by Marc Behm
Joe picked up the poker from the fireplace and swung it at his thick bulging neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.
35
He locked the cabin, put the key in the mailbox, dragged Frank’s body to the river and dropped it into the current. Emile followed him, rubbing against his legs, then trotted off into the night.
He walked toward Niskayuna, hurrying, putting as much distance as possible between himself and ‘The Nook.’
Exit Lionel Grayson.
He’d take a taxi to Schenectady and …
Somebody was following him.
He jumped into a wayside ditch as a car came into view behind him – slowly, hardly moving, its lights out. A black Cad, shining in the moonlight like a big phosphorescent cockroach.
It began to rain.
It passed him, taking an eternity to drive by, the driver invisible behind the darkened windows.
Suddenly, going to Niskayuna and Schenectady didn’t seem like such a good idea.
He ran off in the opposite direction, east, toward Verday. Albany! Run! run! run! He’d take a bus to Albany, spend the night there and tomorrow get the hell out of New York and go … Anywhere! He turned south on the Shaker Road, toward the airport. He already missed Emile. Las Vegas maybe. He’d go to Las Vegas, sure. It was time to get back into the poker money. Poker! Frank! Christ! Into Lacuna Pit with all that! ‘Double double toil and trouble!’ What did he have to show for these four years except Macbeth? And a murder. That poor simpleton didn’t have to die. He should have just rolled on the floor, unconscious, then woken later with a bump on his head. But no … he had to blow it! Now there’d be an investigation, an inquest, an autopsy. Christ Almighty! The poker! It was still in his pocket!
He pulled it out and buried it in a deep hole in the muddy ground. Just like Alice’s father.
The Cad appeared again, in front of him now, coming north from the airport.
He stepped behind a tree and it passed, still blacked out and slow moving.
He didn’t spend the night in Albany. He caught a midnight Greyhound to Newark, New Jersey. He slept all the way, waking only once, as the bus was speeding through Kingston. He saw a sign in a field: ‘80 MORE SHOPPING DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS!’ Ho! ho! ho!
His money-belt was only half-empty, but to affront Vegas he wanted a full treasury. For that he needed his old savings account in the Raleigh bank. He flew there the next day.
He closed his account and put the money in his belt.
He walked around the city, smoking a cigar, looking for forgotten doorways and malls and bookstores.
Wade Avenue, Pullen Park, Oberlin Road. Peace Street! He looked up at the windows of his apartment. Who was living there now? What color was the wall-paper? Was Ada still working for Esor? Was she still in Raleigh?
She was.
She came out of the entranceway, carrying a briefcase, wearing a tan raincoat and a white beret. And glasses.
Holy Moses! It was really and truly Ada!
He was across the street, standing behind a row of parked cars. She couldn’t see him. There was a man with her and – Jesus Christ! – a little boy!
The three of them walked up the block. So did he, keeping covered.
She’d remarried naturally. And she’d kept the apartment … sure. Four rooms and two baths. Giving that up would have been silly. And she’d had her dream child. A beautiful kid! How old was he? Three or four. Right. After seven years the absent husband is legally non-existent, so Mr. Right No. 2 proposed.
Beloved Ada, will you be my bride?
Yes, Amos. I thought you’d never ask.
Who was he? A big guy, as burly as Frank. But handsome, clean-cut, civilized. An executive. Squash, golf, tennis. The understanding type.
Not tonight, darling. I have a headache.
Yes, precious. I understand.
Wouldn’t it be super-nifty if life were like a novel and she’d married his father … No, he was dead. Or – surprise! – Leopold. Or the midget, what was his name – Roscoe – at the 4 Straight Club. Fiction was easier to handle than reality. Reality was agonizing. He felt as if he’d been stabbed with a saber. He was trembling … reeling … babbling … Ada! This was incredible! She looked superb! He’d never seen her hair that long … and her legs … and … She leaned over to say something to the boy and the agile swerve of her spine and her waist made his groin tighten in response. God! No more of that!
