by Gil Brewer
Now, these things happen, I told myself. They won’t find that wallet. You’ll beat them out there, anyway. You’ll know right where to look. They won’t be looking for your wallet. No, I thought. But they’ll be looking for something—anything. Sure. But the wallet’s probably covered with sand. That’s why you didn’t notice it. Sure. Only one of them will stumble over it. They always do. Yes, but you’re going to be there first—remember?
It was a nice thought. It didn’t work out that way.
Coming down the beach highway, I saw two patrol cars parked on the shoulder. As I drove past, I saw still another police car in there on the sand, the spotlight focused on a patch of grass. I knew what was there.
They had nailed me up good and solid, by being on the ball.
I drove on up the road, make a U-turn and came back, heading for town. You could see them standing around in there by the dunes. One cop was holding his hand out, explaining something to a man in plain clothes.
There wasn’t much to do now.
I might have lost my wallet someplace else, but I knew damned well I hadn’t. The thing to do now was to assume that they had already found the wallet and knew I’d been there.
I could visualize Al Calvin’s face, bright with pleasure. And if the word ever got through to Thayer, the whole world would know about Eve Thayer and me and a dead girl’s body.
Whether I liked it or not, I was becoming involved in the killing of a young girl named Jinny Foster.
Chapter Seven
I DROVE in a kind of daze, winding along the beach road through occasional traffic in the direction of Indian Rocks.
Those days had been nice, back when Eve and I first began to realize what went with us. It was queer, how it hadn’t happened when it should have. That was a great subject for conversation; we had been over it a lot. Because we’d known each other before the advent of Edward Thayer with his polished briefcase….
We met on the street this one morning. It was September, I remembered. And it was always good to look back on that day.
I was crossing at Fourth and Central, on foot, against the light, and Eve came streaking across the other way, jaywalking—or jayrunning. We waved and she came over and we talked. One thing led to another and we decided it would be an expert idea to have a drink, so we did. Then we had lunch. Then we went to another place and had some more drinks, we were drinking some foolish thing with a lot of gin it it, and it became slowly obvious to both of us that we didn’t want to go home alone.
I hadn’t seen her for months before that; it had been that simple.
Sometimes it happens like that, and you consider yourself lucky. Everything is dizzy and a little wild.
We had met about ten that morning. I took Eve home at three the next morning. We were high, all right, but not on liquor—on ourselves. We could have drunk anybody under the table that night.
“I’m married, Cliff—you know that, don’t you?”
“You’ve told me several times, and I remember reading it in the paper.”
“Did you have pangs?”
“No. Truthfully.”
“I did.”
“What are we going to do about this?”
“Let’s just treat it as it comes along.”
“All right, that’ll be fine.”
“And not worry about it.”
“Sure.”
“Cliff, I’m so happy I could shout.”
“Go ahead.”
So she did. It scared the hell out of both of us. I tell you, she was really scared. I don’t believe either of us had really believed during that day and most of that night up until then that she was married. It was impossible, it had no meaning.
But when she shouted, it came through.
“Good night, Cliff,” she said, looking scared, and she went on inside that house.
• • •
I was in Indian Rocks. I turned the car and drove back along the beach road for a time, wondering what I was supposed to do now. I had no way yet of knowing for sure whether they’d found the wallet, but already I caught myself flinching at headlights, checking to make sure they weren’t prowl cars—figuring on side-street routes. If they nailed me now, it would wreck everything.
By the time I hit town again, I knew pretty clearly what I had to do. I cursed myself for wasting so much time on that drive. If an alarm was out, the highway patrol would have it, too.
I stopped at another drugstore, put a call in to Eve from another booth. This store was empty except for the owner, hovering behind the prescription counter. I hoped Eve would answer the phone.
She did.
I told her everything. “So, listen. There’s a good chance they’ll find the wallet. It’s a stinking thing,” I said. “If they do find that wallet, we’re in a bad mess. You, especially, Eve. So I want you to do something—”
She had been trying to interrupt me. I ceased talking when I realized she was ready to break on the other end. Her words tumbled out and her breath was loud.
“Cliff,” she said. “They found the wallet! They found it and they’ve already called here.” She didn’t speak for a moment, and I could tell she was on the verge of tears. “They’re coming here. They want to ask me some questions. They didn’t say anything about the murder—just that they found the wallet. Edward’s fit to be tied. Especially after the way he acted outside at the car. You hit him, Cliff!”
“Yeah. I hit him.”
“He doesn’t know what it’s all about. Not really, of course. He’s thinking of himself again. He almost cried.”
“I’ll bet. Listen, Eve, don’t tell them a thing. Nothing, you understand? Give them a story. You’ve got to. Insist you took a walk tonight, alone. You hear?”
“But, Cliff—you know how they are.”
“Yes. I do. When you tell them that for the first few times—because you’ll have to tell them over and over, Eve—just say it straight. Make it sound right.”
“It scares me, Cliff.”
“It would scare anybody.”
“But we were right there when—”
“Eve. I’m asking you to do this. I’ve got good reasons. I know how they work. Now, listen. You don’t know a thing. Everything they tell you is news. You weren’t with me tonight—Oh, hell, Edward will fix that. But maybe not. He’s scared, too—of his own hide. Just do as I say. It’s all news.”
