John MacDonald - Slam the Big Door

“Hold it!” Mike said sharply. She turned and waited for him. He took his time catching up with her. “Want to clue me in on it?”

She seemed to relax a little. “They called up because he...”

“I know most of it. I talked to somebody in the sheriff’s office. I just want to get a few details. He was still here when I left this morning. When did he get so...”

They were keeping their voices down. “I don’t think he slept last night. He had a bottle in the bedroom. I didn’t see him leave here, about eleven. Durelda did. She said he left woobly. Isn’t that a dandy word? Woobly.”

“How about the car?”

“It’s been towed into Carson’s in Ravenna. I didn’t see it.”

“How about a lawyer?”

“I phoned Rob. He wasn’t exactly eager, but he said he’d take care of it. I explained what happened, told him the names of the arresting deputies. The county police patrol the Keys. He said it didn’t sound like he could fight it. About all he could do would be to ask Troy to plead guilty and then he’d see if he could get permission for him to drive his car during daylight hours for business purposes only, and whether that would be granted right now or three months from now would depend on the judge. He won’t have a regular license for a year.”

They both turned and looked toward Debbie Ann’s car.

“Things seem to go to hell in all kinds of ways around here,” Debbie Ann said.

“But you don’t give much of a damn in any case.”

“Thanks. I must try to keep remembering that.”

“Does he need a doctor?”

“He needs a bath,” she said, and, turning, opened the entry door to the guest wing and went inside.

Mike walked out to the car and opened the door on Troy’s side. He sat slack in the bucket seat of the Porsche, staring ahead, slack fists resting on his thighs, mouth agape, coppery stubble on his jowls, his white shirt ripped and soiled, a purple bruise on his left cheekbone.

“Come on, boy. Get out.”

Troy didn’t stir until Mike shook him and repeated the order. He made slow work of getting out of the small car. Once out he fell back against the car. Mike caught him by the arm and then, supporting a good portion of his weight, led him slowly, blinking, dazed, barefoot, soiled, to the house. He took him through to the master bedroom, eased him into a small straight chair and got him out of his clothes. They were beyond repair. He performed the distasteful task of going through the pockets before he bundled them up to take out to the trash baskets by the garage later.

He left Troy there for a moment while he went into the big tiled bathroom and got the shower going at the right temperature. When he went back to the bedroom Troy was sitting, his head almost between his knees. Mike got his wrists and pulled him up and wrestled him gently into the bathroom. He could detect vague attempts at cooperation. He got Troy into the shower but when he handed him the soap, it slipped out of his hand. Mike sighed, stripped down to his shorts, found a bath brush, and scrubbed Troy as if he were a sleepy, spiritless horse. He pulled him out of the shower, perched him on a bath stool, toweled him dry, found clean pajamas and got him into them.

He leaned close to him and said, “Sleeping pills! Have you got sleeping pills? Where’s the sleeping pills!” He slapped Troy lightly. “Sleeping pills!”

The eyes tracked a little and he made an aimless gesture toward the medicine cabinet. “Blue,” he mumbled. “Blue’n white. Lil bo’ll.”

Mike found the little bottle. Blue and white capsules. The dosage was one. And no more than two. In Troy’s condition, one should do it, one should take him beyond that state where, after three hours of semi-sleep, alcohol induced, he would wake up with nerves like icy screaming wires.

He fed him one, poking it into his mouth, sluicing it down with water. When he pulled him off the stool he nearly lost him, nearly went down with him at the unexpected lurch. He turned one of the beds down, got Troy into it. He put his own clothes back on, took his first good look at the room. It was in shades of blue with a deep blue rug, and had wide doors that swung open onto its own tiny private patio where there was a table and two chairs. Atop Mary’s dressing table was a big colored photograph in a plain silver frame. He picked it up and turned it toward the light of the dying day. It had been taken on a boat, the two of them sitting side by side on the transom, Troy and Mary, brown, grinning, holding hands. The ensign was snapping on its staff — a fat white wake boiled through blue water — there was wind in Mary’s dark hair — in the background, far away, was a tall sailboat, and close at hand a gull was caught in one teetering instant. Good composition. A vivid little piece of happiness, frozen in place by Kodak.

And again, with no warning, the towering wave smashed at him, slamming him down into savage undertows. Not enough pictures of her. All the chances gone. Camera dusty on a shelf on the days she laughed. And he was far away from love, tending a drunk.

“Mike,” Troy said in a blurred way.

He put the picture back and went to the bed. He was certain Troy, up until then, had had no idea who was helping him. So this was a return of lucidity on the edge of sleep.

“What is it, boy?” He sat on his heels by the side of the bed, his face a foot from Troy’s blurred face.

“Mary took off. Gone two days.” The words were slow, the efforts of pronunciation clear.

“I know.”

“That isn’t why... this.”

“What reason then, Troy? Why this?”

Troy closed his eyes for so long Mike thought he had gone off, but then he opened them again. “It’s... a thing in my head. It’s there, Mike. It’s been there... long, long time.”

“What kind of a thing?”

“Right... in the middle, Mike. Round. Black thing. All... knotty like... black rubber ball of dead snakes. So there isn’t room... room in there for me. Didn’t want to tell anybody.”

“A long, long time?”

“Went... away by itself. Came back.” Suddenly he lifted his head from the pillow and reached out and caught Mike by the shoulder with fingers that dug so strongly Mike wheezed with pain. In a voice suddenly clear and strong he said, “I had it licked today, Mike. I made it go away. I felt so damn good. I knew all the things I had to do. I sang, Mike. I was drunk outside, but ’way down inside I was sober like I’ve never been, seeing everything about me like I was on a hill looking down. And I knew , Mike. Everything was going to be right for me. I’d licked everything by myself.” His hand fell from Mike’s shoulder. His head dropped back to the pillow, voice blurred again. “Then they were pulling me out of the car. Didn’t know where the hell I was. It’s... back again. It... takes up too damn much room.”

“Here is what we are going to do, Troy,” Mike said. He spoke slowly, distinctly, precisely. “We’re going to find a doctor for you. He will make that thing go away and stay away.”

Troy closed his eyes. “Sure,” he murmured.

“You can’t handle a thing like that yourself. You should have told Mary, me, somebody.”

Troy sighed.

“When you know something’s wrong, you can get it fixed.”

Troy had begun to breathe heavily, slowly. Mike looked at him for a few moments. He got to his feet. The cramped muscles of his legs creaked, and his knees popped.

He picked up the bundle of ruined clothing, closed the bedroom door quietly behind him, and, after he had disposed of the clothing, took the number Debbie Ann had given him out of his wallet and phoned the Lazy Harbor Motel on Longboat Key. There were evidently phones in the rooms.

Mary answered. “Oh, Mike, I was hoping you’d call yesterday, and if you hadn’t phoned I was going to wait until seven and then phone you.”