by L. L. Enger
He stood up and reached for his sweatshirt hanging on a hook by the door.
“Where you going?”
“Out.”
“Then you’ll miss what I got for you.”
“That’s the idea.” He swung open the door and Linda clapped her hands loudly one time, stopping him.
“Moses wasn’t with me the night before last,” she announced. “We both lied to the cops.”
“Say that again?”
“Come back in, I’ll tell you.”
“I can hear just fine from here.”
“Okay, slugger.” Pouting, she replaced the knife, tucked the sheath back into her panties, and daintily zipped her jeans. “How’s that? Feel safe now?” She picked up her glass from the table and polished it off, then shook her head like someone fighting a sneeze and said, “Phoo, that’s awful, pour me another.” She collapsed onto a chair and let her arms fall straight to her sides, her knees splay out. Her lips moved soundlessly as Gun poured out a couple swallows from the nearly empty fifth.
Linda’s nose wiggled and sniffed and life returned to her limbs and she gathered the glass in both hands, held it close against her chest. “What were we talking about?” she asked.
“You and Moses. The night of the murder. You said you weren’t with him.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, and took the smallest taste of whiskey.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Everything I told them, it was all made up. The other night? That’s the first time he called me in months, and said, Treasure baby, do I need you right now or what?’ This is late, too, and I went right over and he tells me about that reporter guy that’s a friend of his and what happened to him and his eyes are jiggling he’s so scared. And of course I said I’d help. I never turn a body down that’s in need, if I can help it.” A small grin stiffened her lips. “Of course, I figured maybe he’d be a little more grateful. I mean, I covered his rear and it doesn’t seem to make any difference to him. He got what he needed and said so long, is how it went. He’s a pig, and listen, I bet he put the rope to that guy after all. That’s what I’m gonna tell those detective smarties in the morning. How I never saw Moses till the next morning when he came begging, and how I helped him, being an old friend and all. And then, slugger, his ass’ll be in a major sling.”
Linda finished the glass of whiskey and shuddered. Her eyes went back into her head again, and she leaned back in the chair. “A major goddamn sling,” she said.
Gun reached out and tapped her cheek with his hand until she came back. “Linda? Tell me, where does your aunt Bernice live now? Still alive, isn’t she?”
“You think that’d be a hateful thing to do?” she asked. “Sic the cops on Mo?” Her voice was singsongy and she’d started rocking back and forth on her chair.
“It might be, considering you don’t really think he did it. Or do you?”
“Out in Phoenix. Arizona. She’s got this trailer in a trailer park, very nice. I ain’t seen her in years, not since I was a beautician out there in...I don’t remember the town, Shitsville.” She laughed. “I don’t know whether he did it or not, Moses. I don’t care.”
“You want to go see her?” Gun asked.
Linda shook her head and rocked harder. “Bus out
there’d be at least a hundred and fifty, two hundred bucks. I looked into it last year one time.”
“And a two-day ride,” Gun added. “Tell you what, though, Treasure. I’ll put you on a jet plane and have you out there by this afternoon, if you want. You can nave dinner with Antie Bernice tonight”
“What’s this bullshit? You’re trying to get rid of me.”
“You got it. I’ll put you on a plane and stake you to a good-time fond besides. Turn it down, if you want. But don’t think too long, I might change my mind.” Gun stood up and took his car keys from his pocket and jangled them in front of her. “You coming or not?”
“Stake me how much?” asked Linda. She looked surprisingly alert all of a sudden.
“A grand, how about? No more.”
“I take it we’re ready to leave, then.”
By the time they reached the West Palm airport the light was already hitting the high interstate east of the runways. Gun bought her a ticket for a ten o’clock flight, one-way, then stopped at American Express for the cash. Linda disappeared into the women’s room and came out half an hour later looking about as good as a woman could who’s been up all night drinking and owns a mouthful of bad teeth.
When he left her at the right gate, she gave him a full sour-tasting mush on the lips, then he drove across the street to a Denny’s where he drank five cups of coffee and fell asleep.
