Wild Thyme and Violets and Other Unpublished Works, page 28
“I didn’t have the money before.”
Eleanor sniffed. “I could have let you have it.”
Craig sat upright in the seat, cleared his throat. “I didn’t think it was necessary,” he said with dignity.
“Well,” said Eleanor practically, “we’d better hurry.”
Craig frowned. “No point in rushing down there now. If we come panting up after the option’s expired, old Rosso will lower the boom on us. He’ll think we’re anxious and jack up the price.”
Eleanor thought for a moment. “You may be right. But he might sell to someone else.”
Craig gave a coarse laugh. “Who else would pay him sixty-five thousand for that old pasture?”
“I hope you’re right.” Eleanor looked at him dubiously. “What do you want to do, then?”
Craig thought a moment. “Take me home,” he said. “I’ve got a few things to put right.”
On the way back up the hill they passed Craig’s car. “What a mess,” said Eleanor.
“Yes,” said Craig. “It’s a mess.”
“If you know who did it —”
“I don’t know his name, but I have his telephone number. I can find him.”
Back in his own house Craig mixed himself a strong highball. He sat thinking, tapping his teeth with a pencil, frowning. Presently he took the phone, dialed a number. A discreet male voice responded. “Hello.”
“Virgil?”
“Speaking. Sounds like Craig Maitland. You’re too late. Everything’s run that’s gonna run today.”
“I don’t want a bet. Just some information.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“You know all kinds of people in your business.”
“I sure do. One of my best customers is a college perfesser.”
“Bums, toughs, card-sharks.”
Virgil spoke in mild protest. “Here. I ain’t some low underworld type. I’m an honest law-abiding bookmaker, if the laws were a little different.”
“Here’s the deal. There’s a guy who’s been bothering me — giving me all kinds of trouble. Understand what I mean?”
“These guys exist,” said Virgil in a mild voice.
“I’d like to rent a couple real tough guys to put the fear of God into him.”
Virgil was silent a moment. Then he said, “Well, Mr. Maitland, I’ll give you some advice. Don’t get fooling around anything like that. It’s poison. Suppose I knew a hoodlum, which I don’t. Suppose I sent him to you, and he gave this guy a rough-up job. Suppose his hand slipped and he hurt this other fellow — bad. Suppose this other fellow died. The hoodlum would be a murderer. So would you. It’s awful dangerous stuff, Mr. Maitland. Stay away from it.”
Craig said in a cold voice, “Let me worry about that.”
“So far as I’m concerned, Mr. Maitland, you don’t need to worry — because I can’t help you.”
Craig hung up. After further thought he called another number. A female voice said, “Binkins residence.”
“Let me talk to Maile,” said Craig.
Maile’s voice presently came over the line, cautious and quiet. “Hello.”
“Maile, this is Craig.”
“Yeah.”
“You were saying something the other day about these fellows you know — the guys who would do anything for a buck.”
“What about them?”
“I might have a job for two or three fellows like that.”
“What’s the job, and how much?”
Craig only partially restrained the peevishness in his voice. “I’d rather deal with the fellows directly.”
“I don’t think it’s a very good idea,” said Maile.
Craig’s temper began to slip. “Why not?”
“Two or three reasons.”
“Who do I deal with then?”
“Like I say, what’s the job and how much?”
There was a pause. Then Craig said stiffly, “Okay. This is what I want …”
Chapter IV
Royal Garnet Marsh sat idly in his kitchenette, looking out the window. BK Binkins had not called him back, but Marsh had not really expected him to do so. His fury of the previous night had waned to simple indignation, seasoned with a touch of self-contempt. To a certain degree he had only himself to blame, for starting a slanging match with a drunk. So the episode apparently had reached its end. Even had BK Binkins supplied the name of his persecutor, Marsh probably would have let the matter slide. Retaliation just wasn’t worth the effort. Nothing was worth the effort … Marsh let the matter drift from his mind.
Automobiles passed below, sentient metallic oblongs, neither bird, beast, fish nor insect, the human polyp within functioning as nerve-pulp. Twelve o’clock whistles from far away blew, hooted, gasped, roared. In a nearby construction project power-saws quieted, hammers stopped pounding. Marsh went to his refrigerator, hacked at a ham, made a sandwich, opened a can of beer.
