"You just love to hear this story. He whispered. A real stage whisper. Everybody heard him."
"But the other man? The leader? Think. He spoke. Aloud. In what must have been his natural tone. He said, 'Right on schedule, huh, Jake?' Was it a soft voice? Raspy?, Loud-mouthed? The kind who talks because he can't help it? Modulated?"
It was a judo crack across the neck. I sat tensely on the edge of that chair, remembering that voice.
Sklute was watching me. He said, "What kind of voice? Smooth? Deep? High-pitched?"
I swallowed hard. "I'm afraid I can't help you." My heart was slugging up against my ribs. I was afraid he was going to hear the beat of my heart. It was there. He had said it himself. Loud-mouthed. When he said that word it rushed back over me, the way he had spoken in the office. I had heard that voice before, all right, but for the moment it escaped me. All I wanted was to get Sklute out of there so I could think, remember where I'd heard that loudmouth.
"It ought to be easy," Sklute said.
I shook my head. It was just the beginning of an idea, but I played it cagey. "It ought to be," I said. "Sure wish I could help you. But I don't remember a thing."
***
I was too excited to sit still after I finally shoved Sklute out the front door and closed it behind him. At first maybe it was just what Sklute had said. If I found this guy, I had somebody to hate. Hell, I could peel his hide off and maybe that would make me feel better. Anyhow, I walked around my front room and it wasn't big enough to hold me. I wanted to find that joker.
It had hit me hard when Sklute mentioned that voice. In that instant I knew I had heard that voice before, not once, but often. Where? How? When?
I stood at the window and gazed down at the darkened street. Out there for six weeks little men had stood watching me, waiting for me to get in touch with three men I didn't even know. They had hounded me until there was nothing left in my mind but hatred. I hadn't been able to think. Now suddenly my mind was clear. It was as though somebody had turned on a water tap, full and cold.
I repeated those words that thief had spoken in McAteer's office. I said them over and over, putting in that loud-mouthed sound. But I was missing something. This boy had used his natural tone, all right. He was so sure of himself that he got kicks from letting us know he wasn't afraid of anything we could do.
But it wasn't only that this boy was a show-off and a loud-mouth. There was something more about his voice, something that made all the difference. It flitted around in my mind but I couldn't grab it. It was just as though when I saw the place where I had met this character, this other thing about him would be clear.
Where had I been in the past six months? I had spent a lot of time with Fran. But she and I were alone most of the time; that's the way it had been with us. We hadn't needed anybody else. I felt the anger rolling up again and cut it off sharp.
Where would I meet a loud-mouth who might pull a job like that?
I started with the bars. I had spent a lot of evenings in them, but not many different ones. I usually dropped in one of the places near my apartment before I went out to Fran's, or when I was on my way home. With three drinks in me, I didn't lie around sleepless.
The Crow Bar was on the corner. It was a long narrow room with jukebox, piano, skill-pool and pinball machines. Anything for a good time, the kind of good time you could have with beer and potato chips.
Carney was tending bar when I walked in. A beefy man with sparse blond hair, he was surprised to see me.
"Thought you moved away, Mr. Richards."
I sat down across the bar from him and he drew me a draft beer. "Did you, Carney? Or did you just think you'd have moved away if you got in a mess like I was in?"
"Now wait a minute, Mr. Richards. I didn't mean any offense."
"It's all right." I took the beer and walked over to the pin-ball machine. All I wanted was to get away from Carney's apologizing. What happened was that I walked into the answer to the whole thing.
It happened months ago. I couldn't even remember when. It was a rainy night and I dropped in on my way home. The place was rather quiet, the TV was shut off, nobody was bothering the piano. But there was the loudmouth trying to make a score with a little blonde named Betty.
When I came in, Betty came over and sat beside me. I saw she had been crying and had been out in the rain. Her clothes were damp.
"Why don't you go home and change into something warm?" I asked her.
"Yeah. That's what I asked her." This guy had moved onto the stool beside her, following her. I had seen him around the Crow Bar a few times, but never paid any attention to him. He was my height, fair-haired, getting beefy and always loud, always talking too much. And there was that other thing: he had an accent like corn pone dripping with molasses.
It turned out that Betty had been locked out at home and wanted a hotel room. But she didn't have the price. The three of us had a few drinks, and everybody was making Betty offers. Finally just before Carney closed the place at two A.M., Loud-mouth challenged me to a pinball game. The winner would take Betty home and get her dried out and comfortable. Betty had had a lot more to drink by then and she was giggling at the idea. She rooted for me and this angered the loud-mouth. He got louder, telling her that if she knew what he carried around with him, she'd change her yelling over to a man loaded. I outshot him by two million and he got so sore that it took the edge off the evening.
He threatened Betty if she went out of the place with anybody but him. Finally Carney's wife told Betty she could spend the night at their place and that broke it up. I was very weary of Loud-mouth and tried to avoid him as much as possible after that.
I couldn't remember if he had ever spoken to me by name but I supposed he had. Anyhow he had heard Carney and some of the others speak it. This was the boy, the loudmouth. That corn-pone accent was the clincher. What he had really said during the robbery was "Rat on schedyule, huah, Ja-yake?"
