The Generous Heart

by Kenneth Fearing

  But there again, it was not meant to be believable. It was meant to be unbelievable, so that I would all the more clearly feel the simple, crushing force of the threat. But Shana?

  It was not possible she had any part, knowingly, in this dispassionate, expert, daylight stick-up. Or was it possible? A lot of her life was unknown to me, much of her very personality was obscure. Why didn’t she divorce this husband of hers, supposed to be incurably psychopathic? I had never seen him, nor had anyone I knew. There might be none at all, or maybe he existed, too much so. And had never been really missing, with none of his brains missing, either, just put together wrong. A five-to-ten-year sentence in a penitentiary, with a recent release, could easily account for his absence, until now, and his sudden reappearance. Back in business.

  And who was Barna? Shana was Shana. Her profile might be the same, viewed from either side, but the reverse features, in these new, glaring lights, showed startling differences.

  Then how much did they want? What would buy them off? That was simple. They wanted that contract signed between CC and Generous Heart. For one campaign only, according to Vincent. But that one campaign, with sharpshooters out for a fast buck, could also sink us. A backfire might cause more damage than anything they themselves thought up as a threat. And if we still floated, why shouldn’t they decide to come back for another raid? Then go for a bigger package in a still greater steal?

  I crossed the bridge and drove down the highway, feeling somber and savage. But also, with some of the pieces at last sorted out, a little more set. Though I could still think of no way to deal with any of these circling, hovering, shadowy, vulturous questions and misgivings. Somebody wanted to see me crippled or paralyzed with indecision, then tear a chunk out of CC, that much was clear. But who?

  Shana? Vincent? Haley? Talcott? Stanley? Griscom? Or all of them? And perhaps still others, unknown?

  I started to turn in at a garage I sometimes used when parking near Sham’s salon, but at the last second had another thought, and went by. She knew I used It, so did Vincent, anyone might know. Every normal move was a potential danger, now, every friend must be held as a stranger, every stranger had to be viewed as a potential enemy.

  A couple of blocks from the salon I found a garage I had never used before, and drove in. Then I walked back. It was one of those clear, crisp, cool afternoons meant for better things. But it wouldn’t be used for any such. And no day could be, for some time.

  I entered the salon and glanced at the girl behind the reception desk, walking past her as usual, though I half expected her to display some new, cold, guarded vigilance. But she didn’t, giving me instead only the usual quick smile.

  The door of Shana’s office was closed, which ordinarily it was not. Without knocking, I stepped inside.

  She sat at that small, petal-shaped desk, but now her head rested on top of it, buried in her arms. Her head came up, shocked, and then the shock deepened, frozen in wariness, and fear. It was as though she had heard the faint snap lock of some invisible trap. Those impenetrable dark eyes watched me, through the wires of a huge nonexistent cage.

  They were different eyes, and I had never looked into them before. I stared back at her, feeling some buried nerve-end cut and bleeding, but also feeling remote and curious, not too surprised, everything thinly filmed with rage.

  Of course she was trapped. And knew it. It was not in the books for me to get the outlines of the picture quite so soon. Not for a while. Not until after I had signed, after the campaign, and after the stuff had been delivered. For me to guess, beforehand, that spoiled the smoothness of their arrangements, and what was worse, spelled danger.

  Her voice was a whisper. She said, crazily:

  “You’re here.”

  I came over to the desk, showing the alert interest reserved for the most tedious conferences known to the business.

  “Of course I’m here. You asked me to sign a contract, didn’t you? Well, where is it?”

  “Jay.”

  “Yes?” I gave her plenty of time, but she simply shook her head. And her arms stretched slowly toward me across the top of the desk, until her hands rested, palms down, in the center of it. There, an open silver jar of cream stood between them. The gesture was helpless, and hopeless, and that fright in her dazed eyes smoldered with more than fright, wilder than panic, and darker than despair. And I would have stopped, I might have been touched. But now, a corner of this new picture, always there under the old and familiar one, fell suddenly and easily into the clear, strange, logical lines of its different perspective. I said, “I couldn’t believe you had an active interest in Generous Heart, but of course you do. It serves the violent insane. Barna was a client, and I think you knew him. And I think you actually do have a husband named Derek. He has been serving time as a criminal psychopath, but he was recently released. You also know an investigator for the Generous Heart named Gris-com. Three people, all in a single agency. Three people, you knew them all, and that is more than coincidence. That’s a gang.”

