Davidian Report

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “I will bring it to you tomorrow.” He smiled piously. “Not too early. First I must play the organ at Dr. Ormigon’s church. You did not know I am a musician?”

  Hidden in the organ. Or under the altarpiece. Or in the preacher’s Bible. Yes, the report was safe.

  “How will you get it to me?”

  Davidian patronized. “That will be my problem. Yours will be to arrange the quick sale. You notice I trust you, I ask for no receipt.” No receipt; only a knife in the guts, a noose for a collar, Albion wine for betrayal. “You will be careful leaving here. It is well you carry something, just in case.” He went to his dirty cot, lifted the mattress. “My books. You did not know I am a poet?” He selected a small volume. The binding was of rotting leather, the pages were pen-written with cramped letters. “You will not be able to read these, I regret, they are in Rumanian.” He put it in Steve’s hands. “It is well to carry a bone to toss to the wolves.”

  “It’s safe to toss this?”

  “Perfectly safe. It is not my best poetry.” The lips twisted. “But should you be discovered leaving, you have been visiting Stella. She will agree.”

  Steve nodded. He slipped the volume into his jacket pocket. His topcoat would cover the additional bulk.

  Davidian said suddenly, “Be careful the popcorn man does not see you depart. I do not wish to leave Stella yet.” His smile was mocking. “He watches this house often, a suspicious man, but I am too clever for him.” He hesitated, and then continued, “He and Albion were good friends. Possibly Albion confided in him? I would not wish any harm to come to you until after the sale is complete, you understand.”

  Davidian held open the door until Steve had descended to the sleeping second floor. From there on Steve walked in darkness. It was safer in the dark. He did not need to go outside to spot the little yellow lantern. It was reflected in the window glass of the front door.

  He retreated to the rear of the house. He knew the password should he be challenged: Stella. He slid the bolt on the kitchen door and was outside. A silent bolt, a silent door; Davidian was a handy man about the house. Steve was as silent on the kitchen’s shallow steps. Protecting himself against the wall of the house, he edged to the corner, to where he could glimpse the street. The popcorn cart blocked the mouth of the alley. Again he retreated, brushing the wall, until he reached the back steps. There was no way out except across the empty courtyard. The house masked it from the street but when he ducked out into the shadows at the far end of the alley, he was observed. He heard the piping little whistle and the rattle of wheels. Without appearing to pick up speed, he lengthened his stride.

  Hollywood had gone to bed, the streets were deserted as those of a lost city. The cops were never around when you needed them. He didn’t want cops, he must go it alone. It was no more than a half-block to Hollywood Boulevard but he stuck to the alleyways. He’d have a chance to elude the popcorn man in their murk, none at all on the lighted boulevard. At this hour it, too, was a desolate road.

  The bobbing yellow lantern, the faint whistle followed inexorably. Steve didn’t run, only a frightened man took to his heels. He wasn’t afraid but he couldn’t afford to answer questions tonight. Because he wasn’t hampered by a pushcart, he was able to outstrip the popcorn man. He cut over to the boulevard just below his hotel. And knew he’d been tricked, the yellow lantern waited on the corner. There was no way out of it but to brass. He walked steadily to the danger.

  The man beside the cart wasn’t anyone, he was motley, he’d fade into a crowd. Unless you’d had experience you wouldn’t recognize in his face the marks of the beast. He said, just passing the time, “Out kinda late, Mister. Popcorn?” His voice was scratchy, as if phlegm were lodged in his throat.

  Steve shook his head and kept on walking.

  “I been waiting for you.”

  He stopped. “What for?”

  “You been wanting to see me.”

  “I don’t now.”

  “You stayed pretty long in the brown house.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I missed you when you come out.” He took hold of the handles of the cart, preparatory to turning it. “Guess you got plenty to say to Mr. Oriole.”

  Steve said quietly, “I’m not going to Oriole’s.”

  “They been waiting a long time.”

  “Tough.”

  “They sent me to fetch you. I kinda guessed you might be at Stella’s house.” The grimace wasn’t pretty.

  Steve demanded, “Do you know who I am?”

