“He’s stuck with his own nobility,” Florence said. “Forty-odd years ago he struck his pose when I became pregnant by Gerald, and he was stuck with it. Well, that was his limit for one lifetime. Everything else, anything else that came after that was above his tolerance. And there have been many things. Many, many things. He’s simply absorbed more punishment than he was constructed to endure. So now he wants to die. If his heart won’t give out on him, damnit, well, perhaps his liver will.
“Now, James,” she said. “James is better off where he is now than he’s likely to be anywhere else in the world. Clayton’s better off, far better off, with James incapacitated from causing further trouble — he can pretend sometimes that he doesn’t exist. But James and Christina don’t think of such things. They flatter themselves that Clayton still expects James to amount to something — he does not; he’s written him off entirely. And they like to think that of course I know nothing of the nature of James’s situation. That I go around making my foolish, deluded best of things as usual, in my poor, deluded vanity, pretending that James’s away at some school somewhere, or in some monastery. That I have no notion whatsoever of maximum security prison.
“Well,” she said, “they’re wrong. I do. Gerald’s on the Judiciary Committee, subcommittee on corrections, and as infuriatingly stupid as that man can be, he does have his uses. I’ve read enough studies, and reports, and testimony, to qualify me to teach at John Jay. I know what those places are like. And that sort of place is exactly where James belongs. He fits the profile of the dangerous offender to a tee. He might as well’ve been pouring Drano in his ears, all those years he was on drugs. He was utterly without respect for authority before that, completely rebellious and wayward, absolutely impervious to civilized discipline. When he was a child, and a young man, he tested our limits and found he could flout them. Then he tested the limits at his schools, and found the worst they could do to him was throw him out. Then he tested the limits of the criminal code, and got away with that, too, for some period of time, and then he was caught. And now he knows there are some in authority who mean it — really mean it. And that there are other disciplinary cases who are harder than he is. This is the first time in James’s life that he’s ever been at close quarters with people that he fears. And that is the only set of circumstances in which he’ll behave himself. When he is afraid.
“He doesn’t like it,” Florence said. “Of course he doesn’t like it. After seven years in that company, he hasn’t managed to intimidate everybody else into allowing him to do precisely what he pleases. He’s become discouraged. He wants to get out.
“Until May,” she said, “until this May, he couldn’t do that. Oh, the means were there. The means he’s using now. All he had to do was barter Samuel for himself. The police are just like everybody else. You offer them something they want more than what they’ve got, they’ll be interested. But James, who never was too bright, even before the drugs, James was too proud for that. But then Sam got out. And James, dim as he is, began to see what a total ass he’d been.
“So,” she said, “after spurning all Christina’s overtures for years, refusing to write to her, reply to her letters.…”
“Really?” Claire said. “I thought they were so close.”
“They were,” Florence said. “They both hated Clayton, and they both scorned me. That was how Tibbetts acquired both of them — getting even with us. Until she had the wit to see what a fix they were all getting into, and cleared out. That’s what James resented. That she’s smarter than he. And more talented. Not a grain of sense in the child, of course. Scatterbrained as windblown chaff. But smarter than her brother? Yes. That’s why, though she’s been in less public trouble, in many respects — for me, at least — she’s been the more difficult child. And that’s what James disliked. But, after all those years of being just a total bastard to her, knowing she’d have to be talking to me, knowing I’d know at least the small amount he was willing to report about what he was going through, knowing that she’d have to dissemble to me, so that I wouldn’t figure out that he’d shunned her utterly — after all that gratuitous cruelty, he called on her for help. And like the idealistic ninny that she is, she decided to prove it. She’s going to get him out.”
“How?” Claire said.
“Well,” Florence said, “that’s another thing. Christina’s mind is unformed. She’s not at home with complexity, reasoning out all the probable consequences of her actions. When James called on her for help, she went back immediately to that Gleason fellow, took the matter to him.”
“I suppose it has a certain logic,” Claire said drily.
