Karl Wagner - Why Not You and I?

Saunders decided he’d have that third beer — if for no better reason than to keep the psychiatrist from downing it. “Russ, it seems to me you’re ignoring the obvious. Look, you’ve been gone for a few days, right? Now isn’t it pretty’ likely that Curtiss just decided to tidy the place up? So he goes through all his stuff, reorganizes things, dumps all his scrap paper and old notes into the wastebasket, sets the wastebasket out to be picked up, and takes the stuff he’s working on for the moment on home with him.”

“That place hasn’t been straightened out in years — since the fire inspectors got on his ass.”

“So he figured it was high time. Then later some punk breaks in, sees there’s nothing there for him, moves on. Why not, Russ?”

Mandarin seemed to subside. “Just doesn’t feel right to me, is all,” he muttered.

“So why would somebody steal Curtiss’s scrap paper, can you tell me?”

Mandarin scowled at his beer.

“Morbid souvenir hunters? Spies trying to intercept secret information? Maybe it was ghosts trying to recover forbidden secrets? Hell, Russ— you’ve been reading too many of Stryker’s old thrillers.”

“Look, I don’t know the motives or the logic involved,” Russ admitted grandiosely. “That’s why I say it isn’t routine.”

The detective rolled his eyes and gave it up. “All right, Russ. I can’t go along with your half-assed logic, but I’ll make sure the department checks into this to the best of our ability. Good enough?”

“Good enough.”

Saunders grunted and glanced at his watch. “Look, Russ. I got to make a phone call before I forget. What do you say you wait around and after I get through I’ll run you on back to your place?”

“My car’s just over at the clinic.”

“Are you sure…”

“Hell, I can drive. Few beers don’t amount to anything.”

“Well, wait here a minute for me,” urged Saunders, deciding to argue it later. He lifted his sweaty bulk from the chair’s sticky vinyl and made for the pay phone in the rear of the bar.

Mandarin swore sourly and began to stuff the rinds of pizza crust into one of the empty bottles. Heartburn, for sure. He supposed he ought to get headed home.

“Well, well, well. Dr Mandarin, I presume. This is a coincidence. Holding office hours here now, Doctor?”

Russ glowered upward. A grinning face leaned over the table. Russ continued to glower.

Natty in double-knit slacks and sportshirt, Brooke Hamilton dropped onto Saunder’s vacated chair. “Rather thought I’d find you here, actually,” he confided. “Believe you and the old man used to drop by here regularly, right?”

Hamilton was drinking beer in a frosted mug. It made an icy puddle on the cigarette-scarred tabletop. Mandarin had a private opinion of people who drank beer in frosted mugs.

“Really a shock hearing about old Stryker,” Hamilton went on. “Really too bad — though I’m sure a man like Stryker never would have wanted to die in bed. A man of action, old Curtiss. A living legend now passed on to the realm of legends. Yes, we’re all going to miss the old man. Not many of the old pulp greats left around. Well, sic transit .” He made a toast.

Mandarin did not join him. He had met Hamilton at various cocktail parties and writers’ symposiums around the University. He was quite popular in some circles — taught creative writing, edited several “little magazines” and writers’ projects, was prominent at gatherings of regional writers and camp followers. His own writing consisted of several startlingly bad novels published by various local presses — often after Hamilton had cornered their editors at some cocktail affair.

Stryker had loathed him — calling him at one such gathering an ingratiating, self-serving, conceited phoney. Hamilton had been within earshot, but chose not to hear. Their admiration was mutual. Since Hamilton was in the habit of referring to Stryker as an over-the-hill pulp hack, Mandarin was not moved by the man’s show of grief.

“Where’s the funeral, Dr Mandarin — or do you know?”

Mandarin shook his head, measuring the distance to the other man’s Kirk Douglas chin. “No body found yet,” he said.

“Well, I suppose they’ll have some sort of memorial service before long, whatever. Give the writers’ community opportunity to pay our last respects to the old man. Professor Kettering has asked me to act as spokesman for the University. A little tribute for the school paper, and I suppose I’ll say a few words at the memorial service. Old Stryker is going to be missed by those of us who carry on.”

“I’m sure.”

“Thought I might get you to fill me in on a few details of his career, if you don’t mind. After all, you saw a lot of the old man here in his last years.” Hamilton glanced pointedly at the litter of beer bottles. “But I can catch you another time.”

Mandarin grunted noncommittally.

“One thing I did want to ask though. Has old Stryker finished that last book he was working on?”

“No, he was still working on it last time I saw him.”

“Oh, you don’t think he did. Christ, isn’t it tragic to think of all the unfinished work his pen will never take up again. And just when Stryker was as popular with readers as he ever was in the golden age of the pulps.”

“Damn shame.”

Hamilton nodded gravely. “Yes, it is a shame. You know, I was over at the Frostfire Press this morning, talking with Morris Sheldon about it. Christ, they’ re all so down about it over there. But we got to talking, and Morris suddenly came out and said: ‘Brooke, how’d you like to edit a memorial volume for old Stryker? ’ You know, sort of an anthology of his best stuff, and I’d write the introduction — a short biography and criticism of his work. Well, I told him I’d be honored to do it for old Stryker, maybe even edit a few of his last, unfinished works for publication.

“Well, this started Morris thinking still further, and all of a sudden he came out and said: ‘Brooke, there’s no reason Stryker’s public has to be deprived of these last few masterworks. He always made extensive notes, and you were always close to him as a writer and friend…”

“You son of a bitch.”

“How’s that?”

“You ass-kissing, cock-sucking son of a bitch.” Mandarin’s voice was thick with rage.

Hamilton drew himself up. “Now hold it there, Mandarin.” In his egotism it had not occurred to him that Mandarin might resent his assumption of role as Stryker’s literary heir. But he was confident of his ability to destroy the other man in any verbal duel — his wit, termed variously “acid” or “rapier,” had dazzled his fans at many a social function.

Heads were turning, as both men came to their feet in an angry crouch.

“You ass-licking fake! You couldn’t write your name and phone number on a shithouse wall! And after all the snotty condescension you had for Stryker, you’re stealing his name and his work before his grave’s even been spaded!”

“I don’t have to take that — even from a drunk! ” Hamilton snarled. “Although I understand I’m not likely to ever find you sober.”

The distance to his movie-star chin had already been noted. Mandarin reached across the table, put a fist there.

Hamilton sat down, hard. The rickety chair cracked under him. Arms flailing, he hit the floor in a tangle of splintered wood. The beer stein smashed against the dirty concrete.

Anger burned the dazed look from his eyes. Accustomed to urbane exchanges of insults at cocktail parties and catfights, Hamilton had not expected the manners of a barroom brawl. “You goddamn drunk!” he spat, struggling to rise.

Mandarin, who before medical school had spent a lot of Saturday nights in Montana saloons, was not a gentleman. He waited until Hamilton had risen halfway from the wreckage of his chair, then put another straight right to his chin. Hamilton went down again.