Cutter and Bone

by Newton Thornburg

  “May I help you, sir?”

  The receptionist, alone now, was speaking to him from across the room.

  “Yes,” Bone said. “I was to meet a friend here. He said he had some business upstairs, and when he was finished he would wait here for me.”

  She smiled warmly. “I see. And his name?”

  “Alexander Five.”

  “Five?”

  “Yes—same as the number.”

  “That’s one you’d think I’d remember.” She was scanning an appointments list. “But I don’t. And—no, he isn’t here. I’m afraid I don’t have any record of him. Are you sure this is the right address?”

  “The Wolfe building, he said. Yes.”

  “I see. Well, perhaps if you gave me your name.”

  “George Swanson.”

  Once more she scanned her appointments list.

  “I don’t think you’ll find me there either,” he said.

  “No, I don’t suppose.” She smiled again. “I guess about all we can do then is wait. If you want to wait here, it’s perfectly all right.”

  “Thank you. Maybe five minutes or so.”

  “Of course. There are some magazines over there.”

  She indicated a davenport and coffee table near the front door, the glass front door beyond which Valerie and Cutter would be driving past every few minutes.

  “Forgot my glasses,” he said. “I’ll just wait over here.”

  “Fine.”

  At some distance from the door, Bone angled his long body into a soft short-backed chair. Under his clothes—the new checked shirt and the navy blazer and gray slacks—his body was slick with sweat. But he felt fine, he felt free, as if someone had just rolled a gravestone off his chest. Until the moment he opened his mouth and actually spoke to the woman, he had not known what he was going to say or do, whether he would run from the thing or stand his ground with Cutter like some poor terrified rabbit freezing on a highway. He felt no shame at all, nothing except relief and a hearty dose of self-disgust, anger at what an ass he had been, what a fool. Hadn’t he known Cutter well enough to recognize all this for what it was, simply one more of his self-destructive gambits? What did it matter if some sixth or seventh sense told Bone that Wolfe probably was the man he had seen that night? In fact what did it matter even if the man slaughtered and dumped a teenage girl in every city he ever visited? It was all beside the point—which, very simply, now and forevermore, was power. And power was the inverted tree across the room. It was the building enclosing Bone and the network of similar buildings spread across the whole amber-waved continent. It was money, finally, big money. And the fact that Bone had temporarily ignored this cardinal fact of life, for a time had dreamed with Cutter his bizarre little dream of affluence and independence—well, better late than never.

  So Bone felt no guilt for what he had done, or more accurately, not done. He had backed out at this late moment not just to save his skin but theirs too, Cutter’s and Valerie’s. And he was sure Valerie at least would see the truth of this if she could have been with him now, here at the “point,” Cutter’s vaunted Purple Heartland. Yes, Valerie might understand and go along. But Cutter? Not likely. No, Bone would have to let him down slowly, like a canister of nitroglycerine.

  Because Cutter had expected someone to follow Bone, he had instructed Valerie to park the car just off Unicorn, two blocks from the building. Thus a few seconds after Bone rounded the corner—and was temporarily lost sight of by his hypothetical pursuers—he could slip into the car and be gone, the three of them in the Pinto quickly disappearing in the La Brea traffic. And except for any pursuers, that was just how it happened. For fifteen or twenty seconds neither Cutter nor Valerie said a word to him. Cutter was busy staring out the rear window for any sign of a “tail” while Valerie frantically worked the car down the narrow off-street and onto La Brea.

  Finally Cutter wheeled from his post: “Well?”

  Bone shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “What the hell does that mean? Come on, what happened, man?”

  “Your Mr. Whozit turned out to be an administrative assistant name of Price. Very swishy. And very bored. Acted like what I was really after was a job.”

  “Couldn’t you go over him?”

  Bone lit a cigarette, taking his time, making clear his feelings of anger and disappointment. “Mr. Price reports to Mr. Brown, who reports to Mr. Hudson.” This last name Bone stole from a street sign as they were moving along Hollywood Boulevard now.

