“It’s—out of character,” I said.
“Betting? Who doesn’t bet? It’s the not paying that’s out of character. And I thought maybe you ought to know.”
John betting, and Ellen selling lingerie. Now if Nick would be elected president of the local Interior Decorators’ Guild, I’d begin to see Hovde’s point.
John betting my money possibly? Perish the thought. Now I know which Rover Boy you are—
I had a feeling of being on the outside, of being on top of a world I had no part in. Around Nick you got the feeling that he was only the enormous and dignified stone façade of a building that looked like a bank but was in reality a Buchenwald.
What hadn’t he seen? What didn’t he know? But a knife could scare him. And a thin-legged bookie with a plaster-faced girl friend.
Tommy Lister stared at me from the floor of his apartment.
“You’re pale,” Nick said. “Sick again, Pete?” He rose to stand next to me.
“A little weak,” I said. “Think I’ll get back to the sack.”
“Want some help?”
“No, thanks. No, I’ll be all right.” I forced myself not to shrink from the big hand he extended.
The girl was dusting and Nick still stood next to my chair, staring after me as I left the huge room. You’d think I was an old maid in menopause, the things that were bothering me these days.
I relaxed in the spool bed, but sleep was not for me. Chris came in a little later and said he had an eleven o’clock class and was there anything he could get me from the apartment?
I said, “No. I’ll be going home soon, anyway, Chris.”
He frowned. “Something—wrong, Pete?”
“No. Why?”
“The way you said that, as though—oh, I don’t know. See you later.” A grin, a wave, and he was gone.
What should I say? That his father’s house gave me the creeps? I lay there wishing I knew more or felt less. It isn’t tough being an ignorant stupe, but it’s tough being a sensitive, ignorant stupe. And in love with a girl who’s well-read and blind. Or was I the blind one? Maybe Nick was no worse than the average member of the NAM. I thought he was, but maybe I was still naïve.
Tommy Lister is dead, remember that.
Dr. Ziegler had said I should keep warm, but all the covers on the bed weren’t keeping me warm and all the pills in the county wouldn’t make me well. Get something you can believe in, Worden, and hang on. And who killed Tommy Lister? His body, that is.
I got up for lunch. I went into the maroon tile bathroom, and here was a fine tub besides the shower, and I used the tub. And the razor somebody had thoughtfully placed there and the fine, monogrammed towels. A is for Arapopulus.
No shower will ever take the place of the tub for soothing the jumpy body and the itchy mind. It was warm and lunch was on the patio, and Nick was more cheerful. But Mike ate with us, and Mike was morose.
He didn’t look at me nor address me directly. We talked about the murders. The trend of our thinking as orally stated rather leaned to the theory that Tommy had died because he was a witness.
I told them what Art Shadow had told me about Tommy’s hinting at blackmail.
Nick said smoothly, “There’s always an amateur dick popping up among the stiff’s friends.” He said this too smoothly.
Mike said nothing.
I said, “Let’s suppose it’s true, that Tommy was going to blackmail the killer. Tommy’s ethics I’m not sure of, but there was nothing wrong with his head. The killer would have to be wealthy before Tommy would get that far out on a limb. The killer would have to be able to make the game worth the risk.”
Mike said to Nick, “He means a rich guy, like you.”
“It makes sense,” Nick said.
I went on. “If Tommy got his reefers from Calvano, it’s possible he may have talked to him, and Calvano seems to be lippy enough if that dealer in Santa Monica is an indication. Tommy was a great guy for chinning with anybody from a milkman to a madame and it’s not unreasonable to think Calvano told him about the long green he had in prospect. Calvano dies and Tommy carries on.”
Mike said to Nick, “Ellery Queen,” and slanted his head toward me.
Nick said, “Have you ever considered that your buddy may have killed Calvano and then been killed by one of
Calvano’s friends?”
“No,” I said. “You’d have to believe in one hell of a coincidence to believe that. Remember, Calvano was gunning for me.”
