13 French Street

by Gil Brewer

  Then I knew something else. I was driving back toward trouble. But every bit of distance covered carried me closer and closer to the hell I wanted more than anything on earth.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I NEARLY missed seeing the man in the middle of the road. The house was just a short way around another bend. The man stood nonchalantly in the middle of the road and flagged me down. I started to drive past slowly on his right, but he leaped in front of the car.

  “What do you want?” I shouted out the window, stopping the car.

  He grinned, lounged quietly up to the side of the car, and stood there. He was chewing tobacco, a man of perhaps thirty or so, raw-boned almost to the extent of cadaverousness. He turned, spat a long string of brown juice, then fastened slitted, bloodshot eyes on me. “Mr. Bland,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He grinned again. His lips were loose, his mouth broad, his teeth very square and outlined in black. His mouth trembled when he grinned. He wore ragged blue jeans, a pale-washed blue denim shirt, and a battered, sweat-stained felt hat of no color.

  “Mister,” he said, “drive the car in them bushes.” He pointed to some bushes off the side of the road.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” I said. “Get out of the way.”

  One big dirt-grimed hand, knuckle bones nearly showing through the skin, grasped the window ledge. He shook his head. “Nope. I seen it. I seen it all. Now, ram your damn car in them bushes like I say.” He ceased chewing and stared at me with his mouth open, then he grinned again. “Come on,” he said, slapping my shoulder. He hitched his own shoulders. His arms hung loose at his sides. He chewed and spat on the left front fender of the car.

  We watched each other for a while.

  “What was it you say you saw?”

  He grinned. “Hell, mister. The old lady. I seen that dame push the old lady out that there window. I seen plenty.” He winked grotesquely and hitched his shoulders. “Hurry up, ‘fore I get a wind up, damn it.”

  I drove the car into the bushes. He came in after me. I got out of the car and faced him. He was about my height, with a slouch. He carried himself with a slouch. He smelled strongly of the barnyard, and of wet tobacco.

  “Played a mite too far, hey?”

  “You’d better explain yourself,” I said. He looked wise and jumpy, overexcitable. He scrubbed a hand across the dirty stubble on his face and spat again. Some of it splashed on my shoes. “Who are you?” I asked. I could feel everything tightening up, like when you swim down into very deep water and begin to want air in a hurry.

  “She wouldn’t never come across for me,” he said. He mused on it for a while.

  I turned and started to get back into the car. He grabbed my shoulder, whirled me around. I slammed at his arm. He stepped off, blinked at me, and grinned. “Wouldn’t if I were you, mister.”

  “All right. What do you want?”

  “I’m the hired hand down to Corey’s.”

  “Corey’s?”

  He gestured. “Next farm, down there a piece.” He chewed and spat. A car went by out on the road. The bushes moved and a fine settling of dust formed in the air. “I seen it,” he said again. “They’s a bunch of trouble at that there house, mister. Constable’s there now. They taken the corpse off to town. It ain’t no mind, though. I seen it all. I seen you rip the front offen her.” I stepped toward him. He stepped back, holding a hand up. “Easy, now. ‘At won’t get you no place. She got nice big ones, ain’t she?”

  I stepped in close, let him have one at the stomach. He caught my fist and wrenched, and I landed on my back. I looked up at him. He seemed very proud of himself. grinning, chewing, spitting, and hitching his shoulders. I knew I could take him; it had been a lucky grab.

  “Get up,” he said. “I’ll finish what I got to say.”

  I got up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. How could he have seen anything? Where had he been? “But I’ll listen. Talk and talk fast.”

  He threw his head back and said, “Humph!” Then he squinted at me. “All right, mister. You’re gettin’ at that bitch in the red brick house. I been watchin’ her for months from a little hill across the road. Watch her undress, watch what she does after that, too. Quite somethin’, sometimes.” He winked. I sweated and waited.

  He said, “Like I say, I seen plenty all along. Caught ‘er down the road once at night. Tried to take ‘er, but she wouldn’t have me. She called me a pig. Hell, she’s the pig.”