“But—”
“Do it!”
“Well, all right.”
“They won’t hurt you. Just take it easy.”
I tried to make my voice sound calm. It didn’t sound calm to me, but it seemed to be working all right on her. It was a rotten thing for her to be in and she was getting tied tighter and tighter into the strands of it now.
“They implied you did something, Cliff.”
“Sure. They think I killed that kid.”
“They couldn’t think that, Cliff—not with your record.”
“Couldn’t they?”
“Don’t say that.”
“Try to do as I told you, Eve.”
She gasped over the phone. Her voice was hurried, then.
“Edward’s yelling his head off for me. I’ve got the door locked—you can hear him pound. He’ll know I’m talking to you.”
“I’ll keep in touch,” I said. “I love you.”
I stood in the booth for a moment and this time I was sweating, but it no longer mattered. The weather; the heat, the cold, may be important sometimes, but when the chips are down, it doesn’t matter where the mercury lies.
I went outside and stood on the sidewalk. A wind trailed down the avenue, dusting along the curb. A cool-looking girl in a tight red skirt bridled past, her spike heels rapping, her chin very determined. Her long black hair tumbled down over her shoulders. I went over to the car and opened the door and leaned on it.
It was a little like being squashed flat by something beyond your control, a pressure that kept piling up until you couldn’t stand it. Only I had to s
tand it. You don’t back out on a thing like this, you can’t—you begin to slug and you keep right on slugging. Only there are times when even slugging doesn’t help.
I stood there, leaning against the car door, looking at nothing. The night had started like any other night. Now it had changed subtly into something monstrous. The street looked the same as ever, the soft wind had seemed ordinary, the stores and the cars on the street were recognizable—but something old had gone. And something new was added. It was fear.
They would be looking for me. From now on I was hunted. I had to get rid of this car. So far I had a head start. But I had to really move now, because they would be hot on this one. A young kid like that, and a cop’s wallet beside her in the sand. A cop—an ex-cop—who had been plenty troubled this morning, who was playing around with a prominent lawyer’s wife, who had a fight with him earlier this evening, and who had been at the scene of a brutal killing.
I had to find the man who killed Jinny Foster.
• • •
I drove fast to the north side of town, and through an exceptionally peaceful residential section. The trees were big and old along here, the shadows deep on the dark lawns. The tires purred on brick, and somewhere a dog barked. I kept my eyes open and saw the vacant lot I was looking for. I stopped the car before I reached the corner of the block, and looked down the street.
There were lights in some of the homes, but I saw no one outside. There was traffic. I started the car again, and nudged the front wheels at the curb, got them up over without making too much racket and drove across knee-high grass, then across the sidewalk.
The undergrowth was thick. I backed the car up a bit.
An open convertible was coming down the street, music from a car radio trailing into the night. It began to slow down.
I tromped on the gas pedal and rammed straight at the undergrowth. As soon as I was inside the first layer of it, with branches crackling around me, I shut off the ignition and looked out the side window, through the trees.
The convertible kept on going, then slowed and parked in front of a house across the street. I waited. A man got out, walked around the car and walked slowly up the flags in front of the house, jingling keys.
He hadn’t seen me. That was my first break.
I waited until he was inside the house, then started the engine again and gunned the car into the middle of the lot. There were a few oaks on the lot, more than a few pines, and a clump of bamboo at one corner. I felt right at home.
I rolled the windows up, locked the car, put the keys in my pocket and started out of there. It was a mess. I worked back where I’d smashed everything down coming in with the car. I tried to pull the grass and branches into place as much as possible. The ground was soggy underfoot.
Every time I moved, I had to stop and wait again, holding my breath. If somebody heard me in here, they might think I was an animal—or they might reckon on a prowler and call the police.
I broke through onto the sidewalk. The undergrowth showed a perfect break where the car had been driven into the lot. I covered the tracks as much as possible, hauling bushes and branches into place.
Then I started walking down the street.
• • •
There was only one man I could go to, and he might not be home. I had to have a car. I had to trust somebody. Andy Leonard collected old cars, and he was a cop—and I hoped he was still my friend.
His home was not large, but it was comfortable. He had a double lot on a corner, with all slash pines in the front yard. The wind sighed high up among the needles, but down here on the front walk there was no wind at all.
There was a light in the living room. I checked at the side of the house, looking toward the large barn out back where he kept his collection of wrecks. He was a bug on them. He wasn’t back there. The gravel drive was empty.
I started toward the front stoop, and a bright yellow light went on over the door.
Chapter Eight
IT HAD NOT occurred to me that there might be somebody else from the police at Andy’s. Now it did hit me, and for an instant I stood on the lawn, ready to run. That would have been smart, all right. Maybe I’d been off the force longer than was good for me.
I walked on up the steps and the front door opened.
“I was watching you,” Andy said.
“I see.”
He opened the screen door and stepped outside. He had left the inside door partially open. He looked at me and blinked, then turned and looked in at his wife. She was sitting in the living room, her legs crossed—a cute little redhead with a big frown.
