The Death Instinct

by Jed Rubenfeld

  'No, I can't,' she agreed.

  Fall took a long draw at his cigar. 'What is it you want me to do?'

  'Call off the war.'

  'I don't make that kind of decision,' said Fall gruffly. 'Harding isn't even president yet.'

  'You better find a way, Mr Senator,' said Littlemore. 'Otherwise, you can kiss your Cabinet position goodbye.'

  A piece of tobacco leaf was caught between Fall's front teeth. He sucked it in and spat it out to the floor of Grand Central Terminal. He looked at McAdoo, who nodded. 'There will be no war,' said Fall. 'Hope you're proud of yourself, boy.'

  The Senator buttoned his overcoat. He turned to go.

  'The one thing I'll never understand,' said Littlemore, 'is how you could kill so many of your own countrymen. You didn't need to pick noon. You could've done the bombing anytime — at night. You're not just a traitor, Fall. You're some kind of monster.'

  The Senator faced the detective. 'How do you know the bomb was supposed to go off at noon?' he asked. 'Mistakes happen in war. Don't they, McAdoo?'

  'Don't ask me,' replied McAdoo. 'I wasn't responsible.'

  'Maybe the bombers were told to do their work at a minute after midnight on the sixteenth,' said Fall, 'when the Mexicans would be celebrating their puny independence. Maybe nobody was supposed to die. But maybe the bombers were told twelve-oh-one, and maybe where they came from, twelve-oh-one doesn't mean a minute after midnight.'

  Littlemore whistled. 'Your boys blew the bomb twelve hours late. That's why Fischer was off on the date. He heard you say the bomb would go off the night of the fifteenth.'

  'Our boys?' asked Fall. 'Don't know what you're talking about, Littlemore. I was just speculating. But let me tell you what ain't speculation: you're handing the Reds the biggest victory they ever had. Oil is mother's milk, son. The countries that have it are going to be big and strong. The ones that don't are going to wither and die. Know how much oil we Americans produced yesterday? One million two hundred thousand barrels. Know how much we consumed? One million six hundred thousand barrels. That's right — every day, we're short four hundred thousand barrels of oil. Where's that extra oil coming from? Mexico. We'll get our oil; trust me on that. One way or the other, we'll get it. This country has enemies, Littlemore. I ain't one of them. Evening, Commissioner.'

  Enright said goodbye to the Senator.

  Unseen by anyone else, Mrs Cross winked at Littlemore. 'Good night, New York,' she said. 'You do play by the rules, don't you?'

  'You really can't connect them?' Commissioner Enright asked Littlemore a few minutes later. 'To the bombing?'

  'We've got nothing on them,' said Littlemore. 'The only witness who can tie Fall to the bombing is Fischer here, and no judge will let him testify.'

  'How about the gold?' asked Enright. 'Can't we prosecute them for theft?'

  'There's no theft if the owner won't admit his property was taken,' said Littlemore. 'Secretary Houston's going to deny that the Treasury got robbed. I saw him do it tonight.'

  'I know what to do!' interjected Fischer. 'I'll tell Wilson. He'll be very unhappy with Senator Fall. I'm one of the President's advisers, you know.'

  'You did good tonight, Eddie,' replied Littlemore. 'Thanks.'

  'You're most welcome. By the way, the Popes are trying to condemn me again.'

  'The Popes?' asked Enright.

  'I know what he means, Commissioner,' said Littlemore. 'It's okay, Eddie. I'll help you out.'

  'Well, perhaps all this will make good crime fiction someday,' observed Enright. 'I might do something with it myself. Mr Flynn is publishing my work, you know.'

  'I'm sorry?' said Littlemore. 'Big Bill Flynn?'

  'His days as Chief are numbered now that the Republicans are in,' said Enright. 'He's starting a literary magazine. Intends to call it Flynn's. I'm to be his first writer. I'll have several detective stories for him. Set in New York.'

  Littlemore had no reply for a moment. Then he said, 'Don't put that in one of your stories, sir.'

  'Don't put what?' said Enright.

  'That the Police Commissioner of New York City is going to write detective stories for the fat-headed Chief of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who's starting a literary magazine and naming it after himself after botching the biggest investigation the country's ever seen. Nobody would believe it.'

