Nelson Algren - The New Black Mask Quarterly (№ 1)

“But he brought them all on himself,” I pointed out. “He was slandered, sure. But if he’d just ignored it. instead of trying to get the UnAmerican Activities Committee abolished, it would all have been forgotten. As it was, well, what’s the use talking?”

“Not much,” Claggett said. “Not anymore.”

I said, “Oh, for God’s sake.” It sounded like I was knocking the old man, and, of course, I didn’t mean to. “I didn’t mind his drinking, per se. It was just that it left him vulnerable to being kicked around by people who weren’t fit to wipe his ass.”

Jeff Claggett nodded, saying that a lot of nominally good people seemed to have a crappy streak in them. “Give them any sort of excuse, and they trot it out. Yeah, and they’re virtuous as all hell about it. So-and-so drinks, so that cleans the slate. They don’t even owe him common decency.”

He put down his coffee cup with a bang and signalled for a refill. He sipped from it, sighed, and grimaced tiredly.

“Well, no use hashing over the past, I guess. How come you were in that place I got you out of tonight, Britt?”

“Through a misunderstanding,” I said firmly. “A mistake that isn’t going to be repeated.”

“Yeah?” He waited a moment. “Well, you’re smart to steer clear of ’em. We haven’t been able to hang anything on them, but, by God, we will.”

“With my blessings,” I said. “You were on official business tonight?”

“Sort of. Just letting them know we were on the job. Well—” He glanced at his watch, and started to rise. “Guess I better run. Can I drop you some place?”

I declined with thanks, saying that I had a little business to take care of. He said, “Well, in that case...”

“By the way, I drove past the old Rainstar place a while back, Britt. Looks like someone is still living there.”

“Yes,” I said. “I guess someone is.”

“In a dump? The city garbage dump? But—” His voice trailed away, comprehension slowly dawning in his eyes. Finally, he said, “Hang around a minute, Britt. I’ve got to make a few phone calls, and then we’ll have a good talk.”

We sat in Claggett’s car, in the driveway of the Rainstar Mansion, and he frowned in the darkness, looking at me curiously. “I don’t see how they can do this to you, Britt. Grab your property while you’re out of the state.”

“Well, they paid me for it,” I said. “Around three thousand dollars after the bank loan was paid. And they gave me the privilege of staying in the house as long as I want to.”

“Oh, shit!” Claggett snorted angrily. “How long is that going to be? You’ve been swindled, Britt, but you sure as hell don’t have to hold still for it!”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t see that there’s much I can do about it.”

“Of course there’s something you can do! This place was deeded tax-free to the Rainstars in perpetuity, in recognition of the thousands of acres the family had given to the state. It’s not subject to mortgage or the laws of eminent domain. Why, I’ll tell you, Britt, you go into court with this deal, and...”

I listened to him without really listening. There was nothing he could tell me that I hadn’t told myself. I’d argued it all out with myself, visualizing the newspaper stories, the courtroom scenes, the endless questions. And I’d said to hell with it. I knew myself, and I knew I couldn’t do it for any amount of money.

“I can’t do it, Jeff,” I cut in on him at last. “I don’t want to go into the details, but I have a wife in another state. An invalided wife. I was suspected of trying to kill her. I didn’t, of course, but—”

“Of course you didn’t!” Jeff said warmly. “Murder just isn’t in you. Anyway, you wouldn’t be here if there was any real case against you.”

“The case is still open,” I said. “I’m not so sure I’m in the clear yet. At any rate, the story would be bound to come out if I made waves over this condemnation deal, so I’m not making any. I, the family and I, have had nothing but trouble as far back as I remember. I don’t want any more.”

“No one wants trouble, damn it,” Claggett scowled. “But you don’t avoid it by turning your back on it. The more you run from, the more you have chasing you.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “But just the same...”

“Your father would fight, Britt. He did fight! They didn’t get away with piling garbage on him!”

“They didn’t?” I said. “Well, well.”

We said good-night.

He drove off, gravel spinning angrily from the wheels of his car.

I entered the house, catching up the phone on its first ring. I said hello, putting a lot of ice into the word. I started to say a lot more, believing that the caller was Manuela Aloe, but fortunately I didn’t. Fortunately, since the call was from Connie, my wife.

“Britt? Where have you been?”

“Out trying to make some money,” I said. “I wasn’t successful, but I’m still trying.”

She said that she certainly hoped so. All her terrible expenses were awfully hard on her daddy, and it did seem like a grown, healthy man like me, with a good education, should be able to do a little something. “If you could just send me a little money, Britt. Just a teensy-weensy bit—”

“Goddamn it!” I yelled. “What’s with this teensy-weensy crap? I send you practically everything I get from the Foundation, and you know I do because you wrote them and found out how much they pay me! You had to embarrass me, like a goddamned two-bit shyster!”

She began to cry. She said it wasn’t her fault that she was crippled, and that she was worried out of her mind about money. I should just be in the fix she was in for a while, and see how I liked it. And so forth and so on, ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

And I apologized and apologized and apologized. And I swore that I would somehow someway get more money to her than I had been sending. And then I apologized three or four hundred additional times, and at last, when I was hoarse from apologies and promises, she wished me sweet dreams and hung up.

Sweet dreams!

I was so soaked with sweat that you would have thought I’d had a wet dream.

Which was not the kind of dream one had about Connie.

Mrs. Olmstead set breakfast before me the next morning, remarking — doubtless by way of whetting my appetite — that we would probably have rat shit in the food before long.

“I seen some chasin’ around the backyard yesterday, so they’ll be in the house next. Can’t be this close to a garbage dump without havin’ rats.”

“I see,” I said absently. “Well, we’ll face the problem when it comes.”

“Time t’face it is now,” she asserted. “Be too late when the rats is facin’ us.”

I closed my ears to her gabbling, finishing what little breakfast I was able to eat. As I left the table, Mrs. Olmstead handed me a letter to mail when I went to town, if I didn’t mind, o’ course.

“But I was going to work at home today,” I said. “I hadn’t really planned on going to town.”

“How come you’re all fixed up, then?” she demanded. “You don’t never fix yourself up unless you’re going somewhere.”

I promised to mail the letter, if and when. I tucked it into my pocket as I went into the living room, noting that it was addressed to the old age pension bureau. More than a year ago her monthly check had been three dollars short — by her calculations, that is. She had been writing them ever since, sometimes three times a week, demanding reimbursement. I had pointed out that she had spent far more than three dollars in postage, but she stubbornly persisted.