by Chris Wiltz
26
* * *
A Bourbon Drinker
A streetcar came fast down St. Charles Avenue. The driver had a sneering grin on his face, the kind you see in a comic strip, and probably with the same lines of drool if I'd been close enough. His foot was planted on the bell and the dings were coming as fast as ants out of a squashed hill. A wisp of a gray-haired lady sat in the rear of the car, one hand clutching the sash of an open window, the other clutching the flowering pill-type hat on her head. Her face was clamped tight with terror, but she sat very straight, holding on to her dignity as hard as she was holding on to her hat., Coming up behind the streetcar in a close second was a dark sedan sprouting arms and heads from its open windows. There were enough kids in it to fill a phone booth for a prize and they were shouting something that sounded like “Go, Sally.”
I pulled into the passenger zone in front of the Euclid and ran to the telephone in the lobby. I dialed the police hot number and reported a runaway streetcar heading for Lee Circle. If I'd called and reported a murder, rape, or robbery, the broad on the other end wouldn't have winced, but she stuttered over this one and made me repeat the message. Back on the street traffic was just beginning to unfreeze as the tip of the express trolley moved out of viewing range.
I circled the comer and parked in the back lot and went up in the elevator muttering what next, bunch of crazy kids, and a few other inanities people mutter to themselves when there's no one around to share a bizarre situation with.
The hallway outside my door seemed abnormally quiet, but it was probably just me taking my own “what next” seriously. I unlocked the door and before I even stepped over the threshold into the small hall to the living room, I knew something was wrong. I stood just inside the door trying to ferret out the difference while the tip of a cold finger moved ever so lightly down my spine. The thought slid across my brain that maybe I was reaching the age at which the events of a day take a toll on the nerves, but it slid right on out again because I knew why the hair on the back of my head was lifting. It was too dark in the apartment. Even with the door slightly ajar I could barely make out the outlines of the furniture. The window shades I usually leave open were sealed shut. A faint odor lingering in the air found its way to my nostrils like maybe the air system was pumping it out, but it wasn't, because the smell was the smell of sweat and it wasn't mine. I pushed the door to and went for my gun. It wasn't there. It was in Catherine Garber's dressing room. I crouched low and inched along the wall to the light switch. I reached up to lift the switch when from above something sharp hit the back of my hand and a hulk of a body was on top of me. That something sharp was a knife that the hulk was trying to stick through my ribs. As we struggled I was vaguely aware of the smell of bourbon coming through the smell of sweat.
What happened next happened very fast and I'm still not sure why I'm not dead. I was trying to get the weight off me without getting stabbed and without getting my neck broken. Right then a dull thud on the crown of my head accompanied a streak of red light. As the floor came up and hit me in the face, a woman shouted, “Stop it right now or I'll shoot!” I lay on the floor, fighting the temptation to stay there and rest in oblivion by twisting enough to flip the weight off my back, but the weight was gone and all I got for my effort was a glancing blow on the shoulder from the opposite wall. The light from the hallway coming in through the wide open door was dazzling. I got myself halfway up, but the floor came with me. After a deep, nauseous breath I tried again. I stumbled out into the hall with no idea in which direction I should give chase. I went back inside the apartment, wincing as the door slammed, and turned on the lights. Catherine stood there pointing a gun at me. The only color in her face was the gray-blue of her eyes. When she realized it was me, the arm with the gun fell to her side. I looked at her a few moments and felt the spot on my head with the springs underneath it. Then I took a long fall into the sofa cushions. I sat and stared at the blood oozing out of a cut on the back of my hand onto my trouser leg.
Catherine's breath caught sharply. “You've been hurt.” She put the gun on the cocktail table.
“It's nothing,” I said, getting up and going past her into the bathroom. I wrapped a hand towel around the wound.
“Don't you have anything better for it than that?” she asked close behind me.
“I suppose so,” I said and wrenched off the towel. I reached for the iodine and bandages in the medicine cabinet. She took them away from me. Rather uncooperatively, I stood there glaring at her.
“Your hand,” she demanded, her voice brittle. I held it out, childlike. As she fixed me up I looked past her into the bedroom, noticing for the first time that every drawer had been dumped.
“Friendly sort of guy,” I said conversationally, in an attempt to relieve my own tension.
“Who was that man, Neal?”
“I don't know, but I wish he'd quit trying to terrorize me and stick around for a chat.”
“Oh, is this a nightly occurrence?” She followed me into the kitchen where I dumped a short snort of Scotch down the hatch and poured two tall ones. The bottle of bourbon was gone. I wondered if that was what he had hit me with.
“I suppose the pattern could have been established if I'd shown up at my office while he was vandalizing it.” I flopped on the sofa and put a drink in front of her. She left it untouched.
“How do you know it was the same person?”
“I'm counting on it. Otherwise there are two, maybe three people playing the same game.”
“Three?”
“Assuming it wasn't an urban guerrilla sniping at me from a rooftop on Madison Street this morning.”
“Have you ever considered a less hazardous form of employment?”
“No. What did he look like, Catherine?”
“I didn't see him.”
