“Harry,” I said, “my legs…I can’t move any more…”
“Oh, I’ll call the police.” Bagwell looked out at the woods. “I think I can beat the chair by describing Lorene to any reasonably male jury. I’ll go to the state penitentiary where the warden is a friend of mine. So are many of the inmates. In a few months, I’ll be running the place. And there are, I’ve learned, worse places in the world to be than a well-run penitentiary.”
CHAPTER 18.
Doyle perched on a chair in my hospital room. He watched as I limped to the closet and reached for a necktie.
“I’ll give you a ride to your apartment,” he drawled, “in a squad car.”
“Thanks.”
“If you like, I’ll turn the siren on.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I wouldn’t mind. I couldn’t say it before. You were making monkeys out of us, and my pride wouldn’t let me. But I think you put on a helluva good show. Too bad everything worked out the way it did.”
I tightened the knot.
“Everything worked out the way it had to work out. I did what I came to this city to do. What’s too bad?”
“Steve, after what you’ve been through, you must have a pretty lousy opinion of the human race. Leeches trying to suck you dry. Lice like Nesbitt and that photographer hurting you out of sheer spite. Rats like Amber and gray wolves like Schell hurting you out of greed. And the woman your brother died for tried to blow your brains out with a shotgun.”
“That’s one side of it,” I admitted. “But there’s another. Total strangers went out of their way to help me because they were decent people. Guys like Sam Alban, the Moreland doorman, and the cabbies who helped look for Mexoil. Betsy and her friends. Irma Bronson. Don Collins and Max Fuller. The old rascal, I learned he’d been charging me half what he charges other people all along. And for every Nesbitt, there are a hundred reporters like Totten. That balances the picture, doesn’t it? By the way, what will they do to Lorene’s father?”
“He’s in such poor health they won’t press charges. Anyhow, Lorene and Bagwell did everything against Heine-man’s wishes. Bagwell’s trial starts next month. He’ll fight for a life sentence—on what grounds, he hasn’t disclosed yet.
“Think he’ll get the chair?”
“He might get sentenced to it. But the governor is against capital punishment. And Bagwell still has friends close to the governor’s mansion. If anyone’s death sentence gets commuted to life, Bagwell’s will.”
I reached for my coat.
“What about Jackie?”
“Ward of the court. He’s the biggest tragedy.”
“It might have been worse still,” I said, “if he grew up under Lorene’s influence.”
The telephone rang. Doyle picked up the receiver. “Mr. Kolchak’s room. Uh-huh. Just a minute.” He looked at me. “It’s Pete Ordway.”
“Tell him,” I said, “I’ve just left.”
“He’s just left,” Doyle said into the phone. He hung up.
“That’s about the tenth call from that guy,” I said. “He wants me to write articles for the Beacon on my impressions of Clay Street. I’ve got nothing against Ordway. In fact, I admire him.
“You have a lot of company. He’ll be alderman one day. Schell can’t live forever. And then…”
“I agree. He’d make a good mayor in about twenty years, wouldn’t he? But my articles wouldn’t have much effect on his political future. And I’m damned if I’ll let even a man like Ordway capitalize on my search. Because I came here, a good man was murdered; a woman was beaten and raped; a mother is dead and a child has been orphaned. No matter how good their intentions, nobody’s going to cash in on that.”
Betsy waited outside my apartment. On her last visit to the hospital, she’d learned I was coming home that afternoon.
I opened the door and Betsy lugged my suitcase in. I flopped into a chair.
Betsy kissed my forehead.
“Cut it out,” I protested. “I keep telling you…”
Betsy straightened. “You mean because you’re older, you don’t want me?”
“It’s not that I don’t want you. It’s just that it would never do.”
“Steve, you’re as young…”
“As I feel. But when I feel fifty, you’ll feel thirty-three. You’d be surprised what a difference that makes. And when I’m sixty…”
“Don’t say that.” Betsy frowned. She sat on the sofa. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “The desk clerk said you were leaving.”
“That’s right. Tonight. I have to start living my own life again.”
“Take me with you.”
“If I were ten years younger, I might, but…”
A knock sounded on the door. I opened it. Don Collins joined us.
“Hi, Steve. Just wanted to wish you luck. Where are you headed?”
We shook hands. “Thanks for everything, Don. I sent a few wires from the hospital. A construction firm based in Omaha wants to see me. They have a big job in Afghanistan.”
Betsy, her back to us, began to sob.
Don asked, “What’s wrong, hon?”
“Shut up,” she said. “And don’t call me ‘hon.’”
“She’s upset,” I explained vaguely. “Look, I’ve got a lot of packing to do. My plane leaves at seven. I’ll spell out my gratitude by mail. But for now, why don’t you two run off somewhere? If you want to say good-by at the airport, fine.” Betsy left without a word. Hastily Don followed.
I peered out the window. A minute later Betsy and Don emerged from the building. They had effected some sort of reconciliation during the elevator ride downstairs. Hand in hand they walked to Don’s sports car. Don whispered in Betsy’s ear. Betsy giggled. Don patted Betsy’s fanny, and Betsy hopped into the front seat.
If they showed up at the airport, I’d be very surprised. And disappointed.
One well-wisher attended my departure.
Max Fuller, the private detective, lumbered into the waiting room as my flight was called.
“Hey, boy,” he bellowed. “Before you go—I still think you were a damned fool. But a few more damned fools like you and this would be a more interesting world.”
“Thanks. I got your letter, with the name of Mrs. Alban’s bank—and your donation to her account. But what happened to your final statement?”
“Didn’t I mail it yet? Well, I’ll send a bill eventually.” Fuller sighed. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. I’d never seen him standing up before. He was much shorter than I’d thought. No more than 5‘5“. A little old gargoyle. “Going back to building bridges, hey?”
“That’s right. But before I sign up for the next job, I’m flying to Wisconsin. I want to know the Bronson girl better. From her letters, she’s trying hard to keep her chin up, but I suspect she still feels pretty bad about what happened. She’s a nice girl, Max, with a lot to live for. And she’s a smart, realistic girl who could move to a place like Afghanistan just like moving next door. A real boomer type. She doesn’t realize that yet, but I do.”
“Well,” Fuller said, “happy landings.”
The jet engine whined. I leaned back in the seat. We headed up and away. I didn’t look down.
The Neon Haystack Page 21