‘What kind of guarantees do we get?’ I asked. I didn’t trust Fleisch an inch.
‘The best,’ he said. ‘This afternoon, the Beacon runs a signed letter from Fleisch himself. In it, he comes out in favour of the workers deciding in an election whether to stick with the company union or form a local of the Machinists. Phil is down there now, getting the wording right.’
‘So we’re in,’ I said.
‘Like Flynn.’ He grinned some more and uncrossed his ankles, and recrossed them the other way. ‘I told you you’d see organizing at its sweetest and easiest,’ he said. ‘It took a while, but that’s exactly what you’re going to see. We’ve started to move, Paul, and from now on it’s smooth sailing all the way.’
‘Where are the books now?’ I asked. It had occurred to me that Fleisch wasn’t above promising the moon and then sending Jerry and Ben and a few more boys out to the motel to grab the books.
But the others had thought of that, too. ‘In Watertown,’ said Walter. ‘Clement’s got them there, for safekeeping. When the Beacon comes out this afternoon, and we see everything’s all right, we call Clement and he comes back with the books and turns them over to Fleisch.’
‘Fine. So what do we do now?’
‘Now?’ He grinned and stretched, straining his arms up over his head and bunching the shoulders of his jacket. When he lowered his arms, his shirt was tire-mounded around his waist. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we relax. Tomorrow, we go rent us a store front, and meet with the officials of the company union to set up the date and details of the election, and start putting our posters up, and hire kids to hand around our pamphlets, and do a half a dozen others things. But today we relax. I personally am just going to sit here and take it easy. You can go see your girl if you want.’
My girl. For God’s sake, Alice! I hadn’t consciously thought of her once since waking up. Now, how the hell had I managed that?
‘Take the car,’ said Walter. ‘We won’t be needing it today.’
How was she. Was she all right? Was she still staying with the neighbour, or had that carefree inacceptance of personal danger been at work again and was she alone in her own home?’
‘Thanks for the use of the car,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you later.’
I headed for the door, and behind me Walter commented to George, ‘In a hurry, isn’t he?’
‘Always on the go,’ said George, dreamily.
I went out and got into the Chewy—the Ford was gone, apparently off in Watertown with Mr Clement—and headed toward town.
Along the way, I gnawed at the improbability of my having forgotten Alice. No, I hadn’t actually forgotten her, I just hadn’t thought of her. That was ridiculous.
I remembered, too, the blue funk I’d been in when I’d awakened, and which still hadn’t entirely left me. Could Alice be the cause of it? I’d analysed the depression as being the kind that comes with a change in one’s way of life. Was Alice going to change my way of life?
Twenty Eight
I tried the neighbour’s house first, on the off-chance that Alice had begun to act sensibly about the danger she was in. Going down the steps to the front door, I tried to remember the neighbour’s name—Alice had mentioned it once—Mrs Kremmel? Mrs Kremmler? Something like that. But I couldn’t remember exactly what, and the name slots were blank by doorbell and mailbox, so I’d have to get along without. I rang the bell.
A very short, very heavy woman came to the door. Cool foul air drifted out past her. She had thick black eyebrows and she peered at me from under them, not trusting me at all. I said, ‘Excuse me. Is Alice MacCann here?’
‘Wrong house,’ she said. ‘Next door.’
I was going to explain, but she shut the door before I could say a word. Nice neighbour. I could see why Alice preferred to stay home, despite the danger.
Despite the danger? Going up the steps and along the narrow sidewalk and down the steps next door, I re-examined that thought. Was Alice staying home despite the danger, or merely in ignorance of the danger? Somewhere in the town of Wittburg there was a man—or a woman, but it was easier to think of him as a man—who had committed murder twice. If there was to be a third victim—and what was there yet to stop or deter the killer? nothing—the third victim would be Alice. She, too, had the knowledge of his guilt. He couldn’t know yet that the knowledge had now spread to too many people for his methods. He could no longer kill as a practical answer to his problems. The time had come, though he couldn’t know it yet, for him to flee.
But he must still think that murder was the answer. Charles Hamilton had learned the truth, and had talked coyly and knowingly, and the talk had filtered its way to the embezzler, and Charles Hamilton had died. From that point, there were two possible paths: either the killer learned that Hamilton had been helped by Alice, and supposed that Gar Jeffers had been told the secret by Alice, or the killer learned that Hamilton had talked to Gar, and had supposed that Gar and Alice would compare notes. Either path led to the same conclusion: in the killer’s mind, both Gar and Alice must die. Gar was dead. Alice must be next.
But she didn’t really believe it. Like me, she was untrained for the life of the hunted. I had not believed the enormity of the potential when I’d been stuck away in police headquarters, not even when it was happening to me, Alice now, in her own home and her own town, could not believe at die emotional level that she had become a hunted creature.
Well, I hadn’t believed it, either, not really. I had been after her to protect herself, but it had been a kind of theoretical fussing, like a mother putting overshoes on a child when the morning sky is grey.
