A Moment to Prey (5 page)

    "Why should it fret you to tell me where he is?"

    He leaned forward, rocker creaking. "Don't take that tone with me, mister. We don't take kindly to folks like you coming in here prying. We don't bother folks, we don't want folks prowling around our yards, knocking on our door, afrightening our younguns, looking at our women whilst we're out away from the house."

    "My God."

    "Suppose you just walk out to that road, mister, and keep walking. I feel shorely if'n Marve Pooser takes a mind to want to see you, he'll do it. But we're telling you now- keep away from our houses an' our womenfolk."

    I felt helpless. They stared at me expressionlessly. Their faces were hewn from the pine planking of that porch. I pulled my gaze from the old man and looked at the others.

    Something told me to get out of there, but it was already too late. Something had told me to forget Marve Pooser, but here I was, stopped by these stupid, ignorant crackers.

    By the time I turned around, they were moving away from the car fenders and the shade trees and all the places they had been sitting. When they moved in toward me, I saw that they'd never meant for me to walk out of this yard. They ringed me, silently.

    I don't know which one hit me first. All I could think was, all right you sons of bitches, you stupid, ignorant, ingrown sons of bitches, maybe I can take out some of my hatred on you bastards. I knotted my fists, put my legs apart, waiting.

    One of the younger men sprang toward me. When I moved forward to meet him, they came in from the back. There was a boot from behind, between my legs. The whole scrub exploded and whirled around my head. I pressed my fists against my belly and they kicked me three more times before I hit the ground.

    They did not speak. Nobody laughed, and the only sounds were the river and the mewling noises forced out of my throat.

    It was slow, methodical, ritualistic. They crowded around me and waited until my head cleared so I could see them through a haze. I saw one face. They all moved in but the only face I saw was narrow, big-nosed, with scraggly black hair over the forehead and saliva drooling from the corners of the mouth.

    Two men lifted me and they hit me in the face until my head sagged on my neck. Somebody's knee came up into my face then and I toppled over backward. They kicked me in the stomach until I curled up, cringing, and then they faded back. The slavering man came close and then he faded, and then it didn't matter what they did, because I could not feel it any more.

    

    

    I was somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. I heard their voices now, and the sounds as they panted, and the noise their boots made when they kicked me in the face, but I didn't feel the pain. Where I was, there wasn't any pain.

    A darkness enveloped everything. For a while empty darkness passed across my mind. I saw suddenly the way it was that day in McAteer's office. It was not dim. The whole picture erupted suddenly against that darkness in my mind.

    I was sitting at the desk, finishing up the payroll, and for a moment I watched myself, seeing how it was. I didn't have my mind on my work, I was thinking about the new girl old McAteer had hired, the way she looked fresh and new like a just-printed checkbook, so new the ink was not yet dry. Her eyes were like the ink that wasn't dry, and her body was young and firm and her small breasts stood erect. And the door opened and these three men came in, and they wore masks as if it were a party of some kind. Even when I saw the guns in their hands, I didn't believe it. I was still thinking about the new girl and kind of hungover from last night, and not even the guns looked real. They knew what they were doing. They had strong twine, and two of them worked expertly tying up everybody. The third man had a satchel slightly larger than a doctor's medical kit. He moved deliberately, not even paying any attention to what his mates were doing. He went from one desk to the other, pushing the stacks of counted money into the satchel.

    I shook my head, I couldn't believe it. They were stealing a hundred thousand dollars and we were letting them do it. Nobody had even said a word. The new girl was crying, and when they put her on the floor, her dress was over her thighs and her hands were tied and she could not pull it down. She was crying, but it was not about old McAteer's money.

    It was going off smoothly, and maybe I never would have believed it, but right in the middle of it, the man scooping up the money said, "Right on schedule, huh, Jake?"

    It was as if he had hit me in the face. I jerked my head up and tried to move. The man behind me whispered, "It's all right, Jake."

    But it was a whisper they heard in every corner of the room.

    That was all they said. The man with the satchel raked up all the loose bills, jerked his head toward the door and they got out of there. Two minutes too late the alarm went off and the whole damned building was alive with cops. They pulled down the new girl's skirts, she stopped crying. And when the cops asked for descriptions, nobody knew anything. They wore light gray suits, gray hats and silly-looking masks.

    And, oh, yes, two of them seemed to know Jake. One of them even said it was right on schedule, huh, Jake.

    

    

    After it was over I stayed in my apartment for about a week. There wasn't anything else to do, and I didn't have the energy to do anything anyway. Then I went home and visited my folks for a couple of months, but my mother looked white-lipped and teary. I had to get out of there.

    It was rugged. The police took shifts questioning me, and the insurance company detectives followed me for six weeks. They didn't find out anything because I didn't know anything.

    Old McAteer called me into his office. "Nobody regrets this more than I do, Richards. We've got to let you go. Even if it were not a stipulation of the insurance company we-"

    "The insurance company? They paying you off?"

    "Thank God we were fully insured. However, Jake, they assume you're a poor risk, though nothing can be proved against you-"

    "How could they? I don't know anything. Good God, by now it ought to be clear to everybody. That guy knew if he called me by name, made it sound like a slip, it was just like buying himself six weeks of time while the police followed me-instead of him."

    "I'm not saying that isn't true, Jake. It's a sad thing. I hate to let you go. And I want to tell you that I'm doing everything I can to protect you, my boy. There's not going to be scandal connected with your leaving McAteer's. I've instructed the personnel manager to put in your folder that you were discharged because you violated an old rule we have about more than ten consecutive days away from your desk."

    "Christ. I was in jail."