  “Stefan Winterich.” It didn’t mean a thing to him, a man Oriole wanted fetched, no more.

  “Go back to Oriole’s,” Steve said. “Ask the boss, the big boss, to let you have a look at the directions on Stefan Winterich’s job.”

  Uncertainty began to trouble the man’s face.

  “Ask him for the Berlin directive. If you can read, take a look at the signature.” He smiled at the sudden fear glazing the porcine eyes. “And present my compliments to Mr. Oriole and his guests. Tell them I miscalculated slightly. I’ll meet them tomorrow night, instead, early, say ten o’clock.” The business wouldn’t take long once it was set up. Janni went on the Main Street job at ten; he’d pick her up within an hour of that.

  Steve’s tongue whipped. “If anyone doesn’t like it, tell him to read that directive.” He walked away then, across the street to his hotel.

  The old man with the dyed hair was behind the desk. Steve said, “Don’t put any calls through until noon. Just in case you forget, I’m leaving the phone off the hook.”

  The lights were on in his room, Reuben’s bags were packed, the kid was lying on the bed in full uniform. He was wide awake. “I thought you’d never get here.” His smile was hesitant.

  Steve said, “You’re not leaving?” He’d almost forgotten the words between them, it seemed months ago.

  “I have to be in San Francisco tomorrow. My orders were waiting for me when I got back to the hotel. I’d been expecting them.”

  “You can’t leave at this hour.” Steve flung his hat and coat at the chair.

  “I figured on getting out at midnight.” The smile flickered. “But I couldn’t walk out without seeing you, not after—” He talked fast, embarrassed. “My old man always said two guys can’t carry one dame. It just doesn’t work. I’m sorry, Steve.”

  Steve tried not to sound too tired. “Don’t apologize. I should have kept my mouth shut.”

  “I’ve been trying to call Janni. To say good-by.”

  “She’s all right,” Steve told him. “I found her.”

  Reuben must have been able to see it was all right. He said, “You’ll tell her I tried.”

  “I sure will.”

  He chewed the end of a match. “She thinks a lot of you, Steve. She’s afraid of this business you’re mixed up in.”

  Steve lay on his bed. The book was a stone slab in his pocket. “Did she tell you about Berlin?”

  Rube didn’t answer. He wondered how much she had told the boy. Of a guy who deserted the American Army after beating up a snivel-nosed major who accused him of operating on the black market? Of a guy who joined up with the Cocos in the Eastern zone? Or only of love in the rubble.

  Steve said, “She needn’t worry. I know what I’m doing. Didn’t she tell you I was the smartest operator in the business?”

  Rube’s face was torn apart. He was very young.

  Steve said, “I thought you were here on a job. To watch me. I still don’t know.” And because he didn’t know, he had to force things, instead of shaking hands and saying, I’ll see you, kid. “What was your job in Berlin? Why were you sent home just when I was?”

  Reuben said dully, “My outfit’s being transferred to the Pacific. We got a week’s furlough. There wasn’t any reason to hang around New York. My old lady’s shacked up with a new boy friend. I told you that. My old man’s too busy for me. All the other guys went home. I wanted to have a little fun.” He didn’t look at Steve. “I don’t k
now what you’re trying to tell me. I don’t want to know. I’m nothing but a private, first class. If I thought you were—” He looked at Steve then, out of slaty blue eyes. “You’ve been swell to me. You didn’t have to take me on. I don’t want to know about your job. Janni’s still in love with you.”

  Steve let out his breath slowly. “Whatever anybody tells you, Reuben, this is God’s truth. I’m here only for one reason, to take care of a friend of mine. Davidian.” In a way it was God’s truth.

  “That’s good enough for me.” It wasn’t but the boy wouldn’t start brooding again until he was alone. He wondered if Steve had found Davidian but he didn’t ask. It was better not to ask questions.

  Steve said, “You’d better get some sleep. You’ll be falling over your own feet before you get to San Francisco. The bus is hell.”

  “The bus is out,” Rube said. “I’ll have to fly now to make it.” He stretched out on the bed again. “I’ll catch another nap. I had one while I was waiting for you. Until your laundry came.”

