“You went to see her yesterday,” Lande said. “You din't notice nothing? Nanh, why would you? You on'y had one thing on yer mind. Bonny's sick, you big prick.”
Mulheisen was stunned. “Sick?”
“Yanh. Sick. She's got cancer. Terminal.” Lande's face had turned bitter.
For Mulheisen the entire world turned grotesque and bilious. “This better not be some kind of joke,” he rasped. He ground the cigar into the ashtray violently.
“It ain't no joke,” Lande said. “She got a tumor in her womb bigger'n a can'aloupe.”
Mulheisen stared, mouth open. Lande looked at the floor.
“How long have you known this?” Mulheisen asked.
Lande looked away, his face mottled with anger, the foolish mustache bristling, his eyes small and watery. “'Bout a month,” he said, “maybe a little longer. The docs said it prob'ly wasn't much, at first. They fin'ly tol’ us the troot just the other day.” His face suddenly crumpled. “Ah, shit,” he said. He gulped down the whiskey angrily and uttered a slight gasp. When he looked at Mulheisen again, he said gruffly, “Ya don't see a wooman like that . . .” he stumbled, “. . . off-ten.”
The two men sat in silence for a long time, occasionally glancing at one another, then away. The light outside had failed. The light inside was weak, emanating from the bar.
“You ever been in love?” Lande asked after a while.
“Ah . . . well,” Mulheisen said softly, “I guess so.”
“I never been in love,” Lande said, musing. He looked at the rain-streaked windows. “I thought it was some kinda joke . . . you know, like in the movies or somethin’. I din't know what it was at first. I jus’ felt like . . . you know . . . everythin’ you do is for the broad.” He cleared his throat. “It's . . . diff'runt. I din't know you could wanta do things for another person . . . for her, I mean. Yer allus doin’ something for the other person, see? An’ you like doin’ it. Ever'thin’ I do is for Bonny.”
Mulheisen picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured them both a stiff drink. He drank from his glass and said, “How do you know it's sure? They're wrong about these things a lot. They have all kinds of therapy. I have a friend, he's a doctor, he could—”
“She seen enough doctors,” Lande said bitterly. “She has to go in tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? For what?”
“Surgery—whataya think, stupid?”
Mulheisen couldn't believe it. “I just talked to her. She didn't say a word.”
“To-fuckin'-morrow.’’
Mulheisen said, “Well, if they're going to operate, they must think there is a chance.”
“There ain't a chance. The doc talks about surgery, then radiation . . . There ain't no chance.” He drank some whiskey and said, “It ain't fair, Mul. There's all kinda assholes in this world, and they just go laughin’ along.” He rubbed his mustache reflectively. “They won't laugh. They ain't gonna laugh.”
“What do you mean?” Mulheisen asked.
“I don't mean nothin’,” Lande said, looking up calmly. “She ain't gonna . . . Somebody's gotta pay, Mul. Some a these pricks, they weren't too good to her—”
“Lande,” Mulheisen said, “don't talk like this. Whatever is happening to Bonny, it isn't anybody's fault. It happens.”
“Oh yeah? Whatayou know about it? She got kicked around pretty good. A wooman like that!”
“What are you talking about? Who kicked her around?”
“None a yer bidness. Whatayou care, anyhow? Oh, sure, you got the hots for her, yer an old pal ‘n’ all . . . but didjou ever think that just because a wooman's beautiful, it might nota been a bed a roses? Guys hittin’ on her alla time, guys promisin’ shit, and then when she won't go out on the street for ‘em, they start bangin’ on her.”
Mulheisen had an image of how this might be, as Lande said, and it was a little shocking, particularly since it had a plausible ring. “Well, you took her away from all that, didn't you? You were her knight in shining armor?”
Lande cocked his head, not displeased with this image. “Yeah, you could say that.” Then his face knotted. “But it ain't over. They still come around. I ain't mentionin’ no names, but I know who it is. Anyways, they can't hurt her now. Now it's this . . . this goddamn shit that you can't do nothin’ about. She don't deserve this.”
“Nobody deserves cancer,” Mulheisen said. “Things happen to good people, we don't know why. It just happens. You can't hold other people responsible. That's naive, silly.”
“You think it's silly? What the fuck do you know?”
“That's crazy,” Mulheisen said wearily. He had to leave, to get away from this awful little man.