After he ate, he went into the living room, slumped into an overstuffed chair, contemplated the remainder of the day. He’d better go for a walk. The doctor recommended mild exercise, and in any event there was nothing else he felt like doing … He dozed, fell asleep.
The telephone woke him. Bleary-eyed he took up the receiver. A familiar voice spoke. It now carried an overtone that sent archaic chills up and down Marsh’s back. “Hey stupid.”
Marsh had no reply.
“Hey stupid,” said the voice. “You had fun. But you know something? It’s going to cost you.”
Marsh found his voice. It grated harshly in his throat. “You’re making a lot of trouble — for me and for yourself.”
From the telephone came a thick laugh. “I’m going to show you what trouble means.”
Marsh hung up. He sat thinking. It might be wise to notify the police. He himself had no stomach for further contention with an obvious madman.
He looked toward the telephone. What on earth could he tell the police? They’d think he was a crank … Well, what about another go at BK Binkins? He reached out, paused once more, considering the likely course of conversation. The impulse dwindled; Marsh sat with hands limp in his lap. After a while he rose to his feet, walked aimlessly back and forth. He paused before a mirror, stared at the pale young-old face. What was going to become of him? He had no friends, male or female. He had knowledge but no incentive to use it; craft and skill, but no place to apply it. He lacked even the push of poverty. He could suddenly understand how a man could kill himself, for no reason whatever. From sheer boredom, self-hate, self-disgust … Marsh rather hurriedly turned away. He slipped into a jacket, left the apartment and went out on the street.
On the sidewalk he paused. From the construction project came the rap-rap-rap of hammers, the squeal of power-saws. Foundations had been poured, a few concrete-block walls had risen: undoubtedly another apartment building. Marsh turned, walked toward the lake. His hip, which according to expert opinion should be nearly mended, twinged with each of his slow steps.
Marsh watched a chess game in the park. At the public library he checked out a book in which he felt very little interest. The county court-house stood nearby. Marsh wandered into one of the courts, observed the empaneling of a jury. When court was adjourned, he walked west to Broadway, considered and rejected the idea of a movie. In a cafeteria he ate an early dinner, to save himself the effort of cooking at home. Returning to the street he boarded a bus, alighted near the lake, walked up the hill. The time was late afternoon, almost sunset; the sky diffused a wan beer-colored light into Henry Street. There, ahead, was his property, inherited from a father he had not seen in twelve years. It was a building similar to every other along Henry Street: four stories high, with a dignified but nondescript façade. Approaching, Marsh crossed the street to observe it critically, half-expecting to see symptoms of dilapidation: cracks in the stucco, peeling paint, broken glass. The structure, as usual, revealed no serious flaws, and Marsh was forced to the conclusion he owned a substantial and valuable property.
He entered the red-tiled foyer, walked down the hall to Apartment 3. A dark slender youth descending the stairs stopped to watch him. Marsh’s attention was caught; he paused with his hand on the doorknob. The youth’s face was illuminated by a wall fixture. He peered through the light, trying to see Marsh who stood in the gloom. It was a curious face: poetic, faun-like, but concentrated and intense. Marsh asked in a quiet voice, “Are you looking for someone?”
The youth shook his head, crossed the foyer, went out the front door. Marsh watched the figure bounce jauntily down the steps, then entered his apartment, crossed to the window, looked down into the street. The youth — he was about seventeen, thought Marsh — walked slowly away, head bowed as if in cogitation. He was wearing black slacks, a gray and black flannel sport-shirt, black shoes. As Marsh watched he drew the palms of his hands slowly up his slender hips, squared his shoulders.
He crossed the street. Marsh caught the quick shine of his face as he glanced over his shoulder. He stopped beside a black Ford sedan five or six years old, climbed into the back seat. A minute passed, then the sedan nosed out into the street, accelerated with startling rapidity, swung into the Lakeshore Boulevard traffic, disappeared.