  Her voice was less than a whisper. Scarcely a breath.

  “And Vincent hinted at something more than a reorganization in Generous Heart. They now have a crooked treasurer by the name of Charles Talcott. Is he a friend of yours, too? You, Griscom, this Derek comedian, the three of you have taken over the whole damn thing, you’ve already cleaned it out, and now it’s occurred to somebody that CC can raise you another, still bigger jackpot. Where’s the contract for that campaign supposed to modernize the Generous Heart? Griscom said the agency wanted to broaden its support. A good idea. For him. For all of you. Well, don’t be bashful. Let’s talk over the terms. What kind of a campaign we’ll put on. When we begin, how long it’s to run. And the size of the target. That especially.”

  The breath was stronger, and now a spark of anger began to smolder behind the fright.

  “Jay.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “Jay, please, please.”

  “How much do you want? Just to start with? This first campaign?”

  “Jay, listen to me.”

  “What a drive. I’ve got a slogan, and a symbol The Generous Heart Is as Big as Our Blackjack.’ Rampant on a field of double crosses.”

  Her hands drew together, cupped about the small silver bowl. She raised and extended it.

  “Thank you for everything,” she said. “You can have it back. And the other one. But you needn’t have come here.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? Aren’t we in business together?”

  “You didn’t have to send them in the first place. I told you I wouldn’t interfere. I wouldn’t have, even without these.”

  “Without what?”

  “This.”

  I looked at the thing in her hands, for the first time really seeing it, and recalling she’d thanked me for some gift I hadn’t sent.

  “Is that my present? What the hell is it?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Face cream. A very nice jar. But I didn’t send it. Aren’t we getting pretty far off the subject?”

  She still extended that damn thing, earnestly, like a prize she’d won, and I noticed she’d cut and bandaged two of her finger tips.

  “I don’t think we are. This cream is really different, Jay. Just feel it.”

  “All right, I’ll take your word for it. But getting back to Generous Heart. There won’t be any campaign. Not by CC. And I’m going to make it my business that some good accountants go over the books of that agency. And my own firm. Both.”

  She still held out that silver jar.

  “Just touch it,” she said, her voice soft, but edged.

  “Thanks, I never use the stuff. Can’t you talk sense? Do you understand that I won’t sign that contract, and what those CPA’s are certain to find? The shortages. Your take. And your friends’ take.”

  She ignored this.

  “Are you afraid? I don’t blame you. How do you think I felt?”

  “Afraid of what
?” I asked. But her haunted, stricken eyes stopped me, drew my own attention back to the jar she still extended, the perfectly smooth white surface of its cream. “Hell, it looks good enough to eat. I will eat it, if it’s holding up our business talk.”

  I pushed my forefinger down into the stuff and dug up a scoop of it and was about to have myself a small bite, just to see what it actually did taste like, when a lot of things happened all at once. She jumped and grabbed my arm, letting the bowl fall with a clatter, and screamed.

  “Jay, don’t. Oh, God, don’t touch it.”

  “What’s the matter now?” I said. “I thought—”

  She tore a sheet of tissue from a pad on the desk and removed the dab of grease, used another sheet, then picked up the phone.

  “It’s acid,” she said, and into the receiver, “Send for Dr. Dwight. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

  “Wait a minute. What do you want a doctor for?”

  “You’ve been burned.”

  “The hell I have. I was wrong about Generous Heart. You don’t own it. You’re one of their big donors, directors, and display cases. Maybe you all are.”

  “Jay, I tell you that stuff is a caustic acid.”

  I studied the finger. It was still there, and looked and felt the same. Or did it feel a little different, itching for a second, and then suddenly hot? I moved away from the desk. She could be right.

