Night My Friend

by Edward D. Hoch

  “Linda? No, I wouldn’t expect to, really. I just met her once, Howard. At a builders’ dinner with you.” Granger spoke with the careful solicitude one uses for the ill.

  “I’ve written her, but the letters just come back.” He stared down at his hands as he spoke. “She’s moved, but her lawyer says she’s still in the San Francisco area.”

  “Lawyer? She still wants a divorce?”

  Howard Beach nodded. “I suppose when you get to my age… Maybe I’m too old for her. Maybe if we’d had children, things would have been different.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Granger said, trying to make it sound sympathetic.

  Howard Beach brightened a bit. “I don’t, really. Anyway, I phoned you because I wanted to ask a favor, George. It’s a big favor and I’ll understand if you say no.”

  “What is it?”

  “I heard you were driving out to California with your wife. Will you be visiting San Francisco?”

  Granger nodded. “For a few days. I’m only taking two weeks’ vacation. We’ll spend most of it driving.”

  “I was wondering…” He went over to a chair and picked up a full-length fur coat. To Granger’s inexperienced eye, it looked like beaver. “She left some things here—this coat and her jewelry box—that I’d like her to have. I was wondering if you’d take them to her, since you’re going to be out there anyway.”

  “But you don’t know her address.”

  “I’m sure someone could tell you where she’s staying. If nobody at the old address knows, call her lawyer.”

  “Couldn’t you send these things to the lawyer?”

  Howard Beach seemed suddenly very tired. “George—don’t you understand? I want to hear about her. I want you to come back and tell me you actually saw her, tell me she’s all right, that she’s happy. God, George—sometimes I lie awake all night thinking of the awful things that might be happening to her out there, all alone.”

  There was nothing Granger could say, nothing but, “Of course I’ll do it for you. I’ll take the stuff out and try to find her. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

  Howard Beach smiled for the first time. “I’ll put the coat in a box. I don’t know how to thank you, George.”

  Granger didn’t tell his wife about it till they were loading the car for their trip. She picked up the large, gray cardboard suit-box, with its girdings of tape and twine, and asked, “What’s this?”

  “Don’t get excited. You remember Howard Beach. He asked me to deliver some things to his wife in San Francisco—her fur coat and some jewelry.”

  “Why couldn’t he mail them?”

  “He’s not sure of her address. Besides, he wants to hear how she is.”

  Sue Granger snorted. “But you hardly know them!”

  “I just couldn’t say no, honey. It won’t take long. If I don’t find her right away, I’ll dump the box at her lawyer’s and forget about it.”

  “I’ll bet! George, sometimes you’re just too… too…”

  He kissed her lightly on the lips and took the box out to the car. He loved his wife and always would, but he was still young enough to remember Linda Beach as a beautiful young woman who’d smiled at him once across a dinner table.

  They entered San Francisco from the north, coming down Highway 101 from Santa Rosa, crossing the magnificence of the Golden Gate and swooping down into the Presidio Drive. It was a May-like day, even though it was still early April, and there was not a trace of the fog and mist they’d expected. The temperature was just under 60 degrees.

  “I won’t be long,” Granger told Sue at the hotel. “I’m just going to drive out to the address Beach gave me.”

  “I’ll be back from shopping by 5,” she said. “And I don’t want to spend my first night alone in a hotel room.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  The address Howard had given him proved to be in the North Beach section, not far from Fisherman’s Wharf. It was an area full of restaurants and shops, with a noisy life of its own that even at noon reminded him a little of Greenwich Village. He parked the car on a narrow side street and found the number he was looking for, a three-story brick building over an Italian restaurant.

  A girl in tight pants and long hair passed him on the narrow stairs. “Pardon me,” he asked, “but does Linda Beach live here?”

  She paused, eyed him up and down, and then said, “Linda’s been gone for months. You her husband?”

  “No, just a friend. Where could I reach her?”

  The girl shrugged. “Ask the landlady. Mrs. Cossa. She’s downstairs.”

  He found Mrs. Cossa behind the nearly deserted bar in the restaurant. She was a big woman with an indifferent expression. “Beer?” she asked.

  “Information. I’m looking for Linda Beach.”

  “You a detective or something?”

  “No, just an old friend from back east.”

  “You look like a detective.”

  “I’m not. Could you give me Linda’s address?”

  “She didn’t leave one. I kicked her out for not paying her rent. That’s the last I saw her.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “After Christmas. I let her stay over Christmas. Then I kicked her out. This neighborhood—we used to be decent around here, before the artists and the girls moved in. Now they have parties and all sorts of carrying-on.”

  “Did she have any close friends in the building?”

  “Girl on the top floor. Myra White.”

  He wondered if that was the girl he’d spoken to. “Long blond hair?”

  “That’s Myra. Pretty soon I’ll kick her out, too, if she don’t get rid of that guy she lives with.”

  He went back into the street and started walking. He knew Myra was out and there was probably nothing more to be gained from her, anyway.

