The Sour Lemon Score p-12

by Richard Stark

  As far as Matt Rosenstein was concerned, though, he himself was still straight. Brock was a faggot, and the relationship they had was sex-based, but that was just because living with a guy had business advantages and other advantages over living with a broad. Matt was still straight, and when he got a shot at a woman he still took it and it still wasn’t very good, but he was still straight.

  Like Uhl’s woman down in Washington this afternoon. Now, she might have been okay. She looked as though she ought to be a real tiger in the rack, but of course by the time she opened her head about Georgy Porgy she wasn’t feeling too frisky anymore, and the way it turned out she lay there and took it when he climbed abroad. So it was fun, but not a hell of a lot fun. Anybody in his right mind would prefer a Paul Brock to something like that. You wouldn’t have to be a fag.

  And Paul came in handy in a lot of ways. Like at the moment he was on watch in front of the house. The two of them had been there since about eight o’clock this evening, waiting to see something happen, and nothing had happened. At twenty to twelve the last light went out in there, and that was when Matt said, “Stay here. If he comes out, let him have it in the leg. I’ll be right back.” And he’d driven here, to this phone booth on a corner three blocks away, and now the phone was making its ringing sound in his ear, and after fourteen rings there was at last a click, and then a silence, and than a shaky, small male voice said, “Hello?”

  “Let me talk to George,” Matt said.

  There was a sharp intake of breath, and then silence, and then words in a rush: “There isn’t any George here. You’ve got the wrong number.”

  “No, I don’t, honey. I want to talk to George Uhl.”

  “There’s no one here by that name.” The voice was shakier than ever.

  Had something got George’s wind up? Had he taken off someplace? Matt said, “Then how do I get in touch with him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know any George Uhl.” The shakiness in his voice called him a liar with every word he said.

  Matt nodded comfortably at the phone. “I’m okay, baby,” he said. “I’m straight. I’m Matt Rosenstein. I just talked to George yesterday. I want to talk to him again, that’s all.”

  “Matt Rosenstein?” The voice sounded uncertain now.

  Matt frowned. Had it been a mistake to mention his name? George would be running from that guy Parker these days, wouldn’t he? Not from Matt Rosenstein. He said, “Sure. George and me are old buddies.”

  Still uncertain, the voice said, “He mentioned your name. He did mention your name.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “But he isn’t here now. I honestly don’t know where he is.” Then, with gathering certainty, “But if you want to leave a message— “

  “When did he leave?”

  “He never was here,” the voice said very quickly again, and Matt knew he was lying. He’d just said he isn’t here now. “But he’ll be calling here,” the voice said. “You want me to give him a message?”

  “Sure,” Man said. “Tell him I called, will you?”

  “Is there any place he can call you back? The same number as before?”

  For a second Matt felt doubt. If this guy knew the number from the last message maybe he really was just another stage in the chain. Maybe messages went first to the broad in Washington and then after that up to this guy in Philadelphia and then to George himself anywhere in the country. Anywhere in the country. Just call his buddy in Philly every once in a while, see if there’s any messages. George just might be that smart.

  Except that this guy was too shaky, and his words contradicted each other, and Matt just had a feeling. George had been hid out here, right here, right in this guy’s house. Maybe something had spooked him, maybe Parker was on the prowl again, or maybe the broad had got herself untied and to a phone — though he doubted that — and so George wasn’t here anymore, but he had been here, and of that Matt was dead certain.

  And George would want to keep in touch. He’d want a line into his regular life; he’d want to know how things were going. And he’d keep on doing it through this Ed Saugherty, it only stood to reason.

  Matt said, “No, that number isn’t good anymore. Just tell him I’ll get in touch. Okay?”

  “All right,” the voice said.

  “Bye,” said Matt, his voice soft, and put the phone back on its hook. He nodded at the phone, thinking, and then went out and got into his car and drove back to where Paul was sitting next to a hedge on the front lawn across the street from the Saugherty house. Matt parked the car and got out and Paul came over and Matt asked him, “Anything happen?”

