by John Gault
“You’ve arrived just in time, Margaret. I was down to my last swizzle stick. Do have a tall drink, won’t you.”
“I’ll have what he’s having,” Margaret informed the bartender directly. “Polish vodka if you stock it.”
“You’re still the only person I ever met who orders Polish vodka, Margaret,” David said. Then, “Listen, are you in a hurry or anything? Do you want to talk a little?” She eyed him warily in the mirror, and the hesitancy in her expression was not lost on him. “No,” he said quickly, “no, I don’t want to talk about ‘us’ if that’s what you’re worried about. That’s over.” Maybe it was the soul-anesthetizing qualities of the liquor, but at that moment, however fleeting it might turn out to be, that was just about the way he felt. Just about.
It hadn’t been a long affair, less than a year, but it had been what the Hollywood gossip columnists used to describe as “torrid.” Then Abergail—through no fault of her own, David realized—had come between them. Four years ago she had been visiting Margaret from Indianapolis when the fire made her an orphan. Her Aunt Margaret, having lost her only sister, had kept Abergail with her. And their affair, in fact all of Margaret’s affairs, so far as David knew, had died with the fire as well.
“How’s the girl?” he asked. He felt suddenly sober, which was not exactly welcome relief.
“Growing up. Becoming more interesting. Becoming a woman.” She stirred her drink, licked the swizzle stick, and handed it over to David for his now-forgotten project. “I’m glad I did what I did, David. She needed me very badly; she needed first call on me and my time. That should begin to change soon, when she gets a little older and finds herself a young man.”
“She hasn’t yet?”
“No, She insists she doesn’t like boys.”
Oh, he thought, reaching for her cigarettes. He held the Camel awkwardly, in the manner of a person who never really learned to smoke, and accepted a light from her old Zippo lighter. He puffed half-heartedly, not inhaling, realizing how ridiculous he must look to her and anybody else who happened to be watching.
“What,” he asked carefully, “will that mean for you, you know, when the kid is more on her own? Will you . . . uh . . . start dating again?”
“Haven’t you heard?” she replied with exaggerated sweetness. “I’ve become a dyke.”
“But . . . uh, but . . . I . . .” The cigarette had fallen out of his mouth and was somewhere in his lap, and he was brushing at it frantically. At the same time he was trying to read the expression on her face; he hoped it was a smile, preferably accompanied by a wink. Which was what he got.
“You mean you haven’t heard, David? Why, I’m disappointed in you, what with you being a crack investigator and all. It’s been the talk of the town for some time—or at least the whisper of the town. No, I won’t make you ask. It’s not true; I still like men, or I think I do; I still fantasize about them, anyway. No, I’m not gay, David. I’m just an abstainer. Haven’t you heard? It’s all the rage in New York now. They’re writing books about it. In fact, if you like I’ll even sign one out for you.”
David realized that for the past minute or so he hadn’t exhaled, so he did so, audibly. Yes, he had heard the rumors, and no, he hadn’t believed a word of them. But for a little while there she’d had him going. He ordered two more drinks, stipulating Polish vodka in both.
The alcohol was taking him over, and he had the powerful but controllable urge to reach over and pull the pins that held that golden hair in its bun and to remove the stylish but prim glasses and to open a couple more buttons of the blouse. Sometimes, when she’d come to his place directly from the library, their love-making had begun that way, and he had found it very, very erotic. So, he remembered with a tingling in his stomach, had she.
“Margaret,” he felt clumsy and stupid saying this, “when Abergail’s older, and when you . . . uh . . . feel comfortable with the idea, well, you . . . uh . . . still have my phone number. And you know I still live in the same place. In fact, I think there might even be a half-bottle or so of Polish vodka around somewhere. I . . .”
“David,” she said softly, “I promise you’ll be the first to know.” The bartender was at the cash register, making closing-time noises with the keys and glancing around impatiently at the five or six remaining customers scattered around the small room. Margaret fetched her bag from the floor beside her and made a going-to-the-bathroom move. “If you want to wait a few minutes,” she said over her shoulder, “I’ll drop you off.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she said, “I assume you’re not driving, not after eight swizzle sticks. That would be conduct unbecoming an officer, wouldn’t it?”