“So? And your buddy sees him come in, or maybe he even stops at your buddy’s house, to get some dope on you.”
“A killer, doing that?”
“All right, this way: Lister sees him come in, knows you’re not home, and goes over to find out what’s cooking. Calvano might get smart with him, and—” His voice trailed off.
“You’re reaching, Nick,” I said. “You went over the cliff.”
He chuckled. And then he looked at me with his chin lifted. “Suppose you found out for sure I’m the killer, Pete? What would you do?”
“Take it to Hovde. If I got that far. If you didn’t send one of your tough guys to get me first.”
“See?” Mike said. To Nick, of course.
“Your own buddy Nick you’d turn in,” Nick said, and laughed. “I’m glad I didn’t do it. I’m glad I made Mike handle it.”
Mike flushed, and glared at the tablecloth.
“Tommy Lister was my friend,” I said.
And suddenly realized he hadn’t been, really. And why had I built it up since his death? Was I trying to find an excuse for the animosity bubbling in me? Was I trying to rationalize my resentment?
Beneath the surface of that lunch, the Arnold intrigue was hidden, the things Nick knew and Mike knew, the things that had really happened since that night I’d won thirteen hundred and eighty dollars. They’d tell me just what they wanted me to know, whether it was truth or fiction, by declaration and inference lead me to the picture they wanted me to see.
If they were guilty, individually or together. And if they weren’t or one wasn’t guilty of murder, but were involved in murder, they wouldn’t reveal any part of their organization just to solve a kill. Murder was only another of the illegal things; it would have no moral implications. One corruption is all corruption; the basic drive was to stay out of jail. And the poorhouse.
Their symbol is everybody’s symbol, Peter Worden. The buck is their symbol, the long green; only they violate the rules more often. And as Nick had said, they didn’t make the rules.
Mike finished his coffee and stood up. “I’d better get over to Pasadena, Nick.”
“Right,” Nick said, and Mike left. With no good-by to me.
I said, “Manuel Gonzales one of your—outlets, Nick?”
“Manny? No. When I first came out here we were partners for a while. In the Ridge Club. We’re still friends. That’s why I gave him your bet.”
“Manny owns the Ridge Club?”
“Not all of it. He’s got—associates.”
I laughed.
Nick laughed. “I’ll be joining Rotary next.”
I said, “I think I’ll be getting out this afternoon, Nick. Not that I don’t appreciate your hospitality, but I’ve got to get squared around.”
“Words,” he said, “but you didn’t say anything.”
I shrugged, and could think of nothing to add.
“Ellen’s coming for dinner,” he went on. “You’ll want to see her.”
“All right, I’ll come back for dinner. What time?”
“About seven, as soon as Ellen gets here. She’s a working girl now, and she’ll be hungry. Do you want to pick her up?”
“I guess. Which Bullock’s?”
“Westwood,” he said. “That’ll be handy.”
That it would. She should have taken over my apartment and she could have walked to work.
The hole in the pocket of my new sport coat was on the inside and led into the lining. The edges of the hole were gummy. My
socks had been washed and my underwear. Hotel Arnold, we aim to please. Was there anything Nick didn’t think of?
The Merc was in the garage where I’d won the big money, now gone, and where I’d slugged Al Calvano, now dead.
The Merc needed gas, the gauge told me. And valves, her murmur told me. Those Creager heads run a hot motor and are rough on the exhaust valves. So okay, join Nick and buy a Bentley.
Down the drive and down the road and down the pass. Dr. Ziegler would have conniption fits. He would be unhappy. He would add it to his bill.
That was my bill. What had I been thinking of this morning? I’d thought of it as Nick’s bill. So, maybe I wasn’t all there this morning; maybe I’d still thought Nick was Papa. But how easy it was to lean on Nick. How easy he made it. No, he didn’t need the strong-arm boys, any more. He’d see that your socks were washed and your bills paid. Peanuts out of the big take.