  “A light went on is all. It’s still on.”

  Matt look across the street, and a light was shining in the house somewhere. “I guess I got him nervous,” Matt said.

  “Come on.”

  “Is he in there?”

  Matt led the way across the street. “Not now. I don’t think so, not now. But he was. And Saugherty know where he went. Come on.”

  They didn’t go direct to the front door but angled over to a corner of the house. Matt boosted Paul up and Paul stood on his shoulders, bracing himself with one hand against the wall while he reached up with a pair of wire cutters in the other and snipped the telephone wire. Then he got down to the ground again and they walked half a dozen steps to the garage door. Matt tried it and it lifted. They went in and Matt switched on the light and they shut the door again. They made no effort to be quiet.

  The door between the garage and the kitchen was locked, but it had glass in the upper half. Matt took a pistol from under his jacket and smashed the glass with the butt. He reached through and unlocked the door and he and Paul stepped through. The kitchen was half lit with spill from the living room. They went into the house and shut the door behind them, and in the kitchen they met a wild-eyed man in bathrobe and pajamas and slippers, scuffing hurriedly across the floor in their direction. He stopped when he saw them and said, “What are you doing? What are you doing here?” It was the same voice Matt had heard on the phone.

  Matt saw a light switch and clicked it on. Ed Saugherty squinted in the white glare, and Matt said to Paul, “Go check out the rest of the house.”

  “Just a minute,” Saugherty said. “Just a minute.” He made as though to block Paul’s path, but Matt held the pistol up where Saugherty could see it, and Saugherty stayed where he was. Paul left the room.

  They waited, neither saying anything. After a couple of minutes they heard a complaining woman’s voice and then a kid crying because he didn’t want to be awake. Saugherty said, “You can’t just — ” and then quit. Because they both knew Matt could. Just.

  Paul called from the living room, “Okay, Matt.”

  Matt waved the pistol at Saugherty. “Let’s join them.”

  They went into the living room. Paul had closed the drapes over the picture window. A woman looking angry and scared was sitting on the sofa with three kids lined out beside her. The kids all looked teary and scared.

  Matt said to Paul, “This it?”

  Paul said, “There’s somebody been using the guest room, but he’s gone now. No luggage or anything.”

  “So he isn’t coming back,” Matt said. “Or maybe he is.”

  The woman snapped, “He isn’t. We didn’t want him here, and we don’t: want you here.”

  Saugherty tried to shush her by patting the air with his hands, saying, “Pam. Pam.”

  “You make me sick,” she told him and then didn’t look at him anymore. She glared at Matt instead.

  Man said to Saugherty, “I’m the fella just phoned a little while ago.”

  “Rosenstein?”

  “That’s right. Very good. Matt Rosenstein. Now, all I want is to have a nice talk with George. You know? I’m sorry to get everybody out of bed this way, but I feel it’s kind of urgent. So all you have to do is say where George went, and we’ll go right away again.”

  Saugherty shook his head. “I don’t know
where he went. I really don’t.”

  “That would be an awful shame,” Matt said, “because we don’t plan to leave here until we find out where he went. So if you really don’t know, it isn’t going to be so good for you.”

  “He’s supposed to call,” Saugherty said. He sounded desperate. He kept blinking. He said, “He told me he’d call, but he didn’t tell me where he was or where he was going. I swear he didn’t. But he’ll call.”

  “Well, that’s another shame,” Matt said, “since we just cut the phone wires. So we’re stuck with you telling us where George is. You see how it is?”

  “But I don’t know!”

  “Well, then, maybe he’ll come back,” Matt said, and by the expression that flicked across Saugherty’s face for just a second he knew he’d hit on it. Saugherty’s eyes glanced to one side, his mouth made a small grimace, and then it was over. But that was all Matt needed. He nodded and said, “Yeah, that’d be nice. He’ll come back here. How soon do you figure he’ll be back, Ed?”

