John Gardner - October Light

But the black metal box was still there — though some of the gin was gone, several bottles. She lifted the box and it was heavy, the money still inside, or certainly most of it.

More powerfully than ever, she had the feeling of things reaching out at her, misshapen, pale as a flicker of witchcraft. She held the box in her two hands. He was gone, perhaps dead, perhaps sunk to some mad depravity of drugs. Gone, in any case, abandoning the house, the sunlit world of rooftops, chimneys, the double spires in the distance. And she too was abandoned, then, who cleaned for him, who said nothing of his eccentricities, the scent of his flesh and gin, his wine and oysters.

She thought of the telephone number in her purse. Leonard could advise her, Leonard with his kind and vulnerable eyes, his ridiculous street-talk, his darkie shuffle. He would know what to do. His very normalness would save her. But it flashed through her mind that in the big cheap building where they had lived — ten, twelve people in one apartment — Beverly Hollander had gone to the basement with Leonard More, sometimes to the roof, so people said … Her mind went blank. There were books above the gin cupboard, dark green leather bindings, The Complete Works of Chas. Dickens. A title caught her eye, The Pickwick Papers, a book she’d read, and for an instant she saw an English landscape clearly, as if she’d really been there, and a huge old lumbering carriage, old gentlemen laughing.

She turned, looked out the window. The lines of the houses were as clean and precise as the hands of clocks, and the streets moved over the hills like well-planned arguments. She moved closer to the window, narrowing her eyes, her face prickling. It was Saturday, but there was no sign of life in the house where the herd of hippies lived. Asleep, probably — tangled together on their filthy mattresses. She hated them, drunkards and carriers of disease, yet at the thought of them lying there together like lost children, bare arms draped off the mattress-sides, no decent food, in the drawer where the silverware should be, guns and gun-parts, she felt a pang, not sorrow for them specially but for all lost lives, all wrecked souls past feeling pain.

The metal box in her hands was warm, as if the money inside it were on fire. The street directly below her was black with new asphalt, black and warm, beautiful in the sun, like a huge sleeping serpent that meant no harm. She strained to think. She stared at the street as if waiting for the blackness to explain itself, alive in the sunlight, warm and regular, maybe deep-rooted as a desert tree, reaching down like a fist into the earth. But no—

She would steal the money. That was what was lurking in her mind, she knew: the thought watching her, biding its time like a lion in high grass. There was enough to last her a lifetime, and in a way she had a right to it. Whether he was dead right now or not, he was a dead man. On some mad whim he’d stepped off the path of the possible, and he’d left no other heir. It would save her, unprotected as she was, alone, without any vow to keep and no one to keep to any vow.

The sharp-lined roofs in the sunlight were like dusty jewels. Houses in the distance were as wealthy white as houses on a travel poster. A face, gray like a fish, appeared at a window in the hippie house, then vanished again as if swallowed. She remembered, for no reason — unless it was the white wisp of smoke in the distance — the scent of garbage burning. Christ was crucified in a city dump, someone had told her. In church? She saw the three crosses rising shadowy blue, out of blue-gray smoke. The small crowd coughed, moved back. Red nameless fire seeped out of mounds near the tilting, shaggy crosses. Christ’s death was an accident, someone had told her. They mistook him for a politician.

Her eyes narrowed as if offended, and she touched her lower lip lightly with her upper teeth. She replaced the box, closed the cupboard, and carefully drew on her gloves.

Mr. Fiorenzi sat in his gray suit, wringing his soft hands and shaking his head. “This is terrible,” he said. “And how terrible for you! How terrible you must feel.”

Just perceptibly, for politeness, Pearl nodded.

“And here just a day or two ago,” Mr. Fiorenzi continued, his amazement growing, “there he sat, right where you’re sitting, more or less.” He looked at the little piece of cardboard she’d given him. “Can I keep this?” he said.

“You can copy it, if you want,” she said. “I need it.”

“Yes of course. Good idea!” He hunted through the papers on his desk for a pencil or pen, then opened his drawer. “Damn,” he said. He hunted on the top of the desk again and at last found a small green felt-tip. He found his notepad, ran his tongue around his lips, and began to copy the note. She looked over at the flag, the suitcase at the foot of it. She would try Mrs. Waggoner again, if she ever managed to get away from Mr. Fiorenzi. He was a kind enough man, there was no denying that; it was a pity he couldn’t be, also, a little competent.

“There!” he said, “that’s got it.” He pushed back his chair and stood up, came around the desk, and handed her the note she’d found at Dr. Alkahest’s.

“Thank you,” she said, and dropped the note into her coinpurse. She stood up.

There was a gap of several pages. The novel resumed:

… Waggoner was out but would be back in ten minutes; they’d have her return the call. Pearl waited for an hour, then gave up.

“Lady,” the Commissioner said, “you’re wasting my time. I talked with your employer myself just three, four days ago. I grant you he’s interested in the drug problem, that much is true. Lot of people are, these days. Popular issue.” He blew out smoke and sucked for air. “But as to his being snuffed, or tied up with—” he laughed, then coughed, still laughing, then smoked again, and coughed. His face was so fat it made his eyes want to shut.

But Pearl had waited forever to see him, had refused to go away, and though he waved toward the door, coughing too hard to be able to dismiss her, she sat tight, stiffly erect in her chair, knees clamped together, brown purse in her lap. As if for help, she stared at the collection on the gray-green wall behind him. She opened the purse then and drew out the clip of paper she’d found. He merely looked at it, not reaching for it, forcing her to rise partly out of her chair to hand it to him. Racist, she thought, and felt better.

“Look here,” he said, “got no time for this.” He glanced at the paper, dismissed it.

“Read it,” she said.

He scowled, a man to whom respect was due. But he read it, then jerked it closer and read it again. He reached for the telephone and dialed a number, at the same time calling to the man in the reception room. “Sergeant Mawkin!”

“Yes sir?” the man said, behind her.

“Hold this woman, and get me State Narcotics.”

“What charge, sir?” Mawkin said.

“Suspicion,” he said. He looked cross-eyed into the telephone receiver. “Hello? Hello?”

“Suspicion of what?”

“Murder!” the Commissioner squealed, “Murder One! — And just between you and me, it’s drug related.”

The Commissioner, though not a soft-hearted man, was competent.

She was half out of her chair, reaching toward his desk. “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

“Lady, you come in here with this cockamamie story about a citizen’s duty and — hee hee! — ” His eyes crossed again, snapping back to the telephone receiver. “Hello, Governor?” He sucked in air, blew it out again, leaned back.

~ ~ ~

13

HOSANNAH! GLORY TO THE HIGHEST!

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” Dr. Alkahest said. “Whatever you were doing before I arrived, go right ahead with it!” He was so excited he could hardly sit still. The whole volcano basin was filled with potsmoke like a bowl of heaven’s grace. He looked around him, twitching, dead knees jerking. Part of the group stood over by the cave-mouth, holding their clothes up in front of them. “Go ahead!” he said, waving, giggling. “Go right ahead! Feel Free!” Handsome young men, a beautiful young maiden …