Savage Night

by Jim Thompson

  “I know,” I said. “I felt the same way.”

  “And”—she didn’t seem to have heard me—“you were just trying to be nice, weren’t you?”

  “Ruth,” I said.

  “It’s all right, Carl. Thanks for everything. You’d better go, now.”

  I didn’t go, of course. I couldn’t after that. I lay down at her side, pulling her around facing me, holding her when she tried to pull away. And after a moment, she stopped trying; she was holding me twice as hard.

  “Don’t go away, Carl! Promise you won’t go away! I’ve n-never had anyone, and if you went away I—”

  “I won’t,” I said. “Not for a long time, anyway. I’m going to stay right here, Ruthie.”

  “Was it g-g—” She was whispering, whispering and shivering, her face pressed close to mine. “Did you l-like—me?”

  “I—Look,” I said. “I just don’t think—”

  “Please, Carl. P-please!” she said, and slowly she turned her body under mine. And there was just one way of telling her that it was all right.

  It was all right. It was better than all right. I didn’t look down at that little baby foot, and nothing could have been any better.

  We went up to the bathroom together. Then I left the house and headed for the bakery.

  It was a long one-story, buff brick building, about a block and a half up the street toward the business section. I passed up the offices, and went around to the side where a couple of guys were loading bread into trucks.

  “Mr. Kendall?” One of them jerked his head at the side door. “He’s probably in on the floor. Just keep going until you spot him.”

  I went in. I went down a long corridor, crowded with wire racks of bread, and came out into a big room where about fifty guys were working. Some of them where throwing long ropes of dough over hooks in the wall, throwing it and pulling it back and throwing it again. And others were carrying the dough away from the hooks and laying it out on long wooden tables.

  One side of the room was made up of a row of brick ovens, and the guys working in front of them were stripped to the waist. They’d flick the door of the oven open, and reach inside with a kind of flat-bladed shovel; they’d reach about sixty times to the second, it looked like. I was watching them, thinking that that kind of work I could do without, when Mr. Kendall came up behind me.

  “Well,” he said, touching me on the arm. “What do you think of us, Mr. Bigelow?”

  “It’s quite a place,” I said.

  “Not completely modern,” he said. “I mean, it’s not mechanized to the extent that big-city bakeries are. But with help so cheap there’s no reason why it should be.”

  I nodded. “I came over to explain about Ruth, Mr. Kendall. She had an accident on the way home at noon, and—”

  “An accident! Was she badly hurt?”

  “Just shaken up. Her crutch gave way under her, and she took a spill.”

  “The poor child! You’re not in any hurry? Well, let’s get out of this noise for a moment.”

  I followed him across the room, a fussy polite little guy in white overalls and a white sailor cap.

  We entered another room, about a third of the size of the first one, and he pushed the connecting door shut. He boosted himself up on a table and gestured for me to sit beside him.

  “It’s clean, Mr. Bigelow. We don’t keep flour in here, just the more or less precious commodities. Looks a little like a grocery store, doesn’t it, with all these shelves?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Now, about Ruth. I wanted to ask you—”

  “You don’t need to, Mr. Bigelow.” He took out his pipe and began filling it. “Naturally, I won’t say anything to Mrs. Winroy. But thank you for letting me know what the situation was.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I helped her set the rooms straight. I mean—”

  I let my voice trail away, cursing myself. I didn’t want anyone to know that I’d been through the rooms.

  “Mmm,” he nodded absent-mindedly. “I’m very glad you came over, Mr. Bigelow. As I said at noon. I don’t want to appear presumptuous, but I’ve been thinking—uh—don’t you believe that, instead of merely waiting around until you hear from the sheriff, it might be well for you to start putting roots down? In a word, don’t you feel it would be sound psychology to demonstrate that there is not the slightest doubt in your own mind of the outcome of last night’s unfortunate business?”

  “Yeah?” I said. “I don’t get you.”

