Philip Dick - Mary And The Giant

Coombs squealed, a shrill, high-pitched bleat, followed by the sound of old wood splintering. After that, a distant plop, as if some wad of organic waste, voided, had dropped a long way.

"He fell," Beth whispered. "My husband."

Mary Anne ran down the hall to the door. The railing was intact, but at the bottom of the steps lay Daniel Coombs. He had plunged the length; he had, along the stairs, missed his footing.

Beth appeared. "Is he dead?"

"How would I know?" Mary Anne said frigidly.

Shoving her aside, Beth scampered down to the ground level beside her husband. Mary Anne watched for a moment, and then turned back to the apartment. Tweany was still in the kitchen; he emerged, straightening his shirt and smoothing his tie. He looked disconcerted but not apprehensive. "Those cops," he said, "they're going to be mad."

"Want me to call them?"

"Yes, maybe you better."

She picked up the phone and dialed. When she had finished she hung up and faced the man. "You were going to kill him." It was, for her, the final straw.

Tweany said nothing.

"It's lucky for you he got loose." A lethargy lay over her. "Now you don't have to worry."

"I guess not," Tweany agreed.

Mary Anne seated herself. "You better put something on your face." The side of his head was bleeding where she and Beth had clawed him. "What did you do with the ice pick?"

"Put it back in the drawer, naturally."

"Go down and make sure she won't say anything about it. Hurry-before they get here." She could already hear sirens.

Obediently, Tweany went off down the hall. Mary Anne remained, rubbing the instep of her right foot; she had twisted it floundering after Tweany. After a time she got to her feet and went into the bedroom. She had changed back into her skirt and blouse and was stepping into her heels when the police arrived.

The first policeman---one she remembered from the other night-studied her searchingly as she descended the stairs.

"I don't remember you," he said.

Mary Anne didn't answer. She stopped to glance at Coombs's body ... thinking, in a corner of her mind, that it would not be possible to get to her job today.

On a morning in early December, Joseph Schilling stood inspecting his window display. The sun was shining brightly, and he frowned, thinking of the records warping in their envelopes. Then he remembered that he had, before setting up the display, taken the records out and used the envelopes alone. Heartened, he unlocked the door and entered the shop.

Records were heaped on the front counter. Temporarily ignoring them, Schilling got the push broom from the back closet and began sweeping away the debris that had piled up before his door during the night. When he had finished he reentered and plugged in the high-fidelity phonograph system mounted above the door. From the records on the counter he selected Handel's Water Music and started it playing.

He was outside again, rolling down the awning, when Mary Anne Reynolds appeared at his elbow. "I thought you opened at eight," she said. "I've been sitting over there for half an hour." She indicated the Blue Lamb.

"I open at nine," Schilling said, carefully going on with his awning unwinding. "Or thereabouts. No fixed schedule, actually. Sometimes when it's raining I don't open until noon."

"Who did you hire?"

Schilling said: "Nobody."

"Nobody? You're doing all the work?"

"Sometimes a former friend of mine stops by and helps. A music teacher."

"Beth Coombs, you mean."

"Yes," Schilling said.

"You heard about her husband, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember me?"

"Certainly I remember you." He was deeply moved, and he had difficulty speaking. "I've thought about you every once in a while, wondering what became of you. You're the girl who wanted a job."

"Can I go inside and sit down?" Mary Anne asked. "These heels hurt my feet."

Schilling followed her into the store. "Excuse the mess ... I haven't had time to clear things up." The music dinned, and he bent to decrease the volume. "You're acquainted with Mrs. Coombs?" He spoke conversationally, wanting to put this anxious, tense girl at her ease. "Where did you meet her?"

"At a bar." Mary Anne seated herself on the window ledge and kicked off her shoes. "I notice you removed some of the listening booths."

"I was pressed for space."

The girl's blunt attention focused on him. "Will three booths be enough? What happens when you get a crowd?"

Candidly, he admitted: "I'm waiting to find out."

"Are you making a profit?" She massaged her foot. "Maybe you shouldn't hire anybody."

"I'm currently preparing for Christmas. If I'm lucky this store may yet see some activity."

"What happened to what's-his-name, that singer? Did he go over?"

"Chad? Not exactly. We sent the tapes down to L.A., but nothing has come of it yet."

The girl pondered. "Paul Nitz liked him. I thought he was silly." She shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

Neither of them said anything for a while, as Schilling began sorting records on the counter.

There she was, sitting on the window ledge as if she had gone to work for him after all, as if she had not turned and run out of the store. He had made a blunder, that day. He had liked her and he had frightened her off. This time he was going to be careful; this time-he hoped-he had the situation under control.

"You like it?" he asked. She certainly looked as if she be longed there on the ledge; like a cat, she had entered and taken possession. Now she was busy making herself comfortable.

"The store?" she said. "I told you. Yes, I like it very much. It looks lovely." There was a crisp, businesslike quality in her voice.

It embarrassed him.

"You feel hostility toward me," he said.

The girl didn't answer. She was trying on her shoe.

"You say you met Beth in a bar," Schilling said, steering the

conversation back to safer topics. "That was here in Pacific Park, wasn't it? You didn't know her before?"

"No, not before."

"Did you know her, that day?"

"She wasn't around, that day," the girl reminded him. "They didn't show up until later."

"How does she strike you?"

"She's attractive." A shade of envy touched the girl's voice.

"Such a lovely figure."

"She's fat."

"I don't call that fat," Mary Anne said, closing the subject.

"That little man, that Danny Coombs, he was a creep. There was something wrong with him."

"I agree," Schilling said. He slid an lp from its sleeve and, holding it by its edges, examined it for scratches. "Coombs tried to kill me once."

She was interested. "Really?"

Putting down his record, Schilling pushed back his coat sleeve; he unscrewed his gold cuff link, parted his clean white cotton shirt-sleeve, and showed her his wrist. A bumpy line made its way among the hairs. "He broke my wrist at that point, by hitting me with a tire iron. Then my man Max showed up."

Impressed, she studied the scar. "He tried to kill Tweany, but-" She broke off. "It didn't work out."

"Beth told me a number of the details." He reset his cuff link and smoothed down his coat. "Coombs had a pathological streak ... the sight of a Negro evidently brought it out. The Negro is a musician, I understand."

"Sort of. Why did Coombs try to kill you? Were you hanging around his wife?"

Schilling was embarrassed. "Nothing like that at all. Coombs was always on the verge of the brink. He lived in a world of vitriolic distortion."

"Why did she marry him?"

"Beth is a little mixed up, too. Their manias jigsaw." He explained: "She told me Danny was expelled from his grade school for peeping the girls' gym. Later on that camera was his roaming eye."

"And she likes to-exhibit herself," Mary Anne said, with aversion.