Маргарет Миллар - Spider Webs

“How big?”

“Five and four respectively. Plus expenses, of course. Both are retired and have become what could be called professional witnesses. I don’t begrudge them the money — they’ve got a lousy job.”

Gunther had a narrow gap between his two front teeth, and when he blew air through it, it made an expressive hissing sound. “You’re blowing a wad on this guy Cully King.”

“So?”

“I can’t figure out your angle. Besides, I think he’s guilty as hell.”

“Really? Then perhaps you should be working for the district attorney.”

Again Gunther made the hissing sound between his teeth. “You usually ask for my opinion.”

“That’s right. And when I want it, that’s what I’ll do, ask. It will help our relationship, by the way, if you’ll remember that our clients are always pure as the driven snow.”

“In my hometown the only snow we saw was either gray or mud-colored. That pure white stuff is only on postcards of ski resorts. Cully King’s not ski resort. He’s mud, wouldn’t you say?”

Donnelly didn’t indicate whether he’d heard this or not. He took out his wallet and removed five twenty-dollar bills. “Here’s your money. And remember, if you get a traffic ticket, it’s on you, not me.”

“Why should I get a traffic ticket?”

“My point exactly. Why should you?”

“You’re always coming up with a smart answer.”

“That was a question, not an answer. Don’t slam the door on your way out. You might disturb my little bug.” The door slammed.

Donnelly picked up the phone and called the county jail. The deputy in charge of inmates reminded Donnelly that it was late, about nine o’clock, and Donnelly reminded him in turn that an attorney was permitted to see his client at any time except during meals and linen changes, when the guards were all busy. There was no further protest.

The county jail was only two years old, and on the outside it looked very modern, a school perhaps, or a hospital or office building. Inside, it was like any other jail, the same sights and sounds, the same smell of disinfectant and of something fainter and harder to identify. The men who came to this place even for a week would never forget it, the sour smell of regrets.

The small consulting room where Donnelly waited for the guard to bring Cully King was windowless. The air blowing in from a vent near the ceiling was cold and very dry, so that almost immediately Donnelly’s mouth felt parched and he wanted a drink, but there was no water cooler or drinking fountain. The only furnishing was a steel table and three chairs, all bolted to the floor.

It was ten minutes before Cully King was brought in, wearing jail fatigues and looking drowsy. “I was watching a movie and went to sleep,” he said. “I already saw it three times anyway.”

“I’d like to go over some things with you. Sit down.”

Cully sat in the chair on the opposite side of the steel table. “I’m tired. I think they put stuff in the food to keep us quiet. Somebody told me that tonight at supper.”

“Who?”

“The guy sitting next to me.”

“So you stopped eating?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to the rest of the food on your plate?”

“He ate it.”

“What’s two and two?”

“Four. But I could see for myself that he was getting sleepy the more he ate.”

“You were had, Cully.”

“I don’t care. The food was no good anyway. I bought three chocolate bars at the commissary. Chocolate is supposed to keep you — well, you know. I don’t want to lose my... my... well, you know, my abilities.”

“Harry Arnold tells me your abilities are well known throughout the islands. In fact, he called you a horner. I’m not sure what the word means, but I can guess.”

“It’s talk for a man who fools around with other men’s wives. Don’t listen to Harry. He’s crazy jealous.”

“Why?”

“Maybe because Richie’s copper like me.”

“Did you have anything to do with that?”

“There’s a lot of coppers in the islands. And when Harry’s at work, his wife’s at play. She’s a slut.”

Donnelly tapped the table with his fingers one at a time, as if he were playing a five-note scale up and down on a piano. “I’ve met Harry Arnold’s wife. She’s very black, Richie’s more like you.”

“Richie’s not my son,” Cully said with conviction. “I wouldn’t mind if he was. He’s a good kid. He treats me like some kind of hero.”

“Why did you pick the Arnolds to go with you on this trip?”

“They know their business, they work hard and they’re strong. This wasn’t a pleasure cruise.”

“You took some time out for pleasure, I’m told.”

“You got that from Harry, too,” Cully said without rancor. “Harry’s mouth gets big after a few drinks.”

“Did you take any women on board the Bewitched? ”

“Not till Mrs. Pherson. The others were just floozies. They’d steal the smell off a goat. I wouldn’t let any of them near my ship.”

Donnelly was playing his five-note scale up and down on the table more and more rapidly. It was the only sign he gave of quickening interest. He said, “Repeat your story about how you met Mrs. Pherson.”

“I already repeated it ten times.”

“So one more won’t hurt, will it? You were sitting in the bar at the Casa Mañana Hotel. Why did you pick that place?”

“It looked classy. I was sick of waterfront dives and the stink of sweat and fish. I wanted to go someplace where I could wear my new navy blue blazer and white slacks and turtleneck. I must have looked pretty good, they served me right away. After I had a couple of margaritas, a lady comes in and sits down beside me. There were other seats she could have taken, so I figured — well, what else could I figure?”

“You figured damn fast when all you had to go on was the fact that she sat down beside you. She had to sit someplace if she wanted a drink. So how come all the figuring?”

“I’ve been around plenty of women. It doesn’t have to be spelled out to me.”

“Who started the conversation?”

“She did. She said hello or hi, the usual thing.”

“Was she wearing any makeup?”

“How do you tell a thing like that? All I know is she looked pretty good. I heard later she was forty, but she seemed much younger. Maybe it was makeup; maybe it was the dim lights in the bar, maybe the margaritas. Women look a lot better after you’ve had a few drinks. She wasn’t exactly sober herself, so maybe I looked better to her, too. Maybe she didn’t even realize I was black.”

A guard stopped at the barred window of the door and peered into the room. Cully waved at him, and the guard waved back. The brief exchange seemed to bolster Cully’s self-confidence.

“I don’t need all that stuff like booze and dim lights,” he said. “Women are just naturally attracted to me.”

“Remember what I told you this morning, Cully. Humble, humble.”

“Why should I pretend women don’t like me? I say nice things to them, I do nice things. Why shouldn’t they like me?... Do they like you?”

Donnelly thought of his last conversation with Zan. He didn’t say nice things or do nice things, and she hadn’t liked him for years. “No.”

“You’re married, though. You must have looked good to one of them once.”

“Yes.”

He remembered the night in the back of the Rolls-Royce. It was dark so he couldn’t see Zan, but she felt all soft and round, and her skin was cool in the summer night and smelled of flowers. They weren’t those picked fresh from a garden but dead ones sprayed with preservatives to make them look alive.

“You’re not a bad-looking guy for your age,” Cully added.