Final Notice

by Jonathan Valin

  I tousled her hair. “Did you ever find out who it was?”

  “One night I went up there and knocked on the door. He wasn't good-looking, it turned out. Skinny with a beard and dark, soulful eyes. But I was enchanted by the sound of those bedsprings. I honestly think they were what brought me back to life. Plus a little help from my shrink. I didn't waste any time. When you're just starting therapy you don't, you know. If you think I'm impetuous now, you should have seen me then. I was as devoted to candor as a high school valedictorian. No more holding things in for Kate. All sunny surface and uninhibited instincts. I was a real asshole. That's step one in therapy, Harry. The asshole stage. So I said to the guy, ‘I live downstairs and I'd like to make love to you.’ His eyes got as big as gumballs. ‘Sure thing,’ he said. Then I told him it was only for that once, that I wasn't looking to become involved, just to gratify a whim. Because I'd spent a long time not gratifying whims. He licked his chops and said, ‘Sure thing.’ So we made love. And you wouldn't have believed it, but it was really wonderful, lying there and listening to those bed-springs sigh and sing.”

  Kate laughed at herself. “Stupid story, huh?”

  “No,” I said.

  She looked a little embarrassed. After all, she was the girl who thought the past was sad and small, as if real life were invariably huge and happy. So I told her of one of my own misadventures. Told her about Jo Riley, the black-haired lady with the heart-shaped face, whom I'd loved and lost. And about the nights I'd spent after she was gone, trying to convince myself and everyone else that it was still O.K. with old Harry. Mornings when I'd get out of bed and, maybe a half hour later, the girl who I'd picked up in some bar would get up, too. Only there wasn't any breakfast in bed in those days. Just some small, sad silences while we dressed. And a kiss at the door that was as personal as a handshake. And when she'd gone, I'd go into the bathroom and count the circles under my eyes like I was counting the rings on a tree trunk. And it would always come up the same sad, small number. That kind of addition only has one sum. And it's depressing.

  “You never found her?” Kate said. “You never found Jo?”

  “No,” I said. “Which is funny. Because that's my business, finding things that people have lost and want back.”

  She propped herself on an elbow and looked at me sympathetically. “She was a fool,” Kate said.

  I laughed at her. “Well she didn't have your fine sense of my virtues. She didn't have the heart for this kind of life.”

  Kate sat back in the bed. “In spite of what I said last night, I do. And I'm going to prove it to you.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?” I asked.

  “By helping to catch the Ripper,” she vowed solemnly.

  ******

  We got dressed and around ten o'clock we walked out to the parking lot.

  “Where are we going?” Kate said in a chipper voice.

  I thought over that “we” for a second and decided, why not?

  “First to the Lord house. Then to an old friend of mine who knows a bit about speed freaks and where they hang out.”

  “All right,” Kate said. “Lead on.”

  We took Taft to the expressway, got off at Dana, then went north on Madison to Stettinius. I pulled up in front of the Lord home at ten-thirty. After filling Kate in on what we could expect from the mother and from the loyal brother, we hopped out of the car and walked up the cut-stone pathway to the front door. The maple trees along the street had been stripped bare by the storm, and that sweet anise-smell of goldenrod was almost gone. It felt like winter on the street—a bright blue cold that should have gone with snow and the rigors of December, not with the burnt-orange of an October morning.

  With Kate beside me, I walked up to the stoop and rang the doorbell.

  Jake answered again, in another turtle-neck sweater and loose khaki pants, with a look of exhaustion on his tow-headed, choir-boy's face. I realized that the police had probably paid the Lords a call the night before, after I'd talked with Al Foster. And hearing the bitter truth about his brother, hearing what he was wanted for, could easily have made for a sleepless night.

  “Mr. Stoner,” he said with a trace of bitterness in his voice. “What more can we do for you?”

  “I wonder if we could come in, Jake, and talk?”

  “About Haskell, you mean?”

  I nodded.

  He took a deep breath and said, “Why not? Mother isn't in any state to talk. Well, you can imagine. But if you want to talk to me. I mean if there's anything...”

  He looked down miserably at the walk.