Yes, it would. On the way to the men’s room he dropped a dime into the pay phone and left a message with Annie, the despatcher, telling Pedersen not to bother picking him up, that he had a ride. And were there any messages on the Morley business or otherwise? One lead maybe, Annie had said, but it could wait for tomorrow. Good. He was standing at the main entrance to the bar when Margaret emerged from the lady’s john. God, he thought, how I’d like to . . .
“Aren’t you going to save your sculpture?” she asked brightly, brushing close-by as he held the inner door open for her. “It could be worth millions some day.”
The spell was broken, or at least cracked, which was probably just as well. “Nah,” he answered, “those things never sell until you’re dead, anyway.”
They drove in silence for a while. Finally Margaret asked about the Morley case. She’d read about it in the newspaper and knew that he was in charge. He sketched in for her what he knew, which was little more than she’d already read. The business of the strange hole he purposely omitted, however. When he was finished with the telling, an idea flashed across his mind.
“Margaret,” he said, turning to face her profile, “Is there much material in the library on the early history of Jericho? I mean, say from about 1875 or so on?”
“Yes, there is. It’s quite extensive. My predecessor, Mrs. Vogel, fancied herself an amateur historian, and she collected and wrote a great deal about the town. Is there anything specific you have in mind?”
“Yes,” he said. “It relates indirectly—maybe—to the case. I’m really interested in anything that has anything to do with Whately’s Copse and the Whately family in general.”
“I’ll check it out tomorrow,” she promised. “Look, we’re home—at least you are.”
With undisguisable reluctance he undid the seat belt and reached for the door handle. “I don’t suppose,” he said, trying to make what he wanted to ask easy to gracefully refuse, “that I could talk you into a Polish vodka-and-tonic for the road, could I?”
“You men are all alike,” she laughed. Then was serious. “No, David. Not now. Not yet.”
“Give my best to Abergail,” he said, meaning it. “And if you get that stuff for me, would you call me at the station? If I’m not there, you can leave a message.” He closed the car door quietly, respecting the late hour. “Good night, Margaret. It was good seeing you again.”
“Good night, David. Yes, yes it was.” He watched the car ease off, and he followed it with his eyes until the taillights disappeared around the corner six blocks away.
C H A P T E R
10
“Sandy and I had fun tonight, Teddy. We watched Dracula on TV and we ate popcorn and we talked and you know something else, Teddy? We held hands. I think she likes me, Teddy.”
“Hmmph,” the bear replied, sourly.
But Jamie was excited and thus oblivious to his friend’s foul mood. “She does like me, Teddy, I know she does. And she really is beautiful, too. She says we’re friends, Teddy . . . Teddy, what’s the matter?”
“Big deal,” Teddy mumbled.
“What?”
“I said, big deal. What’s the matter with you, you deaf?”
“Don’t you want me to have friends?” Jamie asked, hurt and confusion intermingled in his voice.
“You have me
,” Teddy said, his tone icy. “We’re friends. Or at least we once were. What is it, Jamie, do you think you’re getting too old for me, like Tom and Barbara said? Is it time for Old Teddy to get lost?”
Jamie felt the tears welling in his eyes and the lump forming in his chest. Immediately he abandoned what he was doing—buttoning his pajama top—and took Teddy gently into his arms. He caressed the bear along the zipper on the back, the way Teddy always liked it; and he promised in a quavering voice his undying friendship. Teddy, after maintaining a long silence, finally spoke. “You’re not my first kid, Jamie, and . . .” he sighed, “I guess now you won’t be my last. But seven years is a long time, Jamie, it’s more than half as long as you’ve been alive. I thought . . . I thought we needed one another, but I guess I was wrong. Oh well.”
Jamie had never seen Teddy this way before, and his little boy’s mind was having trouble handling it. Teddy had always been so strong, always knowing what to do. Now he sounded so tired, so hurt. The tears ran down Jamie’s face now and got lost in the flannel fur of Teddy’s shoulder. “Teddy! Teddy!” he wept. “It’ll be okay. Honest it will. Nothing’s going to happen to us; I won’t let it.”
