by David Goodis
“It was funny and it was clever.”
“Why clever?”
“The girl,” Vanning said.
“What girl?”
“Come on,” Vanning said, and his heart climbed to the top of a diving platform and waited there.
“Oh,” John said. “That girl. That girl in the restaurant. I didn’t get a good look at her. What about her?”
“That’s the point,” Vanning said. “What about her?”
“You ought to know.”
“All I know is, she couldn’t have worked it better. I’m not the smartest man around by a long shot, but I don’t get fooled like that very often.”
John laughed. “You’re nowhere near it,” he said. “She wasn’t working with us. We never saw her before.”
“I don’t see why you’re trying to save her face.”
“Maybe you’ll want to see her again. Maybe you like her.”
“Crazy about her,” Vanning said. “Why shouldn’t I be? Look at all she’s done for me. I ought to buy her a box of orchids.”
“You make it sound as if it’s important.”
“It’s important because it’s one of those things that makes a man want to kick himself. Bad enough that I talked to her in the first place. What hurts the most is that I let her take me down a street with only one small light on it.”
“Maybe it’s all for the best,” John said. “Now we’ll get this whole thing straightened out and everything will be fine.”
“And dandy. Don’t forget the dandy.”
“Fine and dandy,” John said, and he grinned, and then he stopped grinning.
Because Vanning was in there, too close to him, and Vanning was moving, Vanning’s hand sliding out, going toward the revolver, veering away from the revolver as it came up, closing over John’s wrist. And Vanning twisted John’s wrist, twisted hard, and the revolver flew out of John’s hand as Vanning twisted again. Then Vanning chopped a short right that caught John on the side of the head. As John tried to straighten, Vanning clipped him again, and a third time, and John was going down, hitting the edge of the bed, trying to get up.
Vanning allowed him to get halfway up, allowed him to start opening his mouth. Then Vanning reached back, hardened his right hand, sent it in on a straight line, direct and clean and exploding. John’s eyes closed and John sagged, reached the floor, rolled over and stayed there.
Vanning stepped to the window and looked down. There was a ledge a few feet below. He climbed out of the window and placed himself on the ledge, looked down, saw another ledge, descended to that as he noticed the way the porch roof was placed. He was going down. Hanging from finger tips, he worked his way to a spot reasonably close to the porch roof, then let go. He didn’t make much noise as he hit the porch roof, but it seemed like thunder. He waited there, and the echo of the thunder passed away and there was no more noise. He jumped from the porch roof, and he was wondering if they had left the keys in the green sedan.
Chapter Six
THERE WAS another ferryboat, much larger than the first one. And the big wave was moving in again. Fraser opened his eyes, twisted his head and saw a gleam of gray-lavender slicing through the venetian blinds. He rolled over and got out of bed, and immediately his wife was awake and sitting up.
“I’m getting dressed,” Fraser said.
“So early?”
“I shouldn’t have left him last night.”
“Get back in bed.”
“No,” he said. “I’ve got to make sure.” He moved toward the dresser. He opened a drawer and took out a tan leather case with a long strap attached to it. He dressed quickly, slung the strap over his shoulder, and he looked as though he was headed for the races at Jamaica.
“Breakfast?” she said.
“No, I don’t have time.”
“A glass of orange juice?”
“No,” he said. “Thanks, honey, but this is on the double.”
“Call me,” she said. “I want to know.”
He nodded and hurried out of the room. He was impatient in the elevator and more impatient on the street that was quite empty and especially empty in regard to taxis. He had to walk a block before he spotted one.
The taxi took him down to Greenwich Village, stopped a half block away from where he wanted to go. He walked quickly the rest of the way, entered a house across the street from Vanning’s place, ran up to the room he had rented for the purpose of watching Vanning’s room. He opened the leather case and took out a pair of binoculars.
At the window he held the binoculars to his eyes and focused on Vanning’s room. He saw the empty room and a bed that had not been slept in. He stood there at the window with the binoculars against his eyes and the empty room looked back.
He put the binoculars back in the case. They were wonderful binoculars. They had cost plenty and if they weren’t so valuable he would have kept them in this room, but the house was a shabby place and some of these tenants had a habit of visiting other rooms by means of a skeleton key. Now, however, he didn’t particularly care if someone took the binoculars. He left the case on a table and walked out of the room.
There was a need for talking to someone, and Fraser decided to call Headquarters. Downstairs there was a pay phone, and he inserted a nickel, moved his hand toward the dial, discovered that he was not calling Headquarters, but his wife. She must have been sitting near the phone and waiting for the call, because she answered at once.
“He’s gone,” Fraser said.
“Are you sure?”
“I tell you he’s gone.”
“Please don’t get excited.”
“I’ve ruined it.”
“Please——”
“I was too sure of myself. When I left him last night I could have sworn he’d head for his room and go to sleep. He’d been working at his board. He had an appointment today with an art director. I had it all checked, I was so sure, I’m gifted that way, I always know what I’m doing, I’m terrific——”
“Now cut it out, will you?”
