Glass Cell (17 page)

Carter opened his hands. “You’re talking as if I’m an addict now. For God’s sake, Hazel, this is the first—the second shot I’ve had since I got out of the clink!”

“Oh, the second. Yes, I think I know when you had the first. Last Thursday when you said you’d been out for a walk.” And for an instant she showed her pretty profile as she looked sideways at the night table.

“You’ve got the usual phobia about dope, about the awful people who take it. What’s so much better about alcohol? Alcohol just happens to be legal in this country, that’s all.”

“Then why isn’t dope legal, too?”

“Maybe because a lot of people are making money on it.”

“You’re defending dope as a social custom—like a drink before dinner?”

“All right, I’m not!”

“The pills you’re taking are full of morphine. I asked Dr. MacKenzie about them. Timmy notices it, too. You can’t even play with him the way you used to, and one would think it’s easier to play with a twelve-year-old than a six-year-old.”

“Not necessarily. And Timmy hasn’t been too easy—you know that—since I was out of prison. I’m not blaming him. It takes time. I realize what he went through at school because of me.”

“And do you realize what I went through, too? Do you think a woman’s proud of having a husband in prison? Do you think it’s easy to keep bolstering a father in a child’s eyes, when he knows the father’s in prison?”

“Darling, I’m aware of all that. What can I say except I’m sorry the whole damned thing happened? You’re skirting around the issue.”

She was silent. She knew the issue.

“Which do you want, Sullivan or me?” Carter asked.

“I miss David. I can’t seem to live without seeing him—talking to him.”

“And sleeping with him?”

She didn’t answer that.

“That’s part of it, isn’t it?”

“It has been. I tried—I mean—sleeping with him isn’t the most important part.”

“Maybe not for you,” Carter put in.

“You can’t understand, I suppose, that it meant—life itself to me to be able to see him now and then just for an hour or less some afternoons, just to talk with him?”

“Gawill believes it. He’s got snapshots of you going into Sullivan’s house. Recent ones.”

“All right, so now you know. I hope it’ll take the wind out of Gawill’s sails—if he’s got any sails.”

“If it means life to you, you’re not going to give it up, are you?” Carter asked. “Or were you possibly using the past tense?”

“You don’t understand women. Or me. You never did.”

Carter mashed his cigarette out. “Stop talking in clichés. I can understand your liking to talk to Sullivan, I can understand friendship. Unfortunately, I can understand a woman’s inclination to add a little icing to the cake by sleeping with a good friend if he asks for it. I can certainly understand Sullivan’s asking for it. What man wouldn’t? Can you understand that you’re married to me? Is that too difficult?”

“This happened while you were in prison. Were you so innocent in prison, I wonder? I never asked you any questions about that, did I?”

Carter smiled. “There aren’t any partners in prison. Unless you want another man, of course. Plenty of those.”

“You and Max?”

“What about Max?”

“What about Max?”

Carter felt the blood in his cheeks. “I liked him, yes, but not the way you’re talking about.”

“Never even thought of it?”

Carter’s eyes narrowed and he hated her then. This was picking, petty, nasty, bitchy. “I’m not even going to answer that.”

“Maybe that’s answer enough. Anyway, Max died too soon, perhaps.”

“Cut it out, Haze, you’re making things worse.”

“Oh, I’m making things worse.”

“You want to punish me—light into me about thinking? Sure it crossed my mind, maybe Max’s, too. Do you want me to make some trite statement about things like that happening in prison all the time because there’s nothing else? I’m not going to make it. How can you compare Max with Sullivan? Max was the pleasantest thing I had in that stinking place, nicer and better than thinking of you sleeping with Sullivan or wondering if you were. I gave you the benefit of the doubt in those days. To tell you the truth, I doped myself so I wouldn’t think about you with Sullivan at all. So I wouldn’t admit to myself you were sleeping with him all those years—because it might have finished me.”

“You doped yourself, all right.”

Hazel’s intensity reminded him of her jealousy of Max when Carter had first told her about him. She had intuitively grasped Max’s importance to him—and so, of course, had he. But Max was gone, and Carter could not remember a single physical touch of him, except the afternoon Max had pushed him in the shoulder to make him lie down on his bunk. Carter had never thought,
I love Max
, and yet for a while he had been as dependent emotionally on him as on Hazel, simply because he was there. It was at once simple and complex. Carter blinked and stared at her.

