Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

Roger came to a street that bordered the park, crossed it. Whitey closed the distance between them until he could distinguish the red of Roger’s slippers. Too close, probably. If Roger glanced back he would certainly recognize him. But Roger didn’t glance back. Whitey knew why: because he was a prince and Whitey was who he was. Roger kept to a steady pace, up a hill lined with big brick houses, all with fancy grillwork, fancy doors, fancy knockers. He turned left on a street that mounted still higher, stopped at a door, took out his keys, opened it, and went inside. Whitey walked past, noted the number and street name, kept going.

He’d accomplished something; what, he wasn’t sure, but it gave him a good feeling. He walked to the top of the hill, down the other side-stepping carefully, because his cowboy boots were slippery on the snowy bricks-found a bar at the bottom. Money in his pocket and a day to kill. Whitey went inside and ordered breakfast: a draft and a large fries. Same again. Then another draft. He was free, and feeling good.

The bar began to fill up. Someone next to him ordered oysters. Whitey eyed them, glistening on crushed ice, felt a little funny. He started thinking about Sue Savard. Strange, how the mind worked: he hadn’t thought about her in years, would have supposed he’d completely forgotten what she looked like, but now that he was back up north, back up north and free, he could picture her, especially her eyes the moment he’d gotten himself inside her. The truth was that he’d never had sex like the sex he’d had with Sue Savard. And he hadn’t meant to hurt her at all-that business with the glass cutter had been mostly just to tickle her, give her a little added pleasure. Women had an enormous capacity for pleasure, according to Rey, and his amateur housewife videos proved it; real housewives, even the social worker said so, real housewives with video cameras. Someone-a mustached man with thick lips-slurped down one of those oysters. Whitey paid his bill and left.

Money in his pocket. A day to kill. Whitey returned to the bus station, got on the bus to Nashua, took a taxi to Lawton Ferry, 97 Carp Road.

A dump, as he knew it would be. He knocked on the door five or six times, called, “Ma,” then walked around the side, peering in the windows. He saw dirty dishes, dirty clothes, pictures of Jesus, but no one was home. Fine. He didn’t really want to see her anyway. What he wanted was the pickup.

He found it in the rotting barn behind the house. His old pickup, but painted white now, with LITTLE WHITE CHURCH OF THE REDEEMER stenciled on the side. That, and the fact she’d never mentioned it, pissed him off, so much that he started kicking with his new cowboy boot, kicking a hole right through the wall of the barn. What gave her the right to do that? He calmed down when he realized that if the pickup hadn’t been used he’d never have gotten it started after all these years. Besides, he’d soon be able to afford something much better. Whitey opened the door, saw a cat curled up inside. He yanked it out, found the keys under the seat, fired up his old car.

Whitey drove east to Little Joe Lake, took the rutted road that led to the far end. Nothing had changed, or if it had, the snow was hiding all the signs, but everything seemed strange. He had changed: he was bigger, stronger, smarter, and that made all the difference.

Whitey parked by the footbridge to the little cabin on the island. He sat there for a long time. Square one, and he was back. If only Sue Savard was inside now, everything would be different. This bigger, stronger, smarter him would make sure of that, would know how to stop the screaming in some harmless way.

Not that it had been his fault, all that screaming. Why hadn’t she realized what it would lead to? Why hadn’t she been able to stop it herself, to keep her own goddamn mouth shut and not force him to do it for her? Her fault, but still Whitey was filled with regret-he’d blown his chance with Sue Savard, the sexiest woman he’d ever known. What would Sue Savard have been like now?

“Hello. Is Francie there?”

“No.”

“Well… I… This is Anne Franklin. Her tennis partner? We spoke once before.”

“Yes.”

“We-did Francie mention the dinner plans?”

“Dinner plans?”

“We were thinking of going out to dinner after the match.”

Silence.

“The finals, tonight. Didn’t Francie mention it?”

“I’ve been out of town.”

“Oh. I was just calling to confirm the time: seven-thirty at Huitres. I booked a table for four in nonsmoking, if that’s all right with you.”

“Four?”

“Ned’s coming, too.”

“Ned?”

“My-my husband.”

Silence.

“I’m not sure I caught his name.”

“Ned. Ned Demarco. Francie’s never mentioned him either?”

“Perhaps I’ve been inattentive.”

Roger’s mind ran through its gears, each one more powerful than the last, spinning, whirring, so fast that he had to pace, the excess mental energy escaping into his body. The lover’s wife, if she existed: at one stage, a hypothetical and false contractor in a superseded plan for Francie, but now that she did exist, he felt… confusion, so strange for him. Fact: Francie was sleeping with the husband of her tennis partner. He found that harder to believe than the adultery itself. It reduced her to the basest commonality, like one of those illiterates on a TV tell-all show, a walking mockery of his taste. Was it possible for him to have misread her so grossly? Or-or was this something different, something more sophisticated: could it be possible, for example, that this tennis partner, this Anne, knew of the affair and accepted it? Roger’s mind was already at the next stop, waiting with a disgusting image of Francie in bed with the two of them, and before he could digest that, was preparing another, even worse, with four participants. He felt a responding pulse in his groin. No! Were they animals, beasts, mere rutting things? Not him. He stopped pacing, poured water; it trembled in the glass, like an earthquake warning. He drank, tried to calm himself. It’s all right, Roger, he thought, quashing all images. The lover’s wife is just another piece on the board, part of the problem, and all problems are fundamentally mathematical. Permutations and combinations.

The door opened and Francie walked in, snow in her hair, her appearance revealing nothing at all of what he now knew hid within. “Hello, Roger.” She glanced around. “Were you on the phone?”

“No.” But had he said permutations and combinations aloud? The air in the room felt disturbed, as though the last ripples of a sound wave hadn’t quite flattened away.

She took off her coat, her old coat- where’s the new coat, Francie? — and hung it over the back of a chair.

“When did you get back?” she said.

“Moments ago.”

“How was the trip?”

“Didn’t you get my message?” Enjoyable, asking that. Dance on my string, Francie.

“Yes, but it didn’t say much.”

Enough to do the job. “Cautious optimism, then-how does that sound?”

“Fine.” She was watching him, waiting for details, waiting for.. for some suggestion that he might be moving to Fort Lauderdale, of course! What better moment to spring a surprise:

“Your tennis partner called. She’s invited us to dinner tonight.”

Oh, Francie was very good, showing almost no reaction at all. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll cancel.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“I know how you hate those things.”

“Not at all. In fact, I’ve already accepted.”

“You want to go?”

“Why not? She sounds… charming, and she is your tennis partner. You must be a nice fit.”