In Cold Blood (14 page)

As the years went by, the particular torments from which the bird delivered him altered; others—older children, his father, a faithless girl, a sergeant he’d known in the Army—replaced the nuns, but the parrot remained, a hovering avenger. Thus, the snake, that custodian of the diamond-bearing tree, never finished devouring him but was itself always devoured. And afterward the blessed ascent! Ascension to a paradise that in one version was merely “a feeling,” a sense of power, of unassailable superiority—sensations that in another version were transposed into “A real place. Like out of a movie. Maybe that’s where I
did
see it—remembered it from a movie. Because where else would I have seen a garden like that? With white marble steps? Fountains? And away down below, if you go to the edge of the garden, you can see the ocean. Terrific! Like around Carmel, California. The best thing, though—well, it’s a long, long table. You never imagined so much food. Oysters. Turkeys. Hot dogs. Fruit you could make into a million fruit cups. And, listen—it’s every bit
free
. I mean, I don’t have to be afraid to touch it. I can eat as much as I want, and it won’t cost a cent. That’s how I know where I am.”)

Dick said, “I’m a normal. I only dream about blond chicken. Speaking of which, you hear about the nanny goat’s nightmare?” That was Dick—always ready with a dirty joke on any subject. But he told the joke well, and Perry, though he was in some measure a prude, could not help laughing, as always.

SPEAKING OF HER FRIENDSHIP WITH Nancy Clutter, Susan Kidwell said: “We were like sisters. At least, that’s how I felt about her—as though she were my sister. I couldn’t go to school—not those first few days. I stayed out of school until after the funeral. So did Bobby Rupp. For a while Bobby and I were always together. He’s a nice boy—he has a good heart—but nothing very terrible had ever happened to him before. Like losing anyone he’d loved. And then, on top of it, having to take a lie-detector test. I don’t mean he was bitter about that; he realized the police were doing what they had to do. Some hard things, two or three, had already happened to me, but not to him, so it was a shock when he found out maybe life isn’t one long basketball game. Mostly, we just drove around in his old Ford. Up and down the highway. Out to the airport and back. Or we’d go to the Cree-Mee—that’s a drive-in—and sit in the car, order a Coke, listen to the radio. The radio was always playing;
we
didn’t have anything to say ourselves. Except once in a while Bobby said how much he’d loved Nancy, and how he could never care about another girl. Well, I was sure Nancy wouldn’t have wanted that, and I told him so. I remember—I think it was Monday—we drove down to the river. We parked on the bridge. You can see the house from there—the Clutter house. And part of the land—Mr. Clutter’s fruit orchard, and the wheat fields going away. Way off in one of the fields a bonfire was burning; they were burning stuff from the house. Everywhere you looked, there was something to remind you. Men with nets and poles were fishing along the banks of the river, but not fishing for fish. Bobby said they were looking for the weapons. The knife. The gun.

“Nancy loved the river. Summer nights we used to ride double on Nancy’s horse, Babe—that old fat gray? Ride straight to the river and right into the water. Then Babe would wade along in the shallow part while we played our flutes and sang. Got cool. I keep wondering, Gosh, what will become of her? Babe. A lady from Garden City took Kenyon’s dog. Took Teddy. He ran away—found his way back to Holcomb. But she came and got
him again. And I have Nancy’s cat—Evinrude. But Babe. I suppose they’ll sell her. Wouldn’t Nancy hate that? Wouldn’t she be
furious?
Another day, the day before the funeral, Bobby and I were sitting by the railroad tracks. Watching the trains go by. Real stupid. Like sheep in a blizzard. When suddenly Bobby woke up and said, ‘We ought to go see Nancy. We ought to be with her.’ So we drove to Garden City—went to the Phillips’ Funeral Home, there on Main Street. I think Bobby’s kid brother was with us. Yes, I’m sure he was. Because I remember we picked him up after school. And I remember he said how there wasn’t going to be any school the next day, so all the Holcomb kids could go to the funeral. And he kept telling us what the kids thought. He said the kids were convinced it was the work of ‘a hired killer.’ I didn’t want to hear about it. Just gossip and talk—everything Nancy despised. Anyway, I don’t much care who did it. Somehow it seems beside the point. My friend is gone. Knowing who killed her isn’t going to bring her back. What else matters? They wouldn’t let us. At the funeral parlor, I mean. They said no one could ‘view the family.’ Except the relatives. But Bobby insisted, and finally the undertaker—he knew Bobby, and, I guess, felt sorry for him—he said all right, be quiet about it, but come on in. Now I wish we hadn’t.”