  “I was referring to—” He paused. “Now that—your response just now—brings up something else I wanted to speak to you about. If, that is, you won’t think I’m—uh—being—”

  “Let’s say, I won’t,” I said. “You’re not being presumptuous. You just feel a friendly interest in me, and you want to give me a little fatherly advice.”

  I’d said it the right way, and there wasn’t anything in my face to show that I didn’t mean it.

  “I’m glad you understand, Mr. Bigelow. To take the second matter first, I was going to suggest that you be a little more careful about the language you use. I know most young men talk rather slangily and—uh—tough these days, and no one thinks anything of it. But in your case, well, don’t you see?”

  “I understand. And I appreciate the advice,” I said. “After all, regardless of what’s happened, it won’t hurt me to talk a little better brand of English.”

  “I’m afraid I put things rather badly,” he said. “Badly or baldly, if there’s any difference, I suppose I’m so used to ordering these student workers around that—”

  “Sure—surely,” I said. “Don’t apologize, Mr. Kendall. Like I say, I appreciate your interest.”

  “It’s a very warm interest, Mr. Bigelow.” He bobbed his head seriously. “All my life, I’ve had someone to look after, and now with my parents dead—God rest them—and nothing to occupy me but my job and my books, I—I—”

  “Sure. Surely,” I repeated.

  He laughed, a shamed sad little laugh. “I tried to take a vacation last year. I own a little lakeside cabin up in Canada—nothing pretentious, you understand; the site is too isolated to have any value, and we, my father and I, built the cabin ourselves—so I bought a car and started to drive up there. Two days after I left town, I was back here again. Back here working. And I’ve hardly had my car out of the garage since.”

  I nodded, waiting. He chuckled halfheartedly. “That’s an explanation and an apology, if you can unravel it. Incidentally, if you’d like to use the car some time, you’ll be entirely welcome.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’d be glad to pay you for it.”

  “You’d only complicate my life further for me.” He laughed again. “I could only add it to my savings, and since they, obviously, can do me not the slightest good—I couldn’t appreciate the pleasures they might buy, and the pension which will soon be due me is more than enough to provide for my wants—so—”

  I said, “I understand,” or something equally brilliant.

  “I imagine I’m too old to acquire the habit of spending,” he went on. “Thrift like work has become a vice with me. I’m not comfortable with them, but I’d be less content without them. Does that sound pretty stupid to you?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” I said. “I’d say, though, that if you had enough money—you know twenty or thirty thousand dollars—you might get quite a bit of fun out of it.”

  “Mmm. You feel the case is similar to that of having a little knowledge, eh? Perhaps you’re right. But since the relative little is what I do have and I see no way of substantially increasing it—” He ended the sentence with a shrug. “Now to get back to you, Mr. Bigelow, if I may—if you won’t feel that I’m trying to order your life for you—”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “I’ve felt for a long time that there should be a storeroom man in here. Someone to check these supplies out instead of merely letting the different departments help themselves. I mention
ed the fact to the owner today and he gave his approval, so if you’d like to have the job you can start in immediately.”

  “And you think I should?” I said. “Start in immediately, I mean.”

  “Well”—he hesitated; then he nodded firmly—“I certainly don’t see that you could lose anything by it.”

  I lighted a cigarette, stalling for a minute’s time. I thought it over fast, and I decided that whatever he was or wasn’t, I was on my own. This was my job, my game, and I knew how to play it. And if anyone was going to tell me what to do, it would have to be The Man.

  “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Kendall,” I said. “I’ve had a long trip, and I’m pretty tired and—”

  “The job won’t be at all arduous. You can set your own hours, practically, and much of the time there’s nothing at all to—”

  “I think I’d rather wait,” I said. “I plan on running into New York tomorrow night, or Saturday at the latest. Today would probably be the only day I could get in before Sunday.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, of course, in that case—”

  “I would like to have the job, though,” I said. “That is, if you can hold it for me.”

