Memory (Hard Case Crime)

by Donald E. Westlake

  But the driver answered with a question of his own: “In the Village?”

  Did that sound right, or did he just want it to sound right? He couldn’t be sure. “I don’t’ know,” he said. “Fifty Grove Street, New York City, that’s all I know.”

  The driver shrugged and said, “Sure, the Village. No problem.”

  No problem. Cole got into the back seat of the cab with all his luggage, and the driver angled out into the snarl of traffic. The back seat of the cab was like a nest, warm and soft and dark, gently rocking as they moved south on the city’s broken streets, and once again Cole was surprised that he had come all this long way. All he really wanted was a safe nest somewhere, warm and soft and dark, gently rocking, and hadn’t he had that back home? Why had he left? Why had he forced himself to leave?

  He was half-dozing, lulled and comforted, when at last the cab jerked to a stop and the driver said, “Fifty Grove. That’s it there.”

  The meter read eighty cents. He gave over a dollar bill and reluctantly told the driver to keep the change, then climbed out to the street and dragged his luggage out after him. The cab jerked into motion again, and away.

  This block of Grove Street was very old looking, but not quite quaint. One end of it spilled into a brightly lit open area with a broad main avenue, and the other end receded into a dark narrow area of twisted streets and narrow grimy buildings. Number 50 was just a few doors down from the bright avenue, an old building four stories high. He went in, and saw a row of mailboxes inset in the wall beside the door, and looking, found:

  P. Cole, 3-B

  He looked at that, and began to smile. He felt as though he’d just taken off a knapsack loaded with rocks, as though the Earth’s gravity had suddenly lessened, P. Cole. That was him, it had to be!

  This was home!

  So he’d been right all along, right in leaving that town and coming back here. Something had happened to him somewhere, some break in the chain of his existence, but he had struggled through anyway, he had made his way back here, back home, where he could be made whole again. This was the nest he’d been seeking. Everything would be all right now.

  There was no elevator. He went up the stairs two at a time, the suitcase and canvas bag dangling from the ends of his arms, and two flights up he found the door marked 3-B. He had two keys in his pocket, one to fit the suitcase and another one, and when he tried the other key it worked at the first turn. He stepped inside, and found the light switch on the wall, then shut the door behind himself and looked at the room. His room.

  It was wide and shallow, with a high ceiling. The walls were cream-colored, with rectangular moldings like empty picture frames all the way around, and complicated baroque molding around the top of the walls where they met the ceiling. The molding was all painted too, the same cream color as the walls. There were two windows, widely spaced, in the wall opposite the door.

  Between the windows was a broad low bookcase made of planks and bricks. The bricks were stacked up at the ends, with the planks across them to make the shelves. Four layers of brick, and then a plank, and then four more layers of brick and another plank, and four more layers and another plank. The books were mostly paperbacks, but with one section of hardcover books down to the right on the bottom shelf.

  There was a sofa against the wall to the far left, a mammoth sagging bulging scraggly surfaced brown Hupmobile of a sofa, with scarred drum tables flanking it on both sides. One of the drum tables was a walnut shade, the other a mahogany shade. The walnut held a porcelain and white table lamp, originally made to grace a lady’s vanity, now second-hand.

  Everything was second-hand, everything in the room; he could tell it by looking and he could tell it by feeling, something too faint for real memory.

  On the right-hand wall was the kitchenette, fashioned from a broad narrow closet. The doors had been removed, the closet stuffed with white kitchen appliances in a row, and a bit of linoleum put down on the nearby floor. At the farther end of the same wall was a closed door, and between this closed door and the kitchenette was a wooden-legged formica-topped table all in blue and four brown wooden chairs.

  Aside from the square of linoleum, there was a large square of gray broadloom covering a part of the flooring, from the sofa midway across the room to end about where Cole was standing by the door.

