Playing Catch-Up

by Guthrie, A. B. ;

  “Flip a coin. It might stand on edge. You must have rubbed Gewald the wrong way. He had no call to get after you as he did.”

  “He rubbed me the wrong way when he called at the house, and I suppose I was short with him.”

  “So he had to get back at you. That’s Gewald.”

  We fell silent until I said to Charleston, “With her car broken down, Madame Simone has no way to get home. I thought I would take her.”

  Charleston nodded and kept nodding as I ushered her out.

  16

  On the ride to Overthrust I seconded what I had decided already. Mefford was a stupid and vengeful brute who acted on impulse. There was, I figured, thinking of his glare, more than a fair chance that he would visit Madame Simone tonight. So I would spend the dark hours patrolling the premises.

  We rode along companionably, the madam and I, talking of this and that, avoiding references to Gewald and Mefford, though they were in my mind and doubtless hers. Out of a silence she asked, “You have a girl, Jason?” It was the first time she had called me by my first name.

  “I suppose you could say so.”

  “Treat her well then. Never regard her as a matter of course.”

  “That sounds as if you might be bitter. About men.”

  “Not bitter. Just realistic. Men are men.”

  She let the statement ride before she continued, “I’m realistic about wives, too.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Wives tend to become a dreary lot.”

  “All of them? Why?”

  “Not all of them, but I’ll tell you why. What with household work, laundry, meals, pregnancies and child care, they let themselves go, or a lot of them do.”

  “Go where?” I asked to lead her on.

  “To nowhere. They get to be mere drudges. They grow careless of personal appearances. They eat too much and get fat. Some of them take to the bottle and grow into household drunks. Or they make careers, if they have time, of bridge and club memberships. Anything to get away from the house and the old man. But I’m talking too much.”

  “Not for me.”

  “I was about to add, they grow waspish.”

  “And it’s all their fault?”

  “Quit prompting me, Jason. All right. Let’s not talk of faults but facts. The fact is that a great many marriages are destructive, both to husband and wife. The men expect too much. They are thoughtless. They can be demanding. They want a reasonably tidy house. They want meals on time. They expect clean clothes. All that and more.”

  “Is that unreasonable?”

  “Not to a man.”

  “You paint a sad picture.”

  She spread her hands for emphasis. “It’s the way of things, Jason. The stupid way of things, and both partners are caught in the current.”

  She looked out on the landscape. The view was fair under the lowering sun. A couple of clouds lazed in the sky.

  She sighed and resumed, “I suppose you could say that’s where I come in. Through the girls I give the men what they want and haven’t had. Call it sex, but it’s more than that. It is tenderness and willing compliance. With his ardor renewed and satisfied, a man feels better about himself, about his life. I bet I’ve bolstered more marriages than I’ve broken.”

  “How’s that?”

  She gave me a quick smile, then turned her head away. “I’ve talked more than enough. You don’t want to hear more.”

  “I’m the judge of that. What’s this about bolstering marriages?”

  “Here goes then. Remember you asked for it. With his sexual needs met, with the knowledge that there’s something of the old Adam still in him, a husband grows more tolerant at home, more thoughtful, more helpful, less critical. The old girl isn’t so bad after all. He may think of his honeymoon days and act accordingly.”

  She was trying to justify herself and doing a good job of it. I wasn’t in a mood to pick holes. I said, “Hard on your girls, though.”

  The remark set her off again. With spirit she answered, “Not a bit of it. None of my girls ever was or will become a common prostitute. Too much class. I have never recruited a girl. They come to me. I weed them out. I won’t take a sloppy girl or a dull one or an alcoholic or a virgin, if there are any of those left. My girls intend to marry, God help them. They’ll be better wives because of experience. They won’t blunder into marriage. They’ll choose with their eyes open.”

  We were nearing her house now, and it was time to change the subject. “This man Mefford—” I began.

  “Do we have to talk about him?”