  “All right, but keep that doctor out of here. I want to talk to you, I’ll run some water on this. It—”

  There was another small but forceful shriek.

  “Don’t Jay. That’s sulphuric.”

  “I’ll just—”

  “That makes it worse.”

  I came back to the edge of the desk, looked at her, stared at that damned jar. No question, I could feel something: where that cream had been. It smarted.

  “Where did you get that stuff?” I demanded. She seemed to be trying to speak, but didn’t. “Is that the gift you’ve been talking about? Is that what you’re trying to say?” She nodded, still mute, shivering, appearing to shrink, more tragic than ever. “If you think I sent it, you must be—” I began, but decided that would lead nowhere, and broke it off. “Where did you get that idea?”

  She reached down into a wastepaper basket beside the desk and handed me some torn and crumpled wrapping paper. I smoothed it out. The label, that of a gift shop, had my name on it as the buyer and sender, though it was printed in block letters, not written. I looked up at her.

  “Just that,” she said. “No card, nothing. There were two of those jars.”

  I dropped the wrapping paper on the desk, and rubbed my finger, which stung and had a blister coming on, and thought. Not much light came through.

  “Two of them?” I asked, and remembered. “What happened to the other one? Did you get any of it, yourself?” She extended her hand, silently, and I saw those strips of adhesive on her finger tips. Not cuts, after all, but burns. Maybe. But maybe, too, this was some more of the same. A story like this, if somebody cared to use it, would fix me fine. A real help to CC and myself. In sinking me. The threat was such gibberish it couldn’t help but stick. It was poisonously alive, hotter than the acid itself. I looked at Shana, examining her shocked face, and heard an echo of Griscom’s voice. Morbid outbursts, particularly from women. Lurid accusations. And something about I hope you can reconcile your differences and iron out these fantastic suspicions, before my official charge is made. I said, calmly, “Is that your story? To the newspapers, perhaps to the cops?”

  She shivered more violently, and leaned against the desk, bracing herself against it, but did not sit down. She neither shook her head nor nodded. It moved in a crazed little bobbing motion, and her voice was a torn rag.

  “Forgive me, Jay.”

  “Is that it?”

  “No. I almost did. I would have, but I didn’t. No.”

  “But you will. So the question still is, how much do you want? You’ve got a good one, no question. With more to come. How much?”

  “Forgive me, Jay. Forgive me.”

  “For what? A friendly little shakedown? Forget it. How much?”

  She sank very slowly back into her chair, then, making a sound between a moan and a sob. And then her head rested on the desk. I looked around, vaguely, as a man walked in. I had never seen him before.

  He looked at Shana, myself, the disarray on the desk.

  “You sent for me,” he told Shana, and she raised her face, nodded, sought for a voice but didn’t quite have one, in a situation that may have been planned, but now was clearly out of control. He turned to me. “What’s the matter?”

  I didn’t bother with that, at all. He was stocky, graying, poised, keen. Maybe Griscom. Maybe Derek. Maybe anyone. I asked:

  “Who are you?”

  “Dr. Dwight. Who are you?” I didn’t reply, still sizing him up. Anyone can invent a name, adopt a profession, assume a role. His gaze went to the desk, the paper, the jar with the wedge of cream missing, some of it still smeared above the top. “Has somebody been using that?”

  Shana spoke at last, in a quiet phrase that sounded very full.

  “He didn’t know.”

  It meant something they both understood. The fellow looked at me with interest.

  “Are you Mr. Ravoc?”

  I nodded, a thousand miles away from this.

  “Are we all here?” I asked. “Shall we get down to that contract? Which, by the way, I still won’t sign.”

  Shana hysterically snapped at me.

  “Jay, stop it. This isn’t you. Stop it.”

  “What contract?” asked Dr. Dwight. Neither of us replied, and he went on, “Mrs. Hepworth wasn’t expecting you, Mr, Ravoc. I wasn’t so sure, myself.” We still said nothing. He looked at my hand, saw the blister, and showed a faint smile. “How does it feel?”

