by Peter Rabe
There was a coffee shop at the other end of the station and I took Jessie’s arm.
“Come on. We’ll sit down.”
“Sure,” she said.
There was a juke box in the place and five kids standing around it, bobbing and weaving.
“I’ll give you twelve hundred,” said Jessie, “which is all I have. And you can go to Mexico. Didn’t you say once you would like to go to Mexico?”
“Yes.”
“Is it nice there?”
“I don’t know. I just said Mexico because I’ve never been there.”
“Oh,” she said, and then she looked like once before, at the baggage window. She took a cigarette and smoked.
“Read it,” she said. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Read it,” she said. “With that they’ll forgive you the three weeks you missed.”
I read it and I knew she was right. They’d forgive me, for bringing this to them. And they’d kill Mister Simon for the things he had done. Tooley had all of it documented. The dope import, the custom murders to tighten up the organization, the other murders which were hard to trace, because the dead ones were junkies.
And they wouldn’t kill Jessie for what she had done, by this record, but she would grow old in jail.
“Is this true?”
“I pushed dope when I was on the junk, and I helped Mishkin when I was off. You know what Mishkin does.”
“He sells H like beans and you were his secretary.”
“Sort of like that.”
“You can’t pay for that.”
“No.”
“Locking you up pays for nothing.”
She looked away, to the long window which showed the buses by the ramp. I looked, too, but there wasn’t a one that said Mexico.
“If you throw those papers away,” she said to the window, “and they catch you — ”
There was one bus that said Bagette, or something. I knew nothing about the place, or where it was.
“Did you hear me?” she said.
“Yes. I heard you.”
I put the folder back into the briefcase. I took the clothes out and dropped them on the floor and just left the folder in and closed the briefcase.
She looked at it and bit her lip.
“I don’t think I can face it,” she said.
“Yes. I can look as far as this table and you, Jessie, and no further.”
She put her cigarette out. It made a dry sound.
“I can see further,” she said.
“I turn you in, we both lose.”
She shrugged.
“We run together,” she said, “and we both lose.”
The bus with the name on the shield made a noise on the other side of the window and then I could see it move.
“If I’m going to lose you,” she said, “I don’t want you.”
She got up and took a deep breath and looked out at the bus. I got up too.
“Only hopheads think they can have forever,” I said.
I turned her around a little, so she’d look at me, and when she did she said, “That’s right.”
Then we went out to the street That bus was coming by and we watched it drive off. It had no lights on inside and I couldn’t tell if there was anyone in it.
We went across the street to a hotel with a closed bar on the ground floor and two stories on top. We spent the night there.
It wasn’t forever but it was she and I. Later, the morning came up, some kind of morning, and she slept next to me, so I could feel both her warmth and her distance.
Perhaps it was best. Because it wasn’t a finish to anything and, God knows, it wasn’t a start —
• • •
The girl woke up in the morning. She saw that there was no sun but it was very light. In a while she got dressed. She was not sure what to do next, to walk away, to sit awhile longer, because God knows, she thought, it isn’t a start or a finish and without those, there is no rush. She had Gallivan’s message, which he had left so that she wouldn’t miss it The briefcase was empty. There was a glass tray next to it, which was full of frail ashes.
THE END
If you liked My Lovely Executioner check out:
Journey into Terror
Anybody coming down one of the three streets had to end up at Truesdell Square. One street had crosstown traffic, the other one was lined with cheap, neat residences, and one looked old, with trees and clapboard houses. They joined on Truesdell Square. There was a bus stop, grocery stores, a five-and-dime, and in one building on the second floor there was a sign which read Office Space For Rent. The sign was up there all the time and meanwhile the space was used for storage. There were empty crates, long rows of pinball machines, and a safe —
The heater in the car didn’t work. Two men sat in front and two were in the back. They sat very still, bent a little forward, so that they would not disturb the warm air inside their clothes. The car drove slowly because the street was full of slush.
“How much further?” said one of the men.
“We’ll make it. They’re moving the books at three,” said the driver. “We got five minutes.”
