Rafferty

by Bill S. Ballinger

  She was nearly half an hour late for the appointment, but I had no trouble recognizing her when she appeared. Her hair was the flaming red of a desert sunset, and nearly as diverse in its hues. She had a round, pouting mouth, shrewd dark brown eyes, and the figure of a magnificently developed Amazon. We had several drinks in the bar, and then I suggested we have dinner. Finally, we were settled at a table in the dining room.

  ‘How well did you know Rose?’ I asked finally.

  ‘Pretty well. We were roommates for a while...’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘After she left that apartment she had on Park Avenue, we shared a room in my hotel for a while. But I couldn’t take it forever. At first it wasn’t so bad, but afterwards it seemed she’d get plastered every night and cry on my shoulder. She’d talk on and on for hours... about everything. It was real miserable.’ She looked at me thoughtfully. ‘Finally, when she didn’t even try to work...’ Viola shrugged. ‘Life’s too short.’

  ‘Why don’t you start from the beginning and tell me about it. Everything that you can remember... what you saw yourself... and what she said,’ I suggested. Viola Vane did.

  During her story she mentioned two other names—persons who could give me vital information: Vince Korum, a bartender on Third Avenue who knew Rafferty well, and Nona Markey, a professional call girl and also an ex-roommate of Rose. These two new names I visited the following day. Korum talked long and frankly—simply for the love of talking, and Markey talked bluntly because she needed the money I offered her.

  As my store of information grew, both Swanson and Captain Feinberg also became increasingly co-operative and added to it. Feinberg eventually put me in touch with another interested party, a certain man named Tom Griffin; and Father Sean Rafferty, I discovered through Swanson, was teaching in a parochial school in New Jersey.

  Of all the people I talked with, Sean Rafferty was by far my deepest, wisest, and most detailed source. A patient, humble and compassionate man, he loved his brother Emmet dearly; and when Sean was assured that I was not attempting to sit in judgment of Emmet, he became anxious that I know the truth. Sean Rafferty was the one person in the world, I am certain, who knew the entire facts of the whole story; I am equally convinced that he was the only person to whom Emmet Rafferty had honestly confided.

  And so from the stories of Sean Rafferty, Swanson, Captain Feinberg, Viola Vane, Nona Markey, Vince Korum, and Tom Griffin, the jigsaw pieces of the puzzle fitted together. In attempting to retell the story of Rose Pauli and Emmet Rafferty, I have used the facts as I found them, the truth as it was told me. The witnesses to the story stated what they had seen and heard themselves; they also relayed to me information and confidences which Rose and Emmet had spoken with their own lips. In some instances, I have included what might be called ‘hearsay evidence,’ but evidence that is credible in the light of later events and actions.

  I must admit that I have taken the license to recreate moods and thoughts. These incidents, however, were not written hastily. In many of the circumstances, Rose Pauli and Emmet Rafferty later indicated what they felt or thought at a particular time; I have tried honestly and sincerely to follow these indications, but obviously no one is omniscient. In a very few instances, where I had no specific information, I had to use my own judgment in describing their feelings and reactions. I have done so, but I was guided by an understanding, I hope, of their characters... of both their strengths and weaknesses, as well as the circumstances of their meetings examined in terms of their past, their present, and their future.

  Once, in those days before the war, Rafferty told me something, and I keep remembering it now. He said, ‘So you’re holding this guy for questioning. And all the time you’re wondering what made him act the way he did; what’s he thinking about. Now I ask you, how can you really tell what a guy is thinking? Only two people actually know—that’s the guy and God. But a cop, he’s got to guess. A cop, he’s got to play God. If he guesses right, he’s a good cop.’

  At this point, we can know positively only two facts: what happened in the beginning and what happened at the end. Of what happened in between, only God and Emmet Rafferty can be sure. With these reservations in mind then, here is Rafferty’s final story.