  To Cole’s immediate left was an ancient thick scarred table with uneven legs, and on its surface were radio and turntable and amplifier and a flat stack of LP records. Beyond the table was a scruffy armchair of gray leatherette, and beyond the armchair was an elongated phonograph-system speaker, connected to the equipment on the table and also used as a side-table for the armchair; on its top surface were an ashtray and several glass rings.

  To his right, on the other side of the hall door, was an unraveling basket chair, and a floor lamp. Neither this one nor the table lamp on the other side was on now; there was a four-bulb ceiling fixture that looked like a chandelier made by a plumber. The bulbs were bare hundred-watters, and shed a cold light everywhere.

  The room was almost devoid of decoration, except for a large square canvas spread-eagled on the wall above and behind the sofa. It was an abstract, and apparently an original, a dilating splatter of white and orange and red and black, meaningless, not even good-looking in itself. Under the glare of the four bright bulbs, it looked naked, like a trickster exposed.

  All of this was strange and foreign to him, so unlike his room in the Malloy house, so different from anything he could possibly have imagined, and yet there was a haunting familiarity about this place. Not exactly as though he’d been here before—though he must have been, he’d lived here!—but his feeling now was more as though he had once upon a time dreamed this room, without ever expecting to find it in reality.

  It was as though he’d been lost in a strange part of town, wandering and wandering, and had suddenly seen a landmark he knew; now the points of the compass will arrange themselves in meaningful pattern, everything will be familiar, the course will all at once become clear. Cole had been wandering, the points of the compass unknown, and here at last was his landmark.

  Not that the memories were flooding in; they weren’t. That part had remained unchanged, as it had been in the terminal building. He still had no idea what sort of life he had lived in this room, what had happened to change it, what had taken him to a town a thousand miles from here. What skills he might possess, what jobs he might be qualified for, what friends he might have known in the past, all of this was still hidden.

  If memory was not returning, still there was recognition, just as at the terminal. He was still recognizing his world in the instant of seeing it. The door to the right, for instance, he knew must lead to a bedroom and bathroom and perhaps some other rooms as well, but what they were and what they looked like he wouldn’t know until he went over and saw them.

  But it didn’t matter. He was home.

  He took another step into the room, smiling around at the walls and the furniture, and the door to the right opened, a startled male face looked out at him.

  Cole stopped, the smile forgotten on his face. He and the interloper stared at one another, shock on both their faces, and Cole felt exactly like the butt of a practical joke. Somehow, somehow, this had all been arranged, with its tiny false hints of memory and the obscure note about the nonexistent wallet and everything else, all building him toward this crescendo of absurdity; this was not his apartment. P. Cole was someone else, Perry Cole perhaps, or Philip Cole, or Peter Cole, or even another Paul Cole, why not? The tavern was Cole’s Tavern, another part of the same joke, so why not?

  Then at last the interloper moved, came bustling on through the doorway and shut the door behind himself, saying in a rattling whisper, “Jesus Christ, man, why didn’t you warn me? I got a chick in there.”

  Cole couldn’t say a word; he could only stare. The interloper was all flesh, dressed only in white jockey shorts. He was in his middle twenties, a little below averag
e height, with a broad physique. Hair was matted on his chest and tangled on his arms, black and thick. His square broad-nosed face was deeply tanned, and the black hair on his head was a thick mass of curls. He gestured violently but vaguely with his hands, saying, “You shoulda phoned, man. What the hell you think you’re doing?”

  A name came into Cole’s numbed head, a name with no linkages, no application, no associative memories. He said the name, in vague wonder, because his mind was too confused for him to say anything else. He said: “Benny?”

  “I’m here, I’m here,” he said angrily. Benny was irritated, and panic-stricken, and pleading. He kept gesturing mean-inglessly with his hands, and said, “What’s the story, for God’s sake?”

  So this was Benny? Cole looked at him and registered his face, and thought again the name Benny. But the name had come into his head like one loose atom in a vacuum, and refused to be combined with anything else. He could accept that this stranger was named Benny, because it was the name the stranger answered to, but he couldn’t make this face and this name join in his mind as a fact of memory. So far as he could remember, he had never seen this man before in his life.

