Ask the Parrot p-23

by Richard Stark

  “Oh, you got it,” he said, though without much animation. “Good.”

  “Should I put it in the closet?”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  She started out of the room, but couldn’t help herself, had to turn back and say, “No football?”

  “Ah, it’s just same-old, same-old,” he said, and shrugged, and didn’t exactly meet her eye.

  She herself had always thought football games were very much same-old, same-old, the same movements seen every Sunday, like ritual Japanese theater, only the costumes changing, but she didn’t like to hear that sentiment come from Fred. She only nodded, though, and went to the bedroom and put the rifle in its place at the back of the closet, upright, leaning against the left rear corner. Then she went back to the living room, where Fred had not moved, and said, “I saw that man.”

  He roused a bit. “Uh? Oh, him.”

  “He’s very strange, Fred.”

  “He knows what he wants,” Fred said, which seemed to her a strange kind of remark.

  “He did say something,” she went on, “that I thought was odd, but maybe it was a good thing to say.”

  No response. She waited for him to ask what the strange man had said, but he didn’t even look at her, so she had to go ahead without prompting. “He said George will want to see you when he gets home.”

  “George?” Not as though he didn’t remember their own son, but as though he couldn’t imagine why they’d been discussing him.

  “Tom told him,” she explained. “And he said George would want to see you when he gets home.”

  “Of course, he’s going to see me,” Fred said, starting to get irritated. “What do you mean?”

  “Well—just that we’ll be together again.”

  He frowned, trying to understand, then suddenly looked angry and said, “Because I wanted my rifle back? It’s my rifle.”

  “I know that, Fred.”

  “It’s in the closet. You asked me, and I said put it in the closet. What do you people think of me?”

  “I told you, it was just this odd thing he said, that’s all.”

  “He’d like that, wouldn’t he?” Fred said, looking sullen now. “Solve all of his problems for him, wouldn’t it?”

  “What problems, Fred? Now I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Nothing,” he said, turning farther away, brushing the air with his hands. “It isn’t anything. Thank you for bringing it back.”

  Which was clearly a dismissal, so she went away again, paused at the kitchen to make herself a cup of instant coffee, and then went onto the porch, where the book she was currently reading waited for her on the seat of her chair.

  Jane loved to read. Reading invariably took her out of the world she lived in, out of this glassed-in porch with its changing views of the seasons, and off to some other world with other views, other people, other seasons. Invariably; but not today.

  Jane tended to buy best sellers, but only after they came out in paperback, so the excited buzz that had greeted the book’s initial appearance had cooled and she could see the story for itself, with its insights and its failings. She was a forgiving reader, even when she was offered sequences that didn’t entirely make sense; after all, now and again the sequence of actual life didn’t make sense, either, did it?

  Like that man Smith, staying with Tom Lindahl. What could possibly have brought those two together? And how had Tom, a man she’d known for probably thirty years, suddenly come up with an “old friend” nobody’d ever heard of before?

  No; that was the real world. What she was trying to concentrate on was the world inside this book, and finally, after distracting herself several times, she did succeed, and settled in with these characters and their story. Now she concentrated on the problems of these other relationships and intertwining histories and didn’t look up until the room had grown so dark she simply couldn’t read any more.

  Turning to switch on the floor lamp to her left, she glanced at her watch and saw it was well after seven. Oh, and they hadn’t done anything about supper.

  Usually, by now, Fred would have come back to tell her the game was over, and sit with her to decide about Sunday supper, which was a much looser arrangement now that Jodie had gone off to Penn State. But today there was no football, no end of game, and no Fred.

  Was he going to just sit in there in the living room forever and brood? It had to be much darker in there than out here on the porch, but when she looked toward the doorway, she could see no light at all from inside the house.

  Was there something frightening in there, in the dark? Was there something unfamiliar in there, like an unread book, but not one she would enjoy? There was something frightening somewhere, she was sure of that, something she didn’t like at all, like a horror movie at the moment when you know something bad is about to happen.

  But that was nothing at all, that was just nerves. That was her house in there.

  Had he fallen asleep? That might even be a blessing, and even more so if he woke feeling better about things. But she should make sure, so she put the bookmark in the book, got to her feet, and moved through the house, switching the lights on along the way.

  The living room was empty. She looked toward the bedroom and called, “Fred?” No answer.

  Suddenly really frightened, in a more horrible way than any book or horror movie had ever frightened her, she went to the front door to look out. Their garage was full of junk, so the Taurus was always parked in the driveway. It was very dark out there now, and the Taurus was black, so she had to switch on the outside light to be sure the Taurus was not there.

  Where was he? What had he done? More and more afraid, almost not wanting the answers to the questions that crowded her mind, she hurried to the bedroom and opened the closet door.

  The rifle was gone.

  5

  It’s night,” Tom said, and looked from the window back at the guy he’d grown used to thinking of as Ed, even though he knew that could not possibly in any way be his name. “When do you want to go?”