  “You mean the thing has to go through two more people!” Cutter bawled. “Before it gets to Wolfe!”

  Bone nodded. “That’s the way it’s done, old buddy. If you’d ever worked a day in your life you’d know that. The old organization chart. You go over your boss’s head, and he’ll have yours. On a platter.”

  Cutter sagged into the back seat. Valerie, weaving through the traffic, took the time to glance over at Bone, and her look was not worried so much as searching, trying to read him. Quickly Bone threw out a bit of lifeline:

  “We did get one break, though—Brown and Hudson weren’t there this morning. So I really put it to the fairy. I told him the message was just what it said on the envelope—personal—that it had to do with something Wolfe was personally involved in up in Santa Barbara, and I could guarantee him Wolfe wouldn’t like it if the matter went through two other men.”

  Cutter was sitting up again. “Good boy.”

  “I even laid the old office jargon on him—I said it was his big chance to make Brownie points with the old man.”

  “What’d he say to that?”

  “He asked how he could be sure the thing wasn’t a letter bomb—that’s one we didn’t anticipate, huh? I suggested he get one of his own envelopes and I’d take the note out of ours and put it in his.”

  “Did he?”

  “No, he took my word for it. I told him letter bombs were fat, which I think they are. Anyway he’s our man. If we get through to Wolfe today, or if we don’t—it’s up to him.”

  Cutter was definitely in the ascent now. “Well, Christ, Rich, that’s all we expected, wasn’t it? A foot in the door. The note’ll do the rest.”

  Bone shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t like how the guy came on, so goddamn condescending.”

  “Well, he doesn’t sound like a loner anyway,” Valerie put in. “Like he’d take it on himself to censor the boss’s mail.”

  “Or run upstairs with it,” Bone countered. “It cuts both ways.”

  In answer Cutter belched luxuriously, giving them the ghost of his breakfast again. And he began to pound Bone on the back.

  “Come on, come on!” he laughed. “Get with it, will you, man? You did it! We’re in like Flynn, for Christ sake! Face it! You did it!”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “I know so.”

  “No, you don’t. We won’t know till I call back at three.”

  “So we’ll know then.”

  “And I told him it’d have to be Wolfe, I wouldn’t talk to anyone else.”

  Cutter took a bow. “Just like we rehearsed.”

  But Valerie, as she drove on, had a puzzled look. “I still don’t see why we have to get through to him today. Why not tomorrow or the next day? It’s the same message. The same situation.”

  Clucking his tongue, Cutter took hold of Valerie’s cheek and playfully began to shake her head back and forth. “Bad little Valerie,” he said. “Stupid little Valerie. She should try to remember each day that passeth means that many more people get into the act—secretaries, vice-presidents, janitors. And that don’t leave Mr. Conglomerate much choice except to stonewall it, like his ex-commander in chief. Only in this case stonewalling would mean calling in the fuzz. The man. You dig?”

  Valerie, looking angry, pulled her cheek free. “Yes! All right—I dig!”

  Cutter checked his watch. “Eleven-ten,” he announced. “Four hours to kill.”

  Following Cutter’s lead, they kille
d the hours in style. They had some drinks at a dark comfortable steakhouse bar near their hotel, then ordered a round of New York-cut steak “sandwiches” at seven dollars each, altogether diminishing Valerie’s estate by another thirty dollars. Then, back at the hotel, Cutter decided that they should take advantage of the weather, which was clear and warm, and go down to the pool for a swim.

  “And maybe I’ll just go in too,” he said. “Can you picture it? I come gimping out there, maybe coughing a little to add to the general effect. And then I carefully take off my robe and test the water—with my stump!” At this he flapped his left arm, what was left of it. “And zap! Everybody’s up and running, like it’s starting to rain turds.”

  “Very funny,” Valerie said. “Very sick.”