“I think I’ll resign——”
“Stop it. Come on home——”
“No,” Fraser said. “I feel like taking a walk. I know where there’s a grammar school around here. I think I’ll enroll in kindergarten.”
“Stay there. Maybe he’ll come back.”
“No, he’s gone.”
“I said stay there.”
“Do you still like me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?” he asked. “Really?”
“Yes, dear.”
“I don’t think there’s much to like. I shouldn’t be giving you my troubles.”
“If you didn’t I wouldn’t like you. But do you want me to like you a great deal?”
“Yes,” Fraser said. “I want you to like me very much.”
“Then stay there.”
“He won’t come back.”
“Maybe he will. Please stay there.”
“What for?”
“There’s a chance——”
“I don’t think so. I think they got him.”
“Who?”
“Those other men. It’s the first time he hasn’t come home. What other kind of work do you think I’m fitted for?”
“I’m getting very angry at you.”
“Maybe I’ll go down to Headquarters.”
“I don’t want you to do that.”
“I’ve got to go down there. I’ve got to tell them. Tell them now. Get it over with. Get the whole goddamn thing over with. I’m going down——”
“No——”
“See you later——”
“I said no. Stay on the phone. Don’t you hang up——”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Us.”
“You and me?”
“And the kids,” she said.
“All right, talk. I’ll listen.”
“I have faith in you,” she s
aid. “You’re the finest man I’ve ever known. Sometimes I feel like walking up to strangers and telling them all about my husband. And the kids are so proud of you. And I’m so proud——”
“You ought to see me now.”
“Does it mean anything when I say I have faith in you?”
“It makes me feel worse,” he said. His voice was very low. He had lived a fairly quiet life, considering the field he was in, and aside from the technical excitement and ups and downs he had suffered no more disappointments and setbacks than the average man. He had been able to take all that without too much grief or self-dislike, but now he was extremely despondent and he was rather close to hating himself. Not for what he had done to himself, but the connection between the ruin of his career and the future of his wife and children. He had a feeling that right at this point his family was very insecure. And not because Headquarters would kick him out. They wouldn’t kick him out. He had been with them too long. His record was excellent.
That was it. His record was much too excellent.
They’d pat him on the back and tell him to forget all about this one. They’d tell him to take a week off and get a rest and come back refreshed. But he wouldn’t come back that way. He would come back with the rigid, icy knowledge that he was going downhill. And already he was descending. The moment he walked into Headquarters to report this matter, he would be going downward at a terrific rate, with no support or elevation in sight. And that was what he had to do. He had to tell Headquarters about this, and immediately.
“I’ve got to hang up now,” he said. “I’m going to Headquarters.”
“Will you do something for me?” There was a desperation in her voice and it was as though she had seen inside his mind. “Will you wait there another hour? Just give it another hour.”
“That’s against regulations. We’ve got to report these things right away.”
“I’m asking you to gamble.”
“High stakes,” he said. And he meant it. Despite his record, despite his many years on the job, he couldn’t defy routine procedure without taking the risk of being fired. Even though they liked him very much, they had a habit of taking this sort of thing quite seriously. Maybe they would throw him out, after all, just to set an example.
“I know it’s taking a big chance,” she said. “But do it anyway. For me.”
He bit at the inside of his mouth. “An hour?”
“Just an hour.”
There was an odd certainty in her voice. He had to smile. It was a strained, weary smile. “You’re selling me something,” he said. “You want me to think you’re clairvoyant.”
“Promise me you’ll stay there an hour.”
He waited for several moments, and then he said, “All right.”
“You promise? Really?”
“Yes.”
And he put the receiver back on the hook. He walked up the dusty stairway, went into the room. He picked up the binoculars and moved toward the window.
Chapter Seven
THERE WAS morning gray in the sky as the sedan crossed Brooklyn Bridge. There was some pale blue in the sky as Vanning parked the car in an alleyway off Canal Street. He used the subway to get back to the Village, and upon entering his room the first direct move he made was to start packing his things. After some minutes of that he changed his mind, sat on a chair near the window and smoked cigarettes while he toyed with various angles. He was certain they didn’t know his address. He told himself not to be too certain of anything. The logical step at this point was something simple, something easy. And the easiest thing he could think of was sleep.
He slept until late afternoon, showered and shaved, concluded after a mirror inspection that he looked just a little too banged up for an appearance at the advertising agency where his illustrations were due. After breakfast, he used the restaurant phone booth, told the agency art director that he was sick with an upset stomach. The art director told him tomorrow would be all right, joked with him about the effects of alcohol on a man’s stomach, told him milk was the best medicine for a raw stomach. Vanning thanked the agency man and hung up. He took a subway uptown. He didn’t know where he was going. He wanted to get away from the Village. He wanted to think.