  The Washington Square Hospital was a small, comfortable private facility with only two floors, connected by a wide central marble staircase. Littlemore was taking those stairs two at a time when he came upon Colette on the landing, looking out a large window. She saw him in the reflection and turned to him; the diamond choker, still on her neck, sparkled brilliantly.

  'Glad to see you're okay, Miss,' said Littlemore before taking in her expression. 'What's wrong?'

  'Nothing,' she answered. 'Everything's fine. He's going to be fine.'

  'Who?'

  At that moment a surgeon came slowly down the steps, cleaning his hands with a long wet cloth. His sleeves were bloodied. 'Miss Rousseau?' he asked. 'I'm very sorry, but-'

  'I don't want to hear it,' Colette shouted, running upstairs. 'He's going to be fine.'

  The surgeon shook his head and continued down the stairwell, leaving Littlemore by himself on the landing, trying not to believe the inferences he'd already drawn. Colette's footsteps trailed off down the corridor upstairs.

  'Wait a second,' Littlemore called out half a minute later, unsure whether he was addressing Colette or the surgeon, then broke into a run downstairs. 'Wait just a darn second.'

  The surgeon stopped midway down the hall: 'Are you a friend of Dr Younger's?' he asked.

  'Sure, I'm a friend,' said Littlemore. 'What's wrong with him?'

  'He was shot.'

  Littlemore saw in his mind's eye Younger stepping between Colette and Samuels's gunfire. 'In the back,' he said.

  'Twice,' agreed the surgeon. 'There's nothing I can do for him. I'm sorry. Does he have family?'

  'What do you mean, nothing you can do? Operate on him.'

  'I have,' said the surgeon, wiping his forehead. 'The bullets struck his ribs and lodged in the thoracic cavity. I don't dare try to extract them, because I don't know where they are. I'll tear his heart and lungs to pieces before I find them.'

  'Can't you X-ray him or something?'

  'X-rays are useless,' said the surgeon. 'The bullets haven't come to rest. Every breath he takes moves them. By the time we have images, the bullets will be somewhere else. They won't stabilize for at least seventy-two hours.'

  'That doesn't sound so bad,' Littlemore said, refusing to accept the grim fatality with which the surgeon spoke. 'Roosevelt kept a bullet in his chest for almost ten years.'

  'The situation is like Roosevelt's,' the surgeon reflected, 'except for the infection. Dr Younger's neutrophils are at about eighty percent. He has fever. Roosevelt's wound healed with no infection at all. That was the remarkable thing about it.'

  'What are you saying, Doc? Help me out here.'

  'I'm saying your friend must recover from his infection,' replied the surgeon. 'We are powerless against this sort of thing. All our instruments, all our science, all our medicines — powerless. He should live through the night. We'll test his blood again tomorrow morning. If the neutrophils decrease, all may yet be well.'

  Littlemore tapped at the door and entered a silent hospital room. Colette was standing by the bedside, dousing Younger's forehead with a cold compress. Younger was lying on his stomach, eyes closed, cheek lying directly on the bed, with no pillow. His breathing was shallow, his face unnaturally livid, his entire body shivering.

  'How's he doing?' asked Littlemore.

  'Well,' said Colette. 'Very well. He's sleeping.'

  Neither spoke for a while.

  'What are neutrophils, Miss? The doctor was telling me-'

  'Doctors are fools,' declared Colette.

  Silence again.

  'Neutrophils,' said Colette, 'are white blood cells, the most commo
n kind. When there is an infection in the body, the neutrophils increase in number to fight it. Normally, they make up about sixty-five percent of the white cells.'

  'How bad is eighty percent?'

  'It's not bad; it's good,' said Colette. 'It means he's fighting his infection. His neutrophils will be in the seventies tomorrow, the high seventies. You'll see. Then they will come down more and more each day until they're normal. Did Mr Brighton live?'

  'No. Neither did Samuels.' Littlemore looked at Younger's shivering body. 'Did they say anything about the kind of bullets, Miss?'

  'Why?'

  'It can make a big difference. The worst thing is if the bullets were hollow-points. Those mushroom on contact. They're real bad. Can't even use them in warfare. It's illegal. The bullet that hit Teddy Roosevelt wasn't a hollow-point, so it didn't mushroom when it him. When we policemen heard that, we knew he'd be okay.'