  “Okay then. Just you two go. I’ll watch.”

  She told him they had not brought swimsuits.

  But Cutter was undaunted. “Just leave that to me.”

  More to humor him than anything else, Bone and Valerie went along, following him downstairs and into a clothing shop located at one end of the lobby. Like the gift and sundries stores on each side of it, the shop was small, understocked, and overpriced. In the elevator Cutter had told the two of them what the object was, to get a pair of swimsuits without surrendering any cash. They were to pick out the swimsuits and he was to do the talking. And talk he did, hitting Bone with a dry toneless monologue that started the moment they entered the shop and continued uninterrupted as Bone and Valerie examined the swimsuits offered, held them up against their bodies and quietly discussed their merits and prices with each other and the sales clerk, a lady who seemed to think she was Greer Garson.

  Cutter had had a bellyful of the cattle operation, that was all there was to it. The goddamn thing simply had to go, he said. He had put up with it long enough, each year expecting the thing would take hold and show a little profit, but no dice, the operation was a loser pure and simple and the sooner they realized it the better. And he didn’t give a good goddamn what the price of red meat was, he was simply going to unload the herd no matter what. Hell, the Ojai avocado ranch had half as many acres, didn’t it, and you sure as hell couldn’t call the profit it produced small change now, could you? And as far as that went, just one well in the Marshall field—just one, mind you, not twenty or fifty—just one of their lousy little wells there produced more long green in one year than that whole cattle operation had managed in ten. And, oh sure, he knew it was a good tax loss and all, but what the hell—ten years as a tax loss? That was carrying things a bit far. No, the whole lousy setup had to go, he had made up his mind and there was no talking him out of it. The ranch hands, well he was sorry about them but what the hell did Bone think he was, a welfare state? Let them eat food stamps.

  And so it went. Bone and Valerie chose their swimsuits, and Greer Garson happily bagged them and wrote up the sales ticket, which Cutter grandly snatched away from Bone. “Here, let me get this—you got lunch.” And then he began to pat his pockets, searching for his wallet—which, alas, was not there but probably still up in his room—he would forget his leg if it weren’t attacked to his body, a joke the lady seemed to miss. Would she let him charge the bill to his hotel account? Of course, she would. So he whipped out his nineteen-cent Bic pen and signed the check, carelessly scrawled his name across it from the bottom to the top: Valerie Durant. Miss Garson, probably a touch impressed, graciously thanked him, and the three of them left.

  The pool was situated in a large courtyard bordered on one side by the high-rise part of the hotel and on the other sides by a two-story structure housing cabana rooms and the pool bar. Throughout the courtyard there were real palm trees and other flora not likely to be found in Peoria, which Bone believed to be the main criterion for any successful Southern California tourist enterprise. But now, in April, the pool was deserted except for a few sunbathers like Bone and Valerie, who had stretched out on a pair of chaise longues next to the umbrella table where Cutter sat sipping a scotch-and-water. And he evidently was feeling the pressure as keenly as Bone, for there was no more talking now, no more hijinks and yeasty self-confidence, no more counting of Wolfe’s dollars before they were extorted. But where Cutter undoubtedly had run up against a real anxiety, the anxiety of not knowing what, lay immediately ahead, Bone’s only problem was technical, how to bring about that very situation which his colleague dreaded.

  The more he thought about it, however, he could not see any real problem beyond that of the telephone call, making sure Cutter could not overhear what was said at the other end of the line. So Bone would have to resist any last-minute recklessness on Cutter’s part, any suggestion that they call from their room instead of from a pay phone and thus enable him and possibly Valerie too to crowd in close and try to hear what was being said at the other end. Bone would have to insist that they stick to their plan and call from a pay phone, ostensibly to keep anyone from tracing the call to them. The phone booths in the hotel lobby would be a logical choice. Bone could not see even Cutter wanting to crowd into one of those with him, not with scores of people looking on. And if he tried—well, Bone would simply push him out. The call was his to make. He after all was the “contact,” the man out there alone on point.