The boy was laughing. What had she told him? Do you see that funny-looking man over there? He could have been your daddy. But he ran away from poor mommy years and years ago because he’s a psychopath. He jumps on buses and planes and trains that don’t go anywhere. He sleeps in motels with brown walls and hides in dumpsters, squealing like a rat. And not only that, he’s also the infamous Mohawk Valley Poker Killer!
‘Hullo, Joe,’ a voice behind him said.
36
A chubby young man in a turtleneck sweater smiled at him.
‘Are you talking to me?’
‘You’re Joe Egan, aren’t you?’
‘Nope, sorry.’
‘Sure you are. And that lady across the street is your ex-wife.’
‘What lady?’
He walked away. He came down St. Mary’s to the Civic Center, turned into Martin Street. He looked back. Chubby was a half-block behind him.
A cop! The guy had to be a cop! This was a fucking stakeout!
He crossed Chavis Park. Students from Shaw and lunch-hour office workers were sitting on the lawns and benches in the October sunshine. But the crowd wasn’t dense enough to hide in.
Why? Why would they have Ada staked-out?
This is an ambush, Sergeant! The Apaches were waiting here for us!
They sure were! We’re surrounded!
But how did they know we’d be coming through here?
They’re cunning devils, Lieutenant. They figured that sooner or later we might pass this way.
Right. He wasn’t a cop. He was a private operator hired to keep Ada under round-the-clock surveillance, in case he came back to Peace Street to visit her.
It was the only possible explanation.
It was another one of her traps. Nellie in Tampa, Ada in Raleigh. And he walked right into it like an idiot! She’d have a fix on him now.
He cut back to Martin Street, then up to New Bern.
Was Chubby working alone? Probably. It would be a one-man operation. He had to keep him busy … don’t give him time to make a phone call to bring in a back-up team … past the Museum … past Pullen Park … up Brooks Avenue …
Chubby was right behind him all the way.
He had to lose him. How? There just wasn’t anywhere to hide. The whole city was an immense pitfall.
He went back to his bank. In through the front, out through the rear into the parking lot, then off into Whitaker Mill.
No good. The plump shithead was still glued to him.
He tried again at his old bookstore. In through the front, out through the side exit, up the block – fast! – across the street, into an alley. Now he was back on Peace Street.
So was Chubby.
This was pointless. A pro would be familiar with these clumsy tricks. He had to surprise him with something unpredictable. He needed a … what was it called? An edge … a coign of vantage.
He entered a sporting goods mart on Greenwood. He bought a bicycle for a hundred and fifteen dollars.
He pedaled up Greenwood, turned east into Lake Boone, then south into Dixie. The bike was light, swift, easy to handle.
Better than a car. He rolled along a sidewalk into a one-way street, turned into a narrow byway behind Meredith College.
He stopped, looked back.
Nobody!
So. Now where? He had to get out of Raleigh, away from this snare. What about Durham? It was only twenty-five miles from here. Or would it be better to head into the countryside? Into Wake County … no way! Wake? A name like that was a no-no if ever there was one!
<
br /> Another cyclist rolled out of a lane just in front of him.
It was Chubby.
Joe spun around and pedaled away from him.
Now began a crazy bike race from one end of North Raleigh to the other, up and down hills, through the parkways, across bridges and parking lots, around and around, in and out of every winding street and pathway between Blue Ridge Road and North Boulevard.
Chubby was always just yards behind him, as tireless as a robot, hunched over his handlebars, his fat legs pumping effortlessly.
Joe just couldn’t out-distance him.
Then, on Six Forks Road, he passed a girl jogging.
Blond, shapely, running as lithely as a gazelle. He had only a glimpse of her as he pedaled by, then she veered into a driveway.
No … it couldn’t be her … Chubby hadn’t had time to notify her. And besides … all blonds looked alike.
How can you tell them apart? Who said that? Iraq.
There was a hospital around here somewhere … acres and acres of grounds … he’d lose the bastard there maybe …
There it was!
He dismounted, picked up his bike and carried it under a chain barrier into the grounds of Community Hospital.
