Peter Abrahams - Lights Out

Eddie put his finger to his lips. She grew solemn, then quickly pressed something into his hand. Eddie dropped down on the floor, rolled against the wall.

The footsteps came closer. The nurse said: “Can’t sleep, dear?”

“Yes, I can. I’m very good at it.”

“Then why don’t you, instead of talking to yourself?”

“I’m not talking to myself.”

“I could hear you all the way down the hall.”

“That doesn’t prove your insinuation in all its particulars.”

“And how do you expect to sleep with your curtains open?”

“I like the moonlight in Vermont, or anywhere in the lower forty-eight, for that matter.”

Footsteps. The snick of the curtain string being sharply tugged. Then darkness.

Footsteps, back to the bed. “I’m going to give you just a little something to help you sleep.”

“I don’t want a little something. I want to get intimate with manny-man.”

“A little something will help.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m Winnie-the-Pooh.”

A rustling of sheets. “This won’t hurt,” said the nurse.

Pause. “It did.”

“Sweet dreams.”

Footsteps retreated. The door closed. Footsteps faded away.

Eddie rose, sat on the bed, felt across the covers, found Evelyn’s hand, took it. She groaned.

“Evelyn?”

“Get me out of here.”

Eddie didn’t know what to say. He’d made the same plea to Jack, long ago.

“Get me out,” she said again. There was a long pause before she added, “of here.” The words came slow and sleepy.

She squeezed his hand, much harder than he would have thought she could. “I’ve done that puzzle…” Another long pause. Her hand relaxed, fell away. When she spoke again her voice was weaker. “A thousand times. Can you grasp that?”

“Yes.”

“So get me out.” Silence.

“Evelyn?”

“So get me out.”

“I’ll try, but first I want to talk to you.”

No response.

“Evelyn?”

She was asleep.

Eddie rose, shoes in hand, and left the room. He walked down the carpeted corridor, down the stairs. The desk in the hall was deserted. He followed the parquet to the library. The fire in the grate was almost out, but there was still enough light to see the puzzle. Eddie went to it. He knew what Evelyn had put in his hand. He took it now and fitted it in place: the red base of the Titanic’s lead stack.

Eddie slipped on the tassel loafers and climbed out of the casement window, closing it behind him.

Quietly, because of the possibility that Karen and the mustached man might be inside, Eddie let himself into Jack’s suite. Someone was slouched on the sofa watching a James Bond movie, but it wasn’t Karen or the mustached man. The man on the sofa had a beer in his hand, and there were empties all around. Bond said something funny and shot an Oriental gentleman in the balls. The man on the sofa laughed, unaware that he was no longer alone until Eddie stepped in front of him. The sight displeased him.

“Who the fuck are you?” he said. He was a broad, thick-necked man of about Eddie’s age and reminded Eddie of someone, although he couldn’t think who.

“I’m not in the mood,” Eddie said.

“Not in the mood for what?” The man rose, to show Eddie how big and tough he was.

“Any bullshit.” Bond climbed into bed with a big-breasted blonde. He stuck his gun under the pillow. She purred.

The thick-necked man stepped forward, close enough to jab his finger in Eddie’s chest. He jabbed his finger in Eddie’s chest. “The bullshit’s all coming from you, pal,” he said.

Then the man was on the floor with a bloody face and a nose that wasn’t quite straight.

Bond said something insouciant. Eddie said: “Who are you?”

“I asked you the same question,” answered the man, getting up and dabbing his face with his sleeve.

“But not politely.”

The man gave him a hard look but kept his mouth shut. How familiar, thought Eddie, that sudden violence. He got the funny feeling that the thick-necked man had spent some time inside. His mind skipped a few steps and he said: “Out on a pass, Raleigh?”

The man frowned. “Do I know you?”

“Everyone keeps asking me that,” said Eddie. “I’m Ed Nye.”

There was a pause. Then Raleigh Packer said: “You could have mentioned that a little earlier.”

“We’d have missed the benefit of all this exercise.”

Raleigh dabbed at his face again, sat down on the sofa. Eddie noticed his anklet. Raleigh saw that he noticed. “Not a pass,” he said. “Parole.” He raised his pant leg a little more, revealing the lightweight plastic ankle bracelet with the box transmitter that allowed a computer to monitor him. “I’m on a beeper, just like the gofers on Wall Street.”

“Could be worse,” Eddie said.

Raleigh gave him a long look. “Where were you?”

Eddie named the prison.

“For ten years or something?”

Eddie corrected him.

“How did you stand it?” Raleigh wasn’t a tough guy: Eddie had known that from moment one.

“You can get used to anything.”

Raleigh dabbed at his nose again. “Bullshit,” he said, but not in a challenging way.

“Why don’t you go clean up?”

Raleigh went into the bathroom. Water ran. James Bond’s parachute failed to open. He pretended to look scared but there was a twinkle in his eye. Eddie noticed that the $350 was no longer on the coffee table.

Raleigh came back into the room, holding a towel to his nose. “I think it’s broken.”

“Noses are vulnerable,” Eddie said. “Where’s the three-fifty?”

“Huh?”

“Do I have to go to a whole lot of trouble to find it?”

“Is it yours?”

“It’s Jack’s.”

“Then consider it a down payment on what he owes me.”

“What does he owe you?”

“That depends on my billing rate, but the hours are twenty-four times three sixty-five.”

“Just the same,” said Eddie, “I’d better hang onto it till he comes back.”

Raleigh handed over the money in the resigned way an inmate would after the pecking order had been established. “You’re just like him.”

“Like who?”

“You know who. Where is he?”

“Out of town.”

“Out of town where?”

Eddie didn’t answer.

Raleigh glanced around the room. “Maybe he’s not coming back.”

“Of course he is,” Eddie said; but he wondered.

Raleigh touched his nose delicately with the tip of his finger.

“Let me see that,” Eddie said, went close to Raleigh, examined his nose, saw that he was making a fuss about nothing, saw too how much he resembled his father, the way Eddie remembered him. “You’re going to live,” Eddie said.

Raleigh snorted. That started the bleeding again. “On what?” he said.

“Your inheritance.”

“Is that a joke?”

“I thought your parents were rich.”

“What do you know about my parents?”

“Not much,” Eddie said, thinking of the Titanic plowing through the night. “How are they doing?”

“Just great. Dad’s dead and Mom’s in the nuthouse.”

“See much of her?”

“I’ve been out of circulation,” Raleigh said; almost his mother’s exact words about her own condition.

Eddie said: “Did you go to Groton and Yale and all that too?”

“What do you mean, ‘too’?”

Eddie didn’t answer.

“My grandfather went to Groton and Yale, if that’s what you’re referring to. But how did you know that?”

“Lucky guess.”

Raleigh studied him for a few moments in a way that again reminded Eddie of Brad Packer: not quite smart enough. “Groton yes, Yale no,” said Raleigh. He picked up his beer, drank.