It kept jabbing away at him, the desire to get out of this city, to travel and keep on traveling. But it wasn’t traveling. It was running. And the desire was curtained by the knowledge that running was a move without sensible foundation. Retreat was only another form of waiting. And he was sick of waiting. There had to be some sort of accomplishment, and the only way he could accomplish anything was to move forward on an offensive basis.
He was part of a crowd on Madison Avenue in the Seventies, and he was swimming through schemes, discarding one after another. The schemes moved off indifferently as he pushed them away. He walked into a drugstore and ordered a dish of orange ice. Sitting there, with the orange ice in front of him, he picked up a spoon, tapped it against his palm, told himself to take it from the beginning and pick up the blocks one by one and see if he could build something.
There weren’t many blocks. There was John. There was Pete and there was Sam. There was the green sedan. There was the house on the outskirts of Brooklyn. None of those was any good. There was the man who had died in Denver. And that was no good. There was Denver itself. There were the police in Denver. The police.
A voice said, “You want to eat that orange ice or drink it?”
Vanning looked up and saw the expressionless face of a soda clerk.
“It’s melting,” the soda clerk said.
“Melting,” Vanning said.
“Sure. Can’t you see?”
“Tell me something,” Vanning said.
“Anything. I’m a whiz.”
“I’ll bet you are. I’ll bet you know everything there is to know about orange ice.”
“People, too.”
“Let’s stay with the orange ice.”
“Whatever you say. It’s no longer a sellers’ market. Nowadays we’ve got to please the customers.”
“It doesn’t take much to please me,” Vanning said. “I’m just curious about this orange ice.”
“No mosquitoes in it. We spray the stuff every day.”
“I mean the way it melts.”
“It don’t melt in winter, mister. But this is summer. It’s hot in summer. That’s why the ice melts. Okay?”
“Okay for a start. But let’s go on from there.”
“Sure. Just as soon as I fix a black-and-white for Miss America down there.”
Vanning waited. He dipped the spoon into the melting pale orange dome and left it there. The soda clerk came back and said, “Now where were we?”
“The orange ice. Look, it’s nearly all melted.”
“That’s the way things go. It’s a tough world.”
“But suppose we use our heads about this. Suppose we freeze it again. What I’m driving at is, a thing may look ruined, but if you give it a certain treatment you can bring it back to normal. You can still use it.”
“That’s what I claim,” the soda clerk said. “Never say die. Someday I’ll own Manhattan. Just watch my speed.”
“Good for you,” Vanning said. He picked up the check, put a fifty-cent piece on the counter and walked toward the telephone booths. There was a buzzing in his mind and it was a healthy buzzing. He liked the feel of it, the soundless sound of it. He entered a booth, closed the door, took some change out of his pocket.
He put a nickel in the slot.
“Number, please?”
“I want to call Denver.”
“What is that, sir?”
“Denver, Colorado.”
“What number, sir?”
“Police headquarters.”
“Station to station?”
“That’s right, and don’t cut in on me. I’ll signal when I’m finished.”
“Just a moment, sir.”
He waited several moments. Then the operator waited while Vanning left
the booth and got the necessary change. She was arranging the connection for him, he was putting quarters and dimes into the slots, he was waiting.
And then he heard her saying, “New York calling. Just a moment, please.”
A voice said, “Yes? Hello?”
Vanning leaned toward the mouthpiece. “Is this police headquarters in Denver?”
“That’s right. Who is this?”
Vanning gave the name of a New York newspaper. He said, “Features department. This is Mr. Rayburn, associate editor. I’m wondering if you could help me out.”
“Just a minute.”
The voice handed him over to another voice. And then a third voice. And a fourth.
The fourth voice said, “All right, what can we do for you?”
“May I know whom I’m speaking to?”
“Hansen. Homicide. What’s on your mind?”
Vanning repeated the self-introduction he had given to the first voice. He said, “We’d like to do a feature story on a murder that took place in Denver some time ago.”
“That’s not telling me much.”
“Eight months ago.”
“Solved?”
“That’s what we don’t know. We got the shreds of it from hearsay.”
“Any names?”
“No,” Vanning said. “That’s why I’m calling. We don’t have any record of it in our files. But from what we’ve picked up, it’s one of those sensational things.”
“Is that all you can tell me?”
Vanning stared at the wall beyond the telephone and told himself to hang up. This was a crazy move. It was packed chock-full of risk. If he stayed on the phone too long, if he made one slip, they would trace the call. Maybe they were tracing it already. He couldn’t understand why he was staying on the phone. For a moment he wanted them to trace the call, he wanted them to nab him, once and for all, get the entire affair over with, one way or another. In the following moment he told himself to hang up and walk out of the drugstore and leave the neighborhood. But something kept him attached to the phone. He didn’t know what it was. His mind was filled with an assortment of jugglers and they were dropping Indian pins all over the place.
He said, “We know the victim was a man. The killer was identified, but he got away.”