saw that convertible going through the railings again, hitting, bouncing, like a nightmare in slow motion, then plunging down to the bottom of the arroyo....

  Something was wrong; the thing just wasn't right. It didn't make sense that a guy should go to his death like that, doing nothing to save himself. I thought back, trying to put myself in Sid's position. Would I have done it the way he had? Hell no; I would have tramped on the brakes, even if I hadn't had time to think about it, and I would have jerked the car away from the railing, even if it had meant sideswiping somebody. It was the natural thing. It was the thing that Barney Seaward had planned on all the time.

  The only explanation that I could think of was that Sid had been drunk, so drunk that he hadn't realized what was happening until it was too late.

  I half turned on the bed and knocked the pillow onto the floor. When I picked it up there was a folded piece of stationery under it—and I think I knew, even before I opened it and looked at it, what would be written there.

  There were just a few words. It said: “I'm sorry, Vida. I can't take it any more.”

  I sat there holding it, looking at it, and then suddenly it hit me. The first thing I thought was, Christ, what a piece of luck! It was a suicide note and I was in the clear, completely in the clear.

  But the thing was too impossible to believe. Things just don't happen like that. You don't go to all that trouble to plan a murder that looks perfect and then have the guy commit suicide just exactly to fit the plan, and a note clearing you of all the blame. That was too much luck. Think back—there had to be an answer.

  I tried to piece it together—and finally I got an answer, but it wasn't satisfactory. To start with, Sid had written the note last night or early this morning, sometime before he was to go to Ardmore for Barney. He had meant to kill himself—either because of the murder on his conscience, or because of what I'd told him about Vida. Anyway— and the thing was coming fast now—he had planned to kill himself, that much was sure.

  But maybe he'd run out of guts. Or maybe he just couldn't think of the right way to do it. If that was the case, the natural thing would be to wait for his chance. So maybe that bridge had seemed like the right place to Sid. When death had come at him, he simply hadn't cared enough to step out of the way.

  The thing stunned me for a moment. I sat there clutching the note, feeling as if I had the world by the tail. Then the bottom fell out.

  The note wasn't going to do me a bit of good.

  In the first place, if I ever proved that it was suicide instead of murder, I'd lose what hold I had on Seaward and Keating. In the second place, it was probable that Sid had insured himself, and I sure wasn't going to stop a double-indemnity insurance claim by producing a note that proved that he had taken his own life.

  I tore the note in half and thought: This note could save you from the chair.

  But it wasn't the chair I was afraid of.

  I tore the pieces, again and again. You've gone to too much trouble and taken too many chances to start playing it safe now, I thought. A stranglehold on Seaward, that's the important thing, and you can't get a thing like that by playing it safe. You'll never hear Lola beg, by playing it safe....

  I looked up and Vida startled me.

  “Roy, what is it?”

  “Nothing. I'm all right.” I still had the pieces of the note in my hand. I shoved them into my pocket and lay across the bed again.

  “Drink this,” she said.

  “I don't want anything to drink. I want you.”

  I felt the bed give as she sank down beside me. Her fingers were cool as she stroked my forehead, her breasts were soft as she held me close. I let my mind wander in darkness as I began to relax. How long would it be before they called on Vida to identify the body? It didn't seem to matter. It would be long enough and I could sleep.

  It was almost dark when I woke up. Vida wasn't there. I called out but she didn't answer, and I lay there for several minutes, my mind still in fog, wondering where she had gone. Then I remembered Seaward, and the thought seemed to jerk me half out of bed, bathing my face in sweat. Then I thought: Seaward can't do a thing any more. You're holding the club now, and he damn well knows it!

  That made me feel good. By now I realized that the highway patrol must have called Vida and she had gone to the morgue without waking me. I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. I looked like hell, but I felt big inside.

  I ran some hot water and shaved and Vida still wasn't back. I went into the kitchen and found some gin and limes; I drank the gin straight and sucked a lime for a chaser, and all the time I could feel that bigness growing inside me. If I could only have seen Barney's face when he played that recording for the first time! And Keating's. And Lola's....

  Someone came into the front room and I knew it was Vida, and for the first time, I wondered what I was going to say to her.

  I went in and she was standing there, pale with shock. She looked at me almost as if I were a stranger and said, “He's dead.”

  “Who?”

  “He went off a bridge. It was a forty-foot drop, they said,” she went on flatly. “There wasn't anything left of the car.”

  “For God's sake, will you tell me what you're talking about?”

