Ask for Me Tomorrow

by Margaret Millar

  When she finally ran out of tears she used eyedrops to clear her eyes, and witch hazel pads to reduce the swelling, and make-up to obscure the lines of grief around her mouth. Then she walked across the hall to her husband’s room.

  She said, without looking at him, “I went to see Ethel Lockwood this morning. She showed me the letter she got from B. J. in prison.”

  He moved his head. He didn’t want to hear about it. Everything was far away and long ago. Who was Ethel?

  “The letter had a number of interesting things in it, personal things about me. The consensus of opinion is that I have no class. Imagine that. I always thought I was such a classy dame. Didn’t you?”

  He knew what was coming.

  “Also, I’m dirty. I don’t stand around in the shower all day, so I’m dirty.”

  He could hear the note in her voice that meant she was going to throw a fit and nothing and nobody could stop her. Not even Mrs. Morrison, who thrust her head inside the

  door and asked if there was anything she could do.

  “Yes,” Gilly said. “You can drop dead.”

  “I told you to lie down and rest after taking those pills. I naturally assumed—”

  “You can assume right up your ass to your armpits.”

  “Your knowledge of anatomy is rather meager.” Mrs. Morrison turned her attention to the wheelchair. “I’ll be out in the hall if you need me, Mr. Decker. Press the buzzer and I’ll hear it. I’ll probably hear a great many other things as well, but it is my duty to stick with my patient in fair weather or foul. Press your buzzer. Have you got that, Mr. Decker? Signify that you understand me by raising two fingers of your right hand for yes. Or did we agree on one finger for yes and two for no? I’m not sure. No matter. Buzz.”

  “You buzz,” Gilly said. “Buzz off.”

  “I shall be in the hall, Mr. Decker. Listening.”

  He lay silent and motionless, wishing all the women would go away and never come back, Mrs. Morrison and Violet Smith and Gilly, and now this other one, Ethel. Who was Ethel?

  Gilly described her briefly. Ethel was a vicious-tongued, sanctimonious snotty old bitch.

  “Where’d she get the right to criticize me? I have as much class as she has. Goddamn it, I’m a classy dame. Are you listening? Do you hear that, you nosy parker out in the hall? I’m a classy dame!”

  She began to cry again.

  “You know what it said in the letter? It said, ‘I don’t understand how it all happened between Gilly and me. She was a lot of fun and we had some laughs, but then suddenly she was expecting me to marry her. She asked me to.’ That’s what it said in the letter, making it sound like I begged, like I was lower than low.”

  Tears and more tears.

  He wished he could offer her some comfort or explanation, anything to stop the deluge that threatened to wash them both out to sea. We are drowning, Gilly and I, we are drowning together.

  21

  Aragon spent Sunday driving the rutted roads and walking the dusty streets of Rio Seco. He began near the shoemaker’s shop where Jenkins had lived and worked his way past the tinsmiths and weavers and potters and wood-carvers into the red-light district of sleazy bars and sin shows and cubicles where the prostitutes lived and worked and died. He talked to peddlers, cabbies, hookers, mariachis. None of them had heard of Tula Lopez.

  At eight o’clock he returned to his hotel to have dinner. The clerk on duty at the desk when he stopped to pick up his room key was the same elderly man who’d given him the insecticide on the first night of his stay. He looked nervous. “You like it here at our hotel, sir?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No more mosquitoes?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” I drink beer and the mosquitoes siphon it off before it can damage my liver. It’s a pretty fair system.

  “I was telling Superintendent Playa what a quiet and polite young man you were for an American.”

  “And why did you tell the superintendent that?”

  “Because he asked.”

  “That seems like a good reason.”

  “I thought so.” Some crazy insect was hurling itself at the light above the desk, and the clerk watched it for a while with a kind of detached interest. “Why the superintendent asked, I don’t know. But you will certainly find out.”

  “Certainly?”

  “Oh yes. He’s waiting for you in the dining room. Since seven o’clock. Already he’s eaten one dinner and may have finished a second by this time. Naturally, we cannot present him with a check. It would be unwise. Yet it hardly seems fair that the hotel should pay, since the reason he’s here is you. Once in a while a policeman comes to the hotel, but never so important a one and never one with such a huge appetite.”

  “Put his dinners on my bill.”

  “What if you are not available later to pay the bill? Possibly you would like to settle your account tonight.”

  “No, I wouldn’t like that.”

  “What if I insist?”

  “I wouldn’t like that, either.”

  “Perhaps you are not so polite an American as I thought,” the clerk said and grabbed at the insect that was attacking the light over the desk. He missed. Aragon left the two of them battling it out.

  Superintendent Playa, wearing civilian clothes, sat in a corner of the dining room behind a potted palm as though he were in hiding. But there was too much of him to hide, and it seemed inevitable that more of him was on its way. He was eating flan with whipped cream, and drinking something thick and yellowish out of a glass mug.

  “Oh, Mr. Aragon. Good evening.”