  Saugherty said, “He isn’t coming back. He’ll just call. When there’s no answer, he’ll be afraid to come back.”

  “Naw. Not if the phone’s just out of order. He’ll be back. And we’ll just wait for him. Unless you’ve got some idea where he is? Some small idea?”

  “I don’t. I swear I don’t.”

  The woman said, “Ed, if you’re protecting that man — “

  “For the love of God, Pam, do you think I’d — “

  Matt turned to her, smiling his little smile. “Maybe you know something you’d like to tell us.”

  “I didn’t talk to him,” she snapped. “My husband talked to him when he called.”

  “He called?” Matt turned back to the husband. “When was this, Ed?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “And what did he say, Ed?”

  “He said he wasn’t coming back, but he’d call, he’d let me know what was happening.”

  “He didn’t say where he was?”

  “He said he was in Washington; some girl was beaten up down there or something.”

  “In Washington.”

  “But he wasn’t staying there. He said he was leaving right after the phone call.”

  “It’s a mobile age,” Matt said. “It’s easy to forget that. So the son of a bitch was in Washington today, was he?” He looked at Paul. “He’ll be back, won’t he?”

  “I don’t know, Matt. The phone out of order could scare him off.”

  “Can you splice it, patch it up?”

  “Maybe. It looked like there was some tools and stuff out in the garage.”

  Matt thought and then nodded. “Okay. We’ll fix the phone and we’ll wait. And George will call, and Ed, you’ll tell him everything’s okay here, he can come back, no trouble. And you better sound convincing.”

  “Oh, I will,” Saugherty said, and all at once he sounded bitter. “I don’t owe George Uhl anything, don’t you worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” Matt said.

  Paul said, “You want me to fix the phone now, Man?”

  “Not yet. A little later. Right now you keep an eye on everybody while the little lady gives me a tour of the house.” He smiled at her and saw the startled expression on her face. But she wasn’t as tough as that bitch down in Washington this afternoon; she wouldn’t take as much convincing. There’d be a lot of energy left in her when they got to it.

  Paul said, “Must you?” His voice was full of hurt, like always.

  Matt shrugged, grinning at him. “Just a boyish peccadillo,” he said. “It don’t mean anything, baby.” He turned and took a step over to the wife. He put his hand out. “Come on, Pam, I got the hots to see your house.”

  “Don’t touch me,” she said and leaned back against the sofa to keep away from him.

  He leaned forward to take her arm, and she slapped at his hand, and he slapped her hard across the face. One of the kids let out a shriek.

  Saugherty shouted something and ran at Matt. Everybody always needed convincing. He reached out one hand and held Saugherty with it and used the other hand to start hitting him.

  Six

  The doorbell woke Joyce Langer from a dream in ‘which seven old crones who smelled like bacon were trying to drown her beside a rowboat on a cold, black river surrounded by fog. She came out of the dream slowly, almost reluctantly, fighting off the bony hands for a long time, her mind confused in its attempt to fit the sound of the ringing into her dream somehow, a black stone church with a bell ringing in its steeple appearing out of the fog just as the fog crumbled away entirely and she was awake, in bed, in a room in a building on West 87th Street in New York City, alone, unhappy, in darkness, with the doorbell ringing.

  Her clock radio over on the dresser had a luminous dial, and it read twelve minutes past one o’clock in the morning. Who would be ringing her bell at a time like this?

  She thought of Tom Lynch, the strange tough man who’d taken her to dinner this evening. Could he be back? She had a sudden sexual vision, almost physically staggering in its effect, and then it drained away again and she admitted to herself just how unlikely it was that Tom Lynch would have returned at this hour, and how much more remote from possibility that he would be here to have sex with her. She knew the kind of man she attracted, the kind of man she could succeed with, and he wasn’t it.