“But you’re going to tell her secrets,” Teddy sniffled, “you’re going to tell her our secrets. You’re going to spoil everything, Jamie.”
“No, Teddy. I won’t tell her anything you don’t want me to tell her.” He held the bear at arm’s length, but still lovingly, so that Teddy could look into his eyes and know that he was not lying. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”
“Cross your heart,” Teddy ordered.
“And hope to die,” Jamie obeyed.
Teddy managed a crooked smile. “Now tell me about the Dracula movie. Especially about Renfield.”
Jamie gasped. How did Teddy know about Renfield, the rat-man, the one who caught flies and fed them to spiders and then ate the spiders? How did he know?
“I know a lot of things, Jamie,” Teddy said, answering the unspoken thought, the unasked question. “A lot of things.”
After another bad start Sandy had slept well and deeply. The alarm, as always, set her heart a-racing, and with eyes still closed she reached out for it. Shit! Wrong side. Her own night table was on the left. But here in this strange bedroom the night table and alarm clock were on the right. She rolled over toward it, then froze. Her eyes were open now. Wide.
“Jesus Christ, Jamie!”
He just sat there on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. She had startled him, but the odd little smile he’d been smiling was still frozen on his face. She saw immediately where he was looking and pulled the top of her nightie together, covering an errant breast. Then, just to make sure, she yanked the covers up to her throat and held them there with her left hand while fumbling for the now-dying alarm clock with her right. All she managed to do was knock it to the floor, where it mercifully breathed its last.
“Jesus Christ, Jamie!” She repeated, almost as if she was expressing her shock for the first time. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her sleeping state had abruptly ended, but consciousness had not yet fully taken over. About all she could understand was that Jamie’s surprise at her outburst had been almost as great as hers at his presence in the room. He looked terrified now, on his feet and backing away, his hand at his mouth, patting absently at trembling lips. “I . . . uh . . . um . . . I . . .” he stammered, his eyes blinking and huge. “I . . . I wasn’t doing anything honest I wasn’t!” He backed into a chair and, unable to keep his balance, fell back into it with a whoomph.
She could not hold back the laughter. It was like something out of a movie, a W. C. Fields or a Marx Brothers. The spell had been broken, the shock and anger dissipated. And the more she looked at him sitting there, his face, uncomprehending, but losing its fear, the harder she laughed. Finally, when Jamie was really sure that it was all right, he laughed too. Then silence, as they wiped away the tears and regarded one another across the room.
“What you did wasn’t funny,” Sandy said finally, her voice not quite as grave as she’d been striving for. “I mean you coming into the room and watching me. You can’t do that, Jamie. That’s not right, not acceptable.” The proper gravity was there now; she didn’t have to fake it. “Didn’t your mother or father ever teach you about respecting other people’s privacy?”
“I wasn’t doing anything,” he replied in a whisper, his eyes flicking nervously toward the door, as if planning a running escape. “I was just looking, just watching you sleep.” He leaned forward, his face flushed and looking very earnest. “You look great when you’re asleep, Sandy. Really beautiful, I mean.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, young man.” She saw his blank expression and realized that—and this was hard to believe—he wasn’t quite sure what the cliché meant. Then came a stirring of comprehension. “Haven’t you ever heard that before, Jamie,” she asked kindly.
He shook his head. “I guess so, and I think I kind of know what it means, but I never heard it. I mean, nobody ever said it to me.” Silence again. Poor, poor Jamie, Sandy thought. She now had no indignation left for the boy, and she told herself that what he’d done really wasn’t all that bad anyway. Boys will be boys. And girls will be girls; she recalled that morning at the Provincetown Inn on Cape Cod when she’d come back from playing on the breakwater and found her parents making love. They hadn’t pulled the curtains together properly, and she could see the two of them quite clearly. Though she had known it was wrong to watch, she’d been fascinated, and it was only when some other people had come out of the room next door that she had moved away. She had been twelve at the time, Jamie’s age.
