Some rhythm to that, despite the night’s depletion. Kind of sharp, I was, this dull morning.
What is called “low, early-morning fog, clearing by noon” had taken possession of the village. The home of the Uclans, the hated Uclans, was shrouded in California dew.
At the A&P I got eggs and rolls and orange marmalade and bacon and coffee and cigarettes and butter and frozen orange juice.
Ellen was in the murder chair, reading the Times. The headline was toward me, and read: 20,000 Yanks Battling to Escape Mountain Trap. It was snowing in Korea, and men were dying.
She had the water bubbling in the coffee maker; I measured the new coffee into the top of it, and connected them.
“Don’t you want to know whom I was with, yesterday afternoon?” She was cutting the bacon strips in half. “He couldn’t have been much, I’ve decided.”
“Nick Arnold,” she said.
“Well, the majors. Am I supposed to be jealous?”
“Aren’t you?” I didn’t answer.
She dropped some eggs into the skillet. She was smiling. “I—didn’t know—I mean, when he phoned, I—Pete, he wants you to work for him.”
I chuckled. “You thought he was going to pitch the fast one, and all he wanted was a messenger. Oh, what a shock to your fine Irish pride.”
“Shut up. You know I love you.”
“There are times when I suspect it.”
“Don’t be vulgar.”
“Me? Vulgar? You should have heard the verse I was composing on the way to the store. Stuff worthy of Tommy Lister at his best.”
“Pete, be serious. Nick’s going legitimate.”
“And Taft’s going Democratic,” I said. “What degree of legitimacy is Nicholas Arapopulus considering?”
“Is that his name?”
“It was in Chicago. I like it a hell of a lot better than his new one.”
“Pete, he was serious. He thinks a lot of you. He says you’ve got guts and integrity and a good, sharp mind.”
“Did you tell him about some of my other virtues?”
She didn’t answer. She put the eggs onto a big plate and put them on the table. She put the bacon on another plate, and unwrapped a quarter pound of butter and put that on a smaller plate.
I sat down on the chair closest to the living-room, and she sat across from me. Stormy, she looked.
“We won’t fight,” I said. “Not this morning.”
“I’m sorry I’m here,” she said.
“No, you’re not. What kind of business is Nick considering?”
“Sports promotion. It wasn’t something I could understand completely. He wants to build a stadium in the Valley for one thing. The Valley is the fastest growing area in the world.”
“And a stadium the worst bet a man could make,” I said. “For heaven’s sakes, hasn’t he heard of the television? They’ll be playing the games in the studios for the cameras before he gets a stadium up. And besides, the government is cracking down; there’ll be no stadiums built for some time.”
“Well, that’s just one of his long-range dreams, anyway. But there are some fighters he owns what he calls ‘pieces of’ and he’d like to buy into the Rams.”
“Honey,” I said, “I—” And then stopped. “I mean, would you like me to work for Nick Arnold?”
“Yes.”
I ate some roll, some egg, some bacon. “I don’t think you want to work for anybody,” she said.
I ate some bacon, some egg, some roll. “What’s wrong with Nick, if he’s legitimate?”
“I don’t know. I’m no saint, I’ll agree. But—his kind of money is—dirty.”
“How about the thirteen hundred and eighty dollars you accepted from his friends?”
“I took it away from them. I didn’t do anything for it, not for them. I was against them, not for them.”
“Aren’t you kind of confused?”
“You know anybody who isn’t? Certain beliefs I hang onto. It must be the dormant Republican in me. I want to get by my way.”
“The last of the rugged individualists,” she said. “What the Lenin lovers call a fascist.”
“You aren’t that stupid, honey,” I said. “Even when it was stylish, I’ll bet you didn’t think like those pukes.”
“We’re getting off the subject,” she said. “You do that well. Promise me this much, you’ll talk to Nick. Even if it’s to say no. Would you do that much?”
“That much and more,” I said. “I love you, Ellen Gallegher.”
“Easy,” she said.