  Well, he’d tried, hadn’t he? Maybe he’d just call the lawyer and forget about it. He found a pay telephone and dialed the number. In a moment he was speaking to Jay Tearbon, a brisk man who spoke in clipped phrases.

  “Busy day. What can I do for you, Mr. Granger?”

  “I’m looking for a client of yours. Linda Beach.”

  “Beach. Oh, yes.”

  “Could you give me her address?”

  “Just why do you want to see her?”

  “I have some things from her husband.”

  “Ah—I’m sorry. Mrs. Beach wants no contact at all with her husband.”

  That was fine with Granger. “Could I drop this package off at your office for her?”

  “Certainly, certainly. Leave it with my secretary.” Tearbon hung up and that was all.

  Granger stared hard at the telephone, wondering what to do next. The lawyer hadn’t impressed him, but there seemed no place to turn. He started walking back to where he’d parked the car, suddenly conscious of the city sounds around him. Down the block, construction workers were blasting rock for a building foundation, and that reminded him of Howard Beach. The man had been through a lot—a runaway wife, attempted suicide, months of mental care. Perhaps he owed it to Howard to try once more, to bring the man some news of Linda, if only that she was living happily with a bearded artist in some dingy loft.

  He looked up and saw a girl with familiar blond hair hanging down her back. “Pardon me—Myra White?”

  She turned and eyed him once more, cradling a package of groceries in one arm. “Didn’t I just see you at the apartment?”

  “That’s right. I asked you about Linda Beach.”

  “So what do you want now?” She wore no makeup and, oddly enough, didn’t need any. He guessed her age at just over 20, several years younger than Linda Beach. And yet they could have been friends.

  “Mrs. Cossa says you were her friend. You must know where she is.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in months.”

  “It’s important that I find her. I have a package from her husband.”

  This caught her interest for a momen
t, but then she glanced up at the apartment windows across the street. “Look,” she said, “my boyfriend doesn’t like me talking to strangers. He might be watching. You don’t want to find Linda, really you don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s been sick.”

  “Perhaps her husband could help her.”

  “Nobody could help her. I’ve got to go now.”

  “Look, call her. Tell her I have some of her things—her fur coat and jewelry box. I’m sure she’ll want them. Tell her it’s George Granger. I think she’ll remember me.” He only had time to add the name of his hotel and then she was gone, hurrying across the street with her groceries.

  He was back at the hotel long before Sue and he went downstairs for a haircut while he waited for her return. She finally got back, burdened down with two shopping bags, anxious to try on the dress she’d purchased.

  “Been back long?” she asked.

  “An hour or so.”

  “Did you deliver the box?”

  “Not yet. I talked to a friend of Linda’s, who’s going to contact her. If I don’t hear anything by tomorrow morning, I’ll take it down to the lawyer’s office.”

  Sue Granger started to make a face, but then thought better of it.

  They dined at an expensive restaurant near the hotel and spent the rest of the evening strolling through the downtown area like a couple of kids. For a little while, George forgot about his search for Linda Beach. But when they got back to the hotel, he found a message waiting for him. Phone Myra White, it said.

  “You’re going to call her now?” Sue asked irritably.

  “I’ll take a chance. She’s not the type who’s in bed before 12.”

  Myra answered on the third ring. Her voice was familiar but a bit out of focus, as if she’d been drinking. “It’s too late now. But she’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Where?”

  “You come here. We’ll take you.”

  He couldn’t argue. “All right. I’ll be there at 10.”

  “Now what?” Sue wanted to know.

  “Tomorrow morning will end it. I’ll see her and that’ll be it.”

  “I hope so,” Sue said, settling into her side of the bed.

  Myra White was waiting for him when he arrived, standing on the sidewalk next to a thin youth whose hair was just a bit too long. She introduced him as Charlie and never mentioned his last name. They climbed into Granger’s car, with the girl in front and Charlie in the back. As he followed their directions, he wondered for the first time about his own safety. He had mentioned the fur coat to Myra. People had been robbed and even killed for far less.

  “Nothing but hills in this city,” he said, making conversation.

  “Some say there are 42 of them,” Charlie supplied, as if quoting a fact from a guided tour.

  “How far are we going?”

  Myra lit a cigarette. “Not far. Down by the docks.”

  “You said she was sick.”

  “She’s sick.”

  Another thought crossed his mind. “Is she alive?”

  Charlie laughed a little and they drove on in silence for a time. Finally, Myra signaled for him to stop. They were in front of a shabby brick building facing the waterfront. George grabbed Howard Beach’s box and followed them into the building.

  The stairs were lit by a single dim bulb. Granger followed Myra up the staircase, watching the lithe movement of her hips beneath the tight slacks, aware that Charlie was bringing up the rear. Suddenly he was afraid. He wanted to tell them to take the damn coat and the jewelry and leave him alone. He silently cursed Howard Beach and Linda and everything that had led him to this place.

  “In here,” Myra said, unlocking the door with a key.

  Granger stepped through the doorway, knowing that Linda Beach would not be there.

  She was.

