The Spy

by Garbo Norman

  “I remember. Where were you?”

  “In the next gallery, quietly dying.”

  “Is that why you painted the tear on my cheek?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess I just needed to see you crying for me a little.”

  “I cried for you. A lot.”

  “Yes, but I never saw.”

  She turned then and he saw. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “I only wish I looked that good.”

  “You look better.”

  “Maybe ten or fifteen years ago.”

  “You just looked younger then, not better.”

  She smiled. “My God, you really do love me, don’t you?”

  “Did you ever doubt it?”

  “No. Not really. Just as I didn’t doubt my loving you. But that was never my problem. I told you. My only problem then was not being able to live with you.”

  “And now?”

  “Oh, I can manage to live with you very beautifully now. It’s just that the bastards won’t let me.”

  “Well, you’re at least with me.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful? I swear I feel like a bride.” She hugged him, but came back to reality fast. “Now tell me everything you’ve found out.”

  He told her over whisky and coffee, watching her face all the while, finding there an almost exact reflection of his own feeling. Did love finally create its own emotional clones? At times it did seem so. She had become a virtual mirror image of the way he felt, seemed attached to him through an invisible network of fibers. And at the end, out of this same incredible union of feelings, her first words actually duplicated his own initial reaction … “At least we know it all.”

  But what practical value this fact would have for their future remained to be seen. In the meantime, thought Burke, it was enough that they were alive, whole, and together. He thought very much the same thing while they were making love later and, after that, as she lay sleeping beside him for the first time in his bed, in his apartment. He thought it as he listened to her soft breathing in the warm, friendly dark. “Sonofabitch,” he whispered with the total lucidity that seems to come only in those few final seconds before sleep, “what else is there?”

  Chapter 21

  David Tomschin stood beside the open grave, squinting into the sun and not really listening to the words of the priest. Some of the words were in Latin and he would not have understood them anyway, but this had little to do with his lack of attention. What he was concentrating on mostly, was the feel of the revolver in his right-hand coat pocket. The gun and its intended purpose were the only things that made the small ceremony bearable. Without them David was sure he would either be screaming by now or else dashing for the horizon. Which would have upset the priest no end, he thought. As it was, the poor man was disturbed enough by certain of his attitudes, as well as by the depressing lack of mourners.

  To David funerals were nothing more than a performance in any case, and he would not have bothered with this one at all if he had not felt Dolores would have wanted it So he had gone to a nearby Catholic church and talked to a priest. The priest was warm, kind, very sincere, and asked a lot of questions.

  “What was your relationship to the deceased?”

  “I loved her.”

  “I see,” said the priest, although he did not really see at all “Then you were not married?”

  “No.”

  “How did she …” The priest glanced at his notes. “How-did Dolores die?”

  “She was shot”

  The priest looked like a middle-aged choir boy — blonde, blue-eyed, scrubbed, and shining. Still, his eyes could show pain. “Aah.” He hesitated. “She… she didn’t shoot herself, did she?”

  “No, Father.”

  He appeared relieved. “Does she have any family?”

  “No. Not here anyway. She had a grandfather in Paraguay.”

  The priest’s glance held steady, not sliding off his face as most people’s did, and David was impressed. What a way to have to judge people, he thought… by how well they can put up with my face.

  “I take it Dolores belonged to no church, had no priest, no confessor of her own?”

  “No, but she believed in God and was very religious. She had all these small, plaster saints. I don’t know what I’m going to do with them now. Would you like to have them, Father?”

  “If you want to give them to the church, I’ll be happy to accept them. Are you Catholic?”

  “No. I’m Jewish. But I’ve done a lot of reading about your God, as well as about six or seven others.”

  “They’re all really one.”

  “With all due respect, Father… I have this theory about God actually being a Committee. I mean, I can’t believe anybody could have messed things up for us this badly all by Himself.”

  The priest looked unhappy. “You’re too young to be so bitter.”

  “Take a good look at my face. Father. This kind of thing ages you fast.”

  “What happened?”

  “An accident. Or one of the Committee’s little jokes. You can take your choice.”

  The priest’s choice was to change the subject. “You don’t want a church or chapel service?”

  “No. There’ll just be me there. And maybe one other person.” Then almost compulsively, David heard himself add, “She was a prostitute. Not at the end. But before that.”

  The priest looked at him.

  “I just thought I should let you know.”

  “Did you expect it to make a difference?”

  “I don’t know, Father.” David felt stupid. “There might have been special kinds of prayers.”

  “God doesn’t split hairs. We’re all His children.”

  David nodded. Sensational. The only catch was in getting yourself to buy it.

  The priest arranged for a grave site on Long Island, and two days later they drove out in David’s car, a very short, single-unit cortege behind the hearse. The cemetery itself was new and flat, with acres of unused open space. Five years before the entire area had been potato fields and the land still stretched, treeless and unbroken, to the horizon. A bell rang as they entered the gates, and the priest told David to park for ten minutes while the hearse went on alone. “They have to prepare things. The bereaved are often sensitive to the sight of raw earth.”

