Роберт Паркер - Double Play

“You could quit.”

“No,” Robinson said. “I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“You think I should?” Robinson said.

Burke thought about it for a moment.

“Disappoint a lot of people,” he said.

“You think I don’t know that?” Robinson said.

“It wore me down,” Burke said. “Scared every day.”

Jackie nodded.

“This is more public,” he said. “More, ah, concentrated. But being a Negro man in America in the twentieth century...”

He shrugged.

“So this is like your life already,” Burke said. “More of the same.”

“Cranked up a little,” Robinson said.

“You get used to it?”

“No.”

The train had left Clearfield behind, and picked up speed again. The card game that had begun at Penn Station was still being played. The same people were playing. Sukeforth, Reese, Gene Hermanski, and Eddie Miksis. Some of the players slept. Shotton, the manager, read a book.

“How about you?” Robinson said. “You get used to it?”

“Being scared?”

“Un huh.”

“I was scared all the time, every day, it got to seem like the only way there was to be.”

“Yeah,” Robinson said. “That’s the feeling. You still got it?”

“War’s over,” Burke said.

“That’s not what I asked. I asked you if you still felt scared,” Jackie said.

The train passed a small cluster of brown cows standing near a gate. Waiting for feed.

“I don’t feel scared,” Burke said. “Or much anything else.”

“Bother you to shoot that man?” Robinson said.

“No,” Burke said.

Robinson was silent for a time, then he said, “Tell me about the girl.”

“What’s the girl got to do with anything?” Burke said.

Jackie shrugged. They watched the fields of western Pennsylvania lumber past them. Burke had adjusted to the movement of the train the way he had adjusted to the troop ship. It had come to seem the norm.

“I was her bodyguard,” Burke said. “Keep her away from a guy named Louis Boucicault. He didn’t like it.”

“You and the girl?”

“Yeah. For a while.”

“And?”

“Things got out of hand. I had to shoot a couple of people. I got fired.”

“And the girl?”

“When I left she wanted to come with me.”

“Why didn’t she?”

“Her father said no.”

“I seen you work,” Robinson said. “I wouldn’t think that would stop you.”

“Girl’s trouble,” Burke said.

“So am I,” Robinson said.

Burke looked at Robinson, but didn’t say anything. They were both quiet for a long time, before Robinson spoke again.

“Being scared alone,” he said, “is worse.”

Burke didn’t answer. Robinson had nothing else to say. They sat quietly together as the train crossed into Ohio north of Youngstown.

Burke sat with Cash at the bar in Freddy’s. It was evening. The piano player was doing a delicate version of “Shine,” his hands barely touching the keys. The room was full of men in summer straw hats and gray suits having a drink, maybe ten, after work.

“What’s on your mind,” Burke said.

Cash stared straight ahead at the mirror behind the bar.

“Paglia wants me to shoot you but not kill you,” Cash said.

Burke looked at him silently and waited.

“That make any sense to you?” Cash said.

“No.”

“I told Paglia that,” Cash said. “It don’t make any sense.”

“What’d he say?”

“Said it had to do with Robinson not getting killed.”

“Paglia?” Burke said.

Cash nodded and turned his gaze away from the bar mirror and looked straight at Burke for the first time.

“I was wrong,” Cash said. “Paglia was involved in that deal to kill Robinson.”

“With Boucicault?” Burke said.

“Here’s how it was supposed to go,” Cash said. “Boucicault, the kid, wants you dead. But his old man, you know, Frank?”

Burke nodded.

“Frank says no. Says he’s made a deal with another guy that leaves you out of it.”

“That would be Julius Roach,” Burke said.

Cash nodded.

“I know who he is,” Cash said. “And Paglia has had a hard-on ever since he got faced down up on Lenox Avenue by Robinson and a roomful of niggers.”

Burke nodded.

“But he’s got a lot of interests uptown,” Cash said. “And if he kills Robinson, then Wendell Jackson closes him down.”

Burke nodded again.

“So, Paglia and Frank Boucicault move in the same circles and one way or another, young Boucicault and Paglia get together,” Burke said.

“You’re starting to see it,” Cash said.

“And they make a deal. Boucicault kills Jackie, and Paglia kills me. Boucicault doesn’t get trouble from his father and Paglia doesn’t get trouble from Wendell.”

“Yep. And, here’s the part I like. Boucicault is pressing Paglia to kill you. He says he made a good faith run at Jackie and Paglia owes him one.”

“So Paglia wants to fulfill the bargain enough to keep Boucicault in the deal,” Burke said.

“But if I kill you,” Cash said, “then he’s got no bargaining chip to make Boucicault try Robinson again.”

“So you give him a little,” Burke said. ” You shoot me, but you don’t kill me. You that good?”

“Oh, hell, yes,” Cash said.

“You gonna do it?”

“No.”

Burke nodded.

“Paglia broke the rules.”

“Yeah,” Cash said. “He did.”

They finished their drinks, and ordered two more. The pianist was playing “Avalon” with a lot of gentle right hand.

“This has to end,” Burke said.

Cash shrugged.

“You want to help me end it?” Burke said.

“What are we ending?” Cash said.

“Paglia and Robinson, me and Boucicault. Lauren. The whole thing.”

“Lauren?”

“Julius’s daughter.”

“Lauren,” Cash said.

“Yeah.”

“What’s in it for me?” Cash said.

“Nothing.”

Cash nodded.

“Sounds like a hell of a deal,” he said.

“You in?” Burke said.

Cash drank half of his whisky and sipped water behind it.

“Tell me about Lauren,” he said.

Burke waited outside the apartment building, until he saw Julius leave. Then he went in. A Negro maid answered the apartment door.

“Tell Mrs. Roach that Mr. Burke is here about Lauren.”

“Mrs. Roach is rarely home to anyone,” the maid said.

“She’ll see me,” Burke said and handed a $100 bill to the maid.

“Of course, sir. If you’ll wait here in the living room.”

Burke sat. The vast apartment was oppressively quiet. The maid came back.

“Be our secret?” she said.

“Promise,” Burke said.

“This way.”

Burke followed her into a high-ceilinged room that looked out over the park. The furnishings were white, the voluptuous drapes that bunched on the floor were white. The carpet was white. There was a white marble fireplace in which, Burke suspected, no fire had ever been set. On a chaise near the window, where she could see the park, was a silver-haired woman in a white dressing gown, with a white comforter over her legs. Burke thought she looked beautiful. She was drinking sherry from a small fluted glass. The maid lingered near the door.

“Hello,” she said. “You’re Mr. Burke.”

Her voice was tentative.

“Yes,” Burke said.

“You know my daughter,” the woman said.

“I do,” Burke said.

He was close to her now and realized that she wasn’t beautiful, though once she might have been.

“Would you like some sherry?” she said.

“No thanks,” he said.

“I hope you’ll not mind if I sip mine,” she said.