“Well, of course it’s my example that she’s proceeding on,” Florence said. “Not that she even realizes it, or would, God forbid, admit it, but she simply set out to exploit a former lover just as I’ve done with Gerald. Known quantity. Unlikely to refuse her anything she asks.” She smiled. “It’s a rare man, Claire, and a bad one, who can reject a plea for help from a former maiden he distressed. And Terry Gleason’s not a bad man. Rather a sad one, I gather, discontent, unsatisfied, and therefore even likelier to react favorably to a younger, pretty, former lover’s pitiable cries.”
“Does she know you know all this?” Claire said. “I thought you weren’t supposed to know.”
“I wasn’t,” Florence said. “Back when they got involved, after the trial, and Larry called me up, he swore my oath in blood that I never would let on. And of course I didn’t. But I wouldn’t have in any case. Half the pleasure of a married lover for a restless young woman is the delicious thrill of imagining how shocked and angry her parents would be if they knew what she was doing. And I didn’t want to spoil that for her. Besides, if she had reckoned that I knew, she would’ve become careless around Clayton. And he would have been angry and shocked. I’m sure he could not have supported the knowledge that his daughter was as adventurous as his wife had been. He would’ve thought he was under a curse.”
She paused. “Maybe he is,” she said. “Maybe we all are, always have been. The reason we’re always coping — so successfully, we think — with one disaster after another, is not that we’re resourceful, smart survivors; it’s because we’re accursed.”
“Yes,” Claire said, setting her teacup down. “Well, that certainly would make life less demanding, wouldn’t it? Just give up, and blame the devil? But I assume you didn’t come all this way just to do that.”
“No,” Florence said. She sighed. “No, I came because of course I can’t do that.”
“Then what is to be done?” Claire said.
“Well,” Florence said, “it’s perfectly obvious that neither James nor Christina will be safe if young Sam Tibbetts is brought back to America and tried again for murder. If this time he’s convicted, he’ll be free in less than fifteen years. Sam’s much more intelligent than James. None of those thugs and hoodlums who’ve managed to provoke James into prison fights will be able to do that with Sam. If he’s incarcerated, and assesses his situation as one requiring him to enter into a homosexual relationship in order to save his skin, that’s what he will do. If he determines that something else — becoming a reliable source of illegal narcotics, for example — will guarantee his safety, then he will do that. Whatever is necessary to enable him to get out in the shortest possible time, that’s what he will do. I knew Sam only briefly, but I know him well. Several weeks ago one night, Clayton staggered off to bed quite early, and I found myself alone with the television set and cold cream on my face. So I browsed around until I found a film — ‘Doctor Zhivago.’ And I sat there entranced until after three in the morning thinking every time that Strelnikov appeared — the Tom Courtenay locomotive driver? That Stalin ruthlessness? — ‘Sam Tibbetts’ ran through my mind.
“He won’t forget, Claire,” she said. “Most men do, but he will not. Either he will be acquitted, and the danger will be imminent, or he’ll be convicted, and it will be postponed. But in either event, today or tomorrow,
once Sam is recaptured both my children are in hazard.”
“I’ve always preferred,” Claire said, “I’ve always preferred to deal as promptly as possible with dangerous situations as soon as they’re perceived. The Chamberlain experience, I suppose. Nip evil in the bud.”
“And much truer now than then,” Florence said. “At least as far as we’re concerned. Neither James nor Christina is equipped to deal with a menace like Sam. James fancies himself tempered by his severe experiences, but his letters reveal clearly the operation of a still-adolescent mind. He might manage to protect himself, but he would do it in a fashion that would put him right back in the same fix that he’s in now. Christina’s personality would be entirely passive if the world would only permit. Action is not one of her talents. She might be able to bring herself to retaliate, though perhaps not effectively, but she’s unlikely to have the leisure to do that, if Mister Tibbetts strikes first. Young Mister Gleason may be a resourceful person, but he may be back with his wife again by then — and anyway, I don’t know him at all. I don’t like to rely on strangers in important matters.
