Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

The light flicked across them, across the taut lines that cut down close to the corners of his mouth. No expression on the brown face. No life in the deep-set eyes.

He said softly, “Three years gives you a long time to think.”

“You can forget it now.” The soft answer. The warm invitation.

“It’s hard to forget. How much do you make, Sally?”

“Hundred and forty a week. It’s not hard work. I get along.”

He reached his left hand over, touched her gown, said, “The fabric is smooth and soft.”

“You’ve been a long time away from such things.” Moments of silence, a small tension coming from somewhere and building. Building. The soft fingers stroking his hand again.

“You always know expensive things, Sally. You sense them. On the tier underneath mine was Hans Reichert, craftsman. Fine paper — engraving. He fingered the strip of paper I tore from one of your letters. Told me it was the best money could buy.”

The stroking of her hand faltered for a moment. “It was a gift. Oh, an aunt or somebody, I’ve forgotten.”

“I thought you broke with all of your relatives?”

“Not all of them. An aunt and I still exchange gifts.”

“If there’s only one, why can’t you remember?”

“Why do we have to bicker about such a pointless thing, Jim? You’re out now, and you’re back with me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

More silence and the tension was there between them. It could be felt, tasted.

“You know what they used to do with the papers we got?” he asked. “They used to cut out all the crime news, robberies, murders. Give us the rest. Said it wouldn’t hurt us to read the rest. You always wondered what had been in those empty spaces. Over a year ago I saw a racetrack picture. Showed the crowd at the races. Besterson was there — with a girl.”

The stroking fingers stopped.

He said, “Her back was to the camera. Couldn’t recognize her.”

Her fingers moved again and he felt the deepness of the breath she took.

“A man’s habits are funny. You notice that sort of thing in prison. You think about them a lot. Now, some men, when they’re ready for bed, they stand in front of the bureau and empty every last thing out of their pockets and hang up their suits all right and proper. Me, I just toss things around. I guess I told you that once. Warned you about what an awful guy I’d be to live with. That was before — before they caught me.”

She stopped stroking his hand, put her hand down at her side. When the light flicked on again, he saw that her eyes were wide, that she looked up at the dark ceiling.

He continued. “I always had a good head for liquor. Never believed in mixing my drinks. I guess the only time I ever did was the night out with you, Sally. The night before they came and got me.”

“Why are you talking about this, Jim?” she said loudly.

“Shh! You don’t want to wake up the people. I’m talking because it’s nice to talk to people when you haven’t been alone with anybody for a long, long time. That’s the worst of those places. The fact that you’re never alone.”

Her breathing was easier, but he saw in the next flick of the light that her lips were compressed.

“You know, Sally, Besterson is a coward. Never fired people himself. Always had somebody else do it. Scared to death. Afraid of going broke. Afraid of getting sick. Always worrying. I figured he was going broke a week or so before I — went to jail. You know, it was funny. For the month before I went to jail, he spent a lot of time out of the office. An awful lot of time. Let me see, it started about the time you lost your job, didn’t it?”

She moved quickly away from him.

He caught her shoulders and pulled her back beside him. “What’s the matter, dearest?” he said.

“Get it over with!” she demanded, her voice hoarse.

“Sure, dearest. I’ll get it over with. You met Besterson when you used to wait for me outside the office. You always had your eye on the best chance. All that time Besterson was out of the office, he was with you. You got me tight. You knew my habits. You planted those big bills in my pocket, knowing that I didn’t keep money or cigarettes or keys in that pocket. You made me a sitting duck, darling. They still wonder where I hid the rest of the money that I didn’t take.

“And then Besterson got scared. You were the link. He knows I’m smart. If you moved out of here and moved into the big time, I’d know the answer. So he bought you your pretties and told you to stay here. Expensive writing paper. Fancy nightgowns like the one you’re wearing. Sure, the girl in the picture had her back turned to me, but I recognized the back.

“I know. Besterson is hiding and trembling someplace and waiting for the word from you. You’re supposed to get in touch with him and tell him whether I’ve gotten wise to what you two did to me. Only you could have planted that money on me. Only you, darling.”

She drew a deep and shuddering breath. The light flicked on and off, on and off. In a husky tone, she said, “You’re sick. You’re talking crap.”

“You’re right. It was rotten.” His hand slid past her face, and his hard fingers fondled her throat.

“No! No, Jim!” she gasped, as his fingers tightened. Then she could say no more. Her nails tore at his face, at his hand. She strained her body up in a hard arc like some strange bow and dropped back. Again and again. Her wide eyes bulged. There was no sound except the tiny tearing noises of her nails in his flesh.

He put his lips close to her ear. “Tell me where Besterson is.”

He released the pressure gently. She sucked the air into her lungs and tried to scream. He tightened down again, careful of his anger, nourishing it, knowing that if he released the anger his fingers would crush her throat and she’d never breathe or speak again. He turned his head away as she dug for his eyes.

“Where’s Besterson?” he asked, lips close to her ear.

Slowly he released the pressure. Her breath rattled as she coughed, holding her throat. “Mountain Lodge. Near Star Lake,” she gasped.

“This is it,” he said softly. His fingers closed on her throat again. “Good-by, Sally. Good-by, dearest. Good-by, you female Judas.”

She found new strength in her terror. But his fingers were tight. Tighter. Tighter...

He stood by the window and the light from the sign flashed across his face. Staccato. Pulse of a mechanical city. Pulse of a heat-sodden city, counterpoint for the littered sidewalks, the stains of sweat under the arms of the doughy women, the foam wiped from lips with the back of a hand.

He seemed to hear the voice of George, close to his ear, “But you won’t have the guts to get even, boy. You wait and see.”

He turned toward the bed, full of a bleak weariness, as though a spring, wound one notch tighter during each day of imprisonment, had suddenly spun free of the ratchets, lay sodden inside him, without tension.

She sat on the edge of the bed, still coughing, gasping and massaging her throat. When the light hit her face he saw the silver streaks of tears across the soft cheeks, the disordered froth of pale hair. With each inhalation, her breath made a rattling sound in her throat, like a parody of a snore. He picked up his coat, stood by the bed, the coat slung over one shoulder, looking down at her as the near-death noises slowly stopped.

She looked up at him and, in the light, her face was cold — the face on a silver coin, the face on a billboard in winter. “You’re going after Besterson,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement and said in the way she would have said, “He is dead.”

He considered her statement. He thought of his hard fists smashing Besterson’s soft face, the blood gouting from the split flesh, the eyes puffing shut, the broken mouth working in a froth of red.