April Evil (14 page)

“I think I prefer that it be done this way, Ben.”

“Then let’s get to work. I’ll make the appointments for you right now. The will can be ready for signatures by three this afternoon.”

At one o’clock on Thursday afternoon Ronnie sat behind the wheel of the gray Buick. Sally Leon sat beside him. They were parked two blocks from the Tomlin home, on the route to the downtown section. The angular patterns of the shade of palm fronds partially shielded the car from the high hot sun, but enough sun touched the metal to make the inside of the car uncomfortably hot. They had all the car windows rolled down. Their faces were damp with sweat. Ronnie’s white shirt stuck to his back. The girl sat completely relaxed, her skirt hiked well above her knees, heavy thighs spread, her hair damp at her temples.

“So we sit here all afternoon,” Ronnie said with muted savagery.

“It’s pretty hot.”

“It’s pretty hot. It’s pretty hot. It can cook you. Jesus, you have a lot of sparkling conversation.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“You, my darling. Your incredible beauty. Your elfin charm. Your gay little mannerisms.”

“You talk funny.”

“What’s your vocabulary, sweets? Eight hundred words? You could use sign language and grunt once in a while and get along just fine. I would find you delightful in bed, but lambie, you are pretty sodden in the discussion department.”

“Harry said for you not to make any passes.”

“I must correct your grammar. Harry said for me not to make
no
passes.”

She stirred and said sullenly. “You’re so damn smart.”

“That’s the tricky part. I am smart. They proved it to me. They gave me tests. They said, Ronald, you have a superior mind. We wish to help you, Ronald. We wish to make a good citizen out of you, Ronald. You can become a good citizen and have a wife and kiddies and spend all day in an office, and owe on the car and owe on the TV, and owe on the mortgage, and buy a lot of nice insurance so that when the ulcer gets you, or the heart or something, the kiddies can keep going to school and eventually your loving wife can go sit on her fat ass in the sun and improve hell out of her canasta.”

“I’d like to have kids.”

“Why don’t you? Sows should be surrounded by the scampering piglets and watch them turn into shoats.”

“You don’t have to be so damn nasty.”

“Ronald, they told me. We have given up. We cannot turn you into a good citizen, Ronald, because you refuse to cooperate. Something was left out of you, Ronald, when you were assembled. One dedicated young one called me a psychopath. One emotional old one told me I had no soul.”

“You talk an awful lot.”

“Darleeng, tonight we shall slip an Oriental drug into Harry’s cambric tea. Then you come tippy-toe to my boudoir and we shall make the illicit luff.”

“You shouldn’t ought to talk like that.”

He turned in the seat and took hold of her arm above the elbow. “Now we talk serious-like, angel.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“What if something happened to the Ace, and something else happened to Mullin?”

“What do you mean?”

“These things can go sour. I come running out of the house. Ace and Mullin lie in there in a welter of blood. I come panting out, carrying a fortune in cash. What then, angel?”

“You mean if just you and me are left?”

“Splendid! You’re catching on.”

“I guess we would have to leave and go some place else.”

“It wouldn’t be wise to sit there in front of the house then, would it?”

“No, but …”

“Then what will life hold for us, darleeng? You and me and incredible riches. Two young things fleeing together, brought closer by tension and danger. Clinging to each other with tearful kissings.”

“You mix me all up.”

“Okay den, babe. I give it to youse straight, see. You’re wit dis Mullin, see. So he’s dead, see. Den you and me, we hit the road togedder, hey?”

She scowled at him. “You’re all the time making fun of me. I don’t like it.”

“I’m sorry. May I have your decision?”

“If you go out of the country, I’d like to come along. I want to go to a foreign country. I’ve never been.”

“This is the beginning of a deathless romance.” He looked in the rear vision mirror. “And here comes our target for today, I think.”

The ancient tan Chevy rattled by them down the quiet palm-lined street. Ronnie caught a glimpse of the man behind the wheel. He fitted the description. He started the Buick and put it in gear. “And away we go,” he said softly.

They saw Joe Preston leave the tan car in the sun outside the bowling alley and amble in. Ronald Crown swung in and parked beside the old tan car. He took the key from the ignition and turned to the girl.