  But what was he doing here? Cole’s name had been on the mailbox downstairs, a key in his possession had unlocked the apartment door. Yes, and more than that, this stranger was behaving in an aggrieved manner but nevertheless a manner that implied Cole’s right to be here. So if this was Cole’s apartment—and common sense, after the first instant of panic, told him this had to be his apartment—what was Benny doing here?

  Still, how could he be sure of anything, not knowing or remembering? That was why, abruptly, he asked, “This is my place, isn’t it?”

  But Benny took a different meaning from the words. “I know it is,” he said, as though making a reluctant admission. “But if it was the other way around I woulda called first.” His hands were still making the excited vacant gestures, and now he glanced back at the closed door, and said, “The least you can do is give me five minutes, man, you know what I mean?”

  “What?”

  “Go to Riker’s, have a cup of coffee. Take a, take a walk around the block or something. Five minutes, that’s all I ask, I’ll get the beast out of here, okay?”

  “You mean, go away again?”

  “Five lousy minutes, man.” Benny was hopping up and down on the balls of his feet in his agitation, torn amid anger and apology and impatience and worry. “If you’da phoned, she wouldn’t of been here.”

  Cole found himself being led slowly out of his apartment again, not understanding it and not believing it, while Benny kept talking away, urgent disjointed phrases repeated over and over again. Till finally Cole was standing in the hall, and Benny handed him his suitcase and canvas bag, said, “Five minutes, man, I swear,” and shut the door in Cole’s face.

  Cole just stood there, facing the door, trying to understand, trying to decide what to do. This was his apartment; even beyond the clues of the key that fit and the name on the mailbox, Benny himself had admitted this was Cole’s apartment. This was where he was supposed to be, the address on the note, the last instruction he had from the past.

  What could he do, could he knock on the door now, or open it again with the key, and try to explain things to Benny? He could tell him, “I’ve got amnesia or something, I don’t remember many things, I don’t know why you’re here or who you are, I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  No, no, he couldn’t do that, he couldn’t tell Benny the truth; no, nor anybody else. What a weakness that was, what helplessness, and to have it here in the middle of a huge city where anyone could take advantage of him and he couldn’t defend himself or know what to do about it. Benny was angry with him now, but still in the position of having to ask Cole’s cooperation, of having to admit that yes this was Cole’s apartment. If Cole let him know the truth, Benny would have the upper hand, he could tell any lie he wanted, he could work it some way so Cole wouldn’t even have this apartment any more.

  No, it was best to say nothing, to go along with Benny this little bit, to let him have his five minutes.

  Five minutes. Where could Cole go, for five minutes? He knew nothing, he knew noplace. He had only the one haven, and others were now moving about in its rooms. Five minutes. It didn’t matter where he went, he could go anywhere and nowhere.

  One thing he couldn’t do, he couldn’t go back down those stairs, carrying his luggage, and go walking along the cold pavements. Not when his haven was so close. He looked up and down the hall, not knowing what to do, knowing Benny and the girl would be coming to this door—his door, damn them, his door—in just a minute or two, and he couldn’t still be standing here when they came out.

  His eye caught the staircase, continuing on up to the fourth floor and the roof. That was where he would have to go. Not all the way to the roof, just far enough up to be out of sight.

  He carried his luggage up the next flight of stairs, and sat on the top step, his suitcase next to him on one side and the canvas bag on the other. Looking down, he could see part of the black composition flooring in the third floor hall, but not his own door. He lit a cigarette, hoping no one would come along during his exile here, and waited.

  Everything was silent. There wasn’t a sound anywhere, not a sound. Not even a television set or a radio. Not even a baby crying, or a man and wife arguing. He was too high up to hear street sounds; there was nothing. When he moved his foot to ease his stiffness, the scraping of his shoe on the step echoed in the stairwell.