  “For a minute anyhow. If you see a man skulking around your place later, don’t be alarmed. It will be me.”

  “You? What in the world for?”

  “Just on the chance.”

  “What chance?”

  “That Mefford will try to visit you.”

  “Surely not. And, Jason, you don’t need to do that.”

  “Sheriff’s orders.”

  “That’s not so. I heard what he said.”

  “That’s what he meant,” I answered, thinking of Charleston’s repeated nodding as we left the office.

  “You and he. Two peas in a pod. Thoughts open to each other. Mind readers.”

  “Sure.”

  “I can’t order you away. But look here. It’s dinner time, and you haven’t had anything to eat.”

  “No more have you.”

  “I have a cook, and we’re here at my house. Would it sully you to break bread with me?”

  “A square meal never sullied anybody.”

  We entered the pink parlor, and Madame Simone went to a door and called out, “Irma, we have a guest for dinner.” The answer came back, “There’s enough and more.”

  Returning, Madame Simone said, “Now, Jason, don’t feel hurried. I have a rather full schedule tonight, but business usually doesn’t begin until after dark. About ten o’clock on these long days. If you need to freshen up, go through that door. There’s a bathroom on the right.”

  When I came back, she had drinks poured, remembering that I preferred bourbon and water. I sat in a pink chair and she on the pink sofa. After sipping, she asked, “You really think it possible that Mefford will try to come here?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. He has it in for you. He’s impulsive. He acts without thinking.”

  “He must be mad.”

  “He blames all his troubles on you.”

  “I’ve run into that reaction before. It’s common enough. If you’ve made trouble for yourself, blame it on someone else.”

  “A sort of scapegoatism. Yep.”

  We had finished our drinks when the cook came in. She was a short woman of middle age and a complexion that suggested Indian blood. She said, “Dinner is ready.”

  “Thank you, Irma. This is our guest, Deputy Sheriff Jason Beard.”

  The woman’s mouth opened to a quick breath. “The law.”

  “The friendly law.”

  We followed Irma through a rather large dining room in which sat an oblong table. The table had a neat cloth on it and some glassware. Overhead was a chandelier.

  “I hope you won’t mind eating in the kitchen,” Madame Simone said. “Sometimes guests bring snacks or a bottle or two, and I shoo them in here.”

  “Fine. Food tastes best in a kitchen.”

  The kitchen was big and well-equipped. I counted a refrigerator, a freezer, a dishwasher, an electric stove, and other appliances before I sat down. The table was ample, covered with what I took to be linen though it probably wasn’t.

  Irma served us beef stew, rolls, and a slice of melon each. “Nothing very elaborate,” Madame Simone said, “but I hope that it holds you.”

  My mother might have envied the rolls, and the stew was excellent, seasoned by a cook who knew flavors. As I took a second helping, I said, “That’s a mighty fine stew, Irma. Sure hits the spot.” She looked away from me, tucked her chin against a shoulder and smiled.

  We took our time over th
e food, talking idly between bites. When we were through, Madame Simone asked, “Coffee? Brandy?”

  “Nix on the brandy, thanks. It might make me drowsy. Coffee will be fine.”

  Irma had stood demurely while we ate and talked. At last she asked timidly, “All right I go soon as I wash up?”

  “Of course, Irma. I’ll drive you home.”

  I said, “I’ll take her.”

  “No indeed, Jason.”

  “The sheriff doesn’t like just anyone to drive office cars.”

  She put her hand to her mouth and laughed. “You win. I forgot my car’s in the garage.”

  So I drove Irma to her home. It was a tiny, neat house on the edge of town. She thanked me and said, “See you in the morning if so you’re there.”

  On my return I told Madame Simone, “I’m going to scout around while there’s some daylight left. Forget about me, but be careful about whom you admit. Keep the doors locked. Make sure of your caller.”

  “He wouldn’t dare come right in.”

  “He did before. Where’s your bouncer?”