12
He didn’t make the ballpark until two thirty, after a much-needed nap, a good long shower, and two phone calls to Harristown, Missouri.
The first one he made to the newspaper office. The woman there said she knew of Rott Weiler, the ballplayer, and as far as she could remember, his mother lived outside of town a few miles. She wasn’t able to find a phone number, though, and Gun didn’t tell her that Rott’s mother was supposed to be dead. Next, on a long shot, he called the Harristown Baptist church and talked to a secretary, who said it wasn’t her place to give out information, but she’d give his question to the pastor, who was out on calls for the day. Gun thanked her and said he’d be waiting to hear.
The game was entering the seventh inning when Gun arrived, and the Scoreboard showed Moses’s team trailing twelve to three. Gun spoke kindly to an attendant who recognized him and thus gained entrance to the home team’s clubhouse. He found Moses chest deep in a whirlpool bath, watching the game on a television monitor and drinking Gatorade. His back was to Gun, and he jerked around when Gun tapped on a locker to announce himself.
“Hey. Tell a guy you’re coming, why don’t you.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Not good,” said Moses. “What do you think? Look
at these guys.” He nodded at the monitor. The Patriarchs’ shortstop and second baseman, after converging on a high pop fly in short center, both stepped back and let it drop. With two gone and runners going, guys scored from first and third, and the batter ended up on second. Moses groaned. “A week ago that’s not gonna happen. I had things screwed down tight as a ship in a blow, and now look at ’em.” His hands were shaking on the sides of the metal tub. When he saw Gun’s eyes on them, he let them slide underwater.
“You’ve got other worries,” said Gun. “Like your alibi for the other night.”
“What? What about her? What’d she say?”
“She told me the two of you weren’t together, that you called her up and said you needed help.”
“That crazy broad.”
“She’s the reason you’re sitting here soaking, Moses.”
“Oh yeah? Well, who are you going to believe, me or her?”
“Doesn’t matter so much who I believe. Who’re the police going to believe?”
Moses took hold of the sides of the tub and hoisted himself up. “What’d I ever do, that’s what I’d like to know. Where’s she at now? I gotta find her.” He stepped out of the whirlpool and his feet slapped the concrete floor and he started drying himself quickly.
Gun sat patiently, rolling a cigarette on his knee.
“You sure act concerned about a friend, all I can say.” Moses was pulling on his briefs. “Come on, where’s she at?” He swung open his locker door and grabbed a large white bottle of baby powder from the top shelf, doused himself with it.
“Not telling,” Gun said.
Moses stood in the white cloud of powder and sneezed half a dozen times. When he could breathe again, he rubbed the stuff all over himself, chest, belly, shoulders, arms, legs. He said, “When there’s as much of you as there is of me, you need all the help you can get, finding your way into a pair of pants.”
As Moses dressed, Gun wondered what it meant if Linda was telling the truth, which he guessed she was. Like they s
aid, honest as a drunk. Maybe it meant nothing more than Moses being scared out of his wits. Gun hoped that was the case. But it wasn’t making life any simpler. He’d come down here sure of just one thing: his friend’s innocence. Now he couldn’t even count on that.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Moses, toweling his hair.
Gun stayed on his bench, shook his head. “Not till you tell me if Linda lied for you.”
“So you believe her over me. Okay.” Moses didn’t look at Gun as he spoke. There was a lot of pout in his voice.
“I’m not asking anything you wouldn’t be asked by someone else,” said Gun.
“You’re not somebody else, though.” Moses’s eyes roamed a little, then found Gun’s face. “I stuck by you, remember.”
Gun hardened his gut to quell the anger there, clenched his fists and consciously relaxed them. “Look,” he said. “I’m down here, right? That ought to tell you everything you need to know. Don’t give me any of that loyalty crap.” From behind, Gun heard the clatter of cleats on cement and he turned to see Rand Bellows and Longie Pratt, Moses’s right and left fielders, dragging in from the runway. Their jerseys were open and Pratt was yawning.