  As for what he would say to Wolfe’s switchboard operator, that was no problem. He would not even listen to her, just go on with his side of the conversation, give Cutter at least that much to overhear. He considered dailing the time or the weather but decided it would not be worth the risk. If Alex caught on, everything would hit the fan.

  As he lay there thinking, Bone could feel the sun slipping through the trees. Once Cutter got up and went into the bar for a refill and Valerie immediately turned her head toward Bone, as if she were going to say something. But he did not look at her and after a few seconds she settled back again. Cutter returned and worked on his new drink for a time. Then he pushed back his chair and got up.

  “Fourteen-thirty hours, kiddies,” he said. “Two toity to youse. Zero hour draws nigh.”

  Squinting, Bone stood up. “So it does.”

  A half hour later they were dressed and in the lobby. Valerie, looking ill with anxiety, sank rigidly onto a davenport and sat watching Bone and Cutter as they crossed over to the row of telephone booths, only one of which was occupied. Entering the last booth in the row, Bone got out a dime, inserted it, and dialed the number of Wolfe Enterprises, Incorporated—while Cutter stood not two feet away, leaning against the open folding door, his lesioned face drawn with tension.

  Bone was relieved to hear the voice that answered the phone now, a woman’s voice, but not that of the receptionist he had spoken with earlier.

  “My name is Richard Bone,” he said. “Mr. Wolfe is expecting a call from me.”

  The voice said “One moment please,” and he was switched to another line, another female voice, this one announcing, “Mr. Wolfe’s office.”

  And for the second time that day Bone felt sweat slicking down his spine. He repeated his message. The woman said she had no record of the expected call. Mr. Wolfe was in conference.

  “I spoke with a Mr. Price this morning,” Bone told her. “I gave him an urgent message for Mr. Wolfe. And he said—”

  The woman interrupted: she did not know of any Mr. Price. But Bone pushed on, as if he had not heard her.

  “Yes—Mr. Price. He assured me the message would be given to Mr. Wolfe and that—”

  Again the woman interrupted, her voice clipped now, cold. There was no Mr. Price, no one in the building by that name.

  “All right, I’ll wait,” Bone put in. “Yeah, check with him. Do that.” He covered the mouthpiece of the phone.

  “Wolfe’s secretary,” he said, shaking his head. “Doesn’t know anything about me calling. Wolfe didn’t tell her a goddamn thing. She’s checking with Price now.”

  Cutter had begun to pound his fist helplessly against the door frame. “I knew it!” he moaned. “I knew it! I knew it!”

  Hearing the
phone go dead, Bone took his hand off the mouthpiece and he began to nod grimly, as if he were listening to someone.

  “He did, huh?” he said finally. “He did give Mr. Wolfe my message, then? All right, I see. Yes. Thank you.”

  He hung up then, angrily. “No dice,” he said. “The man got the message. Price gave it to him personally. And that’s all there is. No response. Nothing.”

  Cutter looked ill. “The bastard,” he muttered. “The murdering bastard.”

  Bone put his hand on Cutter’s shoulder, but Alex shook it off.

  “You believe him?” Cutter snapped. “You believe this fairy Price actually delivered the note?”

  Bone shrugged. “He struck me as too scared not to.”

  By now they had crossed to where Valerie sat waiting for them.

  “No sale,” Bone told her. “He didn’t bite.”

  “So I gathered.” She got up.

  Cutter stared at both of them as if he expected them to do something, anything—start screaming or join him in tearing apart the hotel lobby—and when they did nothing but stand there and look back at him he turned on his heels and, loping over to the bank of elevators, charged into one that had just opened and which guests were still trying to get out of. One of those he jostled, a frail old woman, gave him a reproachful look and he in turn gave her the finger. Then the doors closed and he was gone.