  “Good evening, Superintendent.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you, passing the time with a bite to eat. Please sit down.”

  “All right.”

  “Join me in a rompope. It’s an eggnog flavored with rum. Quite delicious.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Very well, we’ll get down to business.” The superintendent unbuckled the belt of his trousers, and his stomach ballooned out between him and the table like an air safety bag inflating on impact. “The word is that you’ve been searching for the girl Tula Lopez all over town.”

  “Yes.”

  “You still want to see her?”

  “Very much.”

  “Perhaps I can arrange it. Yes, I think it would be quite possible.”

  “You know where she is?”

  “I know. Come along, we’ll pay her a call.”

  “I haven’t had any dinner.”

  “I ate for both of us to save time.”

  “That’s very good of you.”

  “You might really believe that, a little later on. If one is going to feel squeamish, it is better to do so on an empty stomach.” He rose with some difficulty and pushed his own stomach back into the captivity of its belt. Then he called for his check.

  Aragon said, “I told the clerk to add it to my bill.”

  “Why would you do such a thing? Have you a guilty conscience?”

  “No.”

  “Are you attempting to influence my judgment?”

  “No.”

  “Then why should you pay for my dinner as if I’d been your invited guest?”

  “I—”

  “Unless, of course, you invited me and the invitation failed to reach me in time. Could that be true?”

  “It could.”

  “Then I accept your hospitality. Many of my invitations arrive late or never. Our local system of communications is poor, though I believe you and I are communicating quite nicely, are we not?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then let us proceed on our way.”

  The superintendent was driving his personal car, a Toyota not much bigger than he was. He handled it as though it were his alter ego, with courteous attention a
nd respect. Other motorists honked at him from behind, put their heads out windows to curse him as they passed, looked back and shook their fists. The superintendent didn’t let it bother him.

  “Peasants,” he said amicably. “I save my wrath for more significant occasions. Besides, I have a full stomach. There is nothing more soothing than a good meal, isn’t that correct?”

  “I don’t remember. I haven’t had one lately.”

  “Try not to be waspish, Mr. Aragon. I am, after all, doing you a favor. You could have spent a week, even a month, searching for this girl, and I found her for you. You must learn the art of gratitude.”

  “I don’t want to be grateful until I know what I’m being grateful for.”

  They had reached the bridge. The superintendent was driving very slowly in spite of the pressure of traffic. “Let’s see now. It was right about here, from this spot, that your friend Harry Jenkins jumped. No manner of death is pleasant but it seems to me Jenkins picked, or was granted, one of the better ones, leaping out into the air like a bird, then dropping into oblivion. Magistrate Hernandez had no choice, no such beautiful moment of flying. It was quick, though. Others are not so lucky.”

  She had put up a struggle.

  For Tula, there’d been no easy bird flight, no sudden halt of the heart. Deep-purple bruises covered her face and arms and throat. A patch of her hair had been pulled out by the roots and was caught in the splinters of a shattered chair, like a thick black spiderweb. Two of her front teeth were missing and her neck was broken.

  The room was like a cage for animals, but it smelled of people, of human wastes and wasting.

  “She’s been dead since early this morning,” the superintendent said. “As is usual in a neighborhood like this, nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything. She was conducting her ordinary business. Only this one particular client wasn’t ordinary. He was—what would you call him in English?”

  “Kinky.”

  “So we have a dead whore, murdered by a kinky client. That certainly seems reasonable, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever you say. I’d like to get out of here.”

  “Why? You wanted to see her. Well, here she is, take a look . . . What’s the matter, do you feel squeamish?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew you were the type. At least be glad you didn’t pay for a nice big dinner which you would only upchuck. As it is, you have nothing to upchuck.”

  Aragon went outside and proved him wrong. The air was fresh, straight from the sea, but all he could smell was the little room and the dead girl and his own vomit.

  The superintendent followed him out. “You’re becoming a problem, Mr. Aragon. Don’t I have enough trouble without a squeamish American on my hands?”

  “I think it’s a touch of—it must be turista.”

  “Nonsense. It’s murder. You are revolted at the sight of murdered girls. I too am revolted, being a man of sensitivity, but it is my profession to look at them. The eye, the digestive system, the mind, they all make the necessary adjustments. Death is a fact of life.”

  Aragon leaned against the wall of the building, which was covered with graffiti, mainly in English. The first one he read when his eyes came back into focus was You were on Canit Camera dummy haha Speedo Martinelli Newark NJ USA.

  “Are you feeling better, Mr. Aragon?”

  “No.”

  “You have stopped upchucking.”

  “I ran out of chuck. I—may I go and sit in the car?”

  “Very well. We can talk there.”

  They returned to the superintendent’s Toyota. Even inside the car with the windows rolled up, Aragon could smell the cage that was Tula’s room, and with his eyes closed he could see the wall that had served as the community’s bulletin board: This a hell hol . . . Chinga tu madre . . . Viva Echeveria . . . Freddy from Chi . . . Hi Freddy . . . God Forgive all Sinners… Constancia 3349 . . . Repent . . . Lolita esta pinchincha!