While the yaks saved up for the television set and looked ahead to the week-end movie. And in the movies they saw crime didn’t pay, and the good guy always came out on top, winning Lana Turner. Wham.
Well, Bob Waterfield had won Jane Russell, fair and square. Why couldn’t I throw a ball like Waterfield? He’d better be hot against those Bears Sunday, or he’d be eating the ball.
“Check the oil?” the man at the gas station asked, and I nodded.
I checked the tires while he was messing around, and they’d lost none. Butyl tubes.
He still had the hood up when I climbed in behind the wheel again. He was looking at my Creager heads and manifolding and pots.
“Nice,” he said. “I’ll still take Maling heads.”
“I’ll take Hall and Evarts,” I said, “but I haven’t got that kind of money.”
He nodded. “Who has?”
Nick has. I paid the man and left. I took my time going back, thinking of Nick, Chris, Paul, Ellen, Mike,
Lily, Hovde, Jake, Vicki, Mary Gonzales, and her brother Manuel. I thought of John and Martha and Jaekels, Professor Arranbee, Art Shadow, Al Calvano. And Tommy Lister.
You do get around, Mr. Worden. You have so many interesting friends. Travel is so broadening, isn’t it? It depends upon the broads, Ma’am, it depends upon the broads.
It didn’t seem as dry today, though it was clear. I parked in front and went up the steps and unlocked the door to my domicile. It smelled like a Turkish wrestler’s sweat shirt.
I opened the windows and took off my fine sport jacket with the hole in the pocket.
I got out my reconditioned, tank-type electric vacuum cleaner and went over the rug. I found a shirt that was ready for the conversion and dusted the joint. I washed the windows inside. I turned on the radio before I remembered it wasn’t working.
I read some Saroyan. Reread some Saroyan. Who was the voice of the thirties? How deaf could they get? And the forties, too. But maybe I was just back in his world. Maybe that’s when I’d stopped growing up and started growing down. I am no critic, nor reasonably accurate facsimile thereof. I am just a guy who loves Saroyan and his world.
A knock, and it was the Shadow again.
“Mi Gawd,” I said, “what in hell are you in this case, a red herring? Like the butler who always turns and smirks just before he leaves the room. You haunt me, Art.”
“I haunt me, too,” he said, and looked at the book in my hand. “Saroyan, the man reads.”
“Any comments you’d like to make regarding that?” I asked coolly.
“He’s a very fine operator. Though he eludes me at times.”
“He eludes himself at times. What have you learned Mr. Shadow?”
He sat down in the upholstered chair. “Nothing. No body knows where Tommy got his hemp. Most of the boys have settled for coffee.” I said nothing.
He smiled. “Mary sends her love, Mary Gonzales.”
“Nice kid,” I said. “You discussed me?”
“You’re the metropolitan topic of discussion currently. We talked about a lot of things. You were one of the minor topics. Is there any of that free whisky around?”
There was about a half pint, and I poured him a drink and brought myself a can of beer from the refrigerator and a can for him.
Art didn’t gulp, but sipped. “Mary’s brother used to be in business with Nick.”
“I know.”
“Mary said you two went to high school together.”
“We did.”
“What was she like in high school?”
“Pretty. I didn’t know her very well.”
Art poured the rest of his shot into the can of beer, and I looked away.
He took a deep draught, and sat there, holding the can in the finger tips of both hands, leaning forward, as was his habit, his elbows on his knees. Light from the window glinted off his glasses.
“She said the police had been there, questioning Manny about the murders. She said she’d like to talk to you when you’re up and around.”
“Great,” I said. “You took your time getting to the business at hand, didn’t you? Working by the word or something?”
He colored. “I didn’t want you to talk to her. I don’t want anyone to talk to her. Isn’t that a hell of a situation?” His voice was ragged.
“I’ve seen worse,” I said. “Do you think she knows something about the murders?”
“I don’t—oh, call her and ask her.”
I phoned, but she wasn’t there.
“I wonder where she is,” Art said, not looking at me.