  Colette remained quiet a long time. 'That's the word the doctors used,' she said at last. 'They said the bullets mushroomed.'

  Before dawn, string-tied stacks of newspapers hit the streets, announcing in bold headlines a reconciliation between the United States and Mexico.

  The American army at the border was standing down. Confidential Mexican agent Roberto Pesqueira declared in Washington unequivocally that American investments in his country would not be nationalized. United States law enforcement officers were said to have discovered and foiled a nefarious but unspecified plot to unseat General Obregon.

  Younger's blood was drawn first thing that morning. He was still unconscious, but his fever had stabilized, although his body seemed wracked, weakened. Colette was there; Littlemore had gone home to his family.

  A half-hour later, the surgeon from the night before came in. 'Eighty-six percent,' he said.

  'It's a mistake,' answered Colette. 'No mistake. I'm sorry.'

  'It doesn't matter,' said Colette. 'The count will improve by this evening. He's doing better. Much better. I can tell.'

  Littlemore and Betty came back to the hospital at sunset. They had been there, one or the other, on and off, throughout the day. Littlemore's face was deeply drawn. They ran into Colette at the front door. 'I'm buying cigarettes,' explained Colette, smiling. 'He asked for them.'

  'He's awake?' said Betty.

  'Wide-awake,' said Colette. 'He's so much better.'

  'I'll get him the smokes, Miss,' replied Littlemore, a tremendous weight lifting from him. 'You go back upstairs.'

  'No, it's fine. He said he was hoping to talk to you.'

  'To me?' asked Littlemore.

  'Yes.'

  'Doc doesn't talk to me. He doesn't talk to anybody. His neutrophils went down?'

  'They're very strong,' said Colette. 'Ninety-five percent.'

  'Ninety-five?' repeated Littlemore dumbly. 'But I thought-'

  'It shows how hard he's fighting the infection. It's a good sign. But I think — I think — I think maybe you should hurry, Jimmy.' Colette turned and hid her face from them, but she didn't cry. 'Is there a tobacco nearby?'

  'I know a place,' said Betty, understanding the French girl's meaning. 'I'll show you.'

  A nurse was preparing a syringe when Littlemore entered the room. 'This will make you much more comfortable,' she said to Younger.

  Younger was still lying on his stomach. His face, resting on one cheek, was turned toward the door; he saw Littlemore. His back, exposed from the waist up, had thick plasters in two places. His shining forehead was as pale as his white sheets, and he shook badly. 'No,' he said. His voice was strong, but he made no movement. 'No shot.'

  'Afraid of a little shot, a big man like you?' said the nurse. 'Don't worry. You'll feel much better soon.'

  Younger tried to lift himself; his arms looked powerful, but evidently it was too painful. He closed his eyes. 'No shot,' he repeated to Littlemore.

  'Ma'am,' said Littlemore, 'he doesn't want the shot.'

  'It's for his pain,' answered the nurse, paying no attention.

  Younger shook his head.

  'Sorry, ma'am, can't let you do that,' said Littlemore.

  'Doctor's orders,' she replied as if those magic words preempted all further discussion. She tapped the syringe, forced a drop of clear liquid from the needle, and was just about to inject Younger when Littlemore seized her wrist and led her, protesting, out the door.

  'Thanks,' said Younger.

  Littlemore noticed matches and a packet of cigarettes on a table. 'I thought you were out of smokes.'

  'One left,' said Younger.

  'Want it?'

  'Sure, let's do all the clichйs. I reject the morphine. You put a cigarette in my mouth.'

  'Is that a yes or a no?'

  'No,' said Younger.

  'You're not going to die on us, Doc, are you?'

  'Thinking about it.'

  A silence followed. Younger's teeth began to chatter. With an effort, he brought the noise to a halt.

  'How's the job?' asked Younger.

  'Job's good,' said Littlemore. 'Don't have one, but it's good.'

  'Family?'

  'Family's good.'

  A steady dripping came from the intravenous tubes on the other side of the bed. They could hear traffic outside the closed window.

  'That's good,' said Younger.

  'You wanted to talk to me?' asked Littlemore.

  'Who told you that?'

  'The Miss.'

  'Ridiculous,' said Younger. His teeth began to rattle again.

  'I'm lighting you that cigarette,' said Littlemore. He did so, fingers not as steady as they usually were. 'There you go.'