  He said that he could, rather reluctantly, apparently not too pleased at failing to get his own way. Then his face cleared suddenly, and he slid down off the table.

  “I can give it to you, now,” he said. “We’ll say that you’re just laying off for a couple of days.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “I know I’m overcautious and apprehensive. But I always feel that if there’s any small barrier we can erect against potential difficulties we should take advantage of it.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” I said.

  We walked along the rows of shelves, with him pointing out the different cans and packages of baking ingredients and giving me a running commentary on how they were used.

  “I’m having some batch cards designed—that is, requisitions for ingredients which the various departments will submit to you. All you’ll have to do is fill them. Now, over here is our cold-storage room where we keep perishables—”

  He levered the door on a big walk-in refrigerator, the kind you see in meat markets, and we went inside. “Egg whites,” he said, tapping a fifteen-gallon can with the toe of his shoe. “And these are egg yolks, and here are whole eggs,” tapping two more cans. “Bakeries buy these things this way for two reasons: they’re considerably cheaper, of course, and they can be measured much more easily.”

  “I see,” I said, trying to keep from shivering. I’d only been in the place for a minute, but the cold was cutting me to the bone.

  “Now, this door,” he said, pushing it open again. “You’ll notice that I left it well off the latch. I’d suggest that you do the same if you don’t want to risk freezing to death. As”—he smiled pleasantly—“I’m sure you don’t.”

  “You can sing two choruses of that,” I said, following him out of the refrigerator. “I mean—”

  He laughed and gave me a dignified clap on the back. “Quite all right, Mr. Bigelow. As I said a moment ago, I’m inclined to be overcautious…Well, I think that will be enough for today. Uh—I know it isn’t much, but in view of the job’s other advantages—uh—will twelve dollars a week be all right?”

  “That will be fine,” I said.

  “You can set your own hours—within reason. The ingredients for the various dough batches can be checked out before they’re ready for use, and then you’ll be free to study or do—uh—anything else you like.”

  We left the main storage room and entered a smaller one, an anteroom, stacked high with sacks of salt, sugar and flour. At the end of a narrow corridor between the sacks, there was a door opening onto the street. Kendall unlocked it, winking at me.

  “You see, Mr. Bigelow? Your own private entrance and exit. No one is supposed to have a key to this but me, but if you should be caught up on your work and feel the need for a breath of air, I see no reason why—uh—”

  He gave me one of his prim, dignified smiles, and let me out the door. I paused outside and lighted another cigarette, glancing casually up and down the street. The door—the one I’d just come out of—was well to the right of the entrance to the office. Even if there was someone in there working late, as I would be on an after-school job, I could go in and out without being seen. And straight down the street, a matter of a hundred and fifty yards or so, was the house.

  With Fay Winroy to set him up for a certain time—a good dark night—it would be a cinch. I could stand there at the door and watch until he went by, and then…

  It was too much pie. It was so good that I couldn’t make up my mind whether I liked it.

  I sauntered on down the street, turning in at the bar across from the house. I ordered an ale, and sat down.

  Kendall. Was he just a nice old busybody, a man who’d taken a fancy to me like a lot of elderly people had, or had The Man got to him? I couldn’t make up my mind about him. Twice now, well, three times, I’d thought I’d had him figured. And each time, even now, right after he’d practically told me where he stood and handed me the deal on a platter, I began to doubt my figuring. I still wasn’t sure.

  He just didn’t fit the part. No matter what he said or did, I just couldn’t hold a picture of him as a guy who’d get mixed up in a gang murder. And yet…well, you see? That was what made him an almost sure-fire bet. If—if The Man was a little leery of me, if he did have an ace in the hole—little old man Kendall would be his boy. It would have to be him or someone like him.