All at once, on the quiet sun-bright street, I believed it. Finally and suddenly, I had managed to convince myself. It had been insanity to let Alice come back here, imbecility. We should have gotten her a room at the motel, George should be guarding her night and day, her location should be kept a secret from everyone. You can’t beat a loaded gun by sneering at it and calling it melodramatic. The gun’s unanswerable argument is to kill you.
I ran the last part, bounding down the steps two at a time. My thumb was white and flattened and straining, pressed against the doorbell.
She was at home. She was alive. She had at least caution enough to peek through a living-room window at me before opening the door.
If I had been the killer, would I have fired through the window?
When the door came open, I bounded in like a hunted deer, and slammed the door shut. Alice stared at me, the colour draining from her face. ‘What is it? Paul, what’s the matter?’
‘You’ve got to get out of here,’ I said. ‘Right now. Pack a suitcase and let’s get going.’
She looked past me at the door, wide-eyed. ‘What’s out there, Paul?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know what. Maybe anything.’
‘Well … what’s got you so upset?’
‘I’ve been thinking. I talked myself into it. Come on.’
‘Paul, wait.’
I had her arm, and was propelling her toward the stairs. ‘It’s a miracle you’re alive this long.’
‘Paul, please. Wait now.’
I waited, but still burning with impatience, and too caught up in a belated sense of urgency to pay full attention to her.
‘I’m safe here, Paul,’ she said. She took my hand in both of hers, and pressed it. ‘I really am. And you’re frightened for me, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I’m frightened for you!’
‘But I’m safest right here, Paul,’ she said reasonably. ‘He doesn’t dare come back here. How does he know the house isn’t watched by a whole cordon of policemen? I’m here like the goat staked out for the lion, so he doesn’t dare do a thing. If you take me away some place else, and try to guard me, it’ll just make things worse. He’ll follow, and he’ll know where I am. And he’ll see the guards, and know who they are and how many they are and where they are, and he’ll be able to plan. This way, he can’t plan because he can’t see the defence
s. Don’t you see that?’
‘But there aren’t any defences!’
‘But he doesn’t know that. All he knows is he can’t find them.’
At the moment, that was too subtle for me, and I wondered if it wasn’t too subtle for the killer as well. He hadn’t acted so far like a particularly subtle man. He had murdered once in a crowded parking lot, and the second time he had come straight to his victim’s home. He was subtle with figures, with groups and bunchings of money, but as a killer he was anything but subtle.
Before I could try to express this, though, she went on: ‘Besides, pretty soon he won’t be thinking about trying to silence me any more. There won’t be any point to it any more. Not after you talk to Mr Fleisch and give him the books.’
They’ve already talked to Fleisch,’ I said.
‘Well! See?’
‘But he doesn’t know that yet. Fleisch won’t get the books till after the Beacon comes out today.’
‘Then you can still protect me till then.’
‘Fat lot of protection I’ll be.’
‘Don’t sell yourself short, Paul.’ She touched her fingers to my face, and her eyes were warm and gentle. ‘Come into the living room. Tell me all about the meeting with Mr Fleisch.’
‘I wasn’t there,’ I said, allowing her to change the subject and to lead me into the living room. ‘I got it second-hand.’
‘Tell me, anyway.’
We sat on the sofa, and I repeated what Walter had told me, and she was pleased. She was sure Fleisch had capitulated without reservations. There had been a feeling at the plant for some time that Fleisch was insecurely fixed in his job. There had been a tight lid at the plant, as though Fleisch were frightened the Mclntyres in their faraway resorts would hear something that would make them decide to find a new manager. So she was sure that Fleisch had truly given in, and would avoid trouble. And she was just as sure that Fleisch was this very minute writing a long letter to the owners, trying to claim the change in union as his own idea and finding justifications for it from the management point of view.
I supposed she was right. I also supposed, when I thought about it, that she was right about being safest here in her own home. Gradually, the panic urgency that had struck me outside faded away, and when, our conversation finished, Alice put on the records again and suggested we dance, I was pleased to agree, knowing that once again the dancing was only the prelude.
We left the house together at four o’clock and drove down into town, and picked up a copy of the Beacon. On the way back, she read the item to me. It was a front-page box headed, AN OPEN LETTER TO MCINTYRE EMPLOYEES. Alice read:
‘Well over two thousand years ago, Heraclitus, the Greek philosopher, wrote, “There is nothing permanent except change.” The world is constantly changing, and we ourselves are constantly changing. At the same time, it is true that we all try to keep to what we have and what we know, because it is never possible to tell if a particular change will be for the better or for the worse.
‘We in the business of manufacturing and selling footwear of all kinds to the great American public are well aware of the constant nature of change. Fashions change, styles change, prices change, the needs of our customers change. If we are not capable of seeing the changes and willing to accept the changes, we will soon go bankrupt. Change is a way of life with us, and all we ever demand of change is that it give us some assurance that it will carry us forward rather than backward.
‘In recent months, there have been growing signs of a desire for a particular change among the employees of the Mclntyre Shoe Company, in reference to the kind of union representation and bargaining agent they believe best suited to their needs. Over thirty years ago, in the black year of 1931, when the jobless filled the nation and breadlines were the order of the day, the late William F. Mclntyre, the respected and beloved founder of Mclntyre Shoes, created the Mclntyre Workers’ Association, to speak with management on behalf of the workers. The MWA has a proud and enviable record over these thirty years. Memorial Hospital, Mclntyre Park, low-cost housing, these and other improvements were made possible by the joint cooperation of “Bill” Mclntyre and the MWA.