  “All right.”

  “So I see. Want something on it?” I shook my head. “Mrs. Hepworth wasn’t so lucky Her contact with it lasted longer, and she used water, besides.”

  This was not going off the way my forecast had it. I had overlooked a point, or it had not yet been reached, or there may have been a miscalculation somewhere.

  “Who sent that junk?” I demanded. When neither of them answered, I went on reasonably, “I know you say you thought it came from me. That’s the name on the wrapping paper. But who actually did concoct it, and send it?” They still said nothing, both of them staring at me, Shana in something like dread, Dr. Dwight in concentrated thought. I finally told them, speaking calmly, but meaning it, “There’s no use trying to throw me off the track, and I won’t be stopped. I intend to find out. I already know the name of the shop, and that’s where I’ll start But no matter how it was done, or who made that stuff, I’ll trace it. I’ll trace the sender, I promise you, and he’ll get the full course. Well? Say something. I should think you’d be as anxious as I am.”

  They looked at each other, and presently Dr. Dwight remarked:

  “At first, Mrs. Hepworth claimed she had made that chemical compound, herself.”

  “What?”

  “So she said, when I treated her. For obvious reasons. I didn’t believe it, myself, but that’s what she said.”

  “Why?” I looked at her, seeing the stunned appeal of her mute face. “You didn’t make it, did you, or have it made?” She didn’t have to say anything to that. “Then why on earth say so?” But it came through all at once, a little late, but hard. I saw why. For the first time that day I felt that an enormous balance wheel, no bigger than my life, had been smoothly and steadily gathering momentum, but now it began to slow, then stop, and after another long moment, start to turn in reverse. Smaller wheels and gears followed after it. Now, moving in this direction, the contour of these actions showed still a different purpose, another presence, an even more alien landscape. But there were familiar faces in it. I stared some more at Shana. “I see.”

  I heard Dr. Dwight, and although my thoughts lagged behind th
e words, I began to register them, mechanically to add them up.

  “Yes. And an investigator, a man named Talcott, came to me shortly after I treated Mrs. Hepworth. I revealed, I’m afraid unwisely, that she had insisted the corrosive product was of her own making.”

  I stared at him, and away beyond him, in the stillness that held the room. That would be Talcott, all right. Stanley’s friend. And then I remembered Vincent telling me he’s no friend of Stanley’s. Stanley’s afraid of him, I think. Perhaps Vincent, too.

  They had a story, all right. But that still didn’t seal it off.

  “To hell with him,” I said. “There’s the shop itself. I can trace the stuff from there.” There was no response to this. Instead, they merely watched me, in uneasy silence. “Well? Some clerk at the store, maybe the owner, somebody there can identify the buyer and nail this fellow to the wall. Simple enough, it seems to me.”

  They both hesitated, then Dr. Dwight said:

  “The man who actually bought these jars could be identified, I suppose. But it’s not that simple.”

  In a faint, crisp voice, as though knowing this was a dream, but it was happening to somebody else, Shana told me:

  “You see, I tried to trace the package, myself. And I told the manager I had ordered the jars, to demonstrate a new line the salon was putting on the market, made according to a formula of my own.”

  I sat down, for the first time since I’d reached the office. A squeeze play, and they were actually putting it through. God knows how. With our own help, too. The best touches, in fact, had been put in by us, though the essence of the racket was all theirs. Pressure on me, then pressure on Shana. And wherever we cracked, wherever we panicked, wherever we were smug, evasive, or just plain stupid, that was where another blade sank in, and to the hilt.

  This must be the way they had reached Vincent, and gotten to both Stanley and Haley.

  Dr. Dwight was speaking to me again.

  “I don’t understand this, I don’t know what it is all about, Mr. Ravoc. But I am afraid another attempt may be made to injure Mrs. Hepworth. Perhaps in some other form. She doesn’t seem to believe this, in spite of what’s happened. I hope you can convince her, and I hope you can do something to prevent more attacks. I don’t know the purpose, and neither does Mrs. Hepworth, apparently. But I do know it is serious.”