I went back to the bar, fast. "Carney. Remember that loud-mouth that challenged me to a fast game of pinball in here one night? It was raining and we were going to take Betty home."
Carney laughed. "Sure, Mr. Richards, we've laughed about that thing plenty of times. Little old Betty was squirming, hoping you'd win."
"Yeah. Sure. But this guy. He hung around here a lot, didn't he?"
Carney nodded, wiping at the bar. "Yeah. Used-car salesman. Named uh-oh, hell, Pooser, something. Marve Pooser? Wasn't that it?"
"Yeah," I said. "Marve Pooser. Real loud-mouth. That's him."
"Right out of the South, that boy. Deep South, that is. Funny you asking about him. I remember once, he asked what your name was. I was afraid he wanted to make trouble about Betty. I told him that and he had a fit laughing, he was just sure he'd seen you somewhere. I told him you'd pitched baseball and he said that was it."
"Not unless he's been out of the South longer than that accent says he has."
Carney shrugged. "Seemed friendly enough. Loud. But a used-car salesman has to be like that. Loud and friendly."
I drank deeply, trying to keep it casual. "Seen him lately?"
"No. Matter of fact I haven't. Not in the last three months or so."
People laughed in the rear of the bar. Two women were talking at a table behind me. I stood there, knowing I had the guy I was looking for, the guy I hated. A loud-mouthed guy named Marve Pooser. Only he hadn't been in here in the past three months. Sure, not since the robbery.
"You know where he was from, Carney?"
"No. He never did say. But he ain't from Brooklyn, by God."
"Never mentioned his home?"
Carney frowned, then shook his head. "No. Oh, wait a minute. One night he got plastered, like he was the night of the pinball duel. He got kind of mean when he got drunk like that, and louder than ever, talked too much. I remember one thing he said."
"Yeah?"
"Maybe it wasn't anything. It don't mean anything to me because I never heard of the place. He got to bra
gging that he was the only Pooser around Eureka Crossing that ever learned to read and write."
***
That was late spring. Eureka Crossing was hard to find on any map. I decided that Marve Pooser would be easier to locate through his old job. I started hitting all the used-car places. I finally located where he had worked, but the only address he had given was a local rooming house.
Here the old girl told me that he had moved and left no address. He had never told her where he came from because she hadn't cared enough to ask. He was always coming in late, hated for her to clean up his room. She didn't know where he had gone, but she was glad he had.
I bought the most detailed map of the Southeastern states I could find. I went into the first bar I found, ordered a drink and spread the map on the booth table in front of me. I traced my finger across each state, longitude, latitude. Somewhere in there was the home of a guy named Marve Pooser, a guy who had given me the shaft and lay on his back somewhere with one-third of a hundred grand.
I don't know how long he had been standing there. When I looked up, there was Nat Sklute, hat in his hand and an odd expression on his face.
"Hello, Mr. Richards."
"Why don't you get off my back?" I folded the map and pushed it aside.
"This is just friendly. A friendly call. Happened to be in here and saw you."
"You're a putrid liar, too."
"Just wondered what you been doing lately, Mr. Richards. Wondered if you'd given any more thought to our little chat. About that man's voice. It ring any bells yet?"
"No. I'm sorry."
Nat Sklute twisted his hat around in his fingers. "I get a funny idea about you, Mr. Richards."
"Well, forget it. I'm pretty, but my price is too high."
He nodded, still without smiling. "Yes. That's what I've been thinking about. Your price is too high, isn't it, Mr. Richards?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. But before you explain, let me tell you, I don't want to know."
The little bastard sounded sad. "You know all right. You really believe you're the victim in this thing, don't you?"
I stared up at him. "Who else got hurt?"
"A man gets angry, Mr. Richards, he makes a lot of mistakes. He gets to thinking about how he can be paid for the way he's been hurt. Is that right, Mr. Richards?"
"You're reading my mind. Think what you want to."
I got up and walked out. He was reading my mind. Let him read what I was thinking about Marve Pooser. He had disappeared, maybe he was gone where I would never find him. But he had a cut of that hundred grand, and the way I saw it, he had robbed me. He was the boy I was going to find.
***
Consciousness returned slowly. All memory of Marve Pooser and the stolen money and Nat Sklute faded when the pain started again.
I wasn't a human being at all, I was a glob of jelly quivering on the ground, a mass of pain.
The long narrow face appeared above me, the slavering mouth, the frantic eyes.
"Now, Paw? Now?" The voice quivered.
"Now, son."
The voice belonged to the bald old man. Through the haze I saw the narrow face quiver, tongue dart around his mouth to stop the drooling. His teeth chattered with the excitement in his face. It was his turn now.
He kicked me in the face.
The world was bouncing and then my mind cleared so I realized I was being carried sack-like by half a dozen men. The rest of them walked beside us, honorary pallbearers. I heard the swirl and suck of the river. I knew that river by now-narrow, deep, snake- and 'gator-infested-it flowed a hundred miles north into the St. Johns and then east to the Atlantic. Here I come, I thought. They hurled me out and I landed flatly, with a splash. Before I could even sink I was being hurled along by the swift-moving current.