  Chapter Seven

  The traffic noises from Seventh Avenue climbed the six stories of the building and crept under the windows, filling the hotel room with low murmurs of discontent. Rose Pauli pulled a comb through her hair, standing before the oval mirror of the walnut-stained, metal dresser. Her face was sulky, heavy with unhappiness. ‘This is no good, Em,’ she said; ‘it’s not going to work.’ She replaced the comb on the glass of the dresser, the noise sharp and sudden, and angry.

  Rafferty stirred uneasily. He crossed the room to a telephone stand beside the bed and shook loose a cigarette from a pack by the phone. He lit it, dropping the extinguished match to the floor, and walked up behind the woman who was watching him in her mirror. He put his arms around her and drew her to him, but her back remained rigid, and she did not turn her head. ‘What’s the trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘For months... it’s been going on like this...’ She shrugged her body free from his embrace and resumed the methodic combing of her hair. As he turned away and seated himself on the side of the bed, her eyes followed; then she turned from the mirror and faced him. ‘I knew it would be like this,’ she said.

  ‘Like what?’ he asked. His eyes scanned the room, taking for granted the stained metal furniture, the plain, worn maroon carpet on the floor, ignoring, through long acceptance, the grease stains on the wallpaper left by the heads of former tenants. ‘You’ve had it all right,’ he said. ‘You haven’t had it so tough.’

  ‘I didn’t ask to have it tough,’ she replied. ‘And I told you I wasn’t getting involved with you for laughs.’ Her back was against the dresser, and it was as if she were defending herself against him. He made no move, no effort to answer her, and his eyes held tightly to the cigarette in his hand. His silence forced her on. ‘Don’t you understand, Em?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you see? As long as there’s you—and I’ve got you in my life—there’s no other man. But don’t you see that’s no good either?’

  ‘No,’ he said slowly,’ I don’t see it’

  She attempted to explain... haltingly. ‘I don’t just want a man in my room, in my bed... sharing my life. You know that!’

  ‘Yes... sure...’

  ‘I want to get out of here! Out of this hotel... and away from the club. I want some peace and security... and love in my life: Is that so strange? Is that so hard to understand?’

  ‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘I understand all that. But I think maybe you’re overlooking something, too. I’m in love with you...’

  ‘So you’re in love with me!’ Suddenly she was scornful. ‘Then why don’t you ask me to marry you?’

  ‘Because you’re married, too!’ His unguarded reply surprised him, and as the enormity of his double confession became apparent, he arose to his feet, standing uncertainly. She watched him blankly, stunned for a moment; then turning, she tried to pass around him but he grasped her arm and stopped her. ‘Wait!’ he said.

  Rose regarded him silently, her face entirely expressionless. He dropped her arm, and she hugged it to her, nursing its hurt. ‘What makes you think I’m married?’ she asked finally.

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  She didn’t reply, momentarily.’ What makes you think so?’ she asked at last.

  Rafferty felt apprehension flooding his mind. His relationship with Rose was built on lies, including a simulated ignorance regarding Eddie Stack. He sought quickly an avenue of escape. ‘I don’t know...’ he hesitated, ‘a hunch, maybe.’ He drew a sharp breath. ‘Maybe just the way you act. Sometimes I get a feeling you’ve maybe been married...’

  She searched his face carefully, reaching a decision. ‘All right,’ she said finally, ‘I am married. Now you know. But you’ve been lying.’

  ‘I’ve been lying
, but you haven’t? Is that it?’

  ‘Yes. There’s a difference...’

  ‘If there is, I don’t get it.’

  She sat down on the bed, leaning back, throwing her weight on her two arms. ‘There’s a difference,’ she said. ‘I never denied I was married. We never talked about it. You never asked me.. .’

  ‘If I had asked you, would you have told me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted frankly. ‘But now is a good time to get a lot of things settled, Emmet. Maybe that’s why I’m telling you now. But you made it a point to brag about not being married. You brought it up yourself. That’s why I say you’ve been lying!’

  ‘Okay,’ said Rafferty, ‘have it your way.’

  ‘But it’s not enough.’

  ‘So we’re both married. That’s plenty.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be.’ She regarded him levelly. ‘You still haven’t asked me to marry you. There’s such a thing as you getting a divorce. I can get one anytime I want.’

