Black Friday (4 page)

"Is that why you came back?"

"Not exactly," Hart said.

"All right," Charley said. "Let's have it complete. Why did you come back?"

"It's too cold out there."

"You mean it's too hot out there."

Hart grinned. "It's both. I don't need this weather. And I don't need all that Law running after me. Only thing I need is a place to hide. Only place I can hide is here."

"I thought you'd see it that way," Charley said.

They stood there grinning at each other. And then Charley said, "You owe me ten dollars."

Hart took out the ten and handed it to him. "That's for a week's room and board."

"You're getting a bargain," Charley said. He went to the doorway and called for Rizzio. He told Rizzio there was a folding-cot somewhere in the cellar and he wanted it brought upstairs. Without looking at Hart, he murmured, "I hope you'll be comfortable."

Frieda got up from the table and moved toward the sink. As she passed Hart, her hand drifted down and she touched him. She said, "I think he'll be comfortable."

4

They could hear Rizzio banging around in the cellar and then they could hear him battling with the cot up to the second floor. Mattone entered the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of milk and some chocolate cookies. Frieda was with the movie stars again and eating an apple. Hart leaned against the back door and looked at the floor. Charley was standing in the middle of the kitchen and biting the inside of his mouth and looking at nothing. The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of energetic munching as Frieda ate the apple.

Someone was coming down from the second floor, coming through the house. She came into the kitchen, an extremely thin girl about five-two with extremely white skin and very black hair. Hart didn't have time to note the color of her eyes because just then Charley turned toward the door and told Hart to follow him.

They went through the house. It was just another quiet little row house in quiet Germantown. The cleanliness of the kitchen was extended through the rest of the house.

In the room where Rizzio put the cot, Hart saw two watercolors hanging on the wall; both were signed "Rizzio."

"They're very good," Hart said.

"Are you telling me they're good?" Rizzio said.

"Hurry up with that cot and get out of here," Charley said.

"I can't find anything wrong with them," Hart said.

Rizzio took hold of Charley's arm and said, "You hear that?"

"All right," Charley said, "one of these days I'll sponsor an exhibition. If you're finished with that cot, take a walk. Give me two cigarettes before you go," he added.

Rizzio obeyed and faced the wall and stared unhappily at his water-colors. Then he walked out of the room and closed the door. Charley handed a cigarette to Hart and then took a match out of his pocket and struck it on the sole of his shoe.

Charley seated himself on the edge of the wide bed and Hart sat on the edge of the cot.

Charley said, "You'll share this room with me and Rizzio."

Hart gazed contentedly at the window beside the cot. He said, "I'm first in line for the fresh air."

Charley smiled and said, "A crook tried to climb through that window a month ago. Rizzio hit him in the face and threw him out the window. We went down and picked him up out of the back yard, the alley part along this side of the house. He had a broken back and both legs were broken. Mattone ended it for him with a knife and then we put him in the car and rode to a quiet street and threw him in the gutter."

"Where did Renner sleep?" Hart said.

"Don't ask questions about Renner. Don't ask questions about anything. If I feel like telling you, I'll tell you. Renner slept in the back room with Paul and Mattone. There's three beds in the back room but I don't want you in there with Paul and Mattone. You wouldn't last long with them. I want you to stay away from them as much as you can-- until they get used to you. And now here's what we do. We take mansions on the Main Line. Every section where there's wealth. I think there's more wealth concentrated in the Philly Main Line than any city in the country. We don't load ourselves down. We take just enough to make a profitable little haul. Two or three burlap bags, never more than that, and it's mostly silverware and antiques. We got a fence connection in South Philly and he's been working with me for seventeen years, and we have a fairly good arrangement. What brought out that comment about Rizzio's water-colors?"

"They're good," Hart said.

"How do you know they're good?"

"It's just one man's opinion, but I know a little about it. I majored in fine arts at Pennsylvania."

"Do you do any painting yourself?"

"No, but I've done a lot of collecting. In New Orleans I had a very nice collection."

"What else did you do in New Orleans?"

"I loafed. I could afford to. My old man piled up about three million in beet sugar. He left it to my mother and when she died she left it to my older brother Haskell."

"Is that why you killed him?"