  Kate patted him on the arm and Jake flinched and pulled back.

  “I'm sorry,” he said after a second. “It's just been an awful night. And then I've never much liked being touched. I guess it's a Lord family tradition.”

  He led us down that corridor to the fifties den, where we sat on the L-shaped couch. I introduced him to Kate and he nodded to her politely. Then I told him what I knew about his brother. About the speed. About the art books and the killings and the fact that Hack had been seen at the Withrow gym.

  “I know it's a hard thing to ask of you, Jake. I know how you feel about your brother. But Withrow's only a stone's throw from here. Have you seen him since he moved away? Has he come by the house?”

  Jake glanced about the room with the same forlorn look he'd, had on his face when he'd heard his mother talking Haskell down. He shook his head sadly and said, “Yeah, I've seen him. Or what was left of him. I just didn't want Mother to know.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “A couple of months ago.”

  “Do you know why he was hanging around the gym and the field house?” I said. “What drew him back there?”

  “Old times, I guess,” Jake said with a sigh. “I guess he just couldn't believe what had happened to him.”

  I looked closely at the boy's face. “You don't know where he is now, do you, Jake?”

  He didn't bat an eye. “No. I'd tell you if I did.” Jake got up suddenly from his chair. “Can I show you something, Mr. Stoner? Can I show you what Hack used to be like? Then maybe you'll understand why he came back to the school and the house.”

  He led us back down the hallway, up the mahogany staircase to a second floor room. “This was Hack's room,” he said as we stood outside the door. “His stuff is still inside.”

  He pushed the door open and we walked in.

  At first glance it looked like a boy's room out of a television serial, right down to the Dartmouth pennant hung above the knotty pine bunkbeds and the trophies on the bureau. Only when you looked at it more carefully, the rah-rah flavor disappeared. Instead of black-light posters and a picture of Farrah Fawcett, you saw Haskell's water colors on the walls, matted and neatly framed like the one in Effie Reaves's trailer. Instead of Time and Newsweek there were wrestling magazines piled in a wicker basket. A family Bible sat on a lamp table, with a red ribbon sticking out of the gold leaves to mark the page. A sketch of Jesus was pasted to the closet door, His eyes looking empty and remote, as if He'd lost all interest in the inhabitants of that little room. And above the bunk beds, a single photo of Haskell and Jake, comparing biceps while their mother looked on with mixed approval—a little allegory of Lord family life.

  It was all as sad as Jacob had known it would be, full of the heart-breaking ironies that define any tragic scene. The paintings, sensitive and colorful, dwindling to that bare line sketch of a remorseless Christ on the closet door. The Bible with its tatter of ribbon and its birthday cake trim, sitting on the bedstand as if that was what he'd read Before sleep—searching out some reason for his own fitful, violent turn of mind. And all of it set in that never-never land of the college banners and the gilded trophies, which sat like bronzed baby shoes on the pine bureau.

  “If you could have seen him before the Reaves woman,” Jake said. “Before she and mother had destroyed his confidence, you'd understand why I love him. He was so talente
d, Mr. Stoner. So sensitive and so strong. He was perfect.” Jake blushed as if he'd said a dirty word. “I know that sounds corny, but he was very important to me. I wouldn't have survived childhood without him. Without my big brother.”

  Jake lowered his head. “I'll let you know if he comes back, Mr. Stoner. But I hope he doesn't. God help me, I hope you never find him. And that wherever he is, he's found peace.”

  We left Jacob in his brother's room and walked back down the staircase to the door.

  “It's so sad,” Kate said to me. “And terrible. I don't know how he can stand it.”

  “That wasn't Haskell Lord we were seeing in there,” I said to her. “That was Jake. The way he remembers his brother. And that is sad. But so is what his brother did to Twyla Belton and Effie Reaves. And more terrible than you could believe.”

  “I just feel sorry for him,” she said. “That's all.”

  ******

  We drove silently through the cold autumn morning to Ogden Street, parked in front of the elm with the yellow X on its trunk, and walked up that dingy stairway to the third floor, to Gerald Arnold's hippie flat.