“What are you thinking?” Now her beautiful face looked merely beautiful, and quite empty, like a dry field waiting for the rain of his thoughts.

“I’m thinking that all the words you used tonight—everything you’ve said—in such bitterness—is part of your fighting for David. You’re not going to give him up, are you?”

She lay back deeper in her pillow, squirming uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”

He took a step toward her. “I’d appreciate a little honesty. Say yes or no.”

“I can’t.” Her eyes were closed.

“I want you, Hazel. I want you back.”

“I can’t talk anymore tonight about it.”

Carter felt baffled. “Sullivan— He had me up in his apartment to tell me also it was two weeks and four days. Well rehearsed. He hadn’t even the guts to admit the truth. Do you like men without guts?”

“All right, he’s weak. I know it.”

“He’s cowardly,” Carter said. “It’s still going on, isn’t it?”

“Not really, not really. Let me sleep,” Hazel said, her eyes still closed, her brows frowning.

Carter gave it up for the night. He wasn’t hooked on morphine, he was hooked on Hazel, he thought with a detached amusement. He hadn’t presented her with any ultimatum, he realized, no “give him up or else, or else I’ll do this or that.” He hadn’t thought Hazel would need an ultimatum. Carter turned from the closet, where he had just hung his robe, and looked at her. Her face was turned toward the edge of the bed, her eyes closed.

21

“Hello, Phil. Greg,” Gawill’s voice said. “How are things?”

Carter glanced around automatically in the empty living room, though he knew Timmy was in his own room, probably with the door closed. “Things are all right,” Carter said.

“I thought you might have had a talk with your wife—that night.”

“Nope.” Carter drew on his half-finished cigarette.

“Ah, come on, Phil. You can talk to me. There’s nobody there, is there? Maybe the kid?”

“Nope,” Carter repeated.

“I know Hazel’s not,” Gawill drawled in his baritone voice, Gawill the omniscient.

Hazel was a bit late tonight, but she might come in the door any minute, Carter thought. But obviously, Gawill had someone watching the house now. Carter had just come in himself. “What’s on your mind, Greg?” Carter asked.

“Is your wife going to keep on seeing that jerk? Did she make you any promises?”

Carter wanted to bang the telephone down. He only squeezed it in his left hand, wordless and angry.

“I don’t know why you don’t talk to me, Phil.”

“Because I really have nothing to say. Sorry.” He put the telephone down.

Then he went into the kitchen and poured a drink of scotch, which he sipped straight. Things hadn’t progressed a jot since he’d had the talk with Hazel Tuesday night. Today was Thursday. There was an atmosphere of quiet enmity between them, which Carter wondered if Timmy had noticed, and thought probably that he had. Carter was really waiting for Hazel to say something, and Hazel wasn’t saying anything more. It’d be a matter of a week, maybe a little more, until another phony engagement turned up—an evening with Phyllis Millen, or with one of the office workers going over the caseloads, something—and she’d spend another evening with Sullivan. Maybe she was with him now, a bit late after one of their
heures bleues
that had begun before 5 this afternoon. Well, Hazel had delivered her answer, really: she was going to keep on seeing Sullivan and sleeping with him. If she had any serious intentions to the contrary, she would have said so by now. Hazel figured he loved her so much, he’d put up with it. That was what it amounted to.

Carter was jolted a little closer to doing what he had been thinking of doing since the Tuesday night conversation. He would talk to Sullivan. Ask him to stop seeing her, or— Or what? The law could scarcely step in and protect his rights here, throw a guard around Hazel. Carter smiled. All he had was good grounds for divorce. But he didn’t have Hazel. It was a funny world.

Hazel came in, glanced at the drink in his hand and said, “Good evening.”

“Evening. Fix you a drink?”

“Just had one, thanks. Our sociologist-at-large Mr. Piers blew in today and insisted on taking me out for a drink. He gave me another sixty-page thing to get through tonight.” She slapped a stapled, mimeographed manuscript down on the coffeetable, then straightened and stretched, smiling. “Sorry. I’m stiff. Can we go out to that Chinese place tonight for dinner? Timmy likes it. I don’t feel like cooking if I’ve got all that tonight.”

“Okay. Sure.” And Carter went in to tell the nice news to Timmy. A Chinese dinner.

