The Fifth Grave

by Jonathan Latimer

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I think I can use Gus.”

  She smiled a little. She looked pretty nice, lying under that sheet. Seeing a woman in bed always gives me ideas. I drank another bottle of beer and told her I’d better be getting along.

  “I’ll be up tomorrow,” she said.

  I stood up. The room’s windows were open, but no air came in. I could see the elm trees in the yard, the branches drooping with the heat. The beer made me sweat. “I’ll give you a ring,” I said.

  I took the phone number. “Don’t call after ten at night,” she said. “Mrs. Fleming gets sore.”

  I said: “By the way, who was the guy you sent after me?”

  “Donnie? He’s my half-brother.”

  “A hop?”

  She looked as if she was going to throw the medicine bottle at me. “Of all the goddam nerve!” Then she relaxed. “He’s pale because he’s had t.b.”

  I didn’t believe that. I said: “Does he know why you wanted to talk with me?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t tell him,” I said. “Don’t tell anybody.”

  “I won’t.”

  I took another look at the sheet and the shape outlined under it. I wondered if I dared lift the sheet. What would I have if I did? I thought. I said “Good-bye, sweetheart,” and went out into the hall. I smelled perfume in the hall and heard women laughing in one of the rooms and went down the stairs.

  I walked back to the hotel. I asked the clerk if there were any calls for me, but there weren’t. I went to my room and pulled off my clothes that now were wringing wet with sweat and got in the shower with the bottle of bourbon. I drank the bourbon and let the water pour over me. It had been a mistake to walk to the hotel.

  I decided Carmel was on the level, not that I would trust a whore. I didn’t belong to the school of thinkers who held all whores had hearts of gold and would give their last two bucks to keep some guy from starving. All the whores I ever knew, and, brother, I knew plenty, would get you drunk and jack-roll you if you gave them half a chance. But Carmel hated Pug Banta. No woman likes to be socked by a guy who’d thrown her down. That made the difference.

  I was tired! I sat down on the cement floor of the shower and finished the bourbon. I thought about what I had to do with Gus Papas. I would need Ginger and I wondered if she would be in the bar at seven. I began to have the tight feeling in my stomach I used to get before a football game. I saw plenty of trouble ahead. I wondered if it was worth the five grand I had gotten. Hell, yes, it was.

  My buttocks had stopped up the drain and the shower water began to sluice over into the bathroom. I got out and mopped up the water and dried myself. I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to seven.

  The barroom was empty. I sat on one of the stools and ordered an old-fashioned. The bartender pretended he’d never seen me before. He got a bottle of whiskey and started to make the drink. A portable radio was playing swing music from New York. I listened to it: they had a good boogie-woogie piano player. He played variations on the “Basin Street Blues,” making it sound like part of a symphony.

  I drank my drink and ordered another. I looked at my watch. Quarter past seven. I’d just made up my mind she wasn’t coming when I saw her. She had on a black evening gown that showed a lot of that milk-coloured skin redheads usually have. I was glad to see her. She came over to me.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “About you, baby,” I said.

  “If Pug sees you with me, he’ll bump you.”

  “That punk!”

  “You didn’t talk that way last night.”

  “I didn’t want to make a scene.”

  “A scene!” She put her hand on my arm. “Listen. I like you. That’s why I’m telling you to scram.”

  “I’m not yellow.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Maybe you’re yellow.”

  Her eyes got narrow. She didn’t like that. “We’re talking about you.”

  “You can’t be in very good with Pug,” I said; “not if you’re so scared of him;”

  “I’m not scared of anybody.”

  “All right. Prove it by having dinner with me.”

  She stared at me, undecided. “Why’re you so hot to get killed?”

  I let her have it. “I’m nuts about you.”

  Her mouth came open.

  “So help me,” I said. “I’ve got to have you. I don’t care if Pug’s in the way.”

  “You’ve been hitting the opium.”

  “No.”

  She though about this. Thinking made her frown. Now was the time to turn it over.