  They sat together, facing sky and brown grass. The sun was bright and seemed to, hold the promise of spring. David stared straight ahead. There had been little conversation during the drive out. The priest had tried several times, but David barely responded. Now the priest said, “It won’t help her, you know.”

  David looked at him.

  “The gun,” said the priest “It’s not going to do your Dolores any good at all. Not one bit”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What gun?”

  “The one in your right-hand coat pocket”

  David said nothing.

  “I had a waterfront parish for thirteen years,” said the priest “It got so I could spot a pistol under four layers of clothing at fifty yards. And I’ve yet to see anything good come out of one of them.”

  But David’s face was closed.’

  A moment later they received the signal that the grave was cosmeticized and ready, and they drove into the cemetery.

  Now, beside the flower-draped casket, the priest droned on. He was a good man, thought David, who surely deserved a larger and more attentive audience for his words than he had here today. Although God’s ears and Dolores’ soul were probably all that were technically required.

  Staring into the sun, David saw a car appear. It stopped a short distance away and a man got out, his bald head shining in the yellow haze. It was Sam Ellman.

  The agent came up behind the priest, walked around him and stopped a few feet from David. Bowing his head respectfully, he became the second mourner, a short, round man in a tweed coat much too long from him. The priest did not appear to notice his arrival, but his voice rose slightly, to acknowledge the d
oubling of his congregation. David looked at the agent just once, then lowered his head and gazed at the ground. He refused to trust himself to look at him again. Ellman had said he would try to be there, but David had not really expected him. In this, at least, the man had somehow managed to tell the truth.

  The priest’s prayers ended, two cemetery workers lowered the casket into the grave, and the first shovelful of earth hit with that most final of all sounds. Goodbye, thought David. Goodbye. But it meant nothing. He had already said his goodbyes. His mind was now on something else.

  Ellman approached him. “I’m sorry about being late. There was an accident on the Expressway. It held up traffic for half an hour. I’m really sorry.”

  David nodded.

  “My apologies to you, too, Father,” Ellman said. “But I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped.”

  “These things happen,” said the priest.

  They walked from the grave.

  “Father,” said David, “this is Sam Ellman. He knew Dolores.”

  The two men shook hands as they walked.

  David said, “I wonder if you could get a lift back with the hearse, Father. There are a few things I have to go over with Sam. Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  The priest half bowed with his head, then got into the front of the hearse beside the driver. They drove off and David held up a shaking hand. “Got time for a fast drink? There’s a place just down the road.”

  The agent nodded.

  David led the way in his car and Ellman followed. The tavern was about a mile away, a fake Tudor building with a neon Budweiser sign in the window. There were about a dozen cars and trucks in the dirt parking area and David pulled in among them. Then he got out and waited for Ellman’s car. When Ellman had’ parked, David opened the door on the passenger’s side, slid in and shoved the muzzle of his revolver against his ribs.

  “Okay. Drive out of here.”

  “David …”

  David rammed the gun into his stomach this time. “Just drive.”

  The agent drove. Sitting close, David watched him carefully. He had him, by God. And with what surprise! Which pleased him as much as anything. The man had been so unsuspecting of his true feelings, that he had actually come to the funeral. Finally he, David Tomschin, had joined the game. Finally he was doing some of the sly-foxing. It had not been easy for him. He had wanted to go after Ellman that same night. For once, though, he had stayed cool and thought it through. He had pretended to accept Dolores’ murder as an accident. Ellman had swallowed it whole.

  A short distance down the road, David had the agent drive behind a screen of trees. Then he took the keys from the ignition. “Okay, get out. And carefully, because I’m very nervous.”

  Ellman obeyed. His face was blank and chilled.

  “Now take out your gun with two fingers and drop it,” David ordered, having seen this particular bit in a hundred TV police dramas. Who said TV wasn’t educational?

  When the pistol was on the ground, David kicked it to one side. “Now walk straight ahead.”

  Fifty yards into the brush, David sat Ellman against a tree and took the same position, facing him. Gripping the revolver with both hands, he drew up his knees for support and aimed the weapon at Ellman’s head. “Now maybe we can talk,” he said and was pleased at the natural quality of his voice. Incredible. The things you could finally get yourself to do:

  “Okay if I smoke my pipe?” Ellman asked.

  “No.”

  “That gun is making me very edgy.”

  “Try sucking your goddamned thumb.”

  “I don’t understand, David. What are you trying to do.”

  “It’s very simple. I’m trying to discover even one small reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

  A yellow shaft of sun caught Ellman’s face.

  “Perhaps that’s not true,” David said. “Perhaps I just want to enjoy seeing you sweat before I shoot. And do you know where you’re going to get it?” David took one hand off the gun and tapped the center of his forehead. “Right here. Right where Dolores got it. Which is what they call poetic justice.”

  Ellman was silent. He had the look of a man who was thinking very hard and fast and wanted nothing to intrude on his concentration.