  “Three deaths,” the superintendent said. “And you appear to be the common denominator. You come to Rio Seco to talk to Jenkins and suddenly he is leaping from a bridge. You go away and come back, this time to see Magistrate Hernandez, and lo, he is stabbed by a burglar. You look for Tula Lopez and here she is, beaten and strangled.”

  “I barely knew Jenkins, I never met Hernandez and I just saw Tula Lopez for the first time.”

  “But someone knew all those people.”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone didn’t want any of them discussing him, perhaps telling you where he is. Would you call that a fair assumption?”

  “Yes.”

  “This Lockwood, we must find him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because he is a murderer, a madman.”

  Aragon stared, heavy-eyed, into the night. The Lockwood Gilly knew no longer existed. He had died somewhere in the years between Dreamboat and the Quarry, and a violent stranger now walked around in his body.

  “No. No, I can’t believe—”

  “You must,” the superintendent said quietly. “I think it would be wise for you to leave Rio Seco as soon as possible. It is an ugly place to die, especially at this time of year. Spring would be better, when the flowers are in bloom after the winter rains. But one doesn’t have a choice of season when one is dealing with a madman. Lockwood doesn’t intend to let you find him. That surely is clear to you by now, isn’t it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Naturally, you hate to fail in your mission and thus disappoint your client, but you’re young, you have much to live for. Are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your wife is expecting you back?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a box?”

  “If you’re trying to scare me, don’t bother. I’m already scared.”

  Instinctively, he looked back over his shoulder. The streets were crowded. Rio Seco was opening up for the night.

  “No, no,” the superintendent said. “Don’t look back. He’s not there. He hasn’t been following you. He’s been ahead of you, waiting behind every corner you turn.”

  “How could he know what I was going to do?”

  “I don’t mean to be unduly critical, Mr. Aragon, but your actions seem most predictable. That’s to say, you’re an amateur. Lockwood is a graduate of the Quarry.”

  Lockwood had learned well—how to con a con man, how to stab as expertly as a surgeon, how to beat up women. Summa cum laude.

  “I must return you to your hotel and get to work,” the superintendent said. “By the way, have you talked to your rich lady client since our last meeting?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t by any chance mention me as a likely prospect for her?”

  “No.”

  “No, of course not. The situation was too delicate. But now you may proceed with a clear conscience, since Lockwood is out of the picture and the situation is no longer delicate. There are a number of facts you might tell her about me which are perhaps not apparent on the surface. For instance, I have never once accepted a mordida, or at any rate nothing more than a few cases of liquor. That ought to impress her, yes?”

  “Possibly.”

  “I am a man of honor. I have all my own teeth. Also, I have an independent income, my mother gives me a small allowance. I wouldn’t want your client to think I was interested only in her money, when the truth is, I have a very romantic nature. Be sure to mention that.”

  “I’ll mention it,” Aragon said. Gilly would need all the laughs she could get after she heard his report: Your precious B. J. is a nut who kills people, but there’s this other guy waiting in the wings with an allowance from his mother and a very romantic nature. How’s that for a joke, Gilly?

  “You look peculiar, Mr. Aragon. If you’re going to upchuck again, kindly open the window.”
r />   He opened the window.

  22

  “Well, this is it,” Violet Smith said. “It really is it, isn’t it?”

  Reed yawned, stretched and opened the two top buttons of his uniform. “There’s not much point in standing around talking about it. Make yourself useful. Or scarce.”

  “I’m afraid. I never saw anyone die before.”

  “So don’t look.”

  “It’s different with you, being a nurse. You’ve probably seen people die all over the place.”

  “Usually in bed.”

  “What’s it like, watching somebody die?”

  “Great fun. Gives me the jollies. Ho ho ho.”

  “Our minister says there’s a moment when the soul leaves the body. When it happens, can you feel it? I mean, is there kind of like a draft as the soul goes up?”

  “Who says it goes up? Decker’s may be going down.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Some go up, some go down, some may even go sideways. Mine is definitely going down.”

  “You can’t be sure.”

  “Sure I’m sure.”

  “Why? Are you a terrible sinner?”

  “You bet your butt,” Reed said, yawning again. “I want to catch half an hour’s sleep out on the patio. Wake me if the old girl starts flinging herself around.”

  He had been up since four o’clock when Gilly called him and told him her husband was dying. She’d done the same thing a dozen times in the past few months and Reed didn’t take it seriously until the doctor came and said it was true. There was talk of moving him into a hospital but Gilly refused. What could they do for him in a hospital—stick tubes up his nose and needles into his veins to prolong his suffering? So he stayed home and she stayed with him.

  “He will die in my arms, where he belongs,” Gilly told Reed.

  “It will be messy.”

  “Surely you, of all people, should be able to put up with a little mess.”

  “I’m able. Are you able?”

  “Oh God, he’s trying to talk. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand his torture.”