John Gardner - Stillness & Shadows

“Craine?” Royce bellowed again.

“Coming. Just getting my pants on,” Craine called back. His expression was cunning now, like an animal’s, and like an animal — a wolf — he stepped without a sound to the dresser and opened the top drawer. He drew out his second pistol, felt under the socks and underwear for the bullet box, and loaded the gun. He pushed it down into his belt, where if he made a mistake he’d blow his cock off, then quickly stepped back to the bed for his suit coat, pulled it on, and buttoned it. Hurriedly, noisily, he went to the door, turned the night latch, and opened it. Royce stood a little crooked in the hallway, soaked by rain, his right hand clamped around a beer can, a cigarette in his left.

“I thought you was dead for a while there,” Royce said. He let out the beginning of a grin, then changed his mind, slightly squinting, and raised the cigarette for a pull.

“Damn near,” Craine said. He stepped back from the door, holding it open, and Royce came in.

“Jesus,” Royce said. “Stinks in here.”

Craine nodded. “Pipe smoke, whiskey, old age.”

“Smells more like socks and piss.”

“Them too.”

Royce stood square in the middle of the room now, where he could see into the bathroom and everywhere else. He stood with his cap on, his fists on his hips, one of them holding the cigarette like a pencil, his black boots solid on the floor as a farmer’s. “First thing I’d do,” he said, “I’d burn all these books.”

“Might set fire to the window shades,” Craine said.

Royce tipped up the beer and drained it, his back still to Craine, crumpled the can in his fist — no big deal, though it was meant to be ominous; the can was aluminum — then at last turned around to look at him. He had his shoulder holster on. He looked at Craine for a long time, the way a black would do, over in his own territory, backed up by friends. Craine made no scene about meeting the man’s eyes, merely looked out the window at the telephone lines, the gray rain, the day hardly brighter than the gray of the room, then casually went over to the lightswitch and flicked on the bulb.

“You got anything in this hellhole to drink?” Royce said.

Craine smiled. “Emmit, you drink too much.”

Royce laughed, a snort, and for an instant his eyes flashed anger. “I got a hundred dollars here says you got Scotch.”

“As it happens, I do have a little Scotch whiskey,” Craine allowed, still smiling and went over to the dresser, opened the middle drawer, and drew a new bottle out. He held it up against the light, pretending to admire the color, stalling to break down Royce’s resolve.

Royce went over to the john to throw his cigarette in the toilet. “You got glasses here somewheres?”

“On the sink,” Craine called.

Royce got the glass and started back out into the room, then changed his mind and, without closing the door, stayed to piss. Over the noise he called, “The Building Blocks of the Universe . You read this shit?”

“Just the pictures,” Craine called.

“What?” Royce called back.

“Never mind,” Craine said. The sound of Royce’s pissing went on and on, then the toilet flushed and Royce came back into the room, lighting another cigarette as he came. That was new, it struck Craine now. Royce hadn’t smoked since they’d told him about his emphysema. He came straight toward Craine — it looked as if he’d gotten his anger back — but the thud of the boots was unsure, as if the man were even now of two minds. He held his glass out. Craine put away the first aid box, then uncapped the bottle and filled it. Royce sipped, sloshed the whiskey around in his mouth, and wet his lips, frowning. “Listen, Craine,” he said.

Craine inclined his head as if interested, moving past him toward the bed to get the dirty glass standing on the floor there. As he picked it up and filled it, Royce sipped again, pushed his cap back. “You want the chair?” Craine said, and waved his glass in the direction of the only chair he had, the lumpy old platform rocker by the window.

“I’m all right,” Royce said.

Craine shrugged, stooped again for the ashtray near where the glass had been, straightened up again — or straightened as much as he ever did — and walked with the whiskey and ashtray to the chair Royce had refused. When he sat down, Royce settled on the windowsill a few feet away from him, gray rain behind him, the sky off-color, the breeze coming in through the window unnaturally warm. “Could turn into tornado weather yet,” Craine said.

Royce glanced past his shoulder, annoyed, then looked back at his glass. He seemed to struggle over something — whether to take another sip of whiskey or a puff at his cigarette — then abruptly raised the cigarette to his lips and sucked in hard. His collar was open, flattened by the holster belt, and it came to Craine that what Royce wore on his hairy chest was not a religious medallion but some kind of war trophy, a piece of shrapnel, or what was left of a bullet. He smiled, then noticed Royce’s eyes on him.

“What you grinning about?” Royce said. Craine tipped his head back and pretended to close his eyes, still smiling. “You’re a damn good man, Royce. God only knows what I’d do without you.

“Bullshit,” Royce said, a small explosion, not loud but fierce.

“You are a good man.” He opened his eyes again, innocent, and leaned forward.

“That’s not what I mean.” He launched his hand out at Craine, the cigarette dangling between two fingers. “I was thinking of coming here and blowing your head off. Whattiya think of that?”

Craine made his face incredulous.

“You’re a foxy bastard.” He shook the outstretched hand in warning. “Shit only knows what goes on in that fucked-up head of yours. But I’ve had it. I’m telling you.”

Royce was squinting, talking like a killer on TV. Craine made his face not just incredulous but scared, and suddenly Royce lost his nerve, or got confused, drew his hand back and took a gulp from his drink. Behind him, the rain fell harder, the sky had gone darker. “That stunt you pulled yesterday. Shit.” He shook his head.

“Yesterday?” Craine said. He patted his pockets to find his pipe and, exaggerating clumsiness, drew it out.

“Jesus Christ , Craine!” Royce said. It was almost a wail.

“Oh, that!” Craine said. He sat forward as if alarmed and with the back of the hand that held the pipe momentarily covered his eyes. At last he lowered his hand, eyes closed, and took in a deep, slow breath.

“You know something?” Royce said. When Craine looked at him, guilty, Royce was holding his empty glass out, eyes remote. “I don’t believe one fucking word of this. Everything you’re doing, I’d bet you a hundred dollars it’s a fucking act.”

Craine shook his head and, with a start, as if he’d just noticed, reached down for the bottle by his shoes and held it out to fill Royce’s glass. “Hard bet to prove either way,” he said sadly.

“Lie detector?” Royce said.

Craine shook his head and drew the bottle back. “I’m not a betting man. Matter of principle. But I acted pretty crazy, I won’t deny it. Whole thing had me spooked.”

Royce drank. “Bullshit,” he said when he’d swallowed.

“You think I wasn’t spooked?” Now he put on a keen look.

“Whatever you were, count me out from now on. I quit.”

“You quit?” He got out his tobacco and poked his pipe in to stuff it, hands trembling. He pretended he was thinking, trying to understand it. He was, of course, thinking. He should thank his lucky stars Emmit Royce was quitting, yet here he was fighting it — fighting it, it seemed to him, for Royce’s sake. Nobody’d take a man like Royce up in Chicago, and he’d never get an agency moving on his own. Garbage man? Job with the fire department? Yet it wasn’t entirely for Royce’s sake, of course. It wasn’t Royce’s fault, what happened yesterday. He felt something near him, crouching, and glanced past his shoulder. Craine lit his pipe and took quick little puffs, then lowered it and raised his hand unsteadily to drink. In a minute he’d be flat on his ass again, yet it seemed to him his mind was quick and clear.