  “Sid. He just drove off the bridge.” Her face began breaking up and I could hear hysteria rising in her voice.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “The highway patrol came after me and took me down to the morgue. It was Sid. He was...” She began crying then and I felt rotten, not because of Sid but because of Vida.

  “You need a drink,” I said. “Why don't you sit down and I'll get you something. Sit still and try to relax, Vida.”

  I went into the kitchen and poured double shots of straight gin for both of us. I put one of the glasses in Vi
da's hand and she drank it automatically. Suddenly she began to shudder. “God, I keep seeing him, Roy! They said it was an accident, but it wasn't. He meant for it to happen. He planned it.”

  I could feel my heart hammering. “How do you know that?”

  She shook her head. “I just know it. I think I've known it ever since the morning you told him about us.” She looked at me now and it was almost as if she was seeing me for the first time. “He loved me, Roy,” she said softly, almost whispered. “I guess I loved him, too—once. A long time ago. He wasn't bad, Roy. He was like a kid who never grew up.”

  “He was a drunken bum,” I said suddenly, harshly. It shocked her. “He was no good,” I went on. “You're better off without him.” Then I remembered something. “Did Sid carry insurance?”

  She looked blank for a moment before she answered. “Twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Double for accidental death?”

  “I think so.”

  I almost smiled then. Geez, forty thousand dollars! “Look,” I said, “maybe it was an accident and maybe it wasn't, but it doesn't make any difference now. Sid's dead, and that's all there is to it. You've got to stop thinking about suicide or we won't get a penny out of that insurance.”

  I was already thinking “we.” God, with forty thousand dollars to work with, I could afford to forget about the flop I had made on the hijacking.

  Vida was looking at me strangely, her face wet with tears. “Roy... what about us? What are we going to do? Are—are we going to get married?”

  “Hell, yes. You know I want to marry you more than anything.”

  “Hold me, Roy. Hold me close.”

  I held her and she began crying again. There was only one way I could think of to stop that, so I began unbuttoning the bodice of her dress.

  “Roy, no! Not tonight!”

  I forced her head back and mashed my mouth onto hers, and as my hand worked she began that shuddering that I knew so well.

  13

  “GODDAMN YOU, THIS IS THE LAST mistake you'll ever make, Foley!” Barney Seaward said.

  I laughed at him. “I've got you, Barney, and you know it.”

  He was past rage. He stood there stone-cold, iron-hard, with nothing at all showing in those eyes of his. We were back at Barney's house, right back where it had all started, and that seemed fitting somehow. Paul Keating wasn't on hand this time, and neither were Joel and Max. It was just me and Barney, and I was on top this time.

  He said softly, “You goddamn, lousy punk!”

  I almost hit him then. I said, “That's the last time you're going to say that, Barney. Do you understand?”

  He understood, all right, but still he wasn't ready to give up. “All right, Foley,” he said evenly, “I made a mistake by letting you live, and a man can't make mistakes in this business without paying for them. How much do you want for all the copies of that recording?”

  “They're not for sale.”

  He smiled faintly. “What do you plan to do with them, Foley? Turn them over to the police? The Crime Bureau? You can't be that dumb.”

  “Maybe I am,” I said.

  Barney shook his head, still smiling. “I admit that those recordings are worth something to me, just on the chance that you might let them get away from you. But you're not going to blackmail me with them, if that's what you're thinking, because you don't dare turn them over to the cops. Sooner or later, I'll get those copies. I'll find a way. But if you want to save me the trouble, I'll pay a reasonable price for them.”

  And I wouldn't live five minutes after you got them in your hands, I thought. Abruptly, anger flared up inside me. My hand grabbed the front of his shirt before he knew what was happening. “You sonofabitch!” I heard myself hissing. I gave him a shove and he reeled against the wall, his smile gone.

  “Look at me!” I almost yelled. “Do I look like I'm bluffing? I've failed for the last time, Barney. I've taken my last beating. I'll get what I want out of you and Keating or we'll all go down together. I haven't got anything to lose, Barney. If I fail again, do you know what I have to look forward to? A job in a hash house. And I'm not going to go back to a hash house, Barney. I'll die first.”

  Barney was beaten. I looked at him, grinning, feeling as tall as a mountain. Still, something in the back of my mind cautioned me not to push him too far. He was still dangerous. Barney knew about hate, and a man like that is always dangerous. I knew.

  When I spoke again, my voice was even. I said, “There's no reason why we can't do business together, Barney. You once gave Sid a retailing position in payment for murder—well, I'll settle for the same thing. Nothing will change. You'll go on being the wholesaler; all I want is a shot at the retailing business.”