Moses said, “Not over yet, is it? We still bat.”
The two of them nodded at him and sat down in front of their lockers.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Same thing you’re doing. Getting a jump on tomorrow,” said Longie. He tossed his glove into the bottom of the locker.
“Be early tomorrow, then. Extra batting for both of you. Today you’d a been gifted to throw the ball out of the infield. Come on, Gun, let’s get out of here.”
Reluctantly Gun stood up and they left by way of the rear exit and followed the corridor running beneath the seats to a door which gave into the parking lot. The Florida sun was still high, and after the dark of the clubhouse it stunned them. They stopped to let their eyes adjust.
“Well, well, the two blind mice.”
13
He wore the same suit today, new tie. One of those silly green ones fashioned to resemble a fish, snout resting on his small gold belt buckle. His small hands rested contentedly on the sides of his wheelchair. “We meet again, Mr. Pedersen. Today, however, I’m not taken by surprise. Which means, of course ...” He tilted his head back and sighted through the bottoms of his black-rimmed glasses, smiling just barely.
“That you’re prepared.”
“Precisely.”
“He’s loony, Gun.” Moses stepped forward but was deftly blocked by an expert maneuver of the chair.
“And you, Mr. Gates, are an unfortunate, unfit, unfashionable, has-been athlete. But who among us is without flaw?” He reached beneath his seat and
brought up the shiny wooden box and Sipped open its lid. Quickly he selected a card and turned it toward Gun for response. “A year to remember?”
“You could say that.” It was the 1968 Gun Peder-sen.
“Full of treasured moments, I would think.”
Gun nodded, then smiled, remembering a movie he’d seen where peoples’ souls were occupied by creatures from outer space. The man’s eyes made him think of it.
‘I’d be honored, and slightly remunerated ...” He offered up a pen, which Gun accepted. It was a Cross, gold and well balanced. “And your card ...”
“One thing,” said Gun, poised to sign. “I don’t do business with people I don’t know.”
The man smiled back now. “I was christened Jacob-son Cleary, Jacobson being a concession my father made to my headstrong mother in the days before hyphens. You may call me Jacobson or Cleary, though I much prefer the latter. I wasn’t fond of her, my mother, I mean.”
Moses said, “We’ve gotta run, hey, come on. Linda, remember?”
“Ballplayersballplayers ... ball?” said Jacobson Cleary, licking his lips. “I imagined you senior leaguers might be more domesticated. Which reminds me, I read an article recently—Psychology Today— reporting that professional athletes boast a thirty percent higher testosterone level than an average American male.” He pointed at the card in Gun’s hand. “Across the jersey, on the bottom there. Thank you. And date it, please.”
Gun signed the card and handed it back, with the pen. Jacobson Cleary examined the signature carefully, pressing the bridge of his eyeglasses hard against the top of his nose. Then he looked up, tilted his glasses forward again, and said “Thank you. Now, may I ask? Do you know if Longie Pratt is going to leave the park by this door or the other? I recently acquired an old card of his and need his cooperation.” His eyes lit up unreasonably.
“No idea,” said Moses, who stepped around the chair and trotted off toward his car. “Other door, if he knows you’re here,” he called over his shoulder.
“I’ve gotta go, too,” said Gun. “Excuse me.”
“In a moment—” Cleary lifted a finger. “But first I’d like a progress report. How are you doing on your, uh, case?” deary’s smile was off center and small, his eyes playful. “Just curious.”
“Afraid I’m not doing as well as I’d like,” Gun said. “But tell me this. Why is it I have this feeling I’d be doing a lot better with your help?”
“Now that’s easy. No doubt you can sense the wide differential between your IQ and mine.”
“Must be it,” Gun agreed.
Jacobson Cleary touched the reverse lever and his chair whirred and inched backward. “All in good time, as they say. Now, I don’t want to keep you.” The old man cocked his head to the right and blinked twice, a dismissal.