  So the sound was very loud and echoing when at last his apartment door did open. He heard it open, and tensed, waiting, and then he heard their voices, hers first:

  “The least he could have done was phone you.”

  “Don’t ask me, baby, that’s the same thing I told him myself.”

  “I’m embarrassed, that’s what I am. I’m embarrassed.”

  “Jesus, how do you think I feel? I want us to be so close it’s like nothing that ever happened before, and a relationship like that is a delicate thing, you know? If Cole loused it up for us, baby, I’ll beat his head in.”

  “You’re sweet.”

  “Listen, I’ll call you, right? Soon as I get a pad.”

  “All right, Benny.”

  “I wish I could take you home, but I better stick around and see what’s what with Cole.” (Upstairs, Cole shook his head violently, but made no sound.)

  “That’s okay.”

  Their kiss was loud, too, and then there was the echoing shuffle of her departure; she was wearing tennis shoes or loafers or something like that. The apartment door closed again. The shuffling of the girl’s feet faded away down the stairwell.

  What now? Benny was still in the apartment, waiting for Cole, and he wouldn’t leave no matter how long Cole sat here on the stairs.

  The choice was clear. Either he had to go away right now or he had to go down there and face Benny and somehow wrest the apartment from him.

  But how? With no memory, no knowledge of Benny or the true situation here, how could he get away with it?

  He had to try, that’s all there was to it. Somehow, someway, he had to keep Benny from knowing anything was wrong. All he could do was follow Benny’s lead, respond to Benny’s questions as generally as he could, keep conversations between them down to a minimum until Benny went away.

  It was a pretty good plan, and the only one open to him, and if he was careful it might work. Still, he wasn’t pleased; this wasn’t what he had been expecting, in coming here. He had come here for safety and healing, for security and rebirth. He had come here to have old problems solved, not to have new problems thrust upon him. Arriving here weary, apprehensive, wanting only to rest at the end of his long run, now he was going to have to live some sort of lie for the benefit of an interloper in his home.

  But it would end. Sooner or later, Benny too would have to leave, just as his girl had left, and the darkness would have to lift from Cole’s mind, and everyt
hing would have to be all right again. Sooner or later; it was bound to be.

  And it was doing no good to be sitting up here. The sooner he got started, the sooner Benny would be out of there and Cole could begin to rest.

  He got to his feet. He felt stiff, his muscles ached, he felt like something made of wood. He carried his luggage back down to the third floor, and tried the doorknob, but the door was locked. He took out his key and unlocked the door for the second time, and re-entered his apartment. Once again the long living room was empty, though this time the light was lit, and this time also the door in the right-hand wall was ajar, and vague sounds of movement came from within.

  Cole was weary, exhausted, but tense with the uncertainty of how he would talk with Benny. He dropped his luggage on the floor, shut the hall door, and started to take off his coat. His fingers felt thick and arthritic and fuzzy, fumbling with the zipper. The living room seemed more barren and cold than the last time. He stiffly finished removing the coat, and then went over to the crumbling sofa, moving in a prison shuffle. He sank down onto the sofa, dropping the coat on the cushion beside him. He listened to the faint sounds Benny was making.

  After a few minutes, Benny came striding purposefully into the room, and stopped short when he saw Cole sitting on the sofa. He seemed embarrassed, and covered it with a heavy kind of heartiness, shouting, “Hey, there! Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” He was wearing khaki Army pants now, and white tennis shoes without socks.

  Cole shrugged, not having anything at all to answer. He wondered how long it would take Benny to leave.

  But Benny didn’t seem to be in any hurry. He said, “You really should of phoned first, man, you know what I mean? You might of screwed it up with that bitch forever.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cole said, because it seemed to him some sort of perfunctory apology would normally be delivered now. “I didn’t think.”

  “Well, I guess it’s okay,” Benny said, trying unsuccessfully to be gracious. “I got it all squared away with her.”