Ace Atkins - Devil’s garden

WHEN Dr. RUMWELL saw Maude sitting in his parlor having tea with his wife, he looked as if he’d just shit his drawers. His little mustache, the one that looked like he dyed it with boot polish, twitched under his nose and his eyelids fluttered as he removed his hat and black overcoat, leaving his well-worn medical bag by the door.

“Mrs. Delmont is such good company,” his wife said, laughing. “So charming.”

Rumwell just stood in the doorframe staring down at Maude, who crossed her legs and took another cookie his wife had offered. She sipped some tea and smiled up at Rumwell from the lip of the cup.

“Won’t you sit down?” Maude asked him.

He shook his head. He’d begun to perspire at the brow.

“Darling,” his wife said, “Mrs. Delmont has been waiting on you for more than an hour.”

“She may see me during office hours.”

“But I tried to call the clinic,” Maude said. “They told me you wouldn’t see me.”

“Quite right.”

Rummy’s wife looked shocked and put down her tea. She was the kind of frail woman who wore going-out clothes around the house, got the vapors, and would invite some complete stranger into her little velvet parlor and serve cookies and tea. Her husband’s manners were making her physically ill.

“But, Doctor,” Maude said, “you remember that itch I have? You’ve treated it before.”

She smiled at him and took another bite of cookie. The frail wife left the room, the kitchen door swinging back and forth behind her, the woman muttering something about dinner burning on the stove. Rumwell looked as if he’d swallowed a turd.

“You must be going,” Rumwell said.

Maude stood and walked to him. He held out a hand as if she was some kind of leper and all that unease was making Maude pretty damn happy. She smiled at him, walking slow and swatting her giant hat from side to side and against her buttocks. “Come on, Rummy.”

“Not here.”

“I don’t believe you’d see me anywhere.”

“I will if you’d please leave.”

Maude turned from him to a little wooden cabinet and opened a glass door. She pulled out a little porcelain curio of a kitten and held it in the palm of her hand, staring at it, appraising it. “Darling.”

“I will ring you at the Palace.”

“I’m not at the Palace.”

“I thought you were getting the royal treatment.” He said it snotty. “It was in all the newspapers.”

“Yeah, I was getting the treatment all right, out on my ass.”

“What do you want?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“You must be joking.”

Maude shook her head and said, “Nope.” She reached back into the glass cabinet and found another little figure, this one of a little girl holding a basket of flowers. She twirled it up in the failing light coming from the front door and smiled. “Doesn’t this look like Virginia?”

Rumwell grabbed her arm and his fingers were tight and strong, but he couldn’t budge her. She smiled at him. “Do you remember Mrs. Spreckles’s party? You took me from behind in the garden. Like some kind of animal. We’ve had so many adventures. I’ve brought you so much business.”

“I won’t pay you.”

“I have nowhere to go.”

“That’s not of issue.”

“Rummy,” she said. “Be a gentleman.”

The wife returned, now composed but flushed, and worked her best smile. She asked her husband if Mrs. Delmont would like to join them for dinner. She was baking a chicken and… But Rumwell stopped her, saying that Mrs. Delmont had to be returning south, kind of giving the wife the old brush-off, the frail getting his meaning and disappearing back to the kitchen.

Maude held the figurine up to Rumwell’s face and twisted it there. “Does it hurt when you fill them with air?”

“This instant,” he said, raising his voice, spit flying a bit.

“You hear it doesn’t hurt,” she said, “but I would feel like a balloon inside while you worked. And hands-you must have very steady hands.”

“I will call the police.”

“And I will tell them about your delicate work,” Maude said. “Your specialties.”

“So be it,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen.

Maude returned the figurine to the cabinet and took a seat back on the little settee. She sipped from the delicate china and watched the pendulum swing on a large grandfather clock. A large gray cat stumbled into the room and found a spot in Maude’s lap, settling in, and she stroked the animal and played with its tiny paws.

Rumwell came back, minutes later.

“It’s done.”

“Don’t be foolish.”

“They’re coming for you now,” he said.

“Who?”

“The police,” he said. “They have warrants for your arrest.”

“On what?”

“Bigamy,” he said. “They called me this morning at the hospital and I was given instructions to ring them if I saw you.”

“You must think I’m a fool,” Maude said, smiling. “This is a wonderful little home, Rummy. The rugs alone must’ve cost you a fortune. That big clock, all this mahogany. Very strong and solid. Do you have children? I can’t believe I never asked.”

“You may wait here if you wish,” Rumwell said. His wife, high-collared and sweating, returned, locking her arm with her husband’s. She swallowed but would not make eye contact with Maude.

Maude could hear the pendulum of the great clock, the gears whirling inside making the hands move. She finished her tea, stood, and walked toward the receiving area of the home. She brushed straight past the two of them, placed her hat on her head, and adjusted it in the mirror of a hall tree.

“Two hundred woulda saved you some heartache, kids,” Maude said.

“I can’t be bribed or bought,” he said.

“Good man,” Maude said. “And you’d be a hell of a doctor if your hands didn’t shake.”

“YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, SIR?” Sam asked.

“Close the door,” the Old Man said.

Sam closed the door. He took a seat in a hard wooden chair and waited. “I hear you’ve been making inquiries about an op from back east.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

“I figured this fella was off the books.”

“Did you find anything?”

Sam nodded. He pulled out his cigarettes and struck a match, settling into the chair. The Old Man had a cigar that had expired in a full ashtray on his desk. His shirtsleeves were rolled above the elbows and he stood and stretched and opened up a shade on the window.

“You got a name?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what else?”

“The fella is on retainer to Hearst Corporation. He’s been assigned to them for years.”

“What’s he have to do with all this?”

“I saw him making a payment to Arbuckle’s buddy, Fred Fishback.”

The Old Man looked back at Sam from the window. “I’ll make sure McNab knows. He called over here earlier today mad at hell. Said you gave the bum’s rush to Arbuckle outside the Tadich Grill.”

“No, sir,” Sam said. “I asked Mr. Arbuckle what he had to do with Hearst.”

“You know it’s just the Examiner trying to dig up some dirt, sell some lousy newspapers.”

“Maybe.”

“They were probably paying off that Fishback fella to tell his story. Inside the St. Francis party and bullshit like that.”

“Why hold a meeting at a Chinatown speak?”

“Privacy.”

“I’ve seen this op before,” Sam said. “Before the war, I was assigned to bust up some labor in Montana. This fella approached me in a bar, bought me a drink, and offered me a respectable payday if I’d take out the fella making all the trouble. Next day, the guy winds up dead.”

The Old Man reached across the desk, grabbed the dead cigar, and tried to light it with three or four matches, finally getting the stinking thing going, a giant plug of orange growing red-hot.