  He wasn't sure that he had heard me right. He looked at me very carefully, as though he were having trouble setting his mind on what I had said. Then a coldness touched me—I could almost see behind those eyes of his, see what he had been thinking.

  I had stopped just in time. Barney had been slowly drowning in his hate. I knew how he felt, and I realized for the first time that Barney and I were much alike in a lot of ways. Barney, if pushed hard enough and far enough, could be capable of destroying himself just for the fierce satisfaction of satisfying his hate. We stood there looking at each other, and it was almost like looking in a mirror.

  A long moment dragged by and Barney didn't make a sound. He knew that I could ruin him. He knew that if I didn't get my way I would ruin him, but it didn't seem to matter at that moment. He carefully weighed it in his mind, the satisfaction of his hate against what it would cost. And finally he said, almost dreamily, “All right. Now get out of here.”

  It was almost two weeks after the funeral that Vida collected on Sid's insurance. The next day we were married. I had Vida sell the house and we moved into one of the new apartment buildings north of town.

  As long as I kept a heavy hand on Seaward he kept the chief of police and the sheriff in line for me. With that recording, I had Paul Keating in my pocket, so I didn't have the grand jury to worry about. And the money was just beginning to roll in.

  I should have been satisfied, but I wasn't.

  There was always Lola.

  I couldn't forget about her. She wouldn't let me rest. I would lie awake at nights imagining the things that must be going through Lola's mind. For years I had dreamed of having the power to ruin her, and now that I had it I didn't know what to do with it. At nights I'd lie there with Vida beside me, and I'd think: Christ, are you still afraid of her, even now?

  I knew that it would happen sometime. I'd make her come crawling—when I found the best way to do it. The very best way. And in the meantime I could afford to wait.

  I invested in some Big Prairie real estate. On the south edge of town, down by the river, there was a rundown tourist court—nine frame shacks and a two-by-four wooden box that served as an office—where some of the factory workers lived. I bought it and moved the factory workers out.

  The next thing I did was make another visit to the Travelers Hotel and call for Rose.

  “Well,” she said dryly, as she came in, “if it isn't the photographer.” She came over to the bed, sat down and looked at me. “Do you know that business almost got me in a jam?” she said. “You didn't take care of the bellhop like you promised. I had to give the pimp twenty dollars of my own money.”

  “That's what you get for working in a hotel.” I said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “What you need is another kind of setup. Say a crib, where you could operate in the open and be your own boss. Maybe you wouldn't make as much a trick, but the turnover would be a lot bigger in a crib.”

  She laughed harshly. “Now that's a brilliant idea. Sure, a girl can make money on a crib street, but that's one thing you can't get away with in this town.”

  “I'll get away with it,” I said. “I'm letting you in on a good thing, if you're smart enough to take-it. I need seven or eight good girls
to pay the rent on the cribs, and I'll give them all the protection they need.”

  She wasn't quite sure if I was crazy or if I could really do it.

  “Where is this place?” she asked finally.

  “Down on River Street. The Red Ball Tourist Courts, the place is called. It's near the factories, and you know how factory workers are. I'll have some gambling in one of the cribs, and that'll help draw them in. If the girls want to sell whisky on the side, it's all right. As long as they buy their supply from me.”

  “Who will the other girls be?”

  I grinned, because I could see that she had already made up her mind.

  “I thought maybe you could help me there.”

  I visited Seaward next. Barney was out in front when I drove up, spraying some rose bushes at the side of the house. He came over to the car wearing a battered felt hat and loose-fitting overalls.

  “Barney,” I said, “I'm going to have to ask a favor of you. I'm taking up a sideline, Barney. I'm opening a few cribs on River Street. I want you to pass the word along to the sheriff and the chief of police that the place is off limits for cops.”

  An ugliness began to appear in those quick eyes of his. He said. “I told you once, Foley, that I could be pushed too far. I don't furnish protection for pimps.”

  Pimp. It wasn't a nice word, it tastes rotten in your mouth when you say it. I felt that blind anger start working inside me, and I reached over to push the door open. I got out and stood in front of him, my face only a few inches from his. I grabbed the front of his overalls and wadded them in my fist. I think I would have clubbed him to death if he had made a move.

  But he didn't move. At some-time—maybe during the long hours of thinking about it—he had lost some of his hardness. When I felt that, I could hold my voice down. I said, “You sonofabitch, I'm tired of handling you with velvet gloves. I can send you to the chair, and you know it. And because you know it, you're going to do exactly as I tell you.” I began shaking him. I shook him until his teeth rattled. “Do you understand that? You'll do exactly as I tell you!”