"Yes," Hart said. "I wanted the money."

"How many brothers altogether?"

"Three of us. Haskell, myself and Clement."

"Any sisters?"

"Two of them and they're both dead. They were students at Tulane and one night they were coming home from a dance and the car turned over a few times. I belong to a very happy family."

Charley was looking at Rizzio's water-colors. Charley said, "Was this Haskell married?"

"No."

"Clement?"

"Clement married when he was eighteen. Now they've got three children and it's one of those unusual marriages. I mean it's really a pleasant arrangement."

Charley leaned back on his elbows, the cigarette tight in his mouth and snapping up and down as he said, "Let's hear something about the killing."

"Well," Hart said, "I did it with a blackjack. I wanted to make it look like burglary. Haskell lived alone in a big home near Audubon Park. I went up there one night and got in through the back door without any of the servants seeing me. And I know they didn't see me get into his room. I hit him over the head with the blackjack and kept on hitting him until he was dead. Then I went through his room and took all his jewelry--he went in for diamond-studded watches and emerald cuff links and that sort of thing. He had fifteen hundred dollars in his wallet. I thought it was going to look like a genuine burglary, because I got away all right, and the room was messed up and so forth. But later I was worried. The police were putting too many things together. Besides, they had a witness who saw me near Audubon Park that night, and it knocked my alibi to bits. When I saw they were really closing in on me I took a walk."

Charley stood up, walked around the bed and placed himself in front of Rizzio's water-colors. Frowning at the paintings, he said, "I'm not sure, Al. Maybe we can use you right in on the jobs or maybe it would be better for you to go with Myrna and Frieda to get the leads. But I don't know about this painting business. I've always found it best to stay away from oils and that sort of thing. And the fence will have something to say about it. So we'll just let it ride for awhile, even though I've got the feeling your knowledge would come in handy."

"What do I do meanwhile?"

"Just stay here. I'll find things for you to do. You don't get bored easily, do you?"

"Not easily."

"You want to go to sleep now or do you want to come down and listen to the radio for awhile?"

"I think I'll go to sleep."

"All right, Al. I'll see you in the morning." Charley glanced again at Rizzio's paintings and then he walked out.

In the middle of an endless plain of soft snow there was a pool of black water. A man's head emerged from the pool and the man opened his mouth and began to shriek.

Hart opened his eyes and sat up. There was movement on the other side of the room, then the lights went on. Charley was there with his hand still near the light switch and Rizzio was getting out of bed. The shrieking came from the back room.

Mattone came rushing into the middle room and said, "Listen, that boy needs a doctor."

Charley followed Mattone out of the room. Ri.zzio inserted his feet into slippers and went out after them. Then Hart heard Charley saying, "You go back to bed," and a few moments later Rizzio re-entered the room and closed the door.

"Open the door," Hart said. "I want to hear what's going on."

Rizzio opened the door. They could hear the shrieking from the back room. They could hear Frieda's voice and Charley's voice. Rizzio produced an unopened pack of cigarettes out of nowhere, along with a book of matches.

"You want one of these?" Rizzio said.

The shrieking became higher and louder.

"Let's have one," Hart said.

Rizzio came over and gave him a cigarette and a light. They listened to the shrieking from the front room. All at once the shrieking stopped and the talking went down to a murmur and then the murmur stopped. Hart had the cigarette in his mouth as he sat there rigid on the cot, watching the quiet wall beyond the opened door. A shadow hit the wall and Charley followed the shadow and entered the room.

Charley said, "Paul passed away."

"No," Rizzio said.

"All right, no," Charley said. He was looking at Hart. He said, "I didn't think it was that bad, even though I knew it was bad enough. You must have broken him to bits in there. He had internal bleeding and I guess the blood went up and choked his heart, or something. I don't know."

"Why didn't we get a doctor?" Rizzio said.

Charley looked at Rizzio and said, "I'll let you answer that."

"We ought to have our own doctor," Rizzio said.

Charley looked at Hart. "We used to have our own doctor. He died a few months ago. I've been looking around, but there's a shortage of doctors nowadays, especially the kind of doctors we need. It's a problem."

Rizzio was rubbing his chin and saying, "What are we going to do with Paul?"