“Christmas shopping,” I told him. “What’d you buy her for Christmas, Art?”
“Shut up,” he said, and went over to pour some more whisky into his beer.
“Have you talked to Sergeant Hovde lately?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Haven’t seen him. What cracked you up?”
“I don’t know. You don’t happen to know a Jake Schuster, Art?”
He shook his head. “No. Why?”
“He reads your books.”
“That makes two, Jake Schuster and Art Shadow.”
Feel Sorry For Art Shadow Week, we were having. What the hell was the matter with the jerk; he was alive, wasn’t he? He had it better than Shakespeare; he was alive.
I said, “If you’re going to be depressing, would you go and depress somebody else, please? I’ve just come out of a siege of delirium.”
“Sorry,” he said, and stood up. “Don’t let your conscience bother you, if you see Mary. My love isn’t reciprocated.” He went to the door and out without saying good-by.
He reminded me of one of those Olsen and Johnson skits, where an unidentified character keeps moving through the background.
I went back to Saroyan, but he’d lost his flavor for me at this time. I phoned the station and asked for Hovde, but he wasn’t in, and I left my name.
I was restless and I walked over to Bullock’s. My girl was there on the first floor, showing something in black lace to a girl with a horse’s face. Panties, dainty and delicate.
She looked up as I came closer, and smiled, and then shook her head. Don’t come any closer, the shake said, this girl’s half sold. Don’t interrupt the mood.
She was a thin girl and looked well, if not frequently, bred. I wondered if the panties were for herself. They didn’t go with the tweeds, with the sun-tautened face, with the general outdoors look about her. But who can tell about women? She bought the panties and they weren’t gift wrapped. She went away and I moved in. “Darling,” I said.
“How do you feel?” Some concern in her voice, but no emotion beyond that.
“Great. Honey, I’ve been thinking. We ought to get married. Whether I work for Nick or sell insurance—”
“Later,” she said. “The buyer’s watching. Pick me up at the north entrance at six. You’re eating at Nick’s, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Six? Fine.” There was nobody watching. I turned on my heel, as they say, and went out.
One day she won’t let go of you and the next you could be th
e tax collector. You never know with Ellen.
I walked. All the way to the UCLA campus I walked, taking my time, enjoying the sun.
In a field to the left of the Boulevard some students were passing a football, kicking it. The season was over except for the pros and the bowl games; these were just students. Way back in the early days of this game I understand the students used to be on the teams. Cynicism. Great game, if you don’t take it seriously, if you don’t read the sport pages, if your school hasn’t any alumni. Great game, if you like it. I always had.
With these profound thoughts stirring in me, I walked back to the village and had a Double Banana Fudge Cream Royale with crushed nuts.
I had a feeling my girl had undergone some change while I was abed; her coolness hadn’t been caused by any buyer watching. She could have learned how easy it was to get along without me, if standing on her feet in a department store all day could be called easy. Or she could have realized she was tied to a broken kite, stringing along with me.
When I picked her up at six, at the north entrance, I could almost feel her coolness. She smiled; her voice was friendly, her comments not barbed. But that reserve was there.
For most of the trip we talked of nothing important. It’s a long trip from Westwood to Nick’s, and this was a bad traffic period. It took time. And she said nothing about the wedding I’d mentioned. A week ago—But this wasn’t a week ago.
We were about half a mile from Nick’s place when I said, “You aren’t the same. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“I mentioned marriage.”
“I know you did. I— They like me there at Bullock’s. They’d like to have me in lingerie after the holidays.”
“So would I. When did this career bug bite?”
“It hasn’t, really—but—Oh, Pete, you’re never going to settle down. Remember what Tommy said—”
“Tommy’s dead. He said a lot of things, and some of them are probably true, but he wasn’t infallible. I probably won’t settle down with Nick, but I’m going to settle down to a job of some kind. It might not be much—”
“That’s it,” she said, “it won’t be much. What are you trained for? Practically thirty years old and what would you do if you didn’t accept Nick’s offer?”
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