    "Nobody need know that. At least this ugly business won't show on your record. Naturally we can't give you references. Ah, another stipulation of the insurance people, you understand. But I have made it clearly understood that we won't issue any adverse reports either."

    "What kind of thing is this? You're taking my job away from me because a smart hoodlum called me by name."

    "No. As you know, Jake, there was a lot in the papers about it. These people have got away with this money. Over a hundred thousand dollars. People may believe what they read in the papers-"

    "What did they read? That I was a patsy, a fall guy-"

    "That you were arrested. That one of the men called you by name. That the men have not been caught. Can't you see the position this puts us in? You're a well known sports figure, Jake, too much in the public eye."

    I shook my head, feeling the helplessness in my chest. What was the use? A well known sports figure in the public eye? Hell, I hadn't been in the public eye for so long those sports experts on the big quiz shows didn't even remember my name.

    

    

    Somebody wanted to know how I came to be working in the pay office of McAteer's in the first place.

    How I came to be in the pay office was easy. I drifted there. I had been drifting ever since they cut me loose from the National League.

    Sure, now you remember the name. Jake Richards, the kid with the million-dollar meat hook. They said I was fast, had great control, could pitch a ball right through the old brass ring all afternoon. I was big, too. Six-one, a hundred and ninety pounds. They paid me a bonus to sign and I won twenty-four and lost two my second year in the majors.

    I didn't kid myself. I got up there with a fast ball and control. I heeled back and threw it past them. Fast ball and control. Twenty-four and two. That spring down in Florida the pitching coaches spent a lot of time with me. I went north with a slider. With a slider, you give it the old wrist, the old arm tendons. And one day I got a toothache right above my elbow, so every time I threw it was like bumping my crazy-bone, only sharper and lasted longer. That year I won two and lost six.

    A lot of men who were on their way out when I arrived up there in the big time were still up there when I was being mentioned as a synonym for has-been. There were no steps down. I couldn't even throw in a sand lot. I was finished, and three years after they paid me a bonus to sign, I was drifting around looking for a job.

    They hired me at McAteer's to work in the plant and direct company athletics. I liked the outside work. It was tough and let me work the anger and frustration out of my guts. But Old Man McAteer noticed me when our teams began to win all the commercial league championships. I had brains, he said. I had been two years to college. I was wasting myself in the plant. He moved me upstairs, and I was no pay clerk, not even when they said it was a step up.

    Because I was doing something I disliked, I started drifting to the beer halls in the evenings. There was always a fight or a baseball game on TV, and after three or four beers, I didn't care so much. Nothing bothered me, and I didn't care about the future and I didn't worry about the past. I was a guy that wanted something but had no idea in God's world what it was.

    

    

    I had a little money left and couldn't face anybody and ask for a job. I spent a lot of time with Fran. She was lovely and her father was even richer than Old Man McAteer. Her father was rather cool, but it was Fran I wanted. It never occurred to me how they felt about having a common thief in the house. They had to hit me with it hard. They had to send Fran to Europe. "Europe?" I said. We were on the beach, and the sun suddenly developed a chill. "How long will you be gone?"

    "A year, Jake."

    "A year? My God. A year? What about us? What's going to happen to us in a year?"

    "They think it will work out best."

    "Who thinks that? Trans-World? The French Line?"

    "My folks, Jake. Mother and Father. They asked me to- they want me to think it over."

    "What's to think? I love you. You love me."

    "You can see how they feel."

    "No. I can't even see how I feel."

    "Maybe it will be better. They want me to think it over. When I come back-"

    "What do they want, my blood?"

    "Jake, they just want me to think it over, that's all. They want me to see Europe."

    "Stay out of Monaco, that's been worked."

    "Please, Jake, don't be bitter."

    "The hell with that. I'm bitter. Fran, I haven't done anything. I'm the same silly bastard they invited into their house."

    "I know that, Jake. They know it. It's just all this publicity."

    "Sure. They've already checked with the doctors to find out if stealing is hereditary, haven't they?"

    "Please, don't be bitter. I won't change. And when I come back-"

    But I knew the empty truth. She wasn't ever corning back, not to me. She had already put me out of her mind and saying good-by to me was just a detail, like buying plane reservations or writing ahead for a hotel room.

    

    

    That didn't leave me much. In a bar somewhere I met a blonde with hair chopped close about her head. She told the dirtiest stories I had ever heard, she cooed and cried out, and I knew she lied. I had been around enough to know I wasn't that good. She showed me pictures of her children and lied about her last name, but I told her the truth about mine because I didn't care. Finally I couldn't stand it when she began to whimper and cry "oh, daddy." I knew that being the latest in the long line of daddies wasn't the answer to anything. I got back to my apartment in late spring, lay around in hot water until I steamed myself clean and couldn't hear her whimpering "oh, daddy" any more.

    When the phone rang and a man said his name was Nat Sklute and he wanted to discuss something of interest to both of us, I just had time to wrap a towel around my hips before he knocked on my door. I let him in and he went straight to a chair as though he had been in here many times.

    "Mr. Richards, you don't know me, but I know you. My name is Nat Sklute. Now I'm an investigator for Businessmen's Protection and-"

    "Get to hell out of here."

    "Now listen, Mr. Richards-"

    "Get out. I'm telling you. Beating the hell out of you would just about do it. It would help me a lot. I got nothing in God's world against you, so get out and let's keep it that way."

    "I'm not here to hound you."

    "Maybe you don't hear well. You bastards have put me through it. I got no love for any of you."

    He was sweated, and he was nervous, but he went on sitting there. He rolled his hat around in his hands, a short stocky man with a brush cut getting mangy on top, a fleshy nose and full lips. At the moment he was scared, but he was very aware of everything. He had trained himself to see everything and remember it.