“You and I are dependable,” Florence said. “But we are getting old. Larry Badger’s still ogling mere slips, but he is aging too. Young Alton seems capable enough, and certainly Fiona shows great, great promise. But for the rest of us, every day that dawns without the thief having come in the night means that the chances of his arrival tonight have increased.”
“I agree with you,” Claire said. “I don’t suppose we can tidy up the world entirely, but it would be nice to straighten things up as much as possible before we go.”
“Precisely,” Florence said. “I’ve not done very well by my children. Whatever resources I might’ve had to prevent harm from reaching them, those I have squandered. I think, to be on the safe side, I think perhaps I’d better make some kind of reparations now, for my omissions and oversights. And that is why I came.”
“Yes,” Claire said. She beckoned a waiter for more tea. “Would you like anything else, Florence?”
“Yes,” Florence said to the waiter. “I should like a large gin martini, please. With a lemon twist.”
“Just more tea for me, please,” Claire said. The waiter went away. She leaned forward. “Now,” she said, “the first thing we must think about is where it should be done. Do we know where he is now?”
Florence nodded. “Larry says: ‘Morocco,’ ” she said. She grimaced. “Where Christina went to see him late spring, just in case, after James turns him in, he might otherwise fail to make the connections and identify the causes. I gather he’s safe as long as he remains there. Legally, that is. Even after they charge him back in Boston. Or wherever it is. Something about treaties.”
“Does Larry say what he is doing?” Claire said.
“Urn, running guns, he thinks,” Florence said. “Dealing in arms. He’s not sure, but he believes that’s it. Apparently Sam travels a lot. Under various names. They think that is why.”
The waiter returned with the tea and the drink. Florence picked up the martini and sipped it. “And after all these years, and all these times,” she said, “every time I set about something like this, I have to screw my courage up.” She set the drink down.
“That should be easy enough, then,” Claire said. “Just a matter of getting him into some country where he can be detained until something can be done. Fabricate some reason to trick him into travel. Collar him when he arrives.” She paused. “Have you spoken to Fiona?” she said. “Did you call the Embassy?”
“No,” Florence said. “I was about to, and then I thought perhaps I should discuss it with you first. That it might be better, dearly as I’d love to see her, but that it might be better.…”
“Yes, I should think so,” Claire said comfortably. “Much better not to visit with her just now.”
“How is her marriage?” Florence said. “Her last letter seemed a little more strained than usual.”
“Well,” Claire said, “just as I did, just as you did, Fiona’s learning the burdens that come with being married to a man who thinks he’s a warrior. It’s exciting, at first, but then after a while the thrill subsides, and one becomes somewhat fatigued. She and Louis are still married, and the children are well. How long the marriage will last? That I couldn’t say.”
“And Louis’s still doing the same thing?” Florence said. “He did seem a dashing young man.”
“Oh, yes,” Claire said. “I don’t know what they’re calling it this week, or what it will be next, but he’s still doing it all over the world, every chance he gets.”
“So, then, if Fiona,” Florence said, “if you got in touch with Fiona.…”
“That’s what I had in mind,” Claire said. “Neville has a contact in Derry with the Special Branch. I believe they’ve had some success with one of their super-grasses undercover, trapping men like Sam. Shouldn’t be too difficult to coordinate something there through Fiona here and Larry in Boston, so that the instant they have power to arrest Sam, we set everything in motion. And once we know he’s coming, well then: Louis’s expertise.”
“Such a wonderful cornet player,” Florence said. “I think perhaps the year he toured with the Ensemble, I think that was the best series of pieces for brass that Neville’s ever put on.”
“That was one of the better years,” Claire said. “It’s rather, I’m afraid we’re rather thin this year, in the reeds. We’ve lost some good people. Graduations among the undergraduates. Better jobs elsewhere, taking faculty members away.”
“But you’ll still be in America, this winter,” Florence said anxiously.