“How come you don't like me?” Lande asked suddenly. “You think I'm some kinda jerk. Yer the jerk. You got the hots for my old lady. I don't mind that. You knew her first. She digs you. But I got a lot goin’ for me, you know that? I'm drivin’ a fuckin’ Cadillac, and yer pushin’ some kinda weird taxi or somethin’. You ain't shit, Mulheisen. I'm a inventor! D'jou know that?”
“What?” Mulheisen almost laughed. “What did you ever invent?”
“A lotta things,” Lande said. “I invented a new gawf bag.”
Mulheisen laughed. “A new golf bag? What the hell is that?”
Lande jumped up and ran outside, dragging his golf bag back in. “See this?” He demonstrated how the bag had a kind of built-in tripod, evidently activated by the handle. “I invented that” he said triumphantly. “It keeps the bag standing up. But when I showed it to the bag manufacturers, they laughed at me, and then they ripped me off. Now some asshole's making a million bucks oudda it! And I invented it!”
“So what?” Mulheisen said.
“So what? They screwed me, that's what! I invented a car jack, it inflates offa tire, or a air bottle. They ripped that off, too. But there's a buncha shit they couldn't rip off. I'm gettin’ royalties right now on a buncha machines that I couldn't even explain to a dumb shit like you. Ford and GM bought machines offa me. I invent computer systems. I figgered out a way to use old glass for all kindsa stuff.”
“All right, you're a genius,” Mulheisen said. “Why don't you go home? If Bonny has to go to the hospital tomorrow, she needs you.”
“Yeah, I'm goin’ home. No point in sittin’ here talkin’ to a dumb ass like you. Who don't understan’ nothin’. Yer s'poseta be a big detective, but it looks like you don't know shit.”
Mulheisen could hear something in Lande's voice, but he couldn't discern what it was. “What am I supposed to understand?”
“Nothin’. I tell you somethin’, and you sit there like a fuckin’ turd.”
Mulheisen drained the whiskey from his glass. He was a little drunk. “You know, Lande, you're one of the most tiresome bastards I've ever met.”
Lande seemed to take that as an accolade. “Thanks, Mul. Say, why don't you come over to the house with me? Bonny could fix us something.”
Mulheisen looked at him with awe. “Bonny could fix us something? Isn't she sick? What's the matter with you? Why aren't you home looking after her?”
“I'm lookin’ out for Bonny, don't worry ‘bout that. I just want her to be happy. Whatever she wants.”
“I don't think you know what she wants,” Mulheisen said.
Lande scoffed. “Yer the wise guy, tell me what she wants.”
“For reasons I can't fathom,” Mulheisen said, “she wants you.”
The little man just gazed at him, his eyes glittering. Finally he said softly, his voice choking, “You . . . ah . . . you . . . that's a very kind thing to say.” He turned away to hide his emotion but soon turned back with his customary sarcasm. “That's the kind of guy Bonny said you was. Just a big ol’ soft-ass pussy.”
Mulheisen sighed. “Yeah, I'm the well-known softhearted cop. But,” his voice hardened, “there's another side to me.” He stood up. “Don't forget it.” And he walked out into the rain. It felt better on his face than he could have imagined, very refreshing after
the colloquy in the clubhouse. It was simple and honest, wet and cold.
Lande followed after turning out the lights and locking the door. “Hey, wait up, Mul! Why'ncha come over, cheer up Bonny? We could pick up something on the way.”
“Go home,” Mulheisen said, “I am.”
“Wait up!” Lande crunched across the gravel in his golf shoes and opened the door of the Cadillac. He sat down in the driver's seat and shucked off his soggy golf shoes, then slipped on a pair of wing tips. “We could go to Fazio's,” he said, “pick up some stuff and take it home. Bonny'd love to see ya.”
Mulheisen looked down at the eager, pleading face and uttered a short laugh. “You're too much, Lande. Go home!”
Lande looked up at him uncertainly, then laughed. “Yeah, yer right. Bonny says I don't know when to quit. That's my big failin’. I push too hard.” He tied his laces and stood up. “Hey, thanks for everything man.” He stuck out his hand, and as soon as Mulheisen unthinkingly took it, he knew the grip would be fierce. Lande's hand was powerful, and of course he couldn't resist cranking on a larger man's. Mulheisen attempted to resist at first, just to avoid the crush, then he angrily wrenched his hand free.