  I kicked it around in my mind, pulling myself first one way then the other…Whatever he was, Kendall was a long way from being stupid. He wouldn’t do the job himself, assuming that it was something that an amateur could handle. He wouldn’t work with me as an accomplice. He’d handle his end without doing a thing that could be pinned on him. And if I didn’t handle mine, if I fell down on the job or screwed it up…

  I didn’t like to think about it. Because if I fell down or screwed it up, I’d never live to fumble another one. Maybe I wouldn’t, anyway, but I’d have a chance. I’d done the vanishing act before, and I’d stayed hidden for more than six years. But with Kendall keeping tabs on me—if he was—with him tipping off The Man the moment I went sour on the deal or it went sour on me…

  Huh-uh. The Man didn’t take excuses. He didn’t let you quit. I wouldn’t run far enough to work up a sweat.

  I bought another ale. So what if it was that way? I’d agreed to do the job, and as long as I did it I’d be all right. Since that was the way things stood, what difference did it make about Kendall?

  It made plenty. It showed that The Man didn’t trust me—and it wasn’t good when The Man didn’t trust you. It was either that or he was leery of the job—and that wasn’t good either. The Man didn’t operate on hunches. If he was leery, he had good reason to be.

  I wondered what he’d say if I asked him point-blank about Kendall. And I didn’t need to wonder long about it; I was through wondering almost before I began.

  He’d laugh it off. He’d put his arm around my shoulder and tell me how much he liked me…and that would be the beginning of a damned fast end. He’d have to get rid of me. He’d be afraid not to. Afraid I might be getting panicky or worrying about a double-cross.

  I finished my ale, and started out of the bar. Just as I reached the door, Fay Winroy came in.

  “Oh, there you are, hon—” she caught herself. “I thought you might be over here. The sher—there’s someone at the house to see you.”

  She drew me outside, lowering her voice. “It’s the sheriff, honey. Maybe you’d better go on over by yourself, and I’ll stay here for a drink.”

  “All right,” I said. “Thanks for hunting me up.”

  “Carl”—she looked at me anxiously—“are you sure that everything’s all right? Is there anything that—?”

  “Not a thing,” I said. “Why?”

  “Nothing. No reason. He said it w
as all right, but—”

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “He acts so funny about it, Carl. So…so awfully funny—”

  7

  He was waiting for me in the living room. When I came in, he eased himself up out of his chair a few inches, as though he was planning on shaking hands. Then, he let himself down again, and I sat down across from him.

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” I said. “I’ve been down at the bakery lining up a part-time job.”

  “Uh-hah,” he nodded. “Miss Ruth told me she thought you might be there, but you was already gone when I stopped by. Got you a job, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I haven’t started to work yet, but—”

  “Uh-hah. You’re plannin’ on staying here, then? Going to school and all.”

  “Why, yes,” I said. “That’s why I came here.”

  “Uh-hah, sure,” he drawled again. “Well, I hope it works out all right. We got a nice little town here. Nice little college. We’d like to keep it that way.”

  I frowned at him, looking him straight in the eye. “I don’t particularly like it here, sheriff,” I said. “In fact, I wish I’d never seen your town or your college. But now that I’m here I plan on staying. And if you can think of any reason why I shouldn’t, perhaps you’d better tell me.”

  He swallowed heavily. He wasn’t used to being talked to that way. “Didn’t say there was any reason, did I? Maybe you better tell me if you can think of any.”

  I didn’t even bother to answer him.

  He cleared his throat, uncomfortably. After a moment, his glance wavered and he gave me a sheepish grin. “Pshaw,” he mumbled. “Now how the heck did I ever get started talkin’ to you that-a-way? Must be I had to hold in the good news I had for you so long it kinda clabbered on me. Ever have that happen to you? You got somethin’ nice to pass on to a fella, and when you can’t find him—”

  “Good news?” I said. “What good news?”

  “The answers to them wires I sent to Arizona. Don’t know when I’ve seen so many good things said about a man. Looked like the judge an’ the chief o’ police was trying to outdo each other.”