“Boy, is he clever Do you mind telling my how he managed that?” She stared at me with slitted eyes. “I'm sorry, Catherine. I'm being a jerk.” I took two enormous swallows of liquor. “I didn't see him either. Look, thanks. I'm glad you were here. I mean, I don't know what he hit me with, but I think I would have been finished . . . Did he hurt you?”
“I thought you'd never ask,” she said. “No, he didn't. He grabbed me from behind and walked me to your closet with a knife at my throat.”
“How did you get in here?”
“The door was open. I heard someone moving around and called your name. I got a muffled ‘Yeah’ that I thought was you, but when I got inside the door, the lights went out and then he grabbed me.”
“Did you think for even one tiny second that it was me?” I asked her like I had only the most fractional hope that she could think I was so tough. The phone started ringing.
Her mouth curled up at the corners. “No, Neal, he was a lot bigger than you are.”
I gave her a dour look as I crossed the room and picked up the receiver into which I growled a muffled “Yeah.” Catherine shook her head and rolled her eyes upward.
“Rafferty? Robert André here. I've been trying to reach you all evening. I thought it might interest you to know of a few strange incidents that have occurred at my house since you left this afternoon.”
“I'm all ears.”
“Not more than half an hour after your departure I received a phone call that could only be classified as rude. A voice demanded, ‘Put Lucy on.’” He imitated a gruff whisper. “Sounds like a cheap hoodlum, doesn't it? Nevertheless, I informed this person that Miss McDermott had not resided here for well over a year, upon which the telephone was slammed back on the hook. Perhaps an hour later the same voice called with the same request. I reminded him that I had already explained why Miss McDermott was unavailable, but that I would be glad to reiterate. This time he said, ‘You'll pay for this,’ before he slammed down the phone. Are you with me, Rafferty?”
“I'm right here, André.”
“Just making sure. I do not like speaking over the telephone. I can never quite believe that
the party I'm speaking to is really there. Anyway, I did not give much thought to these calls, as I imagine that you and the police are not the only ones hunting for Lucy. However, later in the evening I went out to dinner and returned to the most squalid mess imaginable.”
“Is anything missing?”
“A bit of small change from the top of my dresser, but if anything else is gone, I haven't noticed so it must be trivial.”
“Check your booze supply.”
“How's that?”
“I believe that the same person left a calling card here not long ago in the form of a knot on my head. He's fond of bourbon.”
“Terribly sorry to hear that, old top. Are you quite all right?”
“Quite. Interesting to know that Lucy has done such an ace job giving everyone the slip.”
“So it is. Well, I'll be off now to check supplies. I grabbed for a bottle so fast when I saw the present state of affairs that I didn't notice if the stock was complete. I will resent it if this intruder imbibed my bourbon on such an unsociable call. So long, Rafferty.”
“Give my regards to your frogs, André.”
“But my dear fellow, I will, I will,” he cried jubilantly and rang off.
I turned to Catherine. “Our friend has apparently been making social calls all evening.”
“To someone you know who keeps frogs for pets?”
I attempted a laugh but it came out a snort. “Yeah. The man who employed Lucy McDermott for twenty years as a companion for his daughter—Robert André.” I watched her face for reaction but there was none. She fidgeted for a moment with the strap on her handbag.
“Don't you want to know why I'm here?” she asked.
“I figured you would probably get around to telling me sooner or later.”
“I brought back your gun,” she said indicating the piece on the table.
“Lucky for me you did.”
She flushed. “I came to apologize to you.” She looked down quickly and started fooling with the strap again. What a woman. One moment so belligerent and outspoken, the next as shy as a budding flower. I didn't say anything. Her fingers stopped working on the strap and she raised her head. “Will you forgive me?”
“What's to forgive? I can understand that you might change your mind at the last minute about wanting to go to bed with me.” It sounded cruel and I might have wanted it to sound cruel. I didn't know.
Her shoulders sagged. “I'm sorry. You must hate me,” she said quietly. I thought she was going to start fooling with the damned strap again, but she didn't. She tried to blend in with the sofa cushions first, then she started fooling with it.
“Stop fiddling with your damn purse and come here.” Her eyes opened very wide and her facial muscles petrified, but she managed to get up slowly, walk around the cocktail table, and stop about two feet away from me. “Catherine, I couldn't possible hate you. What are you so afraid of?”
Her fright turned to misery as she stared at some spot on the wall behind my head. I stepped toward her. She couldn't retreat without falling over the table. “Why are you afraid? Are you—would it have been your first time?”
She shook her head sadly. “Don't think that,” she said.
I wasn't sure what that meant, but I blundered on. “Are you afraid of me?” She didn't answer. “Are you afraid of all men?” She stared at something on the floor, like her feet. I lifted her head. “Did someone give you a rough time once?” She shut her eyes. “Catherine, I'm not going to pry, but if you had one bad experience it doesn't mean they're all going to be bad.” I couldn't help myself. I held her and touched her hair, face, and neck. “You're a beautiful, intelligent woman,” I said softly. “Men must want you all the time.”
She smiled, but her body was stiff. “You're nice, Neal.”