  “You’d better get to the point in a damned hurry.” He spat. “This mornin’ I milked an’ fed the stock, then I kind of wandered over on my little hill just to look an’ think about that sweet piece across the way. They’s a shade tree in the front yard, an’ I could see plumb in them big windows. Just like at night. I seen you an’ her havin’ it good. All ready for the ride, you was, when the old lady come in.” He cursed obscenely. “Seen what happened. The gal fought the old lady, an’ she pushed her out the window. You was there, an’ you seen it too. You know, mister.”

  “You’re lying,” I said as calmly as I could. “You didn’t see anything like that. You couldn’t.”

  He blew air through his nose. “I’ll show you shortly. Anyways, after you went off in the car, the rest of the folks come. The cor’ner, he comes, an’ ol’ Herk Williams, newspaperman, he come. An’ Constable Sturge. So I went on over, to sort of see what they’s sayin’. ‘She fell out the window,’ they said. ‘Poor old lady, fell out the window.’ Well,” he said slowly, “I know she was pushed.”

  “You’re a liar,” I said. I was soaked to the skin and I had to see Petra. But first I had to know if he was telling the truth. Yet he must be telling the truth. Because how else could he know?

  “Come on, then,” he said. I followed him. We crossed the road, then a stubbled cornfield, a small creek, and started climbing a low hill from the near side. Pretty soon we reached the top. Brambles grew on the hill. Directly opposite us, across the road, sat the house. Three cars were parked in the driveway. Two men were talking in the front yard.

  “Now, just squat down,” the man said, “an’ take these.” He fished a pair of small field glasses from inside his shirt. “See? Fiel’ glasses, hah!” He pointed with a broken-nailed finger. “Look in the big window of her room. See? At night mebbe it’s better, but it’s good right now, ain’t it?”

  He was right. If the big casement windows had been closed, it would have been impossible to see much. But with them open, and the field glasses, the screen seemed to vanish and I was looking straight into Petra’s bedroom. I saw the couch where we’d been sprawled when the old lady caught us. A man was bending over by the torn screen, looking at it. I rose, handed him his glasses, and started quickly back down the hill.

  “Ain’t I right?” the man cried behind me, his feet crashing through the brush. “Ain’t I right?”

  I didn’t say anything. We reached the car.

  “Well,” I said, “what about it?”

  He grinned. “Figure I might’s well be plain. Them little fiel’ glasses, yes, sir! You pay me, an’ I’ll shut up. You see I get what I ask you for, see? Otherwise I go to Verne Lawrence and tell ‘im what I seen, or mebbe the police, or Constable Sturge. All the same. You’d be a cooked goose an’ so would she.” He paused. “I sure would miss seein’ ‘er undress, an’ all.”

  “That’s blackmail,” I said. “Do you know what they do to people for blackmail?”

  He spat. “D’you figure you can give a damn? You think mebbe they wouldn’t believe me if I told ‘em? Huh. Listen, man, everybody in the county knows about her, an’ how she had to tote that old woman wherever she went. A pretty dame like that.” He shook his head. “If the money don’t agree with you, then look at it this way. Talk with the gal, there. Tell ‘er if she’ll shack up with me one, two nights a week, O.K. I’ll work it that way, too.” He faced me, and tobacco sprayed from his lips. “But by God, it’ll damn well be one or the other!” He spat at
the ground. “An’ mister, you better look out it ain’t both!”

  I hit him with everything I had, flush in the face. I felt my knuckles bite and blood spurted as he flailed backwards into the bushes. I stood, staring down at him.

  He brushed his hand across his face, where he lay, and looked at the blood. Then he propped himself on his elbows and grinned up at me. “It ain’t no matter,” he said. “You can’t hurt me. An’ mister, you best show up right here tomorrow night, say about nine. Don’t bring no money, just bring a yes or no. We’ll see about the money later on.” He spat his entire cud to the ground beside him. He lay there, grinning up at me, his lips trembling.