  “Believe that,” I said, “and I’ll slice it thicker next time.”

  She blinked her eyes.

  “Nothing about you gets me,” I said. “I’m just excitement-simple. You probably wear corsets and your breasts are broken down.”

  “They are like hell.”

  “And I don’t like Pug Banta telling me what I can do,” I said.

  Ginger slit open the zipper on the side of the black evening gown. “Put your hand in there.”

  I did, feeling the smooth flesh with my fingers. “Okay,” I said. “No corsets.”

  The bartender popeyed us.

  “Listen,” I said. “I’ve been trying to make you sore, so you’d go out with me, so I could show Banta.” I ate the cherry out of my old-fashioned glass. “I’m going to fix him some way. But since you’re scared …” I stuck my finger at the bartender. “How much?”

  “Seventy cents.”

  Ginger said: “Wait a minute. How tough are you?”

  “Plenty,” I said.

  She gave me a long look. “If I could believe that. Well, what the hell. Buy me a drink. Then we’ll step out.”

  She had a sidecar. I had another old-fashioned. The bartender frowned at us while we drank.

  “Ready?” I asked Ginger.

  “I’ll get my purse.” She went out. I gave the bartender two bucks.

  “It’s none of my business,” he said, “but Pug Banta’s a killer.”

  I got out a fifty-dollar bill and tore it in half. I gave him the smaller half.

  “How would you like the whole demi-C?”

  “Fine.”

  “Call Pug Banta,” I said. “Tell him I’m taking Ginger to Gus Papas’s place.”

  “Jeeze!” he said. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Why not? You’ll be doing him a favour. He might even slip you a note or two.”

  He looked at the 50 on the piece of bill in his hand. He wanted it bad. He picked up the telephone and called a number. He asked for Pug. He said something else, and then he put his hand over the mouthpiece.

  “He’s out.”

  “Who’s this?” he asked. “Oh. This is Tom over at the Arkady bar. I thought maybe Pug would be interested in knowing his gal just went out with the guy she was with last night. Yeah, Ginger. I think they’re going out to Gus Papas’s place.”

  He hung up. I gave him the other half of the fifty. “Thanks,” I said.

  We got in the Drive-It sedan. I started the motor. There was still daylight at seven-thirty, and the air was hot.

  “Let’s go to Gus Papas’s.”

  “It’s up to you.”

  “Which way?”

  She told me. In three minutes we were in the country. She sat at the far end of the front seat, facing me, her legs curled under her, her back against the door. Her eyes and lips were sullen.

  “I’m dumb,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I know you’re up to something.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re not a G-man, are you?”

  “God, no!”

  “Are you really going to try to get Pug?”

  “Listen.” I scowled at her. “Nobody slugs me.”

  “I like you when you look like that.”

  We turned left past a schoolhouse and went down a dirt road. Trees met over the road, making it
dark. The sky was red from the sunset. We drove along for a time. It was hard to see the road. The trees made it hard to see. I put on the headlights, but they didn’t do much good. I could smell clover in a field by the road. After a time we got to Gus Papas’s.

  It was a bigger place than Tony’s. It was kind of a park, as well as a restaurant. There was a small lake with a dock and a line of rowboats, and a ball field, and a lot of trees with tables and benches under them. At one end of the lake were tourist cabins. We drove by the cabins to the main building. Out in front was a gas pump. The building was a hunting lodge, the walls made of roughhewn logs and plaster. I parked the Chevy by two other cars.

  Inside the lodge there were Indian rugs on the floor and deer and elk heads on the walls. There were some couches and a big stone fireplace. Ginger led me through a hall to a screened porch at the back where there was a bar and a Greek bartender. He was talking to a small man in a white suit. We ordered a sidecar and an old-fashioned. I asked the bartender if we could get something to eat.

  “Sure. We gotta special fish dinner.”

  “What kind of fish?”

  “Black bass. Is very good.”

  “What do you say, Ginger?”

  “It sounds all right.”