  Ed rose and came over to glance outside. “A little change of plan,” he said.

  Tom didn’t like the sound of that. It was very hard to keep up with what was going on here, with the Pandora’s box he’d opened when he’d first seen Ed pulling himself up that hill ahead of the dogs, and when he’d decided to use the man instead of turning him in. That snap decision, born out of frustration and self-contempt, had consequences that just kept echoing, so that Tom almost had the feeling that, without intending to do so, he’d become a rodeo rider, a fellow on a bucking bronco for the first time in his life, where it would be a disaster beyond belief if he were to fall off.

  Wondering if his voice was shaking, he said, “Isn’t it late for a new plan? You don’t want to do it tonight, after all?”

  “No, it’s tonight. The change is, you drive down by yourself.”

  “By myself?” Alarmed, Tom said, “I thought we were doing this together.”

  “We are. When you get there, that first place you unlocked, you wait. If I’m not there, I’ll show up a little later.”

  “But—” Tom tried to understand what was happening. Ed didn’t have a car. He didn’t have anybody else here he could ask for help. How was he going to get all the way from here to the track?

  “How are you going to get there?”

  “I’ll get there,” Ed said. “You don’t have to know what I’m doing.”

  “I don’t get this,” Tom said. He didn’t just feel confused, he felt very nervous, as though he were at the edge of a cliff or something. A nauseous kind of fear was rising in him, giving him that rotten taste of bile in the back of his throat. “I don’t see why you have to change things.”

  “You’ll see when it’s over. Listen, Tom.”

  Reluctantly, Tom said, “I’m listening.”

  “You leave here, you drive down there. If you see Cory’s truck anytime, don’t worry about it.”

  “Why? A
re you going to be driving it?”

  “No, just don’t worry about it. Keep driving. When you get there, wait. If I don’t show up in half an hour, you can go do the thing yourself, or you can just turn around and come back, up to you. But I will show up.”

  “You’ve got something else going on.”

  Ed gave him an exasperated look. “We work from different rule books, Tom. You already know that.”

  “Yes.”

  Why did I think I could control him? Tom thought, remembering the sight of the man coming up that hill. Because he was on the run? That didn’t make him somebody that could be controlled, that made him somebody that could never be controlled.

  Ed said, “This’d be a good time for you to go.”

  Startled, Tom thought, I’m still supposed to go! I’m still supposed to do this. For Christ’s sake, Tom, you’re not the assistant on this thing, it’s your theft. You’re the one thought of it, you’re the one wanted to hurt those bastards at Gro-More with it, and you’re the one brought this man into it. And it’s still yours.

  Very nervous, but knowing there was no choice, Tom looked around his little living room and said, “You’ll turn the lights off?”

  “Go, Tom.”

  “All right.” Tom looked over at the parrot and saw the parrot was looking directly back at him. Why didn’t I ever name it? he wondered. I’ll do it now. When I get back. No, while I’m driving down there, I’ll think of a name.

  6

  When it started to turn to night, Jack Riley switched the porch light on. That always brought Suzanne, but tonight it didn’t. Where was she?

  Four hours. More than four hours ago, she was right here, they were talking about who around here would sneak into a man’s house and steal his gun, and she said she’d go off and get some gas and something for them to have supper together, and off she drove.

  Jack figured, maybe an hour. He didn’t happen to look to see which way she went when she drove off, so she might have gone to Brian Hopwood’s gas station here in town, or she might have gone out to the Getty station, the other way, all depending on where she figured to pick up something for their supper. So maybe half an hour, maybe an hour; no more.

  A little after six, he woke up in front of the television set—again! . . . and cursed himself for it. He kept promising himself and promising himself, no more sleeping in front of the television set. He’d tell himself what to do: At the first feeling of sleepiness, get up, stand up, walk around. Go outside, maybe. If the lights weren’t on, turn them on. Just do anything instead of falling asleep yet again in front of the goddam TV.

  Well, he couldn’t do it. He’d be sitting there, watching some damn thing, wide awake, and the next he’d know, it would be two or three or four hours later, and he was waking up in front of the set again, mouth dry, head achy, bones stiff.

  Damn, how could he stop that? Stand up, maybe? Never watch television sitting down, only stand up in front of the set? Or would he fall asleep standing up and break his nose when he hit the floor?

  Women are supposed to outlive you, dammit. They’re supposed to be there to give you a poke in the ribs when they see you nodding off. Just another way life was a pain in the butt without Eileen.

  Jack Riley was nine years a widower. He’d lived the last seven years in this house, once he’d understood his former home was too much for him to care for on his own, and the money the house had sold for was better off in blue-chip stocks. In the years since his moving here, Suzanne was just about his closest female companion, very different from Eileen, and one of the differences was that it was no way her job description to sit next to him all the time and poke him in the ribs when he started to fall asleep in front of the goddam television set.