  She was not the Linda Beach he had known, not the beautiful young woman who’d smiled at him once across a dinner table. Her hair was rumpled and she wore a faded housecoat stained with the dregs of coffee and life, but this was Linda. How many years later?

  “Hello, Linda,” he said softly. “Do you remember me?” The fear had dropped away, to be replaced by another emotion akin to pity.

  “I remember you. George…”

  “Granger. George Granger.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes seemed to fade and drift away.

  He turned to Myra. “What’s the matter with her?” he whispered.

  “Heroin,” Charlie said, and laughed.

  “God!” Granger put down the box and went to her. “Linda, what’s happened to you?” But he knew, without her answer. It was the same thing he’d seen happen to Howard. They’d chosen different paths, but they’d arrived at the same hell.

  “Now you found her,” Charlie said. “How about some money?”

  Granger turned on them angrily. “Get out of here! Get out of here before I call the police!” Myra backed out of the door, but Charlie took a step forward. He was going toward the box when Granger hit him, a glancing blow on the side of the head.

  Charlie cursed and doubled his fist, but Myra grabbed his arm. “Come on, Charlie. We don’t want any trouble.”

  He cursed again and then they were gone. Granger listened to the clatter of their footsteps on the stairs, then went to the window to be sure they didn’t think of his car.

  When he turned back, Linda Beach was on her feet, swaying. “Thank you,” she said. “They…”

  “Never mind. You should have medical care.”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. How is Howard?”

  “He was in the hospital. He tried to kill himself.”

  “I heard that. I’m sorry.”

  “He sent your fur coat and some jewelry.” Granger placed the box next to her on the rumpled bed. She touched the twine and tape uncertainly and he knew what thought was going through her mind. “Will you sell them to buy more drugs?”

  She tried to smile. “I’ve sold everything else.”

  “Howard was wondering how you were. Perhaps if I tell him, he could come out here and help you.”

  “Do you really think he still cares? He hates me.”

  “I think he loves you.”

  She stared down at her shaking hands. “It’s too late for love now.”

  “I don’t think so. Promise me you won’t sell these things, at least for a day or so. Let me phone Howard and see what he says.”

  “What he says!” She made it a curse. “What has he said till now?”

  “He cares about you.”

  “He hates me. He always has.”

  Granger sighed and turned to leave. “Let me at least call him.”

  She picked up the box and began slowly to untie the knotted twine. “Go. It doesn’t matter what you do.”

  He watched her for a moment, wondering what tomorrow might bring. He remembered the woman who’d smiled at him across a dinner table, but he knew that whatever happened, she was gone forever. There was nothing left to do, nothing but to carry a message without hope back to Howard Beach.

  “Good-by, Linda,” he said very quietly, looking back at her. As he closed the door, she was pulling the last of the twine from the box.

  Granger was halfway down the stairs when the explosion came, blasting the door of the apartment from its hinges and nearly pitching him down the stairs. He looked back in horror at the smoke and flame and knew in a blinding instant what Howard Beach had sent his wife—out of madness or hate. Or desperate love.

  It Happens, Sometimes

  CRAIDY WOKE EARLY THAT MORNING, as was his habit. He’d never slept well in a strange bed, and with the approach of middle age he’d found himself to be sleeping poorly even in familiar surroundings. Perhaps he needed a woman, or perhaps he only needed a life to live.

  His window was at the back of the building, facing on this May morning a snowy field of dead dandelions that ran down the slight hill to Arnie’s Amusement Arcade where he worked. It wasn’t
much of a job, but it paid the rent and it allowed him to spend eight to ten hours a day tinkering with the electrical gadgets which had become the most important thing in life to him.

  Craidy ate breakfast downstairs in the little lunch counter which would open its fringed front later in the day to transform itself into a hotdog stand for the beach-bound crowds. He never ate there late in the day. It was bad enough in the mornings. After breakfast he strolled slowly down the hill to work, kicking occasionally at the puffy whiteness of the dandelion heads, watching with a sort of pleasure as they disintegrated into tiny windblown snowflakes. It was one of the pleasures in life that was not dependent upon the little room over Arnie’s Arcade, or upon the memory of better days past.

  “Morning, Craidy,” someone said, and he saw that it was Arnie himself, just opening for the sprinkling of morning business.

  “Hi. Expecting much today?”

  Arnie was a big man with a quick leer and shifty eyes. “Getting close to Memorial Day. It’ll be picking up. You almost done rewiring those bowling machines?”

  “Yeah. I’ll finish them today.” He went down the long aisle between rows of colorful machines, standing ready for nickels and dimes. There were machines for bowling and baseball and ice hockey play, and even a machine which simulated the flying of a jet plane. Over against one wall, near the back, was a line of pinball machines demoted by reason of age and obsolescence to their present inferior location. The age of the pinball had passed, Craidy decided. It had passed almost unnoticed, in those post-war years when even the sentiments of Saroyan’s play The Time of Your Life seemed vaguely old-fashioned. The kids today wanted something else—rayguns to shoot at monster targets, or six-shooters to gun down outlaws who talked back, or driving machines if they were a bit older, or bowling, over by the Coke machine.