  He stood by her side, looking down at her. ‘Why didn’t you get one before?’ he asked.

  ‘I was in no hurry,’ she said. ‘I thought I had plenty of time before I’d ever get married again. But you still haven’t answered my question. Do you want to marry me?’

  ‘Yes...’His voice was very low.

  ‘You don’t sound happy about it.’

  He sat beside her, attempting to pick up her hand, but the weight of her body kept it firmly on the bed. He was conscious of her body, straining against the silk of her slip, and he ran the tips of his fingers tentatively along her leg. ‘I want to marry you, Rose,’ he said. ‘I’m in love with you but I’m married... and I’ve got two daughters.’ She moved her leg, slightly but carefully, from beneath his fingers. ‘I lied to you about not being married... because I thought it’d break us up if you knew.’

  ‘You’re so right,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Listen, Rose... please. Maybe you won’t believe this... but it’s the truth. I never ran around, or stepped out on my wife... until I met you...’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to.’

  ‘I know that. But after I met you, I couldn’t help... not keep seeing you.’

  ‘Does your wife know about us?’

  ‘No. She hasn’t any idea. I didn’t tell her... because I didn’t know how it was going to be.’

  ‘Are you going to tell her now?’

  ‘Yes... sure. I’ll tell her. But I hate to. I should be able to love her like I love you, but I don’t... that’s all. Katherine’s been a good wife and... what with the kids...’His voiced stopped.

  Rose looked at him coldly. ‘That’s what they all say,’ she said. ‘No man ever divorced a bad wife yet. They’re all good wives.’ She rolled to her side, her breasts bunching, and she pulled the strap of her slip up over her shoulder. ‘But at least they’re wives. Me? I’m going to be a good wife, too!’ Suddenly she smiled, and she reached out her arms and pulled Rafferty’s head down to her shoulder. ‘It’s going to be all right, honey,’ she said. ‘You’ll tell your wife you want a divorce and make her give you one. In the meantime... let’s get out of here. We’ll have a long time to wait until we both get final decrees...’

  ‘You want to move from this hotel?’ Rafferty had moved her from the cheap hotel where she had first lived to a hotel of middle-class respectability. Paying the monthly rent, now he had become at home and at ease—concealed within its colorless mediocrity. Rose was pleased, too, he had thought. Now he was surprised.’ What’s wrong with this?’

  ‘I hate it!’ She ran her fingers through his hair, and scratched, gently, at the back of his neck with her long nails. ‘Emmet... listen... you probably think these last few months I’ve been unreasonable. Listen to me, honey... and think back to when we started going together. I told you then I wasn’t just looking for a boy friend. I wanted to try and find a nice decent way of living. Being in love isn’t enough. Or having plenty of money and no love isn’t enough either. But having love and enough money to live nice... why, I guess that’s the answer to everything.’ She pushed him from off her shoulder, and raised her head, arching her neck so she could look into his face. ‘We talked about it... remember? And that’s what we were going to do. And then, little by little, we sort of forgot about everything we were going to do... and we just accepted this hotel room. You stopping in to see me, whenever you were able. That became our life, and I ask you, what kind of a life is that?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Emmet.

  ‘And the club,’ she continued. ‘I kept right on working there. And that’s no different than it’s ever been...’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I want to quit... Emmet... and find us a nice place to live.’

  ‘All right. Go ahead and do it.’

  She looked at him doubtfully. ‘I... don’t think you can afford it. You haven’t got that kind of money.’

  ‘I can afford it,’ he said. He put his hand behind her head, bringing her lips down to his, feeling them warm and moist, breathing desire into his mouth. His arms met behind her back and he forced the straps of her slip down over her shoulders. Silently, and without interrupting her kiss, she wiggled the silk down over her hips.