“Oh certainly,” Claire said. “Neville’s confident. He’s always confident. He’s set up a concert at the University of Missouri, Kansas City, and in California at Davis, and the Redlands, and some others. And we’ll be at Town Hall one night. And of course, Neville’s determined to do Tommy Oates’s show. While we’re in New York.”
“I warned you,” Florence said. “That’s not a good idea. I’ve known Tommy ever since I deduced he was the penis that started Christina on her lifetime of condescending to my intelligence. He’s a charming young man, and a viper.”
“I know you did, Florence,” Claire said. “He wasn’t much of a musician, either. I reminded Neville of that. ‘You told me long ago,’ I said, ‘you said after he toured with us that was the last time you let anyone in just because you knew his father. You know how much trouble we had with him. How rebellious he was.’ And you can guess what Neville said. ‘I’m not afraid of Tom,’ he said. ‘I knew his father well.’ ”
Florence nodded. “They are such fools,” she said, “such dear and blessed fools.” She picked up her martini and sipped again. “But I feel ever so much better,” she said. “Such a weight off my back.”
“You’ll be here how long?” Claire said. “Will you see anyone?”
Florence laughed. “Well,” she said, “I do have to stay long enough to buy some tweeds or something. Or perhaps a foyer rug. After all, I did tell Clayton I was going shopping. I must buy something as well.” She smiled.
FEBRUARY 21, 1986
41
Claire Naisbitt sat at the southerly end of the burnished cherry table that accommodated ten in the Walker’s dining room on the first floor of their three-floor condominium on Sutton Place. She traced the beveled edge of the table with her gnarled left little finger. She nodded. “Well, of course I agree with you, Florence,” she said. “Of course he’ll get in trouble.”
Florence Walker sat at the easterly end of the table. Her hair had returned to coal black, and was cut short. She wore earrings of rubies and diamonds; they dangled forward when she leaned, and caught the candlelight. Her white dress was cut low. Her breasts were abundant and smooth, and her chest and neck were unwrinkled. She wore two bracelets of hammered gold. “Well, then,” Florence said, “why on earth did you let him do it?”
Claire looked at her with amused, feigned disdain. “Florence,” she said
, “really. You and Clayton have merely known Neville for forty years and more. I’ve been married to him. Have you or anyone else you know ever been able to forestall Neville from getting into trouble?”
A double steel door about sixteen feet wide and twelve feet high opened into the studio. There was a revolving red light over it, with a sign next to it that said “No Entry. On the Air.” The guide opened the right half, preceded Prof. Neville L.C. Naisbitt, CBE, through it, and shut the door behind them.
It was very dark after the door shut. Naisbitt felt the youth slide past him in the gloom. “Follow me, please, señor,” the youth said. Naisbitt hesitated for a moment while his eyes partially adjusted to the low light. “Señor?” the youth said.
“I’m coming,” Naisbitt said. “Go ahead, I’ll follow.”
The narrow, irregular and variable spaces left as walkways Naisbitt saw to be enclosed by large backdrops. The only lighting was residual, filtering down from twenty feet above under the steel rafters of the roof high above. The painted concrete underfoot was slightly moist, littered with fat black cables laid with no apparent pattern. The youth insinuated himself behind the scenery and scampered over the cables with facile familiarity, leaving Naisbitt groping slowly along behind him, his left hand held before his forehead to ward off collisions with unseen obstacles, his right arm bent at the elbow to hold the coat, the cane hooked over the wrist, hanging useless in the dark. He irrationally envied the guide’s agility, straining but unable to hear the halting English being spoken to him from ahead. He ducked around a sharp upright at eye level to his left. He hit the ulna bone of his right elbow on a tall stepladder he was sure had been placed to ambush large, unwary visitors blundering through the sets. The shock radiated through him. “Damn,” he said, and stopped, lowering his left hand to massage his right arm. “You’re simply going to have to slow down,” he said in a louder voice into the dimness.
Outlaws (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard) Page 36