He stood now, with his hands stuffed in his pockets, twisting a little from side to side and edging toward the door. But his eyes were still on her; in fact, they had been fixed on her the whole time. “I’m sorry, Sandy,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.” Then, to her relief, he turned away and reached for the doorknob. When he was halfway out the door, he turned and faced her again. He seemed very composed now. “I didn’t do anything, though,” he said. “I was just watching. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.” Then, in what seemed to her to be a very deliberate afterthought, he added, “I’m just a little boy, you know.” And he was gone.
Yes, Jamie, you’re just a little boy. At least you look like a little boy. But sometimes . . . sometimes you don’t act like a little boy at all. Sometimes your eyes . . . oh, for Christ’s sake, Sandy, get your ass out of bed and make some breakfast and stop seeing things that aren’t there!
“Well?”
“I saw her breasts, Teddy. I mean, I saw one of them.”
“Tits, Jamie. Tits. And?”
“It was . . . it was like I said, Teddy. Just like the girl in Playboy. Not as big, I don’t think, but the same shape. And the nipple part was smaller and it was really pink. And the other part, the part around the nipple, it was pink too, not like Barbara’s.”
“Like Miss Livingstone’s, I’ll bet. Probably not as nice. What about her cunt?”
“I didn’t see it, Teddy. She woke up. She caught me.”
“Well, Jamie, soon you’ll have to be smarter, won’t you. You promised, Jamie. We made a bargain.”
“I know, Teddy.”
“So?”
“Tonight, Teddy. I’ll try again tonight.”
David Bentley woke at his usual time, a quarter after seven, and was halfway out of bed before he realized that he was not a well man. In truth, he was a patently unwell man, a man afflicted with the mother and father of all hangovers. He sat on the edge of the bed, his head pounding, hating himself for any number of reasons, not the least of which being that he knew he looked like a cliché. The open Courvoisier bottle, drained but for a thimbleful, taunted him from the low dresser that also served as his nightstand. Where the hell was the snifter? Oh yeh. On the rug. On its side, next to that dark, wet stain. “God,” he muttered, “if you get me through this
day, I swear I’ll never ever do it again.” Sure, Bentley, He’s heard that one before. Next time, stick with vodka all the way, and for Chrissake quite trying to play the Casablanca role, because you’re not worth a shit at it.
He stumbled into the kitchen, filled the electric kettle, and plugged it in; he dropped coffee beans into the grinder, wincing all the while as they landed like golf balls on a tin roof; and bracing his nerve endings against the inevitable, he pushed the button on the side. The effect was like a cement mixer—just before it explodes. Miraculously, he lived through it.
While the coffee was dripping into the Pyrex pot, he found the bathroom, where he examined his face for permanent damage while screwing up his courage for the shower, which, he was certain, would rip the skin right off him. It almost did, but right at the last minute he managed to rescue himself.
The coffee tasted like crankcase oil—boiling crankcase oil—and his stomach came within one lurching roll of rejecting it. I should eat something, he told himself; but the thought brought the coffee back up into his gullet, and he decided to forgo the pleasure. The clock on the stove claimed it was now 7:49. For the first time he looked toward the window and ascertained that it was another in an immoderately long stretch of sunny summer days. Well, at least he could wear his sunglasses with a certain amount of impunity. He dressed quickly in an all-fresh uniform—which made him feel marginally better—and strapped on the issue .357 Magnum. Unlike most of the other officers, he wore the gun butt-backward on his right hip, accessible to either hand. Although he had never killed or wounded a man with that gun, he had fired it a number of times in anger, most recently at a couple of punks fleeing in a stolen LTD from a service station robbery. Shooting left-handed while driving between ninety and ninety-five miles an hour, he had put a bullet into the LTD’s trunk. The slug then passed through the backseat, between the two men in the front, through the dash and firewall, and blew the carburetor completely to pieces. The punks had climbed out with their hands on their heads, and their frightened eyes never left the black hole of a gun muzzle he kept pointed at them until Helen McLachlan drove up and cuffed the two of them.