“Hey, sorry man! Don't know my own strinth,” Lande said. “But seriously, I ‘predate you talkin’ to me like this, man-to-man. A lotta guys don't, you know? It helps. We oughta get together more off-ten. Whataya say? I think we could be pals. Hey, I could teach ya gawf. I'm a helluva teacher. I'm a scratch gawfer, ya know. I even beat Eric . . . once in a while.”
“I've got to go,” Mulheisen said. And all the way home he thought of the things he should have asked Lande but hadn't. He was still screwing up, he thought.
Twelve
Amtrak's Zephyr pulled into Mount Pleasant, Iowa, at 8:40 A.M., right on time. Joe Service had been awakened in good time by Mr. Alonzo Johnson, who knocked softly on the door of suite A/B. He had risen and bathed and shaved, and Mr. Johnson had brought him a bottle of champagne, nicely chilled, along with a carafe of coffee. Joe was grateful. Three days earlier he had ridden into Oakland from Los Angeles on the Coast Starlight, and it had not been fun. That train had been overcrowded with noisy people. There had been a long wait at the dining car, and there were no vacant seats in the lounge. The Zephyr was a much better ride. For one thing he'd spent the night in San Francisco, a city he liked, and he'd been able to provision himself properly. He had boarded the Zephyr with one bag and a newly purchased canvas carryall filled with fresh sourdough French bread, various cheeses, several bottles of wine and Perrier water, and a plastic sack full of fresh fish.
After establishing himself in the suite, Joe had slipped down to the galley and conferred with the chef. This was a large black man named Walker who at first was not inclined to listen to Joe. But Joe pressed a significant amount of cash into his hand, as well as the bag, filled with sea bass.
“It's the morning catch,” Joe explained. “I bought it right off the boat. Now I understand you are serving sole for dinner, and I know from experience that it is very good, but I just had this yen for sea bass. There's plenty for you, if you like that sort of thing . . .” There was enough for the whole galley crew, in fact.
“That's all right, bro,” Chef Walker said. “I grill it with my own special sauce, kind of a Cajun sauce that I learned in New Iberia. Just let the maître d’ know when you come in.”
Next Joe had gone to Mr. Johnson, a very pleasant gentleman, and placed fifty dollars in his hand, along with six bottles of French champagne and six bottles of California chardonnay. Joe explained to him that he needed at least two bottles of the champagne daily, before breakfast and with lunch. There was also the Havarti and the Cheshire, a Brie and a Wensleydale, all of which needed to be refrigerated. He would nibble on them en route, along with a bunch each of red and green grapes, a melon, and some oranges. Alonzo Johnson cheerfully agreed to place all of these provisions in the cooler and to bring them to him as required.
Joe went up to the lounge for the run up to Suisun Bay and the Sacramento River. He enjoyed the cormorants and herons flying up as the train ran smoothly and swiftly past the mothball fleet of World War II warships. The train was not overcrowded, and Joe reveled in the peculiar, smug sensation that he always felt when a two- or three-day train journey commenced.
Later they began to climb up into the Sierras, and Joe relaxed in his spacious suite with magazines and an excellent caper novel by Donald Westlake. He detrained for a minute at Truckee, relishing the mountain air and ogling a party of attractive women on the main street, a young sultry blonde and her eagle-eyed mother and a strapping six-foot blonde with her slim and sexy mother. There was no time to pursue adventure. He reboarded and dined on Chef Walker's splendid version of bass, with garlic and onions and a hot, spicy wine sauce. The sauce was really too much for the bass, he thought, but it was good. He drank a bottle of .the chardonnay.
The Rockies were great the next day, especially the stretch through the Glenwood canyon and then the run through the Moffat Tunnel before they thundered down into Denver. But he spent most of his time in his suite, cleaning guns and joyfully reflecting on his successful liaison with Jizzy. She had shown him more than the expected forwarding telephone number for Hal Good. There was an actual street address in Iowa City. Joe could hardly believe it. Surely this couldn't be Good's home address? Well, he would check it out, but it seemed awfully lax for a presumably competent professional hit man.