Gun thought briefly of pushing a little harder, decided not to. Jacobson Cleary didn’t seem at all like a man with something to lose. If he’s really got anything, Gun thought, he’ll make me wait for it.
He walked past Cleary’s silent chair, half expecting to hear the man’s voice again. What he got instead was the sensation of the man’s eyes striking the middle of his back. It felt like two spots of cold pressure.
Moses sat in his car, window rolled down, sunglasses on, a cigarette pinched in his lips. His fingers, shaking, explored a bruise on his forehead from yesterday morning’s fight. “Just tell me where she’s staying, Gun—all I’m asking.” Behind the glasses, his eyes were blinking. “Please.”
Nodding toward Jacobson Cleary, Gun said,
“Spooky guy. Not crazy or dangerous, I don’t think. But he sure acts like he knows something.”
“Gun, I don’t have anybody else. There’s just you right now, and you gotta trust me.” Moses sucked hard on his cigarette and held the smoke.
Gun crouched alongside the driver’s door and rested his elbows on his knees. “You got a watch on?” he asked.
“Four fifteen.”
“Okay, that means Linda’s been in Phoenix for about two hours. She would’ve landed at twelve, their time, two o’clock ours. She and Antie Bernice are probably having coffee, getting caught up on old news.”
Moses took off his glasses. His eyes weren’t blinking anymore.
“Or watching ‘General Hospital.’ You’d know better than me,” Gun said.
“Coffee? My guess, it’s ‘All My Children,’ with enough beer to last through till ‘Wheel of Fortune’ ” Moses threw his cigarette down and bounced his head once on the backrest. He smiled. “One-way ticket?”
“That’s right. But I could always send her another.” Gun stood up and went around the front of the car and folded himself into the passenger bucket of the 280 Z, a nice car in its day but sad next to most of the sports mobiles on the roads down here. “You know that stretch of beach down beneath the seawall east of the coast highway?”
Moses nodded.
“I got this friend back home that used to live on the ocean, misses it quite a bit. I was thinking she might like some shells.”
“You were thinking she might like you better if you bring her some shells.”
“She likes me enough the way it is,” said Gun.
“A little more never hurts.” Moses
started the
engine and jerked forward in first gear. “Damn clutch.” To their left, in the shadow of the stadium, Gun saw Jacobson Geary rolling after Longie Pratt, who walked with purpose, head down.
Guiding the car onto the street, Moses shifted from second to third. The engine faltered then revved free from a dead spot and the tires made noise.
14
Later that night Highway 21 West was narrow and dark, not much traffic, and Gun was surprised at how undeveloped the country was out this way. No roadside businesses, no towns, not even many billboards. Just an occasional cluster of squat homes, garage-size dwellings with dirt yards out front and television lights flickering behind curtainless windows, dogs and trikes and broken-down swingsets scattered about. Who lived in these tiny settlements? Gun wondered. How did they live? The land itself didn’t seem to offer much. Although the skies were overcast, you could see there weren’t many trees, and much of the country was low and swampy. The only signs of agriculture were an occasional fencerow and every few miles, the sharp scent of oranges from groves that must lie somewhere to the south, upwind.
Gun drove fast, windows reeled down. The air was cool—not cold like the night before, but cool enough to help him stay awake, and he needed the help. His tiredness rested above his brain like a stone weight, threatening to drop each time he closed his eyes. Not that he didn’t have plenty to keep his mind occupied. This evening Moses had confessed to him that Linda was telling the truth; he hadn’t been with her that night. He’d been at home sleeping, he claimed, but there was no one who could verify it. He hadn’t checked anyone into, or out of, the motel, hadn’t seen or talked to a soul from late afternoon until Billy Apple called him.
“Linda just popped into my brain,” Moses had said. “I mean, what would you do, Gun? You find this guy, a friend of yours, hanging in his fireplace dead, and you’re thinking, Lord God, this isn’t possible, and you’re sick to death and then it hits you. They’re gonna say you did it.”