The four coffins, which quite filled the small, flower-crowded parlor, were to be sealed at the funeral services—very understandably, for despite the care taken with the appearance of the victims, the effect achieved was disquieting. Nancy wore her dress of cherry-red velvet, her brother a bright plaid shirt; the parents were more sedately attired, Mr. Clutter in navy-blue flannel, his wife in navy-blue crepe; and—and it was this, especially, that lent the scene an awful aura—the head of each was completely encased in cotton, a swollen cocoon twice the size of an ordinary blown-up balloon, and the cotton, because it had been sprayed with a glossy substance, twinkled like Christmas-tree snow.

Susan at once retreated. “I went outside and waited in the car,” she recalled. “Across the street a man was raking leaves. I kept looking at him. Because I didn’t want to close my eyes. I thought,
If I do I’ll faint. So I watched him rake leaves and burn them. Watched, without really seeing him. Because all I could see was the dress. I knew it so well. I helped her pick the material. It was her own design, and she sewed it herself. I remember how excited she was the first time she wore it. At a party. All I could see was Nancy’s red velvet. And Nancy in it. Dancing.”

THE KANSAS CITY
STAR
PRINTED a lengthy account of the Clutter funeral, but the edition containing the article was two days old before Perry, lying abed in a hotel room, got around to reading it. Even so, he merely skimmed through, skipped about among the paragraphs: “A thousand persons, the largest crowd in the five-year history of the First Methodist Church, attended services for the four victims today.… Several classmates of Nancy’s from Holcomb High School wept as the Reverend Leonard Cowan said: ‘God offers us courage, love and hope even though we walk through the shadows of the valley of death. I’m sure he was with them in their last hours. Jesus has never promised us we would not suffer pain or sorrow but He has always said He would be there to help us bear the sorrow and the pain.’ … On the unseasonably warm day, about six hundred persons went to the Valley View Cemetery on the north edge of this city. There, at graveside services, they recited the Lord’s Prayer. Their voices, massed together in a low whisper, could be heard throughout the cemetery.”

A thousand people! Perry was impressed. He wondered how much the funeral had cost. Money was greatly on his mind, though not as relentlessly as it had been earlier in the day—a day he’d begun “without the price of a cat’s miaow.” The situation had improved since then; thanks to Dick, he and Dick now possessed “a pretty fair stake”—enough to get them to Mexico.

Dick! Smooth. Smart. Yes, you had to hand it to him. Christ, it was incredible how he could “con a guy.” Like the clerk in the Kansas City, Missouri, clothing store, the first of the places Dick had decided to “hit.” As for Perry, he’d never tried to “pass a check.” He was nervous, but Dick told him, “All I want you to do is stand there. Don’t laugh, and don’t be surprised at anything I say. You got to play these things by ear.” For the task proposed, it seemed, Dick had perfect pitch. He breezed in, breezily introduced Perry to the clerk as “a friend of mine about to get married,” and went on, “I’m his best man. Helping him kind of shop around for the clothes he’ll want. Ha-ha, what you might say his—ha-ha—trousseau.” The salesman “ate it up,” and soon Perry, stripped of his denim trousers, was trying on a gloomy suit that the clerk considered “ideal for an informal ceremony.” After commenting on the customer’s oddly proportioned figure—the oversized torso supported by the undersized legs—he added, “I’m afraid we haven’t anything that would fit without alteration.” Oh, said Dick, that was O.K., there was plenty of time—the wedding was “a week tomorrow.” That settled, they then selected a gaudy array of jackets and slacks regarded as appropriate for what was to be, according to Dick, a Florida honeymoon. “You know the Eden Roc?” Dick said to the salesman. “In Miami Beach? They got reservations. A present from her folks—two weeks at forty bucks a day. How about that? An ugly runt like him, he’s making it with a honey she’s not only built but loaded. While guys like you and me, good-lookin’ guys …” The clerk presented the bill. Dick reached in his hip pocket, frowned, snapped his fingers, and said, “Hot damn! I forgot my wallet.” Which to his partner seemed a ploy so feeble that it couldn’t possibly “fool a day-old nigger.” The clerk, apparently, was not of that opinion, for he produced a blank check, and when Dick made it out for eighty dollars more than the bill totaled, instantly paid over the difference in cash.