"That's another problem," Charley said. "Is the furnace hot?"

"Jesus Christ, Charley."

"When I ask you a question," Charley said, "why don't you give me a direct answer?"

"I guess it's hot," Rizzio said. "I put in some coal a couple hours ago."

"Do we have a meat cleaver downstairs?" Charley asked.

"Oh Jesus Christ, Charley, I don't know, I don't know."

Charley turned and looked at Hart and said, "I got some organization here." Then he turned again to Rizzio and said, "Come on, we'll take Paul downstairs."

"Wait just a minute, Charley, please." Rizzio was putting fingers in a bathrobe pocket. "Let me smoke a cigarette first."

"Smoke the cigarette later. It'll taste better then," Charley said.

Rizzio said, "What are you going to do, cut him up?"

"No," Charley said. "I'm going to put him in starch and shrink him. Do you want to help me carry him down or do you want to stand there and smoke cigarettes?"

"Charley, listen--"

"No, I don't have time to listen." Charley went back to the window sill. He was biting the inside of his mouth.

Hart sat very still. He could feel it coming and he was afraid of it but there was nothing he could do about it.

Charley looked at Hart and said, "Mattone's no good for it, either. Mattone's only good for causing a commotion. And I can't carry him down by myself."

"All right," Hart said. He got out of bed. Charley came off the window sill and looked at the pajamas and grinned.

"My best silk pajamas," Charley said.

They were pale green pajamas, and Hart was thinking dizzily of pale green background and dark bright red.

5

They went into the back room. Paul was naked on the bed and his eyes were half-closed and didn't seem like part of his face.

"Take his legs," Charley said.

They carried Paul downstairs. Hart was shivering. He was telling himself it was because the house was cold. They carried Paul down the cellar steps. They had Paul in the cellar and they put him on the floor near the furnace. Charley told Hart to stay with Paul, then Charley went upstairs and he was up there for a full five minutes, and Hart heard clanking around, as if Charley was looking for something. Then Charley came down the steps and in one hand he had a hack-saw and in the other hand he had a large knife.

Charley said, "Get some newspapers."

The front of the cellar was divided into two sections, one for coal, the other for old things that didn't matter too much. There was a pile of newspapers. Hart lifted half the pile and carried it toward the furnace.

"Get out of the way," Charley said. "I'm going to take his head off."

Hart stepped away, then went walking away as he heard the swish, the crunch, the grinding, the resistance, more grinding, the heavy breathing of Charley. Then the rustle of paper, the sound of paper getting wrapped around something. Then the furnace door opening. The sound of paper around something going into the fire. Then the furnace door closing.

"All right," Charley said. "I'll need you now."

Hart turned and came walking back. The light from a single bulb hanging from a long cord gave the cellar pure white light getting grey as it came toward the furnace. Under the grey light the headless body of Paul was greypurple. Hart wondered if he could go through with this.

"Hold the legs tight," Charley said. "Hold them tight."

Hart took hold of the legs and closed his eyes. The sounds of the hack-saw and the knife were great big bunches of dreadful gooey stuff hitting him and going into him and he was getting sick and he tried to get his mind on something else, and he came to painting and started to concentrate on the landscapes of Corot, then got away from Corot although remaining in the same period as he thought of Courbet, then knowing Courbet was an exponent of realism and trying to get away from Courbet, unable to get away because he was thinking of the way Gustave Courbet showed Cato tearing out his own entrails and showed "Quarry," in which the stag under the tree was getting torn to bits by yowling hounds, and he tried to come back to Corot, past Corot to the gentle English school of laced garments and graceful posture and the delicacy and all that, and Courbet dragged him back.

And Charley said, "Hold him higher up."

With his eyes shut tightly, Hart said, "Tell me, Charley, did you ever do this before?"

"No," Charley said.

Hart opened his eyes and he saw the blood and he closed his eyes again. Charley was telling him to do things and he had to open his eyes to keep at it, but it was as if his eyes were closed, because he was gazing past the activity, and he was listening past the sounds of steel and flesh and paper. Now the work was going faster, the furnace door was opening and shutting in speedier rhythm, and yet time was bouncing all around the cellar, going so fast and melting as it went, so that finally time was all melted and there was no measuring it, and no measuring the smell of blood.