  'Thanks.' Younger smoked; it settled his clattering teeth. 'You realize there's a silver lining.'

  'Oh, yeah — what?'

  'If I die fast enough, you'll be in the clear at my hearing tomorrow. They can't make you pay a man's bail bond posthumously.'

  'I already talked to the DA,' said Littlemore. 'He dropped the charges against you.'

  'Ah. Excellent. Then my death will be completely pointless.'

  There was a long pause.

  'Good thing I'm not a believer,' said Younger, smoke curling into his eyes.

  Another silence.

  'Not even to my own family,' said Younger.

  'What's that?' asked Littlemore.

  'Nothing,' said Younger. 'Ash?'

  Littlemore took the cigarette, tamped it into an ashtray, and returned it to Younger's mouth.

  'I wasn't kind, Jim,' said Younger quietly.

  'What are you talking about?'

  'I was never kind. Not to one person. Not even to my family.'

  'Sure you were,' said Littlemore. 'You took care of your mom when she got sick. I remember.'

  'No, I didn't,' said Younger. 'And my father. All he ever wanted from me was a show of respect. That's all. Never gave it to him.' He laughed through the smoke. 'Funny thing was I did respect him. I wasn't like you. You visit your father every weekend. You make him part of your life. You talk about Washington.'

  'My dad?' said Littlemore.

  'Yes.'

  'My dad?'

  Younger looked at him.

  'My dad's a drunk,' said Littlemore. 'He's been a drunk his whole life. He cheated. And he was crooked. Got kicked off the force for taking bribes. They took his badge, took his gun. Everything I ever said about him was a lie.'

  'I know.'

  'I know you know,' said Littlemore. 'But you let me tell my lies.'

  Neither spoke.

  'That was kind,' added Littlemore.

  Younger grimaced. His head jerked back; his teeth clenched. The cigarette broke off, and the lit end flew in a little arc like a miniature rocket, bouncing off the sheet near his chin, then falling to the floor. At the same time, the door to the room opened.

  'I'll get that,' said Colette, hurrying in, brushing a hot red ember off the sheet and cleaning up the floor. She placed her palm wordlessly below Younger's lips. From his mouth, he let slip the unsmoked butt end of t
he cigarette, which fell into her hand. He began to shake again and sweat.

  No one said anything.

  At last Littlemore asked, 'You in a lot of pain, Doc?'

  'I never understood it,' said Younger.

  'What?' asked Littlemore.

  'Why I was alive. Why any of us were.'

  'You understand now?' asked Colette.

  Younger nodded. 'Not happiness. Not meaning. It's just-'

  He stopped.

  'What?' asked Colette.

  'War.'

  'Only some people aren't fighting,' said Littlemore, remembering something Younger had once said to him.

  'No. Everyone's fighting. And I know what it's between, this war.' He looked at Colette.

  'What?' asked Littlemore.

  'Too late,' said Younger. He lost control of his torso, which began to convulse. Fresh blood appeared on his bandages. Whether the expression on his face was another grimace or a smile, Littlemore couldn't tell.

  Colette stared. Betty called for the nurse.

  In the middle of the night, Colette knelt alone at Younger's bed. A candle burned on the table. 'Can you hear me?' she whispered.

  His eyes were closed. He was still prone, his back rising and falling so shallowly there was hardly any respiration at all. His forehead was drenched. A hollow light glowed in his cheeks.

  'If you die,' she said quietly, 'I'll never forgive you.'

  He lay there.

  Abruptly she stood, letting go his hand. 'Go ahead and die then if you're so weak,' she cried. 'I thought you were strong. You're a weakling. Nothing but a weakling.'

  'Not very sympathetic,' he said softly, without opening his eyes.

  She gasped and covered her mouth. She took his hand again and whispered in his ear. 'If you live,' she said, 'I'll do anything you want. I'll be your slave.'

  'Promise?'

  'I promise,' she whispered.

  His eyes blinked open — and shut again. 'Incentive. That's good. Nevertheless, I'm dying. You have to go.'

  'I'm not going anywhere.'

  'Yes, you are,' he said, making a great effort to speak. 'I need to tell you what to do. I won't be awake long enough. Get Littlemore. Tell him to take you to a fishing tackle store.'