  “Okay. Two bass dinners.”

  We drank our drinks. Ginger smiled at me over the top of her glass. She didn’t look quite so sullen. “Here’s to Pug,” she said. She tried to drink to him, but her glass was empty. I ordered two more. Then we decided to wash for dinner.

  The bartender showed me where the men’s room was. While I was there two guys came in. One of them had on a tan gabardine suit. The other was a waiter. He had a broom. The guy in the tan suit was bawling him out for not having swept the washroom. I guess that was what it was. They were speaking Greek. The waiter took the broom and cleaned the floor. The guy in the tan suit and I watched him. The waiter got a dustpan and swept the dirt into it. Then he went out.

  The man in the tan suit grinned at me. He had a gold tooth. “Damn Greek,” he said. “Loaf all time.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Say, you’re Gus Papas, aren’t you?”

  “Tha’s right.”

  I held out my hand. “I’m Karl, in the city clerk’s office.”

  We shook hands. He pretended to know me. Maybe he actually thought he did. Greeks are like that. They can believe anything they think they ought to believe.

  “Anything I can do for you, Karl?” he asked.

  “Maybe I can do something for you.”

  The smile went off his face. His lips sort of puffed out, like red rubber tires. He thought I was going to try to sell him something.

  “You know Pug Banta?” I asked.

  His face changed again. He didn’t look so soft. He nodded.

  “I think he’s going to try to break up your place.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t know it. It’s only something I overheard at Tony’s.”

  The man in the white suit came into the washroom. He was a little drunk. He went to one of the urinals.

  “You come to my office,” Papas said.

  I followed him. There was a desk littered with papers and two chairs. A window looked out on the lake. “Sit down, please; now what you hear?”

  “It wasn’t much. Maybe I shouldn’t bother you with it.”

  “Do you think it’s a bother to me, to hear how Pug wants to break up my joint? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Okay. I heard Pug talking to a Greek-looking fellow.”

  “Nick,” Papas said. “He used to work for me.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. “Anyway, I heard Pug say: ‘He’s been in my hair long enough.’ and this Nick says: ‘Why don’t you drive him out? He’s yellow. Break up his joint and he won’t stop running until he hits Athens.’”

  “Some kid, that Nick,” Papas said.

  “And Pug says: ‘By God! I’ll do it. Tomorrow night. I’ll make it look like he started the trouble.’ And then Nick says: ‘If you need a good fella to take Gus Papas’s place, I’m him. I know how the place runs.’”

  I looked at Papas to see how he was taking it. He looked scared and mad. He muttered something in Greek. Then he asked: “Why you tell me this?”

  “Pug beat me up once.”

  “He beat up too many people,” Gus said. He pushed a button. A waiter stuck his head in the room. “Tell Frank I want him.”

  I stood up. “Well, I’ll be getting back to my girl.”

  “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Why you come out here? Why you get into trouble?”

  “I thought I’d like to see the fun.”

  He nodded. “Hokay. There be plenty fun. How many men Pug bring?”

  “I didn’t hear any more.”

  “Hokay. We fix ’em.”

  I went to the door, then stopped. “He’ll invent some excuse to get in. That’s what he wants to do: get in and start the trouble.”

  “He no get in.”

  I went back to the bar. Ginger was waiting for me. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “I took a bath.”

  “I want another drink.”

  I looked on the bar. She’d drunk both the old-fashioneds. I ordered four more. When the bartender brought them, I gave her one and kept three. “That’ll even us up.”

  She drank hers and reached for one of mine.

  “Not scared, are you?”

  “A little.”

  “He’ll never come out here.”

  “He would if he knew.”

  “Let’s eat,” I said.

  A waiter had set up a table for us in a corner of the porch. There were celery and olives and jellied soup in cups, and beside the table stood a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket.

  “I didn’t order that.”

  “Mr. Papas sent it,” the waiter said.

  Ginger stared at me. “How come?”

  “Gus is a friend of a friend of mine.”