  Steve raised up cautiously. “My laundry?”

  “In the chair.” A flat brown-paper parcel. “A shirt they forgot. The guy said he thought you might be needing it for Sunday.”

  Steve was steady-voiced. “Who brought it? When?”

  “Just before you got in. A hell of a time to be delivering the laundry.” Reuben laughed. “I think the little guy had been out on the town. With a bottle of vino.”

  Two bottles. Steve opened the bundle just as if it weren’t important. As if it contained only a shirt. That was what it was, a shirt. A silk shirt, the white yellowed by time, not a very clean shirt. Covered every inch with what appeared to be a scroll pattern in black, but was infinitely small letters inscribed by an engraver’s fine hand.

  Safe delivery. It wasn’t often that Steve loved his fellow man but for this single moment he loved Davidian. Steve, not the book of poems, was the bone flung to delay the wolves while Davidian completed safe delivery. It would be the devil’s own job to unravel the letters, possibly coded, probably in the little man’s own Rumanian tongue. There were trained men for such work. It wasn’t Steve’s worry.

  And how else could Davidian have protected the report but by wearing it on his back when he fled from cave to cave? Where else was it safer than in a nest of dirty laundry when Davidian was trotting about the streets of Hollywood playing his little jokes?

  Steve crumpled the paper and string into the waste basket. He opened his suitcase to put this shirt in with his clean ones, and felt something in the pocket. He drew out a fresh-minted ruble. He began to laugh, he couldn’t help it. The mark of authenticity, Davidian’s calling card.

  Reuben said, “Something’s funny?”

  Steve shook his head. “Delivering laundry at two A.M.! I was wondering what his boss would say!”

  Reuben laughed with him. In his attic Davidian would be coughing until he choked with mirth.

  3

  You couldn’t tell time by the windows. But his watch read four when Steve rolled off the bed. Reuben was quick. “You can’t sleep either?”

  “No use wasting any more time. I’m going to shower and change.”

  Rube put on the light. “I never can sleep when I’m hungry. Wonder if there’s an all-night stand hereabouts.”

  Steve was stripping off his clothes. “I could do with a cup of coffee myself.” He stopped midway to the bathroom. “Look, Rube, you want to do something for me?”

  There was scarcely a hesitation. “Sure, Steve.”

  “I had to leave the car last night. If you’d pick it up.” He dug out the key. “It’s on Franklin, around Wilcox. If you’ll bring it around, I can run you out to the airport.”

  “You don’t need to—” Rube began.

  Steve’s slow smile stopped the protest. “You’re doing me the favor, kid. I’ll even throw in a big breakfast.” He locked the door after Rube. He didn’t waste any time in the shower; he was dressed again when the soldier returned.

  Rube said, “I parked it by the side door. Plenty of room this time of the day.” He took up his khaki bag.

  Steve buttoned his topcoat over the book. They stopped at the desk. Steve said, “I’m not checking out. Just the soldier.” He left the room key. Nothing upstairs for anyone to find.

  He didn’t care particularly if anyone followed, taking Rube to the airport was legitimate. He could get clear later. But there weren’t any signs of activity. No one got up this early in Hollywood.

  The morning turned a pale gray as the car traveled through the sleeping streets. Steve swung over to Olympic at Fairfax. “We ought to find a place to eat somewhere along the way. Don’t know that the airport café would be open at this hour. You’re not in a rush, are you?”

  “If you’re not, I’m not. I’ll probably have to wait around for a seat on a flight.”

  Rube picked the place. It looked good and they were far enough from Hollywood not to worry about being interrupted. If they’d been going to run into interference it would have developed before now, or it would wait until after he’d dropped the soldier.

  They sat at the counter, ordered big—orange juice, oatmeal, ham and eggs, stack of wheats, coffee. Steve knew he couldn’t touch half of it, not at this hour and with his stomach nerves like guitarstrings. But Rube could eat double. It was his good-by party.

  There was a phone box hung on the wall the same as at Oriole’s. He didn’t have to have a booth. “I’m going to make a call.” He could dial the exchange he needed from this location. He held on while the line rang. The counterman was busy at the grill. Rube was watching the sizzle of the ham.