Seeing him do this, Chubby made his first mistake. He braked too hard, twisting his front wheel. He was pitched out of the saddle and sent sprawling into a gutter.
Joe remounted, coasted off into an area that exited on Wake Forest Road. He had his … what was it called? His coign of vantage. A small one … but it might give him time enough to find an escape hatch.
He crossed the Crabtree, dismounted again, wheeled the bike into the woodland.
He dropped to the ground on the bank of the creek, breathing like a kettle, his thighs throbbing.
Are you hit bad, Lieutenant?
Just a scratch, Sarge. It’ll be all right.
I think we lost him.
Good. He’s a Pinkerton agent, Sergeant. She hired him to find me. That woman is unbelievable!
What woman, sir?
I’m not supposed to talk about her. Top secret.
That blond girl we saw running back there?
No, that was just a jogger.
‘Egan!’
He jumped. Chubby was on the other side of the creek, limping down the bank, puffing and pink-faced. ‘You Yankee sonofabitch!’ he bawled. ‘I’m goin to kick the shit outer you!’
He splashed into the water and waded toward him, shaking his fist in the air like a Communist marching in a demonstration.
‘You think you’re pretty damn smart, don’t yuh! Well, I’m goin to show you what we do to wiseass little pricks like you in North Carolina!’ He sank to his knees in the mucky creek bed, then to his hips, then to his shoulders. He screamed and went under all the way, the water bubbling over him.
Joe just sat there watching him, bleary-eyed. He tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t hold him up. He dragged himself across the bank, hugged the trunk of a tree, grabbed a branch, managed to get to his feet. He picked up his bicycle, lugged it back to the road.
37
He left the bike in an alley and took a taxi to the airport. He flew to Charleston, West Virginia. It was the only flight he could get on without a reservation.
He stayed in bed in a motel for three days, reading Livy’s War With Hannibal.
When he was feeling better he still wasn’t ready for Vegas. There was something about going there that bothered him. He couldn’t analyze it, he was too exhausted.
He flew to Chicago, then to Boston, then to Cedar Rapids. He’d just sit in the airport lounges, reading, have lunch or breakfast or dinner, then take off on whatever flight was available.
A security guard in Cedar Rapids put a stop to this nonsense. He kept an eye on him for a while, finally asked to see his ticket.
‘My wife has our tickets,’ Joe told him. ‘And she’s late, as usual. Have I done something illegal, officer?’
‘We got an APB on a guy,’ the guard said. ‘You fit the description.’ But he wasn’t too sure. ‘Uhh sort of.’
‘What’s he wanted for? Can I buy you a drink?’
‘No, sir. I’m on duty. Murder suspect. Supposed to’ve kilt some nigger female in Florida.’
‘Do you want to see my ID or what?’
‘No, that’s okay.’
‘Florida. I’ve never been there.’
‘I was in Miami for two weeks last year. City’s full of kikes. They go down there to retire. Must be a couple million of them.’
They chatted about Hitler and baseball and football and tardy wives and airline bookings. And that was the end of it. Thank God! If the asshole had made an issue of looking at his ID it would have been Catastropheville!
Iraq! Christ! She was hidden so far down in Lacuna Pit that he’d forgotten that he might be considered a suspect in her death. A murder rap! Balls!
Well, it was a big country. There were hideaways everywhere. They’d never find him. An APB was a joke. He was no worse off than before. No worse off than poor Hannibal, wandering around Italy with his elephants. ‘There was nothing he could call his own, nothing to look forward to beyond his daily plunder.’ That was okay. Sufficient unto the day was the plunder thereof.
Of course he’d have to avoid sharp-eyed cops, like the security goon, but that was easy enough. It was just a matter of not attracting attention. Loitering around airports had been a brainless mistake. He wouldn’t do that again. Starting right now.
Pretending to take a stroll around the lounge, he slipped outside and jumped into a bus that was going to Dubuque.
He got off at a place called Cascade and remained there a week, living in an awful rooming house. He told the landlady he was interested in opening a barbershop.