“Give this character the business, Sal. He doesn’t look bright. He’s got to think you’re the most available item that’s come along in years. He’s got to think you’ve fallen for him. You and I are just friends. We met down here. I’m going to be dumb, friendly and generous. Can you bowl?”

“I used to go with a fellow that liked to. He taught me.”

“Okay. I don’t bowl. Just follow the leads, angel.”

It was a white stucco building with a Nissen roof, with glass brick on either side of the entrance. An unlighted red neon sign stretched across the pasty front of the building, saying in big letters,
Bowlarama
. As Ronnie pushed the door open he heard the drone of a ball on maple, the splashing clatter of pin-fall, the chunk and clank of automatic pinsetters. There were a dozen alleys, four of them brightly lighted and in use. There was a smell of beer and chalk and perspiration.

He paused in the dimness, the girl beside him, and saw Joe Preston renting a pair of shoes. He nudged the girl and they moved over to the window. Preston turned away from the window. As he heard Sally asking for bowling shoes, Ronnie caught up with Preston and said, “You all alone?”

“Why?” Preston asked, dimly belligerent.

“My friend there, getting her shoes, doesn’t like to bowl alone. I got a sore back. You want to bowl with her, I can keep score for you.”

He saw Joe Preston turn and look at Sally. Preston had a lean pallid face, long sideburns, hollows in his cheeks, hair worn long and brushed back at the temples. He wore his cigarette with Bogart mannerisms. His features, separately, seemed good enough. But the total effect was one of dimness, vagueness, lack of identity. Ronnie guessed that Joe Preston thought of himself as handsome and tough. But the facade looked brittle. One casual backhand from a cop would create the sniveler. Ronnie had seen a lot of them. They dwelt on the fringe of evil. He had never had to kill one. They never became that important. He saw the face tighten with pleasure and anticipation.

“Sure. I’ll bowl with her.”

“Thanks a lot. I don’t know how good she is. Just met her the other day. Maybe she’ll slow up your game.”

“I’m not too sharp at it.”

The girl came up to them. “This is Sally. I’m Ronnie.”

“My name is Joe.” They all shook hands. Sally pulled herself close to Joe during the handshake, holding it overlong, looking into his eyes. Ronnie watched Joe react, coloring a
bit, licking his lip, looking sidelong at Ronnie.

The manager lighted alley six for them. Ronnie bought beers at the counter and brought them over. Sally had selected a ball. She wore a pale yellow sleeveless blouse, a skirt of very pale aqua which was tight across her hips, pleated and flaring at the hem. Bowling is a harsh test for a woman. She can look grotesque and ludicrous—a clown spectacle of ungainly hips and awkward knees—or she can make of the act of running to the foul line and releasing the ball a rhythmic and enticing thing, unaccountably sexual, peculiarly exciting. Ronnie watched Sally move forward and release the ball. She moved slowly, and with humid deep-loined grace—a ripe Diana hunting slowly, flexing, waiting, rising, turning, walking back with faint sated smile.

The next time she bowled he watched Joe Preston’s expression. A hungry bass would wear that expression in the instant before the heavy lips find the concealed sharpness of the hook.

When Joe bowled, it was with an awareness of the girl watching him. He bowled with great dash. He hurled the ball with great force and speed. He jumped high in the air when the ball hooked into the pocket and the pins exploded, turning with flushed proud grinning face, a dank lock of hair across the pale forehead, taking a small red comb from his pocket to put the hair back in gleaming place as he returned to watch Ronnie mark the strike. Joe was a boy hanging from his heels from a high limb. Or a horseman, dipping his lance on parade as he passed the stands.

They bowled. Ronnie bought beer and kept score and paid for the games. He knew that Joe Preston had become almost unaware of his presence. Sally gave all her attention to Joe. Her face glowed and she laughed out loud several times. Ronnie realized that it was not all an act, that the girl was really having fun. It was the type of irony that Ronnie appreciated. Here, for a little time, she was completely at home.

After three games Sally inspected her thumb and said, “Gee, that better be the last one. I’m getting a blister.”

“Let me see,” Joe said. They stood close together looking
down at the sore thumb, their heads almost touching. “I guess you better quit at that, Sally.”

“Let’s go find a nice dark bar,” Ronnie said. “The three of us. Unless you want to hang around here.”

“No. I’ve had enough. I think that would be fine.”