  I climbed into the car, backed onto the road, and drove ahead. My knuckles were sore, but they didn’t bother me at all. It was too late to worry now. It was too late to back out. It was all piling up and I knew it hadn’t finished. There was more to come, a hell of a lot more, because through it all, through all this rotten hell, I still wanted her. I still wouldn’t give her up. And I was in it now, in it all the way….

  There was only one car parked in the driveway when I reached the house. I drew up behind it.

  Petra’s voice reached me from the house and I glimpsed her at the doorway. “Oh, here he is now. Alex! Alex! Hurry up. Sheriff Reynolds wants to see you!”

  Yes. There was a sheriff’s star on the rear bumper of the car up ahead, and it looked as big as a ferris wheel.

  Chapter Fourteen

  FOR a minute I couldn’t move from the car.

  Petra ran down toward me across the lawn. I watched the movement of her body, the way her hair swung out behind her, the anxious light in her eyes. Behind her, standing in the doorway, I saw a large man in a gray suit wearing a blue tie and a gray hat.

  Petra’s hands gripped the window ledge. “It’s the sheriff. He just wants to talk. It’s all right.”

  “I’m going to tell him. I’ve made up my mind. I mean, after the sheriff goes, I’m going to tell Verne. He can do what he wants.” I didn’t know when I’d decided, but I had, suddenly.

  Her hand reached in and briefly touched my face. “No, Alex. Don’t talk that way. We have much too much in store for us.”

  “Just the same—He’s watching us.”

  “I know, I know. Now, come on. Get out of the car and meet the sheriff. He says it’s just routine, that’s all.”

  “Was the constable here?”

  She opened the car door. “Yes. Just a damned hick fat fool, that’s all. He just wanted to look at me, that’s the only reason he came. They’ve already taken the body into town.”

  “I know.”

  “How? Never mind now. Come on.”

  I got out of the car and we walked toward the house. She talked loudly enough so anybody could hear now. She was very beautiful and I wanted to feel her against me. But I knew I had to tell Verne. I couldn’t weaken. My God, was there nothing left to me?

  “Where’s Jenny?” she asked. “I thought you went in for Jenny.” We approached the porch and the man stood there, watching. “Verne feels terrible. Where is Jenny?”

  “She couldn’t come just now,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her now because the sheriff might think anything. Sometimes these country sheriffs were something to deal with—lots of times.

  “This is Mr. Bland, Sheriff Reynolds.” She went on inside. His hand was cold and hard.

  “Pleased to meet you,” the sheriff said.

  I nodded.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said.

  We went in and the door closed again. The hall was cool and dim, and in the living room Verne was seated drinking brandy. He was dressed in shirt and pants, but his hair was still uncombed.

  Petra stood by Verne’s chair, one hand on the back of the chair. Whenever her gaze touched mine it was like a current passing between us. I’d never had it like this before. And now it was all mixed up with murder and blackmail; hired hands who sat humped in the cool darkness of brambled hills staring bug-eyed at a bedroom window.

  The sheriff was a plain man, from head to toe. His face was something like a wad of dough with mouth, nose, ears, and eyes carved in it. But his eyes were little black oily beads and they watched.

  “Just wanted to asked a few questions,” he said, “then I’ll run along.”

  Verne glanced at me. “Where’s Jenny?”

  I started to answer, but Petra spoke up. “She couldn’t come just now.”

  “Oh,” Verne said. He drank from his glass and stared at his shoes.

  “Reason is,” the sheriff said, “in a case of this kind, and all. Routine. Did you happen to see Mrs. Lawrence fall?” He turned to Verne. “Verne, why don’t you go into the—”

  “No, it’s all right,” Verne said.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t.”

  “Well,” the sheriff said. He sighed. He was holding his hat in his hands now and his hair was very sparse, plastered tight to his skull. It was straw-colored hair. “Well,” he said again, “would you tell me what happened, so far’s you know, Mr. Bland?”

  I hated it. Every word was like yanking a tooth out of my head with a pair of pliers. Because it was all lies, and I was saying it before Verne and she was standing there watching me and knowing with whatever it was in her eyes telling me, Yes, yes, yes, yes.