But all in all, he felt a trifle better that evening than the two previous evenings, because he had come to a decision. Futile and absurd as it might be, he would ask Sullivan to stop sleeping with his wife. He’d at least get some kind of answer from Sullivan, a promise that he would, a half promise, or a “go to hell.” He debated telephoning Sullivan to make a definite date, and decided not to for the simple reason that Sullivan might duck it or postpone it: Carter had no doubt that Hazel had told him about their conversation of Tuesday night.

On Friday, Carter went directly from his office to Sullivan’s, on the Second Avenue bus. It was raining slightly, and there was a balmy note of spring in the cool air. Carter pressed Sullivan’s bell, then looked at his wristwatch: seventeen minutes to 6. He might even be too early. Or Hazel might be with him, Carter thought, and gave a grimace of a smile. He heard the release bell. Carter took the stairs instead of the small slow elevator, and at Sullivan’s third floor he was nearly knocked down by a man running down the steps. The rude bump brought Carter’s anger to the surface. No murmur of apology from the fellow. He went on down the steps, coattails flying. The door below banged.

“Oh, Phil! Phil!” Sullivan gasped. He was standing in his open doorway, wilting against the door he was clinging to.

Carter frowned. “What happened?” he asked, walking up the rest of the steps.

“Come in.” Sullivan loosened his tie, opened his collar. “Christ. Come in. You saved my life.— Here, let’s have a drink.” He started toward the bar cart in the corner of his living room.

Carter closed the door behind himself. “Saved your life?”

“Sorry, I need this.” Sullivan was lifting a glass of straight scotch to his lips. “That guy— You saw that fellow running down?”

“Yes.”

“One of Gawill’s friends. He rang the doorbell. I didn’t know who it was. I let him in. He said he came to see me about my insurance—or something.” Sullivan licked his lips. Even his lips looked white, and his face looked like death, like a man drained of blood. “Pulled out a knife and started after me. Had me by the shirtfront.”

Carter saw that a button dangled on Sullivan’s jacket, that his shirtfront was crumpled.

“If he hadn’t heard your ring,” Sullivan said, “I’d have been done for.”

Sullivan looked contemptible. This is the lily-livered swine that sleeps with Hazel, Carter thought in a flash, and walked toward Sullivan. Sullivan didn’t know his intentions until Carter was right on him, and then Carter hit him a blow in the side of the neck with his hand. It staggered Sullivan badly. Then Carter blacked out, as he had in his rage in prison after finding Max dead, though he did not think of Max now or of anything. Only when Sullivan was lying on the floor, twisted, gripping his stomach as if hurt, yet not moving, did Carter really see him, and stop. Carter stood for a couple of seconds, getting his breath back, and then he spat at Sullivan, and gave him a kick that missed.

Carter went to the door and turned. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Sullivan was dead. Now Carter saw in the seat of the armchair near Sullivan one of the Greek marble feet. He noticed it only because it didn’t belong there. Then he closed the door and went down the steps. He went down at a normal rate, and was aware that his speed was normal. Who was Gawill’s man, he wondered. The same brawny fellow he’d seen at Gawill’s with the blonde?

On the sidewalk, he felt slightly faint for a moment, and stood and took some breaths of air. Don’t think, for Christ’s sake, he told himself. Don’t think about what you’ve done. Carry it off. He thought the words, carry it off, but without attaching a meaning or any line of planning to them. He lifted his head and walked on to the corner and turned north. It was only a ten-block walk home, and he felt like walking. At a bar, he stopped and had a quick scotch and water.

“Hel-lo, Phil,” Hazel said cheerily when he came in the door. “Do you know what happened today? Something unbelievable.”

“What?” He tossed the
World-Telegram
, which he had just bought, down on the sofa.

“I got a raise.”

“Oh. Congratulations.”

She glanced at him, still smiling. “And in celebration, I bought us some squabs. Saw them in a window and couldn’t resist. Can you manage a squab?”

“I think so. Could you manage a drink?”

“Yes, definitely.”

And everything went quite smoothly, quite pleasantly, until just before 9 o’clock, when the telephone rang.

“Mrs. Carter there, please?” asked a man’s voice.

“Yes, just a minute,” Carter said. “For you, Haze.”

Hazel came in from the kitchen, where she had been stacking the dishes, and took the telephone.

Carter lit a cigarette. He knew what it was.

“My God!” Hazel said. “No . . .
No
. . . Certainly not . . . No, I haven’t.” She looked at Carter, who returned her look quizzically. “I think three days ago, maybe four days, but I spoke to him just this morning . . . Oh—” She sat down on the edge of the armchair seat. “All right . . . All right, of course. Thank you.” She put the telephone down, dropped it off the cradle with a clatter, then put it in the cradle correctly.