  “Who lives here?” Kate said, eyeing the peace symbol and the cross on the door. “Bishop Pike?”

  “Gerald Arnold,” I said flatly. “A man who knows a bit about speed.”

  I knocked at the door and waited. If he was coming off the night shift it would take him a moment to wake up and get his bearings. But Gerald didn't take that moment. He just flung the door wide open and said, “Yeah?”

  He was naked as a jay, except for a sweater cap on his hairy head and a joint he'd filed like a pencil behind his ear and apparently forgotten when he'd gone to sleep.

  Kate clapped a hand to her mouth and laughed. Gerald looked down penitently at his naked body. “Oh, wow, man!” he said. “I'm sorry!”

  He padded over to the mattress, pulled off the sheet, and wrapped it around his hips.

  “I don't know what's come over me,” he said, knotting the sheet at his waist. “I've been doing some weird things lately, man. Forgetting where I am and stuff. It's that fucking night shift, you know?” He looked down at the floor and said, “And then going to church all the time. It just wears you down, man.”

  “Can we come in, Gerald?”

  “Oh, sure, man,” he said and sat down on the mattress. “Just don't pay any attention to the mess.”

  The place looked exactly the same as it had on Wednesday night. Right down to the calico cat lapping milk from a saucer. I sat down on one of the Heart Mart armchairs and Kate looked at the other one and said, “I'll pass.”

  “So what can I do for you?” Gerald Arnold said.

  “If I wanted to buy some speed, Gerald, where could I get it?”

  “I'm clean, man,” he said quickly. “I told you I'm clean.”

  “This is purely academic, Gerald. I just want to know who deals speed in Hyde Park and where I can find them.”

  “Academic, huh? That means not-for-real, right?”

  I laughed.

  He scratched his head, found the joint, blushed a little, then said, “Aw, well, what the hell!” and lit up. “You do a little smoke, man?” he said, passing the joint to me.

  I shook my head. “Different generation.”

  “Well, I'm not!” Kate said.

  “All right!” Gerald passed her the j and she took a long toke.

  “It ain't real good, stuff,” Gerald said. “But it'll get you high.”

  Kate blew out the smoke and grinned at him. “This is dynamite!”

  “No,” he said with a tickle of pride in his voice. “It's just street-grass.” He took another toke and passed it back to Kate, who was beginning to look a little glassy-eyed.

  “About the speed,” he said and puffed out a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. “There was a dude selling pills up near the high school. Real ragged-looking fucker with mean eyes and black hair.”

  “I think I know him,” I said grimly and thought that old Hack hadn't been hanging around that gym for sentimental reasons alone. “Where would you find this guy, if you wanted to score some drugs?”

  He shrugged. “Up at the track, man. There are some trees behind the fieldhouse and he'd kind of mosey on back there to do his business. Only I ain't seen this guy around in awhile.”

  “How long a while?”

  “At least a couple of weeks, man. And that's an eternity in the trade.”

  I glanced at Kate, who was now sitting in the other chair and looking very happy.

  “Is there another place in Hyde Park where speed freaks hang out? Some place where they might know this guy or what happened to him?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “There's a place in Oakley on Edwards Road. A coffee shop, you know? Some dudes over there used to hang out with this guy. Only...” He looked at Kate and shook his head. “I wouldn't be taking no chick over there. Especially a nice chick like her. Dudes might get the wrong idea, you know?”

  “Will you come over there with me, Gerald?” I said, because I had the feeling that I wouldn't get anywhere on my own. “All I want to know is where the guy you've been talking about hangs out.”

  “Sure,” he said. “I'll go. But it'll cost you.”

  I reached for my wallet and Gerald shook his head.

  “You gotta come to church with me, man. Talk to Brother Stearns. Get a little religion, man.”

  I smiled and told him I'd go to church with him.

  20

  KATE WASN’T thrilled with the idea of splitting up. And it didn't take a detective to figure out why. She was still feeling guilty about the previous night and she didn't want to leave me with the impression that there was a drop of fear left in her body. For better than three years, she hadn't wanted to leave anyone with that impression, because for better than three years she'd been secretly afraid that it was her weakness, rather than her strength, that had cost her her marriage.