Then there was nothing on the floor but blood and newspapers. Charley went to the rear of the cellar, came back with a can of household cleanser. He ripped off the top of the can, threw the cleanser on top of the blood. Then he went away and came back with a bucket of hot water and a mop, and went to work. Hart took the unused newspapers back to the front of the cellar. Charley cleaned the tools, drying them as he came back.

They stood before the furnace and listened to the sound of burning.

"We better take these off," Charley said.

Hart looked at Charley, wondering what he meant, and saw that he meant the pajamas. And Hart looked at Charley's pajamas, looked at the blood all over pale blue, then he looked at the pajamas he was wearing, and he saw the pale green background and the gashes of dark bright red.

Charley opened the furnace door, threw in the pale blue pajamas, then Hart stepped over in front of the door and as he threw in the pale green pajamas he caught sight of the paper packages burning in there with a glaring purple and white flame. Then he caught a whiff of the smoke and he shut the door quickly.

"All right," Charley said, "let's go up."

They went upstairs. Coming away from the heat of the furnace area their naked bodies came into a cold living room and a colder stairway, and they moved quickly. They went into the bathroom and although there was no blood on their hands they washed their hands anyway.

Finally Hart climbed back into the cot, propped the pillows to make himself comfortable, sucked smoke into his mouth, filled himself up with the smoke and let it seep out between his teeth. He wondered why he wasn't sick. He thought maybe he was beginning to get tough. He told himself it didn't really make any difference, because he didn't give a hang, but underneath he knew he did give a hang and it made a lot of difference and no matter what he kept telling himself he was really afraid of what was happening inside him.

Hart settled back against the pillow and brought up his arms, resting flat on his back and folding his hands behind his head. Across the room he saw the glow of a lighted cigarette and he knew it came from Charley and he tried to think of what was in Charley's mind right now. Then he closed his eyes and he tried to sleep.

He worked on it for an hour. He was going toward sleep, trying to dive into it, pulled back by something and then he tried to crawl toward it, pulled back by the same something that was mostly memory and hardly any planning. He was beginning to feel tired and he made one big try, throwing everything out of his mind except one big circle on which he tried to ride as it went around in the blackness under his eyelids. He managed to get on the circle and it took him around a few times and then threw him off with violence. He opened his eyes and sat up and he could hear the steady breathing of Charley and the heavy, distorted breathing of Rizzio. He wondered where Rizzio kept the cigarettes.

He left the cot, moved quietly across the room and pulled on the chocolate flannel trousers over the fresh pajamas. Then as he worked himself into the chocolate flannel jacket he was facing the window and he could see the black out there without any lights in it. He put on socks and started to put on shoes and changed his mind. Then he was going out of the room and closing the door delicately. Then he was going down the dark hall, so dark that at first he had to guide himself by the wall, then getting lighter because of a thin and vague glow that came from downstairs. And it was confusing, because he remembered Charley putting out all lights downstairs before they came upstairs.

He was going down the stairway. The light remained vague, and it wasn't doing much against the darkness, but he was coming closer to it and for a moment he had the unaccountable feeling that the light had drawn him out of the cot and out of the room. Halfway down the stairway he knew that he could see the source of the light if he turned his head, and he didn't know why he didn't want to turn his head. But he had to turn his head when he reached the foot of the stairs, and when he did he saw the light coming from a small lamp with a blue velvety shade, dark blue to give the light that odd vagueness. The lamp was on a small table and next to the table someone was sitting in a highbacked chair. The entire arrangement, lamp and pale blue light and figure in white and the brown top of the chair, topping the white, amounted to a face, and it was the face of his dead brother, Haskell.

Hart wondered if he would cut himself to ribbons if he went headfirst through one of the front windows.

From the chair a feminine voice said, "Who is that?"

Hart took in what felt like a quart of air and let it out with his mouth wide open. He said, "It's Al."

"This is Myrna."

Her voice wasn't a whisper. It was lower than a whisper.

Hart said, "What bothers you?"

She said, "Paul was my brother."

The space between them was a block of quiet freezing with immeasurable speed.

It was that way for more than a minute, then she said, "What brought you downstairs?"