  Rafferty walked through the revolving door into the bank. He had made many such trips over the period of the last six months. Making his way to a chromium-and-glass counter in the center of the marbled room, he selected a printed withdrawal form, filling it in with the aid of a fountain pen anchored firm to the counter by a long chain. From the pocket of his suit he removed a savings deposit book. It was a joint account in the names of Emmet and Katherine Rafferty, and he looked at it for a moment, ruffling through the pages of small deposits which began ten years before. Katherine had made an effort, learned in the starvation days of the early thirties, to save ten dollars a week from his pay. At first it had become difficult, but with his successive promotions the savings had become easier, and by the time he had met Rose Pauli, the amount had totaled slightly over four thousand dollars.

  Now, but seven hundred and ten dollars remained.

  He turned his attention to the withdrawal slip, hesitating momentarily over the figure of his withdrawal. If he filled it out for the entire $710, would the account be closed? And if it were closed, would the bank send a notice to his home? He wasn’t sure, but he reached a swift decision. Quickly his hand wrote the figures of S700 on the form; he blotted the slip, and with the book in his hand, took a place in line before the cashier’s window.

  But the fluttering pages of the depleted book haunted Rafferty all day. It represented to him the end of his affair with Rose. In his pocket were seven hundred dollars. When it was gone, Rose would be gone, too. The few thousand laboriously saved dollars had gone rapidly. He shook his head, and trying to focus his memory on the fleeting dollars, to recall the presents and the suppers and the nights in the clubs, the occasional furtive week end trips... the rent at the hotel... It added up to the final total of just what was left in the black bank deposit book. Ten dollars.

  With the money in his pocket, he could buy another month... or possibly six weeks. Two months at the most... if he were lucky. He tried to shut from his mind the thoughts of losing Rose. Life without her would be lonely; the idea tied his stomach into knots of despair. But, at least, he could then return to his family... to Katherine, to Mary and Maureen. He would return, with no one knowing of his adventure, and become once again the steady husband, the loving father. This he promised himself, fortified by the knowledge that he had no alternative and would have no opportunity to return to Rose. It would not be bad... not bad at all... once the preliminary shock and loneliness were over, because he sincerely loved his children, and he had a great fondness and respect for Katherine.

  It was too bad, and he was ashamed, that he felt the way he did about Rose. She aroused in him feelings and emotions that he had never known. It was not just the excitement of his love, nor the strange and novel experi
ments in sex that he had never experienced with Katherine, that held him to Rose. There was in her a certain twisted knowledge of life; a moral philosophy pruned of social refinement that appealed to him. It cut through his years of respectability, through the bindings of his background, family, and church, and offered him a freedom which both beckoned and repelled him. He had few illusions concerning Rose; and in the beginning of their association, her insistence on the more obvious points of convention had amused him. But he soon discovered that her gestures to gentility and convention were not poses; she wanted them and she believed in them. And he learned to accept them as part of her nature.

  And now the end of their association was in sight... and he could do nothing except enjoy it to the last. When the money was gone, he would walk out. But, obviously, at this point, he could have no discussions with Katherine concerning a divorce. Katherine was his last resort, his bulwark of support, when his break came with Rose. She must never learn the truth.

  The next few weeks passed quickly. Rose quit her job at the club and concentrated her activities on finding an apartment. At first she scanned the lists of for-rent ads, buying the late night editions of the morning papers, with no success. The war and the consequent shortage of proper housing facilities left only the poorest availabilities, or the obviously too high priced. She continued to remain at the hotel, and Rafferty awaited her day-to-day reports on apartment searching with unease. Rental agents were demanding six to twelve months’ rent in advance for desirable apartments, and already his remaining seven hundred had dwindled to nearly half.

  The Barker case started as any other... with a killing, and Rafferty picked up the assignment as a matter of routine. Two factors, however, immediately entered the case which were unusual. First, Mack, the harness cop who reported the killing, had only recently been promoted out of his probationary period and it was the initial homicide of his career. Mack, excited and obviously anxious to report to his superiors, forgot a primary axiom in police procedure regarding a shooting: get the gun. Finding Judson at his desk, with Barker stretched out on the floor, Mack immediately drew his own gun and held it on Judson. Next he phoned in his report, and then simply waited until Rafferty and Goshen appeared on the scene.