THE WOMAN
The river country was empty and quiet in the afternoon. There was a sense of oppressive silence as the river cut through the flat green swamp. The river was a network of branches, old river beds long log-jammed and hyacinth-choked, each of these branches as wide as the river itself. But all of them were blind streams lying stagnant and silent, green and purple with hyacinths. The current was swift and kept me in the middle of the narrow bed, pushing me along faster than I could ever swim.
The banks hung close. It seemed if I had had the strength I could have reached out and caught the overhanging limbs or fought my way ashore. But for a long time I could do nothing but float along like a cork on the water. The shore might as well have been out of sight.
I did not see any houses, only an occasional abandoned shack, or a log trail almost overgrown and forgotten.
I had the strange sense of being weightless in the water. I don't know if I had expected to drown at once. I knew I was too near dead to fight the river. But I did not drown. I only kept moving downstream whether I wanted to or not. I waited, spun along in the current, for whatever would happen.
I caught at a tree growing out over the water. I snagged it, the bark rough, but my hands slipped and the current thrust me past it and it was gone. My body ached and I was very tired, too tired to swim or to walk if I could have made it ashore against the pull of the river.
The water was cold and got colder the longer I was in it. I could not swim because of the pain. My blood did not circulate as it would have if I had not been too beaten to kick my legs. When I was forced to stroke with my arms it was as if I tore my stomach tendons to shreds.
My clothes were heavy and they dragged me down, but when my head was under until the pressure made my eyes feel as if they would explode and my lungs burst, I thrust upward and gasped for air.
The current pushed me along and when I came up I saw this jam of peeled logs ahead. The water swirled white where it struck the logs and was forced out around them in white stewing circles.
I fought against this outward pull and finally I was carried in close to the logs. I pulled myself over the first one and it sank slightly and seemed to buckle. Suddenly the water caught it and jerked it free. For a long time I was spun around as the log bobbled past the log jam.
It was better now. I could breathe and hold my head above water. I hung on to the log, supporting my head and my shoulders on it.
I told myself I would not drown now. The log rolled along in the silent river. Sometimes the banks were steep and in other places the swampy places were so low that the river spread out over the cypress stumps and around the deadened trees. The sun disappeared and it was suddenly dusk along the river. The silence deepened and the sickness and chill in my stomach spread to my arms and I could no longer hold on to the log.
No matter what I told my brain, my fingers slipped and I could feel the log rolling and spinning away from me. The current caught it suddenly and it was gone. I could not even see it around me. I rolled over on my back and breathed through my mouth, trying to rest. I stared at the darkening sky, and the helplessness spread like the chill. When I heard music, at first I thought I was delirious and about to pass out again.
The music had a twangy country sound and it was loud around me. I turned over, treading water, feeling the pain sharp and hot through me.
In the darkness I saw the lights of the fishing shack and the shafts of light in the strung nets and along the narrow dock.
For a moment I was afraid the current would sweep me out wide around the curve. I fought at it, kicking my legs and thrashing my arms. Perhaps they would have heard me if the jukebox had not been so loud.
The water bumped me against a cypress upright under the dock. I hung on until I caught my breath, then pushed away from it, grabbing at the next one nearer shore. I pulled myself along until my feet struck the muddy bottom. I tried to stand, but my legs would not support me and I sprawled out on my face. The darkness settled down swiftly over me like a falling tent and blotted out even the sound of the jukebox.
***
I was dry and I was not shivering any more. I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was the l
ight suspended on a cord from the bare rafters. I turned my head, seeing the brown wood walls, framing exposed, the faded calendars. Then I saw her.
I stared at her for a long time.
"Hello," I said.
She had been looking at me as though I were no more than the blanket turned down on the narrow cot. She did not smile.
"I thought you were dead," she said.
"You mean I'm not? Saw you, thought I was in heaven."
"Weak man, weak jokes."
"Wait until I'm better."
"That's what I'm waiting for. Then maybe you'll have sense enough to get out of this country. I told you. You're not much. Next time they'll kill you."
I tried to move in the bed. Pain was like hot prongs.
"Maybe they have yet. Did you pull me out of the river?"
"Yes. I heard you out there. I thought somebody was trying to steal a boat."
I looked at her, the dark hair, the black eyes, the cheap dress, the briar-streaked legs. What went through me this time was not the searing of pain. I felt my breath quicken.
She stood up. "If you're going to live, I'll go to bed."
I lifted myself on my elbows. "Wait a minute."
She paused in the door, looking back at me, her eyes hostile. "All right, what do you want?"
"Thanks."
She shrugged. "For what? I'm just glad it wasn't somebody stealing a boat. We lose a lot of boats."
She turned off the lights and walked out. In the darkness it was as if I could still see her. I lay there with my eyes wide and when I became accustomed to the dark I could see the nail holes in the corrugated roof. The jukebox did not stop for what seemed a very long time. Sometimes through the music, and other times above it, I could hear the laughter. I heard cars turning into the parking lot behind the shack, and later other cars started and moved away. I listened to them until I could not hear them any more on the white road that led to the highway.
A Moment to Prey Page 5