“In the clink I thought of you and pictured us in Westchester, in a small home, kids round the door, maybe an apple tree. Would you pour me some coffee, please, dear one?”
She was pouring the coffee when the knock came at the door.
That was undoubtedly Sergeant Hovde, or someone equally obnoxious and official. And wasn’t this a pretty scene to greet his bureaucratic eyes? Me and my babe having breakfast after a night in the hay.
Ellen looked at me and I looked at Ellen, and then she shrugged, so I went to the door.
He was about five feet high, and thin. He had big brown eyes and the complexion of an infant and a mind like Einstein, though he peddled it at two cents a word. Tommy Lister.
His heroes are big and strong and fear no living or dead thing. He looked past me, saw Ellen, and gulped. “Sorry, Pete—no idea you had company. Some coffee, and I—Sorry, old fellow—” He started to go back.
“Tommy,” I said, “come back here. For goodness sakes, it’s Ellen, not one of those other—kind. Come on in, and have some of our coffee. You and Ellen can talk about Joyce.”
He smiled and came in. “Hi, Ellen. I’m talked out, but the coffee—”
I brought over a chair for him. “I’ll say you’re talked out. The pulps are dead, they’ll never die. What earth-shaking decisions did you and your friends arrive at, Mr. Lister?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did we bother you?”
“You’re not that naïve, Tommy,” I said. “You haven’t, by any chance, been browsing in my Ulysses, have you?”
“Ulysses? Yours? My God, what would you be doing with that?”
“It holds my window at the right height. Don’t be superior, Tommy; I’ve read your stuff.”
“Low blow,” he said. “My round. What was all the commotion about in here yesterday afternoon?”
“Murder,” I said, and watched him.
And realized Ellen was watching him. All we needed were cigars in our mouths. He looked from me to Ellen and back, and smiled.
“Gospel,” I said. “Haven’t you read the papers?”
“I never read the local papers. Pete, this isn’t one of your horrible gags, I hope?”
“No,” I said, “it isn’t, unfortunately.”
He sipped his coffee. “Who was it? I mean, you’re involved, of course, but—What does a person ask in a case like this?”
“He was a mug named Al Calvano,” I said, “a dope addict and a killer. According to the papers, I slugged him the night before last at a party at Nick Arnold’s house, and I guess I’m the number-one suspect, though I’m currently free.”
“Then you’re not the number-one suspect,” Tommy said. “How did the man die?”
“A knife in his throat. My steak knife.”
“Oh, fine. Your prints on the knife, no doubt. What’s this about Ulysses? Is that a part of it?”
“No,” I said. “Ellen gets these Hawkshaw complexes at times. She reads a lot of mysteries.”
Ellen said, “Somebody was reading Ulysses, and it wasn’t Pete.”
“I’ll buy the last part of that,” Tommy said. “Were you people trying to implicate me in this bloody mess?”
“Ellen was,” I said. “She doesn’t like you because you didn’t play football. She’s always talking against you.”
He winked at Ellen. “We won’t tell him about us—yet, will we? There are so many things we won’t tell him.”
&
nbsp; And now there was another knock, and I went to the door again.
Squat lad with a crew haircut, well washed and likable lad. I said, “Come in, Chris. What gets you up so early?”
“I read about it, Pete. I thought you might be in trouble. I thought maybe I could—well—” And then he saw Ellen. “Hello, Miss Gallegher.” And looked at Tommy.
“Tommy Lister, Chris Arnold,” I said, and they shook hands, and I added, “Tommy is a famous author,” and ducked the swipe he took at me. “That’s for the Joyce crack.”
Ellen said, “Would you like some coffee, Chris?”
“No, thanks, Miss Gallegher. I’ve got to be getting to school. I just thought I’d—well, drop around, you know and see if I—” He shrugged.
“I understand, Chris,” I said, “and thanks. It’s something I’ll remember.”
“Sure. Well, guess I’d better—So long. Glad to have met you, Mr. Lister.”