‘No one can say that the MWA has not done a superlative job, and is not continuing to do a superlative job. But times change, the world changes, and for new problems there must be new answers.
‘We live today in the era of the national union. Workers today are represented not only in their own plants, but throughout all the plants in their industry, and by lobbies in Washington itself. A number of Mclntyre employees believe that the time has come to join this trend toward centralization of union power, and have requested that the entire body of employees be allowed to vote their choice, whether to remain with the MWA or to join a national union. Such a vote was made once before, nine years ago, and the overwhelming majority of the workers at that time chose to remain loyal to MWA. But nothing is permanent except change, and nine years is a long time.
‘We feel that there is a certain degree of loss in the transfer of bargaining power from a local union to a national union. The close personal knowledge and respect between the officials of management and the officials of the union is lost. The particular and personal interest of the union for the workers of a single plant is lost. That there are advantages to place against these losses we do not deny. Whether the advantages are more important than the losses it is up to the workers themselves to decide.
‘We are in favour of an election. The Company will supply voting materials and a location for the voting at its own expense, and will grant its employees a half-day off for the election. In order to give both the MWA and the national union currently contesting it time to fully present their arguments to the workers, the Company proposes that this election be held three weeks from today, Friday, July 12th, the afternoon of which day the plant will be closed for the election.
‘Regardless of the outcome of the election, the Company is certain that union negotiations in the future will be as pleasant, as productive, and as mutually satisfying as they have always been in the past. Since union representation is a concern solely of the employees of the Company, and not the concern of Company management, we intend no recommendations or statements of personal choice. The choice is up to you, the workers.
Jacob M. Fleisch,
General Manager’
I had her read it to me twice, the second time looking for implications and hidden reservations, but the thing seemed straightforward enough. Fleisch was prepared, with this letter, for either side winning the election. If the Machinists won, the letter could prove that it had been his idea, that he had ‘recommended’ change. If the company union won, the letter could provide plenty of proof that Fleisch had favoured the company union all along. Fleisch, according to the evidence of the letter, was resigned to the election and now was bending his energies to survive it unscathed.
I wondered if this letter had actually been written by Fleisch himself, or if it was another example of Sondra’s talents. It had the same occasional shaky understanding of sentence structure, and it seemed a little pompous to be Fleisch. Slightly pompous, slightly devious, and slightly awkward in the writing; it sounded like Sondra, at that.
‘Well,’ said Alice, after the second reading, ‘it looks like we’ve won.’
‘This round,’ I said. ‘We’re not finished yet.’
‘But at least I don’t have to play heroine-in-danger any more.
Mr Fleisch must have the books by now, and the killer must know there’s no point trying to keep me quiet any more.’
She was right. We went back to the house, and Alice made us highballs, and I sat in the living room and kicked off my shoes and really relaxed, for what seemed like the first time in years.
After a while, she started the record player.
Twenty Nine
The next week was full and busy. We had a store front on Harpur Boulevard now, and my first job was to help convert it to a campaign headquarters
. The shop had most recently been a barbershop, though it had been stripped of equipment when the last proprietor had left. The lower half of the walls was lined with a plastic covering in a pale green tile design, and the original plaster of the upper walls was painted a slightly darker shade of green. Earlier squares of grey paint showed where the mirrors and cabinets had been taken down, and capped water pipes jutted up from the floor along the left-hand wall, where the sinks had been. The floor was covered with cream-shade linoleum with a black fleck design, and four circular cutouts to the wood beneath showed where the barber chairs had stood. Four fluorescent lights spaced around the ceiling formed a square.
We had some money to spend on the place, but not very much. We were, after all, expecting to occupy the store for only three weeks. Nevertheless, there was a question of prestige, so the place had to look fairly decent.
Walter put me in charge of the refurbishing, and gave me George as assistant. We began by cutting the linoleum floor covering into strips, ripping it up, and throwing it away. It had not been glued down, but had—properly—been laid over a layer of old newspapers, three or four sheets thick. We threw out the linoleum and the newspapers—they were twelve years old, and I dawdled too much time away seated on the floor, caught in the fascination of reading yesteryear’s headlines—and then we rented a buffer and cleaned and waxed the floor. It was a beat-up old wooden floor, with wide dirt-filled separations between the slats, but any wood floor with a polish on it, no matter how old or beat-up, still has more dignity than linoleum. Besides, a new floor covering would have been more expense than the union was willing to pay.
There was nothing we could do with the fake tile. It had been glued to the wall, and would bring half the plaster with it if we tried to rip it off. A coat of paint over tile, even fake tile, is the cheapest-looking thing in all the world, even cheaper-looking than tile itself, so we just ignored it, and painted the upper walls a pale cream colour to take attention away from the tile. Alice helped us with the painting. She had quit Mclntyre, and was now our secretary-receptionist. And paint-roller-operator.
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