He spent days looking at dusty vacant stores, jotting figures in a notebook, talking to rustic merchants. It kept him occupied and he met some friendly folks, including the mayor, the sheriff, the president of the Chamber of Commerce. The latter was also a used-car dealer and sold him a ’79 Mercury Zephyr for only two hundred dollars. He drove to an even bleaker town nearby called Otter Creek and spent another week playing the same farce.
What he was really doing was growing a mustache.
In November he went to Las Vegas.
He checked into the first inconspicuous hotel he saw, the Shoshone on Suzanna Street. After taking a nap and a shower, he went to a coffee shop next door for lunch.
Sitting at a table, slobbering down a salad, was Milch. ‘If you’re lookin for a hot poker game,’ he snarled, ‘it’ll cost you a hundred bucks.’
Joe shrugged. Better to get back on the merry-go-round right away. He’d been postponing it long enough.
They went to a shabby bungalow on Rochelle Avenue. There was an all-night-all-day game in the living room. The players were mostly local louts, acting tough and grim, the way they thought Vegas card pros should behave. He saw one of them slip Milch a tip. So that was how the little creep was living these days, steering tourists into hustling parlors.
Joe played until six, winning and losing practically nothing, then he had enough. Before he left, the dealer, doing his hard-guy act, told him he’d have to contribute to the Nevada Veterans’ Fund. He pointed to a basket filled with twenties. Joe dropped a quarter into it.
Milch was waiting for him outside. ‘The real action starts round midnight,’ he said. ‘The other night a high roller dropped eight grand in one pot.’
‘The guy in the slot was cheating.’
‘Chester! What’re you sayin! Chester cheatin! You’re goofy! Geeze, I hope you didn’t say nothin. He’ll clobber me for bringin you.’
‘So long, Milch, I’d invite you to dinner, but your table manners are too primitive.’
‘Fuck you! Read my lips! Fuck you!’
He took a walk along the Strip, merging into the crowds, smoking a cigar, feeling uneasy. He went into the Desert Inn and wandered around, played the slot machines, bought a shirt in a gift shop, wa
tched a dice game for a while.
There were thousands of people coming and going. This was the ideal city for becoming invisible. Why was he jittery?
He went back to the Shoshone. But he couldn’t sleep.
He got up and went down to the lobby. Milch was there, in drag, wearing one of his ugly get-ups.
He followed Joe out to the parking lot.
‘Remember those two crazy broads in Florida?’
But Joe didn’t want to talk about Nellie and Alice. ‘Go away, Milch,’ he said.
‘I was back there last Easter. I seen them. One of them anyway. The other one’s in a convent.’
Joe turned to him, jolted. ‘Which one?’
‘The doctor broad. She had a crack-up, the nutty broad. She found God. Her girlfriend told me. Nel. What a pair of fucked-up broads. Where you goin?’
Joe got into the Zephyr and drove off.
A convent! Poor Alice! She must have known who had kept her in the cellar all those months. She surely figured out who she was. Just as Peggy-Sue had. One went mad, the other became a nun.
He drove north, past Spring Mountain Road. Fuck Vegas. He’d go to Reno or Tahoe.
He pulled over to the curb. Spring Mountain Road. That sounded familiar. It had a hopeful echo, bringing back soothing memories. Memories of what? Earrings. Another road, another car. Real estate. A nifty apartment on Spring Mountain Road not far from the Frontier Hotel.
He found her address in a phone book. It was a small, modern building, ultra-chic, behind a high fence. He climbed over it and went into the entrance. Her name was on a mailbox. The apartment was on the ground floor, in the back, in a jungle of shrubbery by the pool.
He tapped on the window with a dime.
A light went on. ‘Who the hell’s that?’ she yelled.
‘It’s me. Rudolf the Randy Rapist.’
‘Oh, brother!’ She opened the window. Mickey Mouse’s huge round head smiled at him on the front of her nightshirt. She was wearing a patch on her breast. ‘Joe!’