  “This is a pretty lousy thing to do to your partner, Harry,” she said as we pulled into the library lot.

  I pointed to the back seat, where Gerald Arnold was bouncing around like a kid on a merry-go-round horse, and said, “It wasn't my idea. It was Gerald's.”

  “Yeah?” She gave me a look, as if to say, “You didn't put up much of a fight.” And of course, I hadn't. Whether it stung her pride or not, I didn't want Kate involved with the men Gerald and I were going to meet. I wanted her out of harm's way, even if it meant cheating on our agreement. Which was hopelessly old-fashioned and chauvinistic and probably a few other disagreeable things. But that's the way I felt.

  “Well, thanks for the grass, Gerald,” Kate said as she got out of the car. “And try to see that this one doesn't get into any trouble.”

  “Oh, I'll look out for him,” he said earnestly.

  “I'll be back in about an hour,” I told her. “If I come up with anything, I'll call. If not, I'll probably stop at Withrow to see if I can dig up any more information about Hack.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said grouchily and walked off to the library door. Gerald tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “I was just wondering,” he said in all innocence. “What does a housing inspector have to do with speed freaks?”

  I laughed. “I'm a private detective, Gerald. Not a housing inspector.”

  “Oh!” He smiled as if that had taken care of all his doubts. “Like Rockford Files, huh?”

  “Like Rockford Files,” I said.

  “Neat,” Gerald Arnold said and sat back on the seat.

  ******

  Oakley is a small municipality on the northeast side of town. It's a blue-collar neighborhood, for the most part—modest homes that are as decent as well-kept graves and, here and there, a small factory or block of retail stores. Like most blue-collar neighborhoods, it has its rough spots. Bars where the boys that work at G.M. and Cincinnati Millacron go to blow off a little steam. The part of Edwards Road that Gerald directed me to was very rough, indeed. Right ab
ove old Duck Creek Road. A hillside dotted with tough saloons and eateries, full of truckers and motorcycle hoods.

  We parked beneath a drooping street lamp on the west side of Edwards, and Gerald told me to wait in the car while he checked things out.

  He walked across the street to one of the diners—a seedy-looking spot called the Tic-Toc Lounge. Real Home Cooking, it said in decal on the window. But the two or three guys sitting sidesaddle on their choppers in the parking lot didn't look as if they knew what a real home was. Or much cared. Gerald walked up to one of them and started to talk. He pointed across Edwards to where I was parked. The guy he was talking to held out his hand as if he were expecting a tip.

  I figured that's exactly what he was expecting. And I was right. Gerald came trotting back across the street and leaned up against the Pinto. “He'll talk to you,” he said. “But he wants some bread.”

  “How much bread?” I said.

  “Twenty bucks.”

  I said all right.

  Gerald waved his arm and a skinny, balding man hopped off one of the bikes and crossed the street. He had a head like a painted egg. Little curls of brown hair that lay flat against his naked skull. Big brown eyes that were almost boyish, in spite of the dark circles beneath them. A small chipmunk's mouth full of black broken teeth that looked as if they'd been knocked out, once upon a time, and then thrown back inside for storage. He was wearing a leather motorcycle jacket, blue jeans, and sneakers. No shirt. And he smelled like Norris Reaves's goat shed. Speed breath. The smell of rot.

  “What's happening, man?” he said when he got up to the car. He sat down on the front seat beside me, and Gerald leaned against the open window next to him. This guy had a squeaky voice and it came out in quick, nervous bleats, like the chirping of a baby doll that someone kept stepping on out of spite. “You got the bread, man?”

  He held out his hand—an old man's hand, hooked and grimy with a couple of nailless fingers, like a hand in a horror film. I began to understand why Jake Lord had wanted to show me that boyhood room, to show me what his brother had been like before Effie Reaves and the drugs had destroyed him. It was as if Haskell Lord were sitting there beside me. This grim biker was probably no older than Haskell, and like Hack, he was burned out—all of the history that's packed inside of us, that gives us form and character, had been let out through the holes in his arm. What was left was that eggshell head and the hunger that made his fingers twitch expectantly.