Stanley Elkin - Searches & Seizures

“That’s about it, sir.” He has begun to put on his tie.

“So I thought. No, don’t bother about the tie.”

“I’ll just get my jacket, sir.” He puts on his jacket and looks at the Phoenician. “I’m ready.”

“Ready?”

“To go downtown with you.”

“No, no, it’s after business hours; I already told you that. Shop’s closed. You’ll have to remember these things, Mr. Crainpool.”

“We’re not going downtown?”

“We’re not.”

“I see.” Crainpool leaves the hall where he has been waiting for the Phoenician and returns to the center of the room. “Would you like to sit down, sir?”

“Thank you, Crainpool. Too bad there’s only the one chair.”

Crainpool sits primly on his bed. “To what do I owe this honor?” he says at last.

“To bad dreams. To my poor scores in the hard subjects. To your vulnerable history.”

Crainpool blushes and it is the first time in years. Their cat-and-mouse had settled years before into a rhetoric, glancing off Crainpool like punch lines rained down on fools in comedy turns, touching him as little. Over the years he has become a stunt man, his bruises routinized, his flexible rubber bones deepsea’d fathoms beneath his skin and his nerves and pride Atlantisized, lost continented. The blush is not embarrassment but fear, and Main recognizes it because he has seen it once before.

“Aren’t you satisfied with my work, Mr. Main?”

“Perfectly.”

Now his face goes redder still, and Main sees ideas squeezing in his brain like turds. “Oyp and Glyp,” he says breathlessly, “you found Oyp and Glyp.”

“Oyp and Glyp are dead.”

“Dead?”

“Or captured. Split up, perhaps. Gone straight, could be. Married with kids. Working in factories or fueling jets on the runway. With the Highway Department, waving red flags to stop the traffic while the road’s being fixed. Or selling door-to-door, or moving The Watchtower. Hired hands, maybe, or taken up cooking. In Dobb’s House management, Dairy Queen. Studying the motel trade.”

“You have information?”

“Who has information? Nah, they’re dead.”

“Have you given up on them, sir?”

“The bailbondsman’s statute of limitations, Mr. Crainpool, the Phoenician’s sanctuary, Main’s pardon — they have it all.”

“Gee.”

“That surprise you?”

“I thought you’d found them, or even just one of them.”

“Never find ’em. They’re vanished. Cut my losses like a tailor. God told me that in a vision.”

“Yes, sir. Good advice.”

“What, that? That’s how He answers all prayer.”

“Oh,” Crainpool says. “That lawyer called, Avila. He told me to tell you that Mr. Withers is back and that he’ll appear as scheduled.”

“Anything else?”

“Just before I closed up, the desk sergeant from the Fourth District called in with some leads about the arraignments. I tried to reach you at home.”

“Something interesting?”

“Well, they’ve picked up a suspect for that bank robbery. They think they have enough evidence to hold him. I left a message with your answering service and asked the girl to call before you left in the morning.”

“All right.”

“Would you like some coffee, sir? There’s only the hot plate, and it’s just instant, but I could make some if you’d like.”

“You’re losing the thread.”

“Sir?”

“You’re losing the thread. Of the conversation. I make this extraordinary late-night visit and an absolutely unique allusion to your past to which you duly react, and now you’re losing the thread of the conversation. You’re not out of the woods yet, you know, Mr. Crainpool.”

“I know that, sir,” he says shyly.

“That’s better. Tell me, Crainpool, did you blush like that when you beat up your wife and put her in hospital?”

“I didn’t have the opportunity to study myself, sir.”

“No, of course you didn’t. Did you have the opportunity when you heard three weeks later, and you were already out on my bond, that there was a fire in her ward and that she’d burned to death?”

“Mr. Main,” Crainpool says, “that was sixteen years ago. You spoke of the statute of limitations.”

“Certainly. And you’ll be able to take whatever advantage of it you can once I turn you over to the police. Be sure to mention it to them. Tell your lawyer.”

“You’re turning me in? Jesus, Phoenician, that was sixteen years ago that happened. I’ve been your goddamn slave eleven years. You’re turning me in?”

“Which among us craps jellybeans, Mr. Crainpool?”

“Sixteen years and you’re turning me in?”

“No, lad, I’m killing you. I’m going to kill you.”

“The statute of—”

“That’s between you and the State of Ohio. We have a contract.” He pats his breast pocket. “Nothing about any old statute of limitations in this. You jumped my bail. Do I have to read it to you? Good God, man, you’ve worked for me eleven years. You’ve seen thousands of these contracts, you have the relevant clauses by heart, all that stuff about consenting to the application of such force as may be necessary to effect your return.”

Crainpool jumps up from the bed. “Let’s go,” he says crisply and smiles. “ I consent! ” He begins to laugh. “I consent, I consent. Draw your gun and stick it in my ear, I consent!”

The Phoenician studies him. “You’re putting up an even bigger struggle than I anticipated. Best sit back down, son. Sit down, honey.”

“But I consent, ” Crainpool whines.

“My life should retain credibility,” the Phoenician says.

“Listen, Mr. Main,” the man pleads, “let me off.”

“Hush, Crainpool.” He looks at his man. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“What I’m thinking? I’m scared stiff.”

“Please,” Main says reassuringly, “be calm, take time. Nothing will happen yet. What are you thinking?”

The frightened man begins to speak, but hesitates. “Yes?” Main coaches.

“That our arrangement wasn’t such a bad one,” Crainpool says finally.

The Phoenician sighs, disappointed. “You’re trivial, you’re a trivial man,” he says. “Me too. Well-a-day, Crainpool, me too. All I can think to do right now is satisfy you. I put myself in your shoes and I think, ‘He’s mad, he won’t do it, he’ll never get away with it.’ I’d want scenario, demand explanation like a last cigarette, civilized denouement like a detective’s professional courtesy in the drawing room and even the murderer’s glass filled. Do you feel any of that?”

“I do. Yes. A little. I do.”

Main looks at Crainpool suspiciously. “I hope you do. There are conventions, ceremonies. The mechanics are explained but never the mysteries. Foh. Look at me. I’m a parade. At bottom I’ve a flatfoot’s heart: This is how I broke the case. You need to know anything like that?”

“Sure,” Crainpool says.

“You’re not just stalling for time, are you?”

“Not entirely.”

“Because to tell the truth I haven’t made my mind up yet. Not absolutely. I’m more likely to kill you than not, but nothing’s been finalized.”

“How’d you break the case, sir?”

“ Don’t patronize me, you son of a bitch! ”

“Take it easy.”

The Phoenician stands. “You won’t rush me, will you?”

“No.”

“You won’t fling the pillows at me?”

“I’m wanted, I’m a wanted man. You didn’t break in. The clerk called and I agreed to see you.”

“That’s right. Look, kid, stall. Stall for time, don’t make sudden moves.”

“All right,” Crainpool says kindly, “how do you think you can get away with a thing like this?”