Marsh turned back into the room. He lowered himself into the red overstuffed chair, sat quietly while dusk thickened the window. At this time of day he felt most isolated and alone. Someday, thought Marsh, he would be discovered shriveled, yellow, dead, the apartment choked with old newspapers and balls of salvaged string …
Presently he rose to his feet, went back to the window. Evening had come in all earnestness. Up the street came a car: a black Ford sedan. The dark youth apparently lived in the neighborhood, thought Marsh. A hundred yards up the street the car swerved to the side, parked. No one emerged. Strange, thought Marsh … His attention wandered. He turned away, went into the kitchen, switched on the light, started his percolator, stood watching the hot bubbles rising, dashing against the glass dome, deepening in color … His doorbell rang. Marsh turned. No one had pressed the call button beside his name at the front entrance. One of the tenants? Why should they bother him? Mr. and Mrs. Cody managed the apartment. If they wanted words with him, they would telephone. A salesman? Marsh slowly crossed the living room, reached for the door-knob. Into his mind came a picture of the black sedan, of the intent, impersonal interest of the dark youth … Something stirred in Marsh’s viscera. With his hand on the door-knob he hesitated, then slowly withdrew his hand. Again the bell sounded. Marsh put his ear to the panel of the door, and thought to hear a murmur of voices. Marsh waited. Whoever was at the door went away. Marsh went to the red overstuffed chair, sat down, knees quivering … Obviously he should have thrown open the door to confront — whom? The dark youth with the impersonal stare? What of that? But there were at least two, and what business would two, or more, persons have with him this time of evening? … Marsh heaved a sad sigh. A year ago he would have flung the door open, ready for anything.
On sudden thought he rose to his feet, went to the window. The black sedan was parked as before. But even as he watched the lights blazed on; the car plunged off into the darkness.
Marsh went back to his chair. He picked up a magazine, but finding nothing to interest him tossed it aside, and sat sprawled in the chair half-asleep …
Knock-knock-knock at the door. Marsh awoke, sat up in his chair. Knock-knock-knock — a soft dainty inviting set of raps, as if from feminine knuckles. Marsh slowly rose to his feet, went to stand by the door. The knocks came again: seductive, intimate. The impulse to reach forward, snatch the door back was almost overpowering. But Marsh stood without moving, corners of his mouth drawn back in a faint grimace.
There were no further knocks. Marsh returned to his chair, sat until one o’clock. Then he went to bed.
Next morning the sun rose into a sky of hurrying fog-shapes, which presently dissipated. By nine o’clock the sky was clear and the sunlight warm. Marsh paid his Tuesday visit to the hospital, submitted to examination and treatment, made his customary responses to the usual questions. The doctor instructed him to maintain the same schedule, gave assurances that sooner or later the hip would mend.
Leaving the hospital, Marsh walked to the bus stop, lowered himself gingerly to the bench. As usual, the visit to the hospital had exacerbated the ache in his leg. A pair of high school girls approached, clear of skin, bright of eye. Hardly glancing at Marsh they plumped down beside him and began to chatter about their private affairs, oblivious to his presence. Marsh frowned, turned them a sharp glance. Their disinterest was both callous and genuine.
Marsh slumped down on the bench. He was a young man. He was not ill-favored. His clothes — he glanced at them: dark gray slacks, a long-sleeved wool shirt of a nondescript blue and green check. Not very dashing. His attitude, the aura of his personality? Marsh nodded grimly. “I feel like a sick old man, I feel and act like a sick old apartment-house manager.”
He sprang to his feet. The girls were startled, paused briefly in their conversation to stare at him. Marsh walked swiftly up the street, so vigorously that his hip protested. Damn the hip. Something has to be done. A cab drove past. Marsh signaled; why not? He had fourteen-thousand dollars of accumulated disability pay and income from apartment rentals in the bank. He’d have more after he sold the apartment house. Then what? Who knows? Maybe the stock market. Maybe he’d drive into the far south of Mexico. The cab driver looked at him inquiringly; Marsh said, “Downtown. Anywhere. 14th and Broadway.”
At Barclay Brothers, a high-class haberdashery, Marsh ordered three suits, two pair of slacks, two odd jackets, a dozen shirts, a pullover, six neckties, three pair of shoes, socks, underwear. The bill came to eight hundred and twenty dollars. Marsh wrote a check.