  “He came while you were gone. He has a room in the basement where he can smoke and drink beer. If I need him, I press a button that rings him.”

  “Better tell him about me.”

  Outside I began prowling. The sun had gone down, but banners of red, salmon and yellow decorated the western sky. June was a time of long twilights.

  Madame Simone’s house was big. In addition to the basement and first floor, it had a second floor large enough, I calculated, for six bedrooms, more if they were small. In the back, shielded by a half-circle of cottonwoods and dwarf pine, was a discreet parking lot. There was a smaller one at the front. The place had a front, back, and side door.

  For my watchout I chose a place at the side of the house, some distance uphill from it. From here I could see all three doors and note the cars that arrived. And I could rest my back against the trunk of an old tree that would help conceal me.

  There was nothing to do then but wait.

  I sat down, vaguely wishing that I smoked. Smokers spent a lot of time with cigarettes and pipes. I chewed a grass stem.

  Slowly the banners in the west faded. A star dared to come out. And I waited.

  It was a night for starshine. Almost all at once it seemed, there they were—the Big Dipper, the North Star, the glimmer of the Pleiades, the sparkle of a million others.

  Lines ran in my head. “One by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven/Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.”

  Longfellow was a rhythm smith but a pretty sappy poet. There was Emerson who said that if the stars came out only once in a hundred years men would bow down before the wonders of heaven. No bowing down for me: I was on stakeout.

  The front light came on, a dim pink against the shadows of earth. A car slid up to the side door, and a girl came from it, said something and went in. Almost at the same time another car purred to the parking lot. Its driver walked around to the front door and after a minute was admitted. The night’s festivities had begun.

  And so it was going—a girl now and a girl then, a car now and a car then. And so it would go until the last spent man departed.

  I didn’t know the girls and couldn’t identify the men. They appeared to be middle-aged or about that, which would fit what I had gathered. They could afford the price. Kids couldn’t.

  A shadow moved from in front of the house. A live shadow, it stepped through the shadows of grass and bush, moving with purpose. It grew to be a man, name unknown. He marched toward me. I didn’t stir but made ready to spring. The man halted. “Get up! State your business!” I recognized the voice of the law, and I recognized him. He had a revolver in his hand.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, scrambling up. “You know me. Deputy sheriff from Midbury.”

  “Answer the question. What you doing here?”

  “Voluntary guard duty. I thought Madame Simone might be in danger.”

  “What in hell made you think that?”

  “It’s a long story, but a man we have under bond made threats against her. You can ask Madame Simone about me.”

  He put the revolver away. “I make a tour around here nearly every night.”

  “How did you spot me?”

  “Owl eyes,” he said, “and the shape under the tree wasn’t like what I knew it was. Then I got a glint, I think from your wrist watch. Starshine on it.”

  “Damn good work.”

  He scratched his jaw. “Say, ain’t your name Beard?”

  “Jason Beard.”

  “And ain’t you the guy beat up our town bully?”

  “I had a fight at The Gusher. Wasn’t much to it.”

  “Maybe not, but a couple of other guys have belted him since you showed the way.” He gave a satisfied laugh. “Tickles hell out of me. On account of the sheriff liked him and used him on some rough stuff, he thought he was better than us poor deputies. But no longer, by God. You dimmed his light.”

  “Then I’m glad.”

  “Say, Beard, forget I spoke tough to you. And how about shaking my fist?”

  We shook hands, and he moved down toward the house whistling.

  The night crawled on. A girl left, and a man. A star fell, a blazing streak and then nothing. I moved to ease my aching butt.

  From the rear of the house a figure appeared. It walked to the side door and stood still. I got up and stepped toward it, moving as quietly as I could. To its back I said, “What’s your business here?”

  The figure spun around. I saw then that it was a young man with a beard that hadn’t grown up. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. He said, “What business is it of yours?”

  “My question comes first.”

  “All right. I’m waiting for my girl.”

  “You look young to be a pimp.”