He called to her.
“Stepping outside for a minute, hon.”
He opened the screen door a crack, reached inside and drew the other door closed. Then he looked at me and nodded.
“Does the curtain go up now?” I asked him.
“All right, Cliff,” he said. “What is it?”
I knew he knew. He stood there tall and wretched, his eyes as droopy as ever, his mouth maybe a little sadder than usual. Andy’s clothes never fit properly. Just now he was wearing a pair of red and white polka dot pajamas, and his hair stood up like sunbrowned grass in a windy field. Actually, Andy was as tough as telephone cable. He was a good cop. His being a good cop would not help matters any if things came to the worst. I had to trust in an ephemeral substance called friendship.
“What have you heard?” I asked him.
“Maybe we’d better not talk about it,” he said.
I got out a cigarette and offered him one, but he shook his head. I stuck one between my lips, and began searching for a match. I found my lighter. It wouldn’t work. He watched me. I took out the pack and put the cigarette away again.
“Jesus, Cliff,” he said.
“What you want me to do?” I said. “Cartwheels?”
He sighed deeply and looked at his feet. He had on a pair of beat-up slippers that I could recall his having owned some four years ago. I suspected that his bare feet stuck out the bottoms. He hunched his shoulders and stood there looking at his feet. Some bugs began to swirl around the yellow globe over the door. A small busy-winged bastard flew down my neck.
“Do I have to remind you of anything?” I said.
“Like what?”
“Like I saved your life once?”
“Come off it, Cliff.”
We watched each other. He turned and looked at the door.
“Come on,” he said.
He started down off the porch. I followed him around the side of the house past some hibiscus bushes. We came along a narrow cement walk beside the driveway. I could still hear that damned fool dog yapping its head off in the distance.
We reached his garage, which was really an old barn, and Andy’s sanctuary. He slid the door open and we stepped just inside. We stood there with the moonlight paling through the doors. He didn’t turn on the lights. I saw bits of metal glinting in the shadows.
“I’ve got to have a car,” I said. “You got a spare you aren’t tinkering with? If I could’ve got one any place else, I wouldn’t have come here, Andy. It’s the only place I could think of.”
“Where’s yours?”
I looked at him. “It’s best you don’t know.”
“Cliff,” he said. “Did you do this thing?”
“No.”
“They notified me. I may be put on the case. How did the wallet get out there? They’re really hot on this, because she was just a high-school kid.”
“I figured that.”
“Some of the boys are saying you were headed for something like this.”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it,” I said. I turned and walked over to the door and outside.
“I thought so, too,” he said.
I stood outside for a moment, looking down toward the street. I had to have a car. It looked lonely as hell out there in that street that led any place in the world, only you wouldn’t take it any place—just where you were supposed t
o take it. I thought of Eve and what was happening to her right now, and of how it would be with just the two of us maybe in a house like Andy had. And me not a cop any more, just a—sure, the fishing camp.
“You just going to stand there, Cliff?”
It was a rotten thing for her. I had to get moving.
“All right.”
I turned and went back inside the doorway of the barn and told him everything.
“That’s it?”
“All of it.”
“You aren’t holding anything back?”
“Look, God damn it! I came here to ask you for something. I’ve asked, now if you won’t come across, all right. Just tell me. If you don’t tell me how am I supposed to knew?”
He tightened his lips in the moonlight.
“Andy, I’ve got to have that car. And a few dollars, too. I can’t go home. They’ll be there—you know that. What in hell would I tell them? They’d get no place, and neither would I. Meanwhile, whoever did this is maybe putting miles—”
He held up one hand and blinked. “You going away—I mean lamming?”
“Okay, Andy.”
“Wait. If you did it,” he said, “I’m one of the guys who’s going to get you, Cliff.”
“Fine. Now that’s settled, how about the car? I’ve got to move fast, Andy.”
“I can give you a forty-nine Merc convertible. She isn’t hopped up. I got it for the body, but I haven’t done anything to it yet—haven’t touched it.”
“That’s good.”
“How you mean that?”
“I just mean it’s good. It’s fine. For God’s sakes, let’s get on with it.”
“There’s no top on it.”
“Who wants a top?”
“If you did this,” he said, “you know where it’ll put me.”
“Sure, sure. Let’s go. Your wife’ll be worrying about you.”
He looked at me for half a second, then went over to the wall and pulled a switch. A single dim bulb went on over on the right-hand wall, down about fifteen feet from where we were standing. The cars were lined up in here, against two walls, facing each other—every conceivable wreck that can possibly be purchased from a cop’s pay. There was a Model T Ford, a couple Model As, an old Stanley Steamer that looked absolutely rotten to the core, a Page touring car looking like brand spanking new, three piles of nothing but junk, literally. Three cars that were a litter of nuts and bolts and fenders and running boards and pieces of rusted body and engines and wheels, all apart in three individual piles. There were only these that I recognized. There was an old Jaguar, old in years, but really beautiful, shining like a new gold tooth, and something else that looked like a baby carriage with a broken handlebar, only baby carriages don’t have handlebars.