  She didn’t believe me, but she didn’t ask any questions. She didn’t talk much while we ate. She was thinking. I knew what about. She was trying to figure out why I should want to make Pug Banta sore again.

  “You’re quiet.”

  “I wish you had a chance of beating Pug.”

  “Let’s don’t talk about Pug.”

  “I wish somebody could beat him.”

  “I’ll beat him for you.”

  “You haven’t a prayer. He’ll knock you off.”

  “Maybe he’ll get it first.”

  “I wish,” Ginger said.

  I poured champagne in the glasses. Then we had dinner. It was good. We ate black bass and drank champagne. The small man in the white suit was joined by some friends at the bar. There were two other men and a woman. They had a round of drinks, and then went to a table near ours. They began dinner as we finished with coffee and frozen custard. I wondered if Gus Papas was taking my story seriously. I told Ginger I’d be back in a minute and went to the washroom. I went by way of the front entrance. I saw the door was fastened with heavy chain. By a window near the end of the room, standing under a moosehead, was a guy with a rifle. He was watching the road. I walked into the washroom, rinsed off my hands, and went back to the table. The guy in the white suit was in my chair. He’d been talking to Ginger. He got up, holding to the back of the chair to balance himself.

  “I know you,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I saw you play for Michigan against Army. And later against Southern Cal.”

  I felt the warm glow of being recognized, and at the same time I knew it was a bad idea. At that, the guy had a good memory. Fifteen years!

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “I never went to college.”

  He ignored me. “Best tackle I ever saw,” he said to Ginger. “Come have a drink at our table. I’ll think of the name.”

  “Smith,” I said. “And Mrs. Smith.”

  “Best tackle ever lived. Can’t think na
me. You have drink, Mrs. Smith?”

  Ginger looked at me. “We’ll be glad to join you,” I said.

  He giggled happily. “I knew you would.” He led us over to the other table. “Meet Winnie and Jonesy and Peter Davison,” he said. The two men stood up. They were both middle-aged. The woman was a little younger. We sat down. “What have you been drinking?” asked the guy in the white suit.

  “Champagne,” I said.

  That surprised him, but he was game. He ordered a bottle for us. Then he told the waiter to start the radio, “Get dance music,” he said. He leaned over Ginger. “How do you feel about dancin’?”

  “I can take it or leave it.”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny.” He giggled. “How about a dance with me?”

  The music started. Ginger looked at me. “Why not?” I said. “He’s buying us champagne, isn’t he?”

  She didn’t like it, but she danced with him. The one they called Jonesy danced with the woman. That left me with Davison. He hitched his chair nearer to me.

  “What line you in, Mr. Smith?”

  I was going to tell him I sold machine-guns when I heard some cars drive up. They came fast and skidded to a stop. “They’re in a hurry,” I said.

  “Drunks, probably,” Davison said. “What line did you say, Mr. Smith?”

  “Gunpowder.”

  His eyes widened. I heard the sound of voices at the front door. Somebody said: “Open up.” Davison said: “That’s a rather odd line.”

  There was an argument at the door. I recognized Gus Papas’s voice. He kept repeating: “The place is close. The place is close.” His voice was high with excitement. “Like hell it is,” a deeper voice said.

  “Do you handle dynamite, too?” Davison asked.

  “Sure.”

  Ginger forced the guy in the white suit to dance close to the table. He tried to kiss her neck. I couldn’t hear the voices any more. Ginger looked at me angrily, but I shook my head. “Who’s your friend?” I asked Davison.

  “Don’t you know him? Caryle Waterman, of the Waterman Drop Forge?”

  “A big shot, eh?”

  “His family are worth a couple of million.”

  Gus Papas came into the room. His face was green. He went behind the bar and turned off the radio. He said: “There’s some people outside want to speak to a girl named Ginger.”

  Ginger got pale, but she didn’t say anything. She stood in Waterman’s arms. He was holding her like they were still dancing. “There isn’t any Ginger here,” Davison said.