They didn’t talk for a while. A clump of wet snow slid off a tree and smacked on the hood of the car. It made the men start and some of them cursed under their breath.
“It could make a mess, Tarpin,” said one of them. “What you’re trying.”
The driver grunted. He made a gesture to look at his watch, but he knew the time, anyway.
“What do you say, Tarpin, maybe you just try talking to the head once more? This could make a mess — ”
“I got to mess,” said the driver. “I get squeezed out, all I got left is a mess, anyhow. So let him regret it.” Tarpin said this without any emotion. He had black hair, very thick, and it started low on his forehead. When he was tense he would move his scalp and then it looked as if he had no forehead at all.
“Maybe you don’t need the books. We could…”
“I want them.”
“But the trouble…”
“No trouble,” said Tarpin. He moved his scalp and then rubbed the back of his head. “No trouble at all,” he said and squeezed his left arm against his side so he could feel the shoulder holster.
They would be at Truesdell Square at about four o’clock….
• • •
The girl could see the square at the end of the street and walked faster. The sidewalk looked black and neat with the snow scraped to one side. If I hurry, she thought to herself, I can shop and then meet him at the bus. She smiled. The street was empty, but when she smiled she rubbed her face into her collar as if it were best to hide how she felt.
The girl had very white skin and large eyes, a frail look about her, and her wrists, showing out of the heavy coat, were small and frail. The girl tucked her hands into the bend of her folded arms, walking that way to keep out the damp. The gesture made her feel enveloped, keeping her happiness close to herself.
“Well, well, well — ” said the voice.
The girl gave a small start. She looked at the woman in the driveway and did not know what to say.
“You are way off somewhere, aren’t you, Miss Jackson?” The woman laughed with a maternal note.
The girl smiled back. She didn’t want to talk, she didn’t even want to smile at anyone, but did not know what else to do. “You are shoveling the drive, Mrs. Pollin,” she said.
“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Pollin. She looked down at the shovel and held it suddenly to show that she rarely did this sort of thing. “The Mister will be late,” she said. “Inventory time, you know.”
“Ah yes,” said the girl. She wished she could walk on, but felt too shy to end the conversation.
“And tomorrow it’s going to be Mrs., eh, Miss Jackson?”
The girl felt suddenly abandoned, as if the question was so personal that it amounted to an attack. She did not want to talk about her husband — tomorr
ow’s husband — and wished that he were here.
“Are you going to settle here?” the woman asked.
“Perhaps,” said the girl. “I haven’t — we haven’t — ”
“That would be lovely,” said the woman. “Such a lovely neighborhood.”
“Yes.”
“And you such a nice, lovely girl, Miss Jackson. If your Mister is at all like you, why, you should have nothing but friends in our neighborhood.”
The girl just smiled again, to cover up the same feeling as before — that the woman was attacking. Her husband — tomorrow’s husband — needed no explaining. John wasn’t something to discuss when in a hurry, with strangers —
“Whom does he work for?” said the woman.
“Kessler Equipment.”
“Oh, that’s a wonderful company,” said Mrs. Pollin, but since Kessler Equipment was at least five times as large as the company for which her husband worked, she was quickly losing interest. “What’s he do? Machinist? Electrician? My Mister is in the office, you know.”
“He’s an engineer. Electrical engineer.”
“Really? That’s almost a professional man, isn’t it?”
The girl just nodded, offending Mrs. Rollin. They had nothing else to say to each other and the girl, Ann Jackson, got away saying a quick good-by.
If she hurried she could still shop and then meet John when he came in on the bus. It wasn’t busy on the square this time of day.
She would reach Truesdell Square at about four o’clock….
• • •
The yard between Building Four and Building Five was “restricted to all unauthorized personnel,” a phrase that had been introduced at Kessler Equipment with army contracts, but John Bunting didn’t care. He wasn’t sure what time it was but he was in a hurry, so crossed the yard because it was the shortest way out to the gate. “Oh, wedding day in the month of May…” he sang, and looked up at the wet January sky. It made him step into a puddle and since he had been going fast his pants got wet tip to the knees, “… wedding day don’t go away,” he started again. “Come here and stay so I can say…”
“Hey, Bud!”