  I saw the punch coming, a right-handed, roundhouse swing. I caught his wrist, pulled him to me, jerked him half around and got him in a half nelson. That hold isn’t hard to break if you know how. He didn’t.

  I forced his arm up between his shoulders until he squeaked. “Calm down now,” I told him. “I’m a guard.” Then I let him go.

  “You called me a pimp,” he said in a voice of grievance.

  “What are you?”

  “I’m engaged to be married, that’s what. My girl works here.”

  “You let her?”

  “Are you a sure-enough guard?” He rubbed his arm. “You’re tough, anyhow.”

  I showed him my badge. In the starshine he could at least see it was a star.

  “All right then,” he said. “We got to have a stake, my girl and I, before we get hitched. I’m an apprentice carpenter, which don’t pay much. To help along, my girl comes here when she’s asked. She’s a typist.”

  “When do you intend to be married?”

  “Pretty soon now.”

  “Will she work here afterwards?”

  He drew himself up. “Are you crazy? Of course not. Marriage is what they call a sacrament. It will be just her and me.”

  The girl came out then. She gave him a quick embrace and said, “We can go now, Johnny,” in a clear, young voice.

  I moved away and sat by the tree again. What with this boy, Gewald, Madame Simone, and assorted others, I was being given a broad education in the sexual moralities.

  After the last girl and car had left, I heard Madame Simone’s voice calling me in. “Shift’s over,” she said as I entered. “High time for you to have a drink.”

  I thought so, too, and took it and sat in the pink chair. “Hardly an eventful night,” she said, raising her glass. “It seems your time’s been wasted.” Her green eyes smiled at me.

  I answered, to be original, “Better safe than sorry.”

  “I never did think Mefford would have the nerve.”

  By and by I took a second drink.

  She said, “When you’re through with that, you’d better be going along. It’s late, and I
suppose you have to work tomorrow.”

  She had hardly finished when the sounds came—two plunky hits, as of bullets, and the slight tinkle of falling glass. Then I heard the shots.

  I ran out the door. I heard a motorcycle start and then its throtty roar as it receded. It left the night silent.

  I went back in, meeting Madame Simone at the threshold. “I was afraid for you,” she said.

  “Upstairs,” I said. “Let’s see.”

  “It sounded like my room. I leave the lights on.”

  We hustled up the stairway. From what I took time to see of the room, it looked comfortable and neat. In a window at the side were two starred holes. Slivers of glass ground under my feet.

  “It would have killed someone, namely you. But it’s over. Come away.”

  We stepped back down the stairs and stood in the parlor. “No danger now,” I told her. “Mefford has had his revenge. He’s satisfied.”

  “You mean you can go?”

  “Yes. It’s safe.”

  She moved to me and took one hand in both of hers. Looking into my eyes, she said, “You’re a fine man, Jason.” Her voice faltered. “It will be a lucky girl who gets you.” Suddenly her face softened, and I thought I saw an infinite sadness there.

  I kissed her on the cheek and went out to my car.

  I never happened to see Madame Simone again.

  17

  The days and nights that followed strained our manpower, demanded overtime from all of us on the force, and left us groggy for sleep. With circuit court in session, Amussen and Doolittle had to be available as witnesses, the one against the drunken whiskey thief and the other against the rancher who had shot a man. God knew when the cases would be called. The judge was a dawdler, an amiable and ineffective man who operated on the theory that justice demanded time and coaxing. The pace of proceedings meant that witnesses spent hours waiting to take the stand. More than that, the county commissioners were in two-day session with Charleston often in attendance.

  He took time to listen to my oral report of the night at Madame Simone’s. At its conclusion he said, “Good enough, Jase, but don’t write it up yet. Keep it to yourself. If Gewald hears about those shots, he’ll be hell-bent to bring Mefford in again. I don’t want that now. No purpose to it yet. And no proof Mefford was on that motorcycle and fired the shots.”