"I don't know. I couldn't sleep."

She said, "Paul was twenty-eight. He had a lot of trouble with his insides. It was a bad condition and he had no business getting in fights. But he was always fighting. He never had any friends, because he was so hard to get along with. He was sick inside all the time, and he was always irritable and always as nasty as he could be. But I guess that isn't the point. The point is, he always took care of me."

Hart said, "How old are you, Myrna?"

"I'm twenty-six. Paul always treated me as if I was much younger and he was much older. I've been sitting here most of the night thinking of all the things he did for me. He did all those things without ever smiling. When he gave me things or when he did things for me he never smiled and he acted as if he didn't really want to do it. I never knew that was put on. My father used to drink anything he could get his hands on, hair tonic and furniture polish and all that. One night he doubled up and dropped dead. My mother packed up her things and walked out and left us there. Charley came and took care of us. Then Charley had to do a five-year stretch and me and Paul, we had to go to a home. Then Charley was out and one night he came to the home and gave somebody some cash and he took Paul and me away. To look at Charley you'd never think he was past fifty, except for the white hair. Did you ever get so you just wanted to sit alone all by yourself and try to think what's going to happen to you?"

"I get that way once in a while," Hart said. "Not often."

"I looked in the back room," Myrna said, "but Paul wasn't there. What did they do with Paul?"

"I don't know," Hart said.

"I'll find out in the morning," Myrna said. She came out of the chair, toward Hart. The pale blue light rolled over her head and showed her face. In a frail sort of way it was an out-of-the-ordinary face. The eyes were pearly violet. The eyes were ninety-nine percent of her.

She went past Hart and up the stairway. Hart turned off the lamp, groped his way to the stairway, groped his way up and down the hall and into the middle room. A few minutes after he hit the cot he was asleep.

Hart was awake at half past nine. He saw Rizzio moving around the room. He saw Charley still asleep in the wide bed. He turned over and went back to sleep, and at halfpast eleven Charley was talking to him, asking him if he wanted to get up. He got out of bed, sat on the edge of the cot until Charley came out of the bathroom. As Charley took off the bathrobe, Hart took a good look at him.

Charley was about five-nine and on the thin side. The silver hair was thick, coming up from a low, unworried forehead, parted in the middle, combed back obliquely, then brushed smooth without benefit of water or oil. The eyes were light blue, nicely spaced above a short, firm nose. The lips were a puzzle, firm and at the same time relaxed, and the skin of the face was beige remaining from a summer's deep tanning.

Charley said, "Why are you sizing me up?"

"I'm curious to see if I can wear your clothes," Hart said.

"What's wrong with your clothes?"

"The suit will do," Hart said, "but I like to wear fresh linen every day."

"Look in the bureau," Charley said. "The three top drawers are mine. You're welcome to whatever you find that fits. You can throw the dirty clothes in the laundry box in the bathroom. I'm going to make you a gift of something I got in the bureau. My skin's too tender and I never got the knack of it, but maybe you'll like it."

Charley opened the top drawer and took out a tan calfskin case, opening it to show a foreign-make hollow ground safety razor. There was an intricate stropping arrangement where the blade was, and Hart picked up the gadget and said, "Much obliged."

He walked into the bathroom, carrying the tan calfskin case.

Forty minutes later Frieda knocked on the bathroom door and said, "What are your plans?"

Hart had a towel around his middle and the bathroom was filled with steam from very hot water going out of the tub. He said, "I'll be out in a few minutes."

"There's breakfast for you when you come down," Frieda said.

"I'll be right down," Hart said.

Twenty minutes later he came downstairs wearing the chocolate brown suit and his own shoes. He wore Charley's white two-piece underwear and Charley's black silk hose with a green clock, Charley's white shirt, Charley's white starched collar, Charley's black tie with small green polka dots, Charley's white handkerchief in the breast pocket, and Charley's silver cuff links with jade facing.

Rizzio looked up from the sports section and looked at Hart. Then Rizzio, wearing a bathrobe and slippers, extended a flat palm toward Hart while looking at Charley and Mattone, who were reading other sections of the paper in other sections of the living room. And Rizzio said, "Look at this, look at this."