John Bunting stopped long enough to look around and see the plant guard in front of Building Five.
“I’m authorized personnel,” Bunting yelled back. “I’m getting married!” and started toward the gate again.
The guard didn’t much care one way or the other and, not wanting to chase after the man, he went inside the building and put a chew of tobacco into his cheek. Besides, he knew John Bunting. He had recognized him by the unkempt hair and by the arms.
John Bunting’s hair was brown with red in it and his arms, as the guard had seen from far away, seemed much too long. It was either that, or Bunting always bought his clothes with sleeves too short.
He stepped into another puddle and this time started cursing. He kept going and wished he knew what time it was. He would have to start carrying a watch. Maybe Ann would give him one on their first wedding anniversary, one day and one year from now, in fact he would speak to her about it later and one day and one year from now she could surprise him with it. But for now, if the sun were out he might have a notion if it was late or early. “Oh glorious sun, where have you gunn…” he started to sing, but stopped when he got to the gatehouse.
“Checking out, Clint. Lemme have the book,” and he smacked his hand on top of the counter.
“This hour?” said the guard, but he knew why Bunting was getting off early. It was just after three.
“Lemme sign out, man. I’m getting married.”
“You are?” said the guard, because it was a joke by now. Bunting had told everyone for months.
The guard brought up the book but didn’t hand it over yet. “Maybe you ought to wait and think this over, John. Maybe I’m doing you a favor not letting you rush into this.”
“Jeesischrist, Clint, hurry up! Don’t you know what it’s like? You’re married.”
“Thirty-five years.”
“Oh. Well, you’re the wrong man for this type argument.”
“Think of it,” said the guard. “All them women you’re going to miss. Ever think of that, boy?”
Bunting looked at his hands on the counter. Then he said, “I’m no lady’s man.”
The guard laughed, because that was the joke behind his comment. Bunting was fairly shy with women. “Hell,” he kept laughing. “You’re embarrassed!”
“Sure,” said Bunting.
“What are you ashamed of, huh, John?” and the guard kept laughing.
“I’m not ashamed,” said Bunting. “I’m just embarrassed.” He reached across the counter, holding his hand out for the book. “Lemme sign out.”
The guard stopped laughing and gave Bunting the sign-out register. When Bunting was done the guard smiled at him and said, “No harm meant, John. And good luck.”
“Thank you,” said Bunting. “Nice of you,” and went out.
It started to rain, a fine spray sharp with cold. John Bunting ducked his head down and waited for the bus. It would take him close to an hour to get across town. He huddled close into himself to shut out the feel of the coldness and the gray scene, and once he was on the bus he stayed that way, disturbed now because he couldn’t find the warmth inside him. Nothing but a tension growing. The bus went stop and go and stop and go, the same as Bunting’s feelings: a strong happiness, a sense of warmth about Ann, and then impatient anger about not being with her. Before this tension went, one or the other of the opposites would have to disappear.
When Bunting saw Truesdell Square ahead his jumpiness got worse. He bit his lip, he smiled, he even tried to count the people in the distance. There was a traffic jam or something, a backfire. The picture wasn’t clear, because the light was fading fast this time of day.
When I see Ann, he thought, the tension will all go, like always.
The bus stopped to let him off and then went on. The taillights went away. It was quiet. Bunting then discovered that the square was empty, no people on the street, no moving cars, except way in the distance. A feeling like a lull.
Bunting coughed, wondered if it was four. What confused him was the square being so empty. He frowned, hated to think that he was late, and was about to walk across the sidewalk.
He had almost missed her. He stumbled across an orange which had rolled out of a paper bag and stumbling he saw the bag, split open, and then Ann.
She lay still and very small in a tight angle of two buildings where the snow had not yet melted.
He suddenly saw all the people coming out of doors and entrances but that meant nothing to him. He mostly saw Ann’s face and the round hole in her white forehead.
Read more of Journey into Terror
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Copyright © 1960 by Fawcett Publications, Inc.
Renewal Copyright © 1988 by Peter Rabe
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
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eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3999-2
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