  “I heard a scream,” I said.

  “A scream?”

  “Several. Two or three, maybe. I don’t know. I was in my room. I ran down toward Petra’s, Mrs. Lawrence’s room, and went in. The door was open. Petra was standing over on the other side of the room, by the bed, and she—well, she was rather troubled.”

  “I see. Yes, certainly,” Sheriff Reynolds said.

  “She told me Verne’s mother had fallen out of the window and right then Verne came into the room.” I spread my hands. “That’s all, Sheriff, that’s all.”

  “Yes. Well, thank you.” He turned to Verne. “Now, Verne, you get some rest. You take it easy. I had to do this, you understand? Routine and all. Not many window fallings….” He glanced at Petra. She smiled. He looked at me, jammed his hat on, and went out.

  A moment later he returned. “Pardon me,” he said. “But if you could move your car, so I could get out of the drive?”

  “Sure.” I went out and moved the car and he drove off. As I walked back to the house across the lawn, I glanced over at the hill beyond the road. Then I looked down the road. It was the man, the hired hand from Corey’s; he was leaning against a tree just beyond Verne’s home, watching. He saw me looking and waved. I went into the house.

  I wanted to tell Verne everything, the whole stinking business. I wanted to tell him, and yet I was pulled the other way, too. I wondered if I’d be able to tell him. If she would just stay away from me long enough, maybe I would tell him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  SHE didn’t stay away from me.

  It was like relighting a fire that had guttered down some, refeeding it with fresh dry fuel, the way she looked at me and spoke to me between normal conversation. And Verne sitting there in the chair in the living room staring at the floor. Now and then he’d shake his head.

  “She had to go,” Verne said. “It was time she died. She’d expected it herself, and I know I did. It was the way. The way she died. That’s what gets me. She never had a damned thing. Never had any rest, any peace, until she came here. She didn’t know what rest was, or peace. She’d never known.”

  “Buck up, now,” Petra said. “Take it easy, Verne.” And while she said it, she looked at me, standing there by Verne’s chair, with one hand by his head, looking at me with her eyes, her lips, her whole body.

  I didn’t say anything, just waited.

  “And then, when she did come,” Verne said, “when at last she had a chance at some rest, she went deaf. Not that it mattered much. She didn’t seem to mind that. It isn’t that I feel so bad about her dying. Death isn’t much, not to an old person, anyway. It isn’t that. It’s the way. The way she died.”

/>   “Darling,” Petra said, “you better have a drink.”

  “I don’t want one.”

  “It might help.”

  “I said I don’t want a drink.”

  She shrugged, standing there behind him, where he couldn’t see. I had been standing. Now I found a chair across from Verne and settled down.

  “I should have left her sitting in that damned cornfield,” Verne said. “Leaning against the fence, like they found her that morning. She was nearly dead then. It would have been best.”

  Petra said, “Are you going to—are you going to bring Mother back here?”

  “I was, but not now. Only the funeral will start from here. The funeral procession will start from this house. Where she at least found a remote hint of happiness.”

  I watched Verne. There was something wrong with him. Some men would dwell on a thing like this, but it wasn’t in Verne’s make-up to sit there talking about it the way he was. It seemed almost a kind of morbidity.

  “Should have left her in the cornfield,” Verne said. “It was winter, too. Dead winter with the snow piling up against the fence. Nobody knows how she got there, either.” His eyes looked burned out.

  I tried to catch Petra’s eye, so she’d pour him a drink of brandy, but she only smiled at me.

  “She was wearing a straw hat,” Verne said. “The kind you wear in the summertime—pitching hay, too.”

  “Where will she be buried?” Petra asked. She went over and sat in the chair the old woman had been sitting in that first night when she got drunk. Verne stared at the floor. There was no sunshine outside and the room was gray and still.

  Verne glanced at me. “I wanted to bury her with Pa, out at the farm. Where she buried Pa.”

  Petra said, “Oh, but Verne!”