“Glad to have met you,” Tommy said.
The door closed behind the third-string guard.
Tommy held up one finger. “A football player, right? Though not a star.”
“Marvelous, Mr. Holmes,” Ellen said.
“Typical,” Tommy said.
“I wish there were more like him in the world,” I said.
Tommy said, “And less like Tommy Lister?”
“No. no. About the same number of those, a sort of top dressing for the less aged stock. I mean, the way he came in here. Somebody he knew only slightly was in trouble and—and he dropped by to see if there was something he could do.”
“Maybe Papa sent him,” Ellen suggested. “Where did you check your cynicism, Mr. Worden?”
“About guys like Chris I’m not cynical. I’m Gene Stratton Porter, when it comes to the Chris Arnold type.”
“Cynical?” Tommy said. “What a word to use in connection with Pete. Lord, he’s one of the Rover Boys.”
“Which one?” Ellen asked. “I read the series, but I don’t recognize the character.”
“Couldn’t we talk about something interesting?” I said.
“We’re trying to keep it on your level,” Tommy said. “Pete, are you in serious trouble? I realize now it’s not something to joke about. But you—didn’t seem concerned, and I’m sure none of us are going to mourn the kind of victim you described.”
“I’m innocent,” I answered. “Maybe that’s naïve, as I’ve been told, but I doubt if many innocent men get sentenced.”
“That’s naïve,” Tommy said, “as you’ve been told. And particularly if there’s an ambitious district attorney involved, and if it should happen to go to Jaekels, that qualification would be met.”
“Jaekels talked to me yesterday afternoon.”
“Great. But you were released on bail.”
“I was.”
“Then you’re being watched, day and night, I’d guess. Is there any more coffee?”
“I’ll make some,” Ellen said.
“By the law, I’m being watched then, and probably by one of Nick’s men. One of his stooges was with me all yesterday afternoon, right up to the time we found the body here. And picked me up last night outside my brother’s house.”
“I can imagine,” Tommy said acidly, “with your distorted views on loyalty, you didn’t implicate Arnold or his men.”
“You imagine right. Jaekels would like to nail Arnold, I know, but I gave him no help there.”
“Yes. Of course. Is there some compulsion in you that makes you seek the company of this particular species of rodent? Or is it their wit and charm and the tabs they pick up?”
“Walk softly,” I told him. “You’re speaking of Ellen’s friends.”
She was measuring coffee, and she turned to look at me. “My friends? I didn’t even know them until I got on your merry-go-round, mister.”
“I knew them, but you love them.” I looked at Tommy. “And now she wants me to work for Nick.”
Tommy said nothing.
Ellen said, “In a perfectly legitimate enterprise.”
We were both looking at Tommy, and he frowned. “Am I being consulted or something?”
“Well,” Ellen said, “what do you think of it?”
“I’m not getting involved in family quarrels.”
“We would like an outside, an—objective opinion.”
“I can only speak for myself. And despite my lifelong and future-certain poverty, I wouldn’t work for Nick Arnold if he offered me a million dollars a year.”
“Or anybody else probably.”
“I worked for MGM, much to our mutual dismay, so that charge is unfair and unsound. Pete would have to believe like Nick believes to work for him, and Pete doesn’t believe that way.”
“How do you know how or what Pete believes?”
“He’s typical, too, just like Chris Arnold is. Only Pete got star billing in two highly publicized current attractions, war and football. And can’t settle down to being a fan in a camel’s-hair coat.”
“Adolescent, you mean?”
“A much used and meaningless word. Pete’s standards went out with Hoover and his future blew up at Hiroshima. His God I wouldn’t know about. He’s a rat in a maze.”
“He’s not alone.”
“More or less alone. He hasn’t the capacity to—adjust is the word that comes to mind. But it’s really surrender.”
I said, “If you two social scientists wouldn’t mind, I’d like to get out from under the microscope.” I got up and started to stack the dirty dishes in the sink.