I shook my head. “I'm not any nicer than the next guy. Everyone gets carnal sometimes.”
“No. You're nice. Really. You are.”
I was exasperated. “For God's sake, Catherine, there's nothing wrong with being a little carnal sometimes. How do you know it isn't taking some serious willpower to keep from locking you in my bedroom overnight?”
“Is it?”
“Oh, for God's sake.” I stumbled over to my drink and took a mighty slug.
“Well, is it?”
“Yes,” I shouted. She started laughing. “What's so funny?”
“You are. And you really are very nice.”
“Damn it. Come here.” I didn't wait for her. I went to her and wrapped my arms around her and kissed her until the blood drained from my lips and we both needed air. “There,” I said letting go of her. “That wasn't very nice and I enjoyed it.”
I went into the kitchen and made another drink. I was getting drunk and I didn't care. She glared at me with clenched fists.
“Why do you always have to be so tough?” she said through her teeth.
I sighed. “I don't mean to. Really, I don't try to be.” The old man loomed somewhere in my consciousness. I felt depressed. “Let's just admit it, Catherine. We just don't get along very well.” I sat down wearily.
“No. No, that's not true.” She looked upset.
“Well, come over here and have a drink with me.”
“You're getting drunk.”
“You see. Another reason why I'm not very nice.”
She sat on the other side of the sofa resting her back against the arm. “Oh, Neal, why couldn't I have met you before?”
“Before what?”
“Oh, everything. It's me. I'm the problem. I give people a rough time, do terrible things to them, and then feel sorry for myself. I want things to be different with you.” She stopped but her eyes went on, swelling with despair. Then they went blank before that strange and frightening depth took over. I let her go. She must have remained fixated like that for well over five minutes before her head dropped to the back of the couch. I didn't move. I watched her I thought she had gone to sleep and bent over to take off my shoes. But when I sat up she was watching me. The despair was back as if she hadn't blanked out.
“What's wrong with a person who can't cry?” she asked.
I leaned over and took her hand. “Look, Catherine, you're probably very tired, and your emotions have taken such a battering over the past few days that they haven't left you anything to cry with. What you need is a good night's sleep. You take the bedroom. I'll sleep in here. And I'll fix breakfast for you in the morning.”
She looked surprised. “Don't you want to come with me?”
“Sure I want to. But I won't. You've got enough to cope with right now without me. I'll be right here if you need me, but what you really need is to get some rest. No one needs to be crowded while their wounds heal. And after that, well, we'll have all the time in the world.”
She stroked my hand for a few seconds. “I'd better go. I do need to sleep and I'll sleep better at home.”
“I'll take you home,” I said putting my shoes back on.
“No, don't, please. I think I need to be alone for a while.”
I went downstairs with her and held her hand while we walked to her car. I opened the door, then took her in my arms and kissed her. She let her body fall against me. We held on to each other for a while, needing just to stand there together touching. She broke away abruptly and drove off waving. I think she was crying.
27
* * *
What Murphy Said
Back up in the apartment, it occurred to me that I was more or less expecting the usual visit from Uncle Roddy and Fonte. As I sat there, I started feeling very destructive. I stood up with an urge to destroy the room and wished the bastard who had broken in earlier would come back so I could destroy him. I finally decided that a better idea than adding to the mess he'd made in the bedroom would be to go over to Grady's and hit some pool balls with Murphy.
Grady's was still crowded. All the pool tables were taken, but I didn't see Murphy at any of them. That was peculiar. I found him in the back, hunched over
a beer at the bar.
“Hello, Neal,” he said. He was listless, a little loaded maybe. His thin brown face, pointed and ratlike, was longer than usual.
“What's the matter, Murphy?”
He turned to me. “What's the matter? Haven't you heard, Neal? Curly's is gone.”
I had never seen Murphy like this. I hadn't seen Murphy without a cue stick in his hands for probably fifteen years.
“I know, Murph. I read about it in the paper”
“Have you seen it? To the ground, Neal. I mean, Curly's is gone.”
I told Grady to get me a beer.
“I don't know what to do with myself during the day,” Murphy said.
“Why don't you just come here and play?”
“There's no one here, Neal,” he said with disgust. “Grady can't hardly get his ass out of bed before two o'clock.”
“Well, you can't sit around like this forever. You've got to find another place. What about that place over on Exchange Alley?”
“Bunch of screwballs and addicts over there.”
“Speaking of screwballs, I need to talk to you about something, Murph. Remember the Boy Scout? That guy we played pool with over at Curly's the other day?”
“Yeah. The last day.”
“Yeah. Well, I need to know everything you know about him, Murphy. It's important. I know his name is Louie. You got a last name for him?”
“Groz,” he answered. He looked straight ahead. I knew there was something terribly wrong with Murphy when he didn't ask why I wanted to know.
“Where do you know him from?”
“Curly's.”
“From how long ago?”
“I don't know. He's been coming in there off and on for the last several months. A nasty guy, but an easy five. He always cursed when he paid off.”
“Right. I remember him doing that when he paid off the other day. What happened when he came back?”