“What is it?” Carter asked.

“Mommy, what’s the matter?” Timmy got up from the floor, leaving his books, and walked toward her.

“David’s been killed.”

“Killed?” said Timmy. “In a car?”

“He was murdered,” Hazel said in a shaking voice. “Gawill, it must have been. Gawill or one of his friends. That slimy bastard!” She banged her fist down on the arm of her chair.

Carter brought her a straight scotch.

She took the glass mechanically, but did not drink it. “They said just a couple of hours ago. He had a dinner date with the Laffertys, and they came to pick him up. They got into the house, and a neighbor said he’d heard a strange noise around six like a man falling. So Mr. Lafferty got the super to open the door and they found him.” Her voice grew tight with tears.

“How was he killed?” Carter asked.

“He was hit over the head with something. They think one of the Greek marble things,” Hazel said.

Carter cleared his throat. He was standing between Hazel and the kitchen. “Do they want you to go there?”

“No. They said they might talk to me tomorrow. The Laffertys told them to call me up. They’re calling all his friends, I suppose, but a lot of good that’ll do when they ought to be calling Gawill.” She reached for the telephone and started dialing a number.

“The police are at Sullivan’s?” Carter asked. For the first time, he thought of fingerprints. On the marble thing. Certainly on the doorknob.

Hazel didn’t answer him. “Hello, this is Mrs. Carter. I wanted to tell you—I happen to know David had an enemy. Gregory Gawill. He lives in Queens. I don’t know the address. Just a minute. Phil—what’s Gawill’s address?”

Carter had to think a second, but he knew it. “Seventeen eighty-eight One hundred and forty-seventh Street, Jackson Heights.”

“Seventeen eighty-eight One hundred and forty-seventh Street, Jackson Heights,” Hazel repeated carefully into the telephone.

Siccing them on to Gawill was siccing them right on to himself, Carter knew. The man coming down the stairs must have had a look at him. But Carter realized he wouldn’t be able to identify the man, if he had to. He hadn’t had that much of a look. He had been a little late getting home today. How was he going to explain that, 6:10 or so instead of 6? Anyway, he was going to stick to his story that he’d never been to Sullivan’s apartment, unless the fingerprints made that impossible.

“It’s very complicated,” Hazel was saying into the telephone. “David always knew he was crooked, and Gawill disliked him.” She broke off, listening. “All right . . . You’re very welcome. Can I call you again later tonight? Will somebody be there? . . . Oh . . . All right. You’re welcome. Good-bye.” She hung up. “They’re going directly over to Gawill’s. Not telephoning him.”

“When did it happen?”

“They think between five and seven. I said David usually wasn’t home until after five thirty. It sounds as if someone followed him into his house. I don’t think it’d be Gawill himself—would it?” She looked earnestly at Carter as if he would have the answer.

And she looked ravaged with grief already, Carter thought, in spite of her rather logical words. She wouldn’t have the same expression on her face if something had happened to him, something fatal. Carter shook his head quickly. “I don’t know. I suppose it could have been Gawill.” Fingerprints can settle that, he started to say.

Timmy stood dazedly staring at Hazel, his mouth slightly open. Like a child whose father has just been killed, Carter thought.

“You don’t seem at all shocked,” Hazel said to Carter.

“Shocked!” Carter opened his arms. “What am I supposed to do? Of course I’m shocked.— Are they going to call you again tonight?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” She looked at her wristwatch. “I’ll call the Laffertys later tonight. I—” She got up slowly, one hand at her throat.

“Haze? Feeling faint?” Carter moved closer to her.

“No. Sickish. I think I’ll lie down. But if the telephone rings—”

Carter nodded. “How about some of that drink? It won’t hurt you.”

“No, thanks.” She went into the bathroom.

The telephone was going to ring again tonight, Carter felt sure. Carter started to put his hand on Timmy’s shoulder. Timmy was kneeling by the armchair now, staring at the empty place where Hazel had been. “Timmy, maybe you should think about going to bed, too.”

Timmy’s answer was a great snuffle, then a groan of tears. He put his head down on the seat of the chair. Then suddenly he stood up. “Turn on the radio! Maybe they’ll tell who did it. The TV!”

Carter turned on the television. But he knew nothing about it was going to be on the 10 o’clock news.