They talked and I worked. They argued about Capote and I washed the dishes and made the bed and once again transformed it into the all-purpose couch it masqueraded as. Their voices rose and fell as I ran the carpet sweeper over the much-spotted rug, ran a grimy dust cloth over the less grimy furniture.
Ellen is a girl whose vertical or semi-vertical moments are devoted to the printed page and she was holding her own with the Brain.
He left, after a while, and I was shaving at the time.
She said, “He’s certainly opinionated, that one.”
I chuckled.
She said, “Are your tails in presentable condition?”
“My what?”
“You heard me. Nick wants us for dinner this evening. Some friend of Paul’s, some literary monster, is going to be there and Nick wants us because he thinks we’re literate.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no,” I said. “Damn it, no.”
“And why not, beloved?”
“Haven’t I had enough of it this morning? Mi Gawd, you know what a fool I am in that knd of yak-fest.”
“You can make your three standard remarks about Saroyan and then talk football with Chris.”
“And listen to that long-legged sneer insult his father and his brother and any other morons who happen to be present?”
“Are you speaking of dear Paul?”
“Right.”
“He’s a good boy, and don’t run him down in front of Nick or you’ll be a man without a future.”
“That’s what I am. John says not one penny more.”
“More than the hundred?”
“No. Not another cent from the estate, no hundred, no nothing until I get a job.”
“Well,” she said. “That certainly solves your dilemma. You go to work for Nick in a legitimate job and prove to John that you are ready to unburden him of your half of the estate.”
I said nothing.
“Incidentally,” she said, “what is your half of the estate? And who watches your share of it?”
I inspected my face and found no misses. “John is in complete command.”
“He’s not only playing with his cards, he’s writing the rules. For all you know, he’s merrily spending your money.”
“Irish,” I said, “he’s not Nick. That’s another world where John lives, and they don’t play that way.”
“I know which Rover Boy you are now,” she said. “You’re Dick, the fun-loving one.”
I soaked my face in cold water and dried it and hung up the towel.
“You haven’t answered me about your tails.”
“I won’t be using them. I’m not going to Nick’s for dinner.”
“Pete, please. And you can talk to Nick after dinner and give him your answer. I very rarely ask anything of you, Pete, like this, but please, this time.”
I sat on the studio couch and lighted a cigarette. Tried to read the paper but gave it up.
“What do married people do during the day?” I asked her.
“The husband goes to work and the wife listens to soap opera, the way I hear.”
“You’ve never been married, eh?”
“My chest is packed.”
“How’s that again?”
“My hope chest, vulgar. You can drive me home now. Unless you intend to use me some more, as the gag goes.”
“Now who’s vulgar? Say, you didn’t see my new sport coat.” I went over and got the box and untied it.
She said it looked fine, expensive and not too California-ish. She said, “And now you can take me home.”
“I thought we could go for a drive along the ocean.”
“You can. I’m going home.”
“Why? Don’t tell me you’ve another date with Nick.”
“Why Nick? Don’t get so possessive, darling, not without the ring.”
“Blackmail,” I said. “All right, let’s go.”
I took her home and didn’t go up. I kissed her on the forehead and said it was all right about tonight and to be a good girl, and then I headed for the beach.
The fog had lifted and we were setting a record, three clear days in a row. If a police car had followed me, it had stayed well hidden. I’m rear-vision-mirror conscious with the Merc, and there’d been no sign of the law. Nor Mike Kersh.
Felt better, somehow, upstairs, more at peace with myself, and why was that? Beyond the obvious, why was that? Was it because I intended to accept a job with Nick Arnold and settle down to the semi-respectability of the Arnold angles?
Would that be the final degradation, working for Nick Arnold, or were there some depths beyond that? I came onto the Coast Highway just north of Wilshire and headed north.
A Cad went by me, logging, and I recognized the plaster job and Jake Schuster. I saw her look around, and then Jake slowed the Caddy, waving and pulling over to the curb.
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