“Finish your beer and we’ll take off.”

They went out into the glare of the sunlight. The three of them went in the Buick. Joe gave directions. The bar was narrow and dark and air-conditioned, dwarfed by a juke box that exceeded the dreams of Persian kings. They took a back booth, Joe and Sally on one side, Ronnie facing them. A bored bartender in a dirty apron came back to take the order.

“I’m going to switch from beer, people,” Ronnie said. “Double bourbon on the rocks. This is on me. How about three of those?”

“Sure,” Sally said. “Beer bloats me up.”

Joe made a token protest about paying, and ordered the same. When the bartender set the drinks down, the one he set in front of Ronnie slopped over. The man started away and Ronnie called him back.

“What do you want?”

“Go get a rag and come mop this up,” Ronnie said, smiling.

“Use one of them paper napkins, doc.”

Ronnie slid quickly out of the booth. He was still smiling. His voice was very soft. “I don’t want to get irritable. I don’t want to get upset. Do you want me to get upset?”

“Well, I …”

“We want it nice and quiet in here. Like a mouse. We don’t want any trouble. So go get your little rag and waddle back down here and wipe up what you spilled.”

The man looked hesitant. He tried to smile. He said, too loudly, “Okay. Sure thing, doc.”

“Sure thing,
sir
.”

“Look …”

“Sir!”

“Yes sir.” He said it as though his mouth hurt.

“And bring back the bottle and a bowl of ice.”

“We don’t …”

“Starting now, you do.” Ronnie sat down leaving the man enough room to get by. He breathed deeply and easily and felt the tension within him crumble away into softness again.

“I thought you were going to have trouble there,” Joe said with evident admiration.

“Not from him,” Ronnie said. “Not from a tired fat man in a third-rate saloon. They can’t read your cards. They look at the smile and they listen to the soft voice and they feel uncomfortable because you’re standing too close. So they break it off because it’s something they don’t understand.”

The man brought the ice and bottle. He swabbed the table top. He left without a word.

Joe turned to Sally beside him. They were sitting close. “Been down here long?”

“Not long.”

“Where are you staying?”

“With friends.”

“Have you been down here long, Joe?” Ronnie asked.

“A few months. The wife and I come down and moved in with a rich relative. An old duck with a big stone house. We came here from California. Los Angeles.”

“Hey, I lived out there for a long time!” Sally said. Ronnie sat patiently for the fifteen minutes it took them to talk about the town and places they knew. He kept Joe’s glass full. Joe drank steadily and automatically.

Joe finally turned to him and said, “You on a vacation, Ronnie?”

“I guess you could call it that. Things got a little warm. I decided it was time to leave town for a while.”

Joe’s eyes brightened. “Law trouble?”

“In a way.”

“You know, Ronnie, I knew right off you were an operator. You know a funny thing? I got the roust out in L.A. It got to be time to leave. You know how it goes?”

“I know how it goes.”

“But it was a break, me being related to the old duck.”

Ronnie sneered in a delicate way. “Sure. A rich relative. Like in the fairy stories. I’ve heard that crap before, Joe. That car of yours. Is that your rich relative’s limousine?”

Joe flushed angrily. “Take it easy. I was leveling. That’s the car we come out here in. The old guy, Doctor Tomlin his name is, is loaded. Laurie, that’s my wife, kind of a funny-acting kid, she gets along good with the old boy. He’s paying her to stay with him. I never had it so good. No kidding. It’s a big stone house and he’s really loaded.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t you believe me? Damn it, you can ask anybody in town. The people that live here. They know about him. He’s got a safe in his house. He keeps it all there in cash. Maybe a million bucks. How do you like that?”

“Roll up your sleeve. I want to see where you get those dreams, Joe.” He got up from the booth. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, kids. I’ve got to make a couple of phone calls.”

He went out onto the sidewalk and walked slowly to the corner. He bought cigarettes, lighted one and smoked for a time and walked slowly back. When he slid into the booth Joe had a shamefaced look. Sally’s lipstick was smeared, her hair tousled.

“Honest, Ronnie, the old man …”

“I know, Joe. He keeps a box full of thousand-dollar bills under his bed. Have a drink.”

“I guess it sounds funny, all right. Hell, what difference does it make? I’m living without working.”