Outside, Dick said, “So you’re going to get married next week? Well, you’ll need a ring.” Moments later, riding in Dick’s aged Chevrolet, they arrived at a store named
Best Jewelry
. From there, after purchasing by check a diamond engagement ring and
a diamond wedding band, they drove to a pawnshop to dispose of these items. Perry was sorry to see them go. He’d begun to half credit the make-believe bride, though in his conception of her, as opposed to Dick’s, she was not rich, not beautiful; rather, she was nicely groomed, gently spoken, was conceivably “a college graduate,” in any event “a very intellectual type”—a sort of girl he’d always wanted to meet but in fact never had.

Unless you counted Cookie, the nurse he’d known when he was hospitalized as a result of his motorcycle accident. A swell kid, Cookie, and she had liked him, pitied him, babied him, inspired him to read “serious literature”—
Gone with the Wind, This Is My Beloved
. Sexual episodes of a strange and stealthy nature had occurred, and love had been mentioned, and marriage, too, but eventually, when his injuries had mended, he’d told her goodbye and given her, by way of explanation, a poem he pretended to have written:

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,

       A race that can’t stay still;

So they break the hearts of kith and kin;

       And they roam the world at will.

They range the field and they rove the flood,

       And they climb the mountain’s crest;

Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,

       And they don’t know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;

       They are strong and brave and true;

But they’re always tired of the things that are,

       And they want the strange and new.

He had not seen her again, or ever heard from or of her, yet several years later he’d had her name tattooed on his arm, and once, when Dick asked who “Cookie” was, he’d said, “Nobody. A girl I almost married.” (That Dick had been married—married twice—and had fathered three sons was something he envied. A wife, children—those were experiences “a man ought to have,” even if, as with Dick, they didn’t “make him happy or do him any good.”)

The rings were pawned for a hundred and fifty dollars. They visited another jewelry store, Goldman’s, and sauntered out of there with a man’s gold wristwatch. Next stop, an Elko Camera Store, where they “bought” an elaborate motion-picture camera. “Cameras are your best investment,” Dick informed Perry. “Easiest thing to hock or sell. Cameras and TV sets.” This being the case, they decided to obtain several of the latter, and, having completed the mission, went on to attack a few more clothing emporiums—Shepherd & Foster’s, Rothschild’s, Shopper’s Paradise. By sundown, when the stores were closing, their pockets were filled with cash and the car was heaped with salable, pawn-able wares. Surveying this harvest of shirts and cigarette lighters, expensive machinery and cheap cuff links, Perry felt elatedly tall—now Mexico, a new chance, a “really living” life. But Dick seemed depressed. He shrugged off Perry’s praises (“I mean it, Dick. You were amazing. Half the time I believed you myself”). And Perry was puzzled; he could not fathom why Dick, usually so full of himself, should suddenly, when he had good cause to gloat, be meek, look wilted and sad. Perry said, “I’ll stand you a drink.”

They stopped at a bar. Dick drank three Orange Blossoms. After the third, he abruptly asked, “What about Dad? I feel—oh, Jesus, he’s such a good old guy. And my mother—well, you saw her. What about
them?
Me, I’ll be off in Mexico. Or wherever. But they’ll be right here when those checks start to bounce. I know Dad. He’ll want to make them good. Like he tried to before. And he can’t—he’s old and he’s sick, he ain’t got anything.”

“I sympathize with that,” said Perry truthfully. Without being kind, he was sentimental, and Dick’s affection for his parents, his professed concern for them, did indeed touch him. “But hell, Dick. It’s very simple,” Perry said. “
We
can pay off the checks. Once we’re in Mexico, once we get started down there, we’ll make money. Lots of it.”

“How?”

“How?”—what could Dick mean? The question dazed Perry. After all, such a rich assortment of ventures had been discussed. Prospecting for gold, skin-diving for sunken treasure—these were but two of the projects Perry had ardently proposed. And there
were others. The boat, for instance. They had often talked of a deep-sea-fishing boat, which they would buy, man themselves, and rent to vacationers—this though neither had ever skippered a canoe or hooked a guppy. Then, too, there was quick money to be made chauffeuring stolen cars across South American borders. (“You get paid five hundred bucks a trip,” or so Perry had read somewhere.) But of the many replies he might have made, he chose to remind Dick of the fortune awaiting them on Cocos Island, a land speck off the coast of Costa Rica. “No fooling, Dick,” Perry said. “This is authentic. I’ve got a map. I’ve got the whole history. It was buried there back in 1821—Peruvian bullion, jewelry. Sixty million dollars—that’s what they say it’s worth. Even if we didn’t find all of it, even if we found only some of it—Are you with me, Dick?” Heretofore, Dick had always encouraged him, listened attentively to his talk of maps, tales of treasure, but now—and it had not occurred to him before—he wondered if all along Dick had only been
pretending
, just kidding him.