  Then who was it? The doorbell rang again as she switched on the light and got out of bed, smoothing her peach pajamas down over her legs. Various people from the past flickered through her mind as she went to the closet for her robe, and then she thought of George Uhl, and she stopped with the robe half on, knowing that that was who it was.

  George Uhl.

  She was suddenly terrified. She’d never been afraid of George before, not really afraid, but what she was feeling now was terror, and she quickly analyzed it for what it was. Guilt. Guilt at having helped Tom Lynch, George’s enemy.

  Had George found out? Was he coming to get even with her?

  Paranoia lies close beneath every skin. She wondered briefly if Tom Lynch had been a trick, a test set up by George to see if he could trust her. Then Lynch had gone back to him and said, “She spilled everything about you, George.” Now George was here to pay her back.

  The thumb out there jabbed and jabbed at the bell. She couldn’t ignore it, no matter what.

  She ran through the apartment, her throat constricted as though she were wearing a too-tight necklace. She stopped at the door, breathless, panting as though she’d run a mile, and stooped to peer through the peephole in the door, seeing the face there she’d known she would see.

  But not the expression. Not anger, not cold rage, not the determination to get even with anybody. As she watched, he turned his head and looked over his shoulder, and she saw how loosely his jaw hung. He turned back this way to ring the bell again, and she saw how pale the skin was around his eyes, how large his eyes looked.

  He was terrified. George was terrified.

  Now guilt wrapped her completely. She’d betrayed George to Tom Lynch, and the result was now outside her door, frightened, urgent, desperate. Coming to her for protection.

  She unlocked the door and opened it, and George burst in, shoving the door so that it smacked painfully into her shoulder. “Took long enough,” he said and slammed the door again.

  The only light was the pale line across the floor from the ceiling light in the bedroom. She stood there, unable to think, and he switched on the nearest floor lamp and looked at her. “Still the same,” he snapped as though it were an accusation. He jerked his head at the bedroom. “You got anybody in there?”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t think.

  “Not you,” he said. His own fear had made him scornful and savage. He turned away from her and strode off toward the bedroom.

  She trailed after him, trying to sort out the moods in her head. She got to the bedroom and saw him standing beside the bed, leaning one hand on the wall while he kicked hi
s shoes off. He looked over at her and said, “I’m in a jam. I need to be hidden out for a while.”

  She nodded, looking at him wide-eyed.

  He made an obvious mammoth attempt to be agreeable to her, sticking a false smile on his face and saying, “You’re the only one I can trust, Joyce. It’s always you I come to when I’m in trouble.”

  A dull anger, like the beginning of heartburn, began inside her. It was such a cheap and obvious lie. He didn’t even work very hard to make her believe it. She was supposed to be grateful for whatever dregs she got; she wasn’t supposed to look the gift horse in the mouth. All he had to do was give her the bare outline of the role she was to play, and then she would play it.

  Had it always been that way? The anger turned sour because it had.

  He was taking off his shirt. “You don’t know how it’s been, Joyce,” he was saying. “On the run like this.” He came walking over to her, that smile on his face. “You were the only one I could turn to.”

  She knew it was a lie. She knew it was a lie. She stood there and let him put his arms around her, her body shivering inside the blue robe and the peach pajamas. In the last instant before his face was too close to be in focus she saw the expression change on it, saw it turn scornful and sure of itself. But then he was kissing her, his hands were stroking the bathrobe, and there was nothing to do but close her eyes and not believe or remember what she’d seen or what she knew, close her eyes and put her arms around him and believe whatever she wanted to believe.

  His one hand slid down her back, down past the indentation of her waist, down over the curve of her rump, cupping against the bottom of her torso, pulling her close against his body. She felt him against her, and she felt how hungry she was, and she stopped agonizing over it. Even when he murmured her name in her ear, giving her a spurious individuality, she ignored what she knew.