  The voice came on the other end. “Hello.”

  “Hello. Mack in?” It didn’t matter what he said. As long as the other party made the right answers.

  “What number do you want?”

  His mouth bit into the mouthpiece. “W-5.” He drew back, “Yeah, I’ll hold on.”

  The answers were right now. He was memorizing instructions. “Okay, I’ll call later.”

  He returned to the counter. Reuben asked no questions. He was eating. The counterman was reading the Sunday funnies.

  Continuing on west they passed early churchgoers. At this hour there was no heavy traffic on Sepulveda, they were at the airport too soon. Steve didn’t waste a quarter on the robber barons who guarded the endless acres fenced in for parking. He drew the car to the curb in front of the terminal.

  Reuben said, “Thanks for everything, Steve.” His handclasp was warm and strong. But things weren’t the same. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks, kid.” He wanted to say a lot more. But all he said was, “Maybe we’ll run into each other again someday. If the big shots ever figure out that peace can pay bigger than war.”

  Rube grinned. “I hope we don’t have to wait that long.” From the curb, he said, “Tell Janni good-by.”

  The tall thin uniform, young and crumpled, walked away to the terminal. Steve drove off. Death in a ditch, death in a gutter, what difference? The fruits of war. Maybe Rube was a lucky one, maybe he’d come back with medals and the same easy grin, maybe he’d have a little house someday like any little house and a nice girl and a couple of kids. He could dream for Rube too.

  Before heading over to the beach road, Steve took his gun from his pocket and locked it in the glove compartment. He didn’t want its weight on him all day. He made sure that there was no one following him on the beach road north. At this hour you could tell. The surf was tossing restlessly, the water was dull as the sky. He parked where he’d been told, above the canyon on the road to Malibu. He slid down the shallow incline to a strip of sand. The sun was watery, the air had not warmed up yet. But he stripped to the waist, made a pile of his clothes, lay on the sand. If there were California nuts who sunned without sun, he was okay. He was following orders.

  He wasn’t there long before the surf fisherman showed up. The fisherman wasn’t cold; he was padded in a sheep-skin jacket and heavy whipcords,
a peaked cap and wading boots. Steve waited a little longer before he spoke up. “Any luck?”

  The fisherman turned his face, it was round and bland, his eyeglasses were rounder. His shaggy white eyebrows joggled. “Not yet.” He dropped his worn basket into the sand beside Steve. “You like fishing, son?”

  “Haven’t the patience. Is there a lookout?”

  “Yes. Have to get up early to be a good fisherman.” He babbled on like some Izaak Walton.

  Neither man was conscious of the basket while Steve transferred the folded yellow shirt covered with its minute scrollwork. “There’s a book too which might be useful. Might not.” Another sleight of hand and it lay on the shirt. “He called it something to toss to the wolves. You can’t trust him.”

  “Never could.”

  “You can pick him up at Dr. Ormigon’s church this morning. He plays the organ for services. Maybe.”

  “Maybe not.” The fisherman took off his cap to protect his pipe from the offshore breeze. He was bald as a seal.

  “I’ll be at Oriole’s tonight at ten.”

  “Rather early.”

  “I’ve got a date after,” Steve grinned. “I’ll have friends there.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” The old fellow had got the pipe glowing. It looked like a stove.

  Steve began to button on his shirt. He was goose-pimples. “Think maybe I could manage a little vacation?”

  “I can’t answer that one.”

  “Where’s the report for me?”

  “You’ll find it on the floor of your car. Take good care of it today.”

  “Don’t worry.” Steve was standing now, buttoning his coat to the chin. A quart of hot coffee might thaw him. And a quart of brandy.

  “You’d be smart to get lost today.”

  “Yeah.” He pulled his hat over his forehead. “He killed Albion. He says.”

  “Albion caught up with him?”

  “He says with both of us.”

  “He’s always been a liar. But it could be. Albion was clever.”

  “Yes.” He waved a hand. “Good fishing, Pop.”

  “Takes patience.” He cast his line into the surf.