  “Did you know I was a writer?” David said, then shook his head. “But of course you knew. You know everything about me. Though I guess I’m not really a writer, only a poor slob trying to be one. At least that’s what I was doing before you came into my life and turned it upside down. How does it feel to have that kind of power over people’s lives? Pretty good?”

  “You’re the one who has it now. You tell me.”

  “It’s terrific. I wish I’d had it sooner.” David looked at the pink, plump, innocuous face over the barrel of his gun and waited for a responsive flood of anger and hate. But for the moment the agent simply looked like his Uncle Louie to him and it was hard to get too worked up about Uncle Louie as a consummate image of evil.

  “Tell me. Is there a special kick you get in going to the funeral of someone you murdered?”

  “I didn’t murder Dolores, David. That was just a tragic accident.”

  “Bullshit! She died because of you. No one else. You promised there’d be no shooting. Or have you forgotten that part?”

  “There had to be shooting. Burke was getting away.”

  “I swear to God; I should give it to you right now.”

  “You’re not going to shoot me, David,” Ellman said tiredly. “You may play with me for a while to soothe your own survival guilt, but you’re not going to pull that trigger. You’re not made that way.”

  David looked at Ellman and smiled. He was still smiling as he raised the pistol to eye level, took careful aim, and fired. The gun kicked up with the explosion and Ellman slammed against the scrub oak behind him. Then he slowly fell over onto his left side.

  David raised his head and sat listening to the echoes.‘Overhead a flock of crows took off, complaining loudly. Then there was only the faint, irregular hum of traffic from the road.

  Ellman squirmed brokenly on the ground.

  “You see?” David said quietly. “You don’t really know as much about me as you thought. Maybe six months ago I wouldn’t have been able to pull that trigger, but I have learned a lot since then. You’ve been a good teacher. You’ve made a very practical man out of me, given me an advanced degree in survival. In fact you’ve taught me so well, you’re probably going to die of it.”

  With much painful effort Ellman managed to work himself up into a sitting position. Blood oozed from a small hole in the left shoulder of his coat. His normally pink face was a pale, jaundiced yellow. If it carried any expression at all, it was one of faint surprise.

  “David …” The agent’s voice was hoarse, unfamiliar. “Whatever I did, it wasn’t for myself. There were good reasons.”

  “There are always good reasons. But you were right about my survival guilt. I blame myself for Dolores almost as much as I blame you. I blame myself for trusting and believing you. You lied about Burke, about his being a double agent, about his having sold out, and I believed you. You lied about just wanting to take him prisoner, and I believed you again. You lied when you said there’d be no shooting and I believed you.”

  “I never expected the girl to be hurt.”

  David did not seem to hear him. “You see … I’ve been doing a lot of thinking these past days, and I’ve decided you’re really not a very nice man. Oh, you seem decent enough. You’re not openly cruel or brutal. You talk reasonably. You’re a Jew, familiar with the tragedy of the Jews. All of which doesn’t make you seem like too bad a guy, does it?”

  David aimed the gun at Ellman’s forehead, then lowered it. “You get the next shot right where Dolores got it.”

  “I still don’t believe you’re going to kill me, David.”

  “You just keep believing that.”

/>   “Whatever you’ve learned, it hasn’t been enough to turn you into a murderer.”

  “What turned you into one?”

  “I’m no murderer.”

  “You want me to dig up Dolores and give you a good look?”

  Ellman’s mouth twitched and for a moment there was something confused and uncertain in his usually confident face. “I have faith that what I’m doing is .. .”

  “I spit on your faith,” David cut in harshly. “It scares hell out of me. Have enough faith in anything … God, government or the price of tomatoes, and sooner or later somebody’s going to be dying of it. I think I’m going to start a new crusade. Not for any God or government … but for the greater glory of nonfaith.”

  David stopped. Ellman was no longer listening. Slumped against the tree, he had quietly passed out.

  David sat there, the gun still resting on his knees, still pointing at the agent. The sun felt pleasant on his head and he lifted his face for more of its warmth. He was aware of the treetrunk, rough and hard against his back, and some birds, fluttering in the branches overhead.

  “The bastard,” he swore softly. But there was little real anger left In nun. What animals we are, he thought There were rustling sounds behind him in the brush and he turned to see Father Mulcahy running heavily towards him. Red-faced and puffing, the priest looked at the unconscious agent, then at the gun in David’s hand, then, with horror, at Ellman once more.

  “It’s okay, Father,” David said. “He’s not dead He just fainted.”

  The priest stood gasping for breath, his face working. “What an idiot I am. We were ten miles away before I was even able to figure any of it out.”

  Father Mulcahy bent over Ellman, examined the wound, felt his pulse. “Who is he?”

  “A government agent.”

  The priest shook his head. “We’d better get him to a hospital.”

  David felt oddly lightheaded and silly, as though he had just come off some sort of high. “Why can’t we just leave him here for the crows?”