  Where was Suzanne? How far could she have gone in search of gas and food? There hadn’t been an accident, had there?

  If only he’d been looking out the window when she drove off, so now he’d have some sort of idea where she might be. At Brian Hopwood’s station? It was after six, and he knew Brian was long closed by now, but he tried calling the gas station number, anyway, just in case, and, of course, it rang and rang and rang over there in that empty building, where Brian Hopwood would be the last man in the world to install an answering machine.

  The other way, maybe? Jack didn’t know anybody at the Getty station, and in any case she would have been through there long ago. Back here long ago, if everything was all right.

  Jack switched the television off before he sat down again because he didn’t want to fall asleep, dammit, he wanted to be wide-awake for when she got home, and in the meantime he wanted to be wide-awake so he could fret.

  It had all begun last night, when, having awakened in front of the television set yet again, he’d finally got himself out of his living room chair and into bed. He’d become a creature of many habits since he’d been in this house on his own, and one of those habits, the last thing every night, just as he was getting into bed, was to unlock the drawer in the bedside table and look in at the pistol sitting there.

  It was reassuring, when you lived alone in an isolated place like this, to know that little protective device was there. He’d never actually fired the gun; he’d only bought it for the sense of security it gave him, but that sense of security was real—it helped him to sleep soundly every night—and so the ritual was there, at bedtime, to look in for just a second at the gun. Like a pet you’re saying good night to.

  And last night it was gone. That was a real stomach-churner of a moment. He’d been half-seated on the bed, opening the drawer, and he bolted right up again when he saw that empty space where the gun was supposed to be. Then he stared around wildly, looking for an explanation, trying to remember a moment in which he himself would have moved the gun to some other location—where?—and found no such moment, nor any reason for any such moment.

  The next thing he’d done was go through the whole house again, making sure every door and window was shut and locked, and they all were. So had it been sometime during the day that the gun was taken? But who would know he had it, or where to find it, or where to find the key?

  He knew the few people who lived in this town, and there wasn’t a one of them he could even begin to imagine sneaking into this house and making off with his gun. But who else? Some passing bum? There were no passing bums, no foot traffic at all. Somebody driving by in a car wouldn’t suddenly stop and walk into Jack Riley’s house and walk out with his gun. It made no sense, no matter how you looked at it.

  Feeling totally spooked, he then switched on the front porch light, as though it might attract Suzanne at this late hour, but almost immediately switched it off again, because he knew it wouldn’t attract Suzanne in the middle of the night and he didn’t want to know who else it might attract. Instead, he left lights on in the bathroom and the kitchen, and thus did get some sleep, though not as much as usual, and this morning he called Suzanne to tell her about it.

  She was as baffled as he was, of course. She had other things she had to do on Sunday morning, but could come over to see him this afternoon, and did. When she arrived, again he told the story. She double-checked all his doors and windows, helped him look in all the other drawers in the house, then sat down to try to figure out who might have done it.

  No suspects came to mind. Eventually Suzanne said she’d go off for gas and supper, and Jack fell asleep in front of the goddam television again, and now what?

  Suzanne gone four hours. Night outside. No gun, no Suzanne. Sometime after seven, he accepted the fact that there was no alternative; he had to call the troopers.

  He didn’t want to. If it turned out there was some simple rational explanation for the disappearance—both disappearances—he’d feel like a fool, some old geezer that’s lost his marbles. But the gun is really gone, and Suzanne really hasn’t come back, so eventually there was just nothing else to do.

  Jack kept all the emergency numbers written on a piece of cardboard tacked to the wall near the kit
chen phone, including the nearby state police barracks, because they were the ones responsible for policing this area. Still reluctant, but knowing he just had to do it, he dialed the number, and after a minute a voice came on and said, “Barracks K, Trooper London.”

  “Hello,” Jack said. “I wanna report—well, I wanna report two things.”

  “Yes, sir. Your name, sir?”

  “First I— Oh. Riley. John Edward Riley.”

  “Your address, sir?”

  “Route 34, Pooley,” he said, and gave the house number, and then the trooper wanted to know his phone number, and only then did he show any interest in the reason for the call. “You say you want to make a report?”

  “A disappearance,” Jack said. “Two disappearances.”

  “Family members, sir?”

  “Well, it’s— No, wait. The first was last night, was the gun.”

  “The gun, sir?”

  “I’ve got—I had— When I moved here, I bought this little pistol, it’s called a Ranger, I got the permit and all, you know, it’s for house defense.”

  “Yes, sir. And it disappeared?”

  “Last night. I keep it locked in a drawer, and last night, before I went to bed, I went to look at it, be sure everything was okay, and it wasn’t there.”

  “Sir, did you have any reason to believe everything was not okay?”

  “Not till I saw the gun wasn’t there.”

  “Sir, did you have a reason to look for the gun?”

  “I always do. Every night, I just double-check.”

  “Yes, sir, I see. Could you tell me who else resides with you, sir?”