As for Jizzy . . . well, Jizzy had been superb. He would remember her fondly for days, even weeks. Maybe some day, when he had amassed enough capital and could live on his investments and give up this goofy life, he would give her a ring and they could get together.
On the morning of the third day, in Mount Pleasant, Joe apologized to Mr. Johnson for leaving the suite in such disorder. There was a bottle each of champagne and chardonnay left, and he commended them to Alonzo, along with another portrait of Ulysses S. Grant.
It was a cool spring day in the farm country. All the snow was gone, but the plowmen were not yet in the wet fields. Joe thought about renting a car, but there was none to rent, a possibility that had not occurred to him. He abandoned the new canvas carryall against the wall of a bar, walked out onto the highway, and stood there with his one remaining bag. Within minutes a stout young farm lad wearing a Simplot cap and driving a splendid four-by-four Jimmy pickup truck with jumbo wheels stopped for him. He wasn't going far, but he got on his CB radio and started calling. Within seconds a trucker northbound on the same highway, just a few miles south of them, responded. The farm lad explained that Joe was going to Iowa City and would be left at milepost 67. “I'll be looking for him, ten-four,” the trucker said.
Joe thanked the farmer when he dropped him off and took up his stance next to milepost 67 in the fresh breeze, delighted to be in this excellent and accommodating country. Sure enough, about eight minutes later an enormous semi rig came howling up the line, and as he roared by Joe, he blasted his air horn twice. The wind of his passing nearly knocked Joe down. Crestfallen, he stared after the huge truck as it echoed away up the next hill. Then he laughed. Not ten minutes later a salesman in a new Buick stopped. He was headed for Cedar Rapids, on the other side of Iowa City. He had all his clothes hanging on a rack across the backseat, and Joe had to put his bag under his legs in front. He also had to listen to the salesman's philosophy of life, which seemed largely a condemnation of “niggers, hippies, an’ dope-a-dicks.” All the while the tape deck screamed out songs by Barbara Mandrell. Still, in less than forty minutes he was in Coralville, a kind of suburb of Iowa City.
Here Joe was able to rent a car, a Ford Escort, and he drove over to Iowa City, where he quickly found Black Street. The street ran up a hill off the Iowa River. The house he was looking for turned out to be a simple white frame house next to a park. There was a driveway on one side, with an unattached garage. In the drive was a four-by-four Blazer. A fifteen-foot fiberglass launch with a huge outboard motor sat on a trai
ler next to the garage, covered with a blue tailor-made canvas cover. Joe parked the Ford next to the little park and watched a buxom blond woman throw a Frisbee to her even blonder four-year-old girl. Joe got out and leaned against the fender in the pleasant spring sunlight. Inevitably the Frisbee came his way, and Joe picked it up, spinning it back to the woman. Eventually she walked back with the child, a very pretty young girl, and said, “Hi,” with a broad smile.
“Hey, are you a student?” Joe asked her.
“No,” she said.
“I'm looking for a buddy, from the navy,” Joe said. “He gave me his address, but I lost it. He said he lived on Black Street. His name is Hal?”
“Hal?” the woman said. “I don't know any Hal. What does he look like?”
“About my age,” Joe said, “kind of slim, a little taller than me. Fair hair?”
“There's a guy sort of like that who lives over there,” said the woman, pointing to the white house with the boat. “I don't know his name. He's a cop, I think. Is your friend a cop?”
“A cop? No way. Maybe your husband knows him.” Joe walked across the street with the woman to the gate of her little house.
“Husband? I seem to have misplaced my husband,” the woman said, sizing up Joe in a frank, amused way. She had a narrow, attractive face with a small, expressive mouth and nice blue eyes. She had a way of standing with a hand on her hip. The little girl squinted up at Joe with the same blue eyes, but with a slightly sidelong look that was endearing.
Joe leaned on the picket fence. “Well, maybe we could have a beer or something.” He grinned pleasantly.
“Some other time,” the woman said. She nodded at the little girl. “I've got things to do.”
“Well, thanks anyway.” Joe strolled off to a little shopping plaza a block away and looked up Hal Good in the telephone directory. There was no listing; He returned to the car and drove downtown to the police station, where he asked for a driver's license application. He asked the uniformed woman in the license bureau if Hal was around. She didn't know any Hal. There wasn't any Hal Good on the force. Joe took the application and the driver's manual and left.
Hit on the House Page 14