Alterations were necessary and Marsh could not throw away his old clothes as he wished.
He walked north along Broadway, to the automobile showrooms. The prices were daunting, despite the fact that the end of the season was at hand. Marsh made no commitments. He’d be a fool to buy a car out of sheer bravado. Or because of two girls at a bus stop.
The hip bothered him not at all.
“The hell with the hip,” said Marsh. He dined at a nearby restaurant, emerged into the early evening. Now what? He felt restless. It was far too early to go home. His skin tingled with zest. He wanted a woman. But not just any woman: no flabby-faced drab, no gum-chewing stenographer. His imagination had not run so feverishly since adolescence. He wanted someone beautiful, adventurous, gay — someone to help him explore the sudden new world … For the life of him Marsh could think of no way to locate this paragon. He could hardly approach such a woman on the street … Details, details. Later in the evening he’d wander out to a bar and have a few drinks … Marsh boarded a bus, alighted at Lakeshore Avenue, walked around the lake and up Henry Street. The time was a half-hour after sundown, the sky was a murky blue-gray, streaked with a few high orange wisps. Ahead rose his property, a tall pallid outline faintly tinged with lavender: four floors, sixteen apartments, thirty-nine rent-paying inhabitants. He paused by the new construction, to assess the day’s progress. To the front the carpenters had thrown up a skeleton partition; to the side the concrete-block walls rose apace. A girl of perhaps sixteen ran pell-mell out upon the sidewalk. She looked right and left, approached Marsh. Her face was twitching with emotion, she spoke in a frantic rush, “Mister, please help me; some boys are hurting my sister.”
Marsh stopped, looked her up and down. She was a pretty girl in an odd sort of way. Her hair was straight and clung to her head like a cloche. Her cheeks were hollow, her lips wide, her eyes large and wide-set: in the twilight no more than great dark smudges.
Marsh was dubious. Last night there had been a feminine rap-rap-rap at his door.
The girl was watching him from her eery eye-smudges; perhaps Marsh read into her gaze ideas and scorns and challenges she never intended. Marsh said, “Sure, why not?” He looked up the street. There — a half a block away — a dark sedan. He could not be sure.
“Please!” sighed the girl. “Please hurry.” She beckoned. “Hurry.” She flitted off into the construction area.
From a pile of half-inch reinforcing steel Marsh selected a two-foot length. The girl stopped, looked back. Marsh held the length of steel to his leg. “This way. Quick!” came the soft voice. She ran ahead softly, easily, disappeared behind a stack of concrete blocks.
Marsh veered quickly to the left, circled the stack from the opposite direction. He saw the girl. Her head was turned, she looked back the way she had come. Three dark forms stood pressed against the wall of blocks. Marsh approached quietly. The girl saw him, squealed with alarm. The three forms sprang forth. There was a hulking narrow-headed negro, a tall young white man with a face like a bear, and the slender youth Marsh had seen the previous evening. The girl stood to the side, her face luminous with excitement.
The slender youth spoke. “Hey, stupid.” The words were flat and carefully enunciated: rehearsed. His two companions came forward. Both carried bicycle chains. Marsh jumped over beside the concrete blocks. The negro raised his arm, the chain hissed. Marsh struck up, caught the chain on the steel bar, snatched it from the black fist, and in the same motion struck down across the cropped head. The negro uttered a poignant sound. Marsh dodged to avoid the rush of the tall young white man, who struck the wall with his chain, then caught Marsh in a crushing hug. The negro staggered close, crying, “He done hurt me; he done hurt me bad.” Marsh jabbed up with the point of the rod, caught the white man in the mouth. Teeth grated on steel, the white man choked, gasped; Marsh toppled him in front of the negro, jabbed down as hard as he could into the white face. The steel tore bone and cartilage; the grip relaxed. Marsh struck at the negro who flung up his arm and took the blow on the wrist. Marsh struck again, the rod bending around the side of the black head. The slender youth could not be seen. The girl was standing back, laughing in weird excitement. The white man was on his knees, arms groping; Marsh struck down as hard as he could; an arm fell limp. The negro was crawling confusedly on hands and knees. Marsh struck down, the negro lurched, fell flat.
