Night My Friend (35 page)

“No don’t, don’t shoot,” she screamed, as the gun seemed to explode at her touch. She straightened, turned, half propelled by the force of the bullet, and toppled across the line of bowling machines.

Wayne put a hand to his face, staring at the blood that welled from her bosom, and didn’t move, even when the nearest detective snapped a handcuff on his wrist. “She’s dead,” one of the officers said simply.

“God I didn’t mean to shoot her. She jumped in front of me. You all saw it. I didn’t mean to shoot her.” The cop was very young, and he held the gun now loosely, forgetting it was there.

Arnie walked over and stared down at her, unspeaking, and a detective came up to him. “We’re sorry. Who was she?”

“Just a girl,” Arnie answered.

And a policeman near Craidy said, “She shouldn’t have tried to save him. Who was she, his girlfriend?”

Craidy shook his head, remembering suddenly the unlit cigarette still between his fingers. “No, she was just… involved with people.”

“We’re sorry,” the cop said. “It happens sometimes.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s the only epitaph she’ll get.”

Craidy left them there, and went up the steps to his little room and closed the door behind him. He pressed his forehead against the cooling glass of the window and stared down at them for a long time, unseeing.

S
HE WAS A GIRL LIKE
Cathy, and I suppose that was why I noticed her in the first place.

She was browsing among the remaindered books in a little Greenwich Village shop, her long, dark hair falling in twin columns around her slim, pale face. I could see even from a distance that she had a good figure and showed it—with black stockings, a tight skirt, sweater and a faded leather shoulder bag that would have been out of place anywhere but in the Village.

I watched casually while she purchased a copy of
Art Treasures of the World
and a book of O’Hara short stories, then followed her into the evening turmoil of Eighth Street. “Pardon me,” I said, catching up with her at the corner, “but don’t I know you?”

She turned her pale face toward me with a wise smile, as if she’d heard that line many times before. “I don’t believe so.”

“You don’t have a sister named Cathy?”

“No.”

“I used to know a girl who looked a great deal like you. I thought it might have been your sister.”

She shifted the package of books to her other arm. “I don’t have a sister. Sorry.”

“Well… Could I perhaps buy you a drink anyway?”

She almost seemed to relax at my words, as if knowing how to cope with a familiar situation. “I guess I’m never one to refuse a drink. But I am in a hurry. How about right in here?”

It was a gloomy little bar, but once inside she seemed to relax even more. She propped her elbow on the package of books and smiled at me across the table. “Would you mind telling me your name—I mean now that you’ve picked me up?”

“Tony,” I told her. “Tony Gunther. And you’re…?”

“Not Cathy. Or her sister. My name’s Laura Ring.”

“You live here in the Village, Laura?”

She nodded. “I have an apartment nearby.” Careful not to give me the address. Not quite yet.

“I’ve always thought I’d like to live in the Village.”

“You’re not from New York. I can tell that from your accent.”

“Chicago. I’m just here bumming around for a while. You go to college?”

She chuckled. “Thanks for the compliment. I’ve been out of college more than five years. No, I paint a little, work in the department stores at Christmastime, that sort of thing. I was even in an Off Broadway show last year.”

“I’ll bet you were good.”

She sipped her beer and eyed me from under the hair. “I’m good at anything I try. But I do have to be going. Big date tonight.”

“Just when we’ve met?”

“Oh, all right, then. Phone me, Tony. My number’s in the book.”

“Tomorrow?”

The eyes studied me. “If you’d like.” Then she was gone, leaving only an empty beer glass and two half-finished cigarette butts. That was the beginning of it.

The following day was Sunday—one of those playful November days when you almost think summer might be returning to Manhattan. I called Laura Ring just after noon. If she was the kind of girl to go to church, she was already home, and she accepted my invitation for an afternoon stroll without hesitation.

“Pick me up here,” she told me. “At 2 or so.”

I was there on the dot, finding her on the third floor of a dim and dismal building just around the corner from Eighth Street. But the apartment itself surprised me. It was furnished in a simple but modern style that showed a good deal of taste, with framed reproductions of Klee and Picasso on one wall and a bookcase full of art volumes and modern authors on the other.

“You live here alone?” I asked. “It’s very nice.”

“I had a roommate till a few months ago. Do you want a drink? In return for the one you bought me last night?”

I accepted a Scotch on the rocks and settled down to enjoy myself. “You know, I wasn’t kidding last night. You do remind me of a girl I used to know.”

“Yes. Tell me about this Cathy.”

“Oh, she looked a lot like you. Remarkably so. Enough to be your sister.”

“This was in Chicago?”

I nodded, sipping my drink. It was expensive Scotch.

“I was still under 25 at the time, and something of a kid, I suppose. Cathy was the kind of a girl I dreamed of meeting, and I fell for her, hard. That was a mistake.”

“Why?”

I didn’t really want to tell her any more. “Oh, we got involved in a sort of business deal and I came out on the short end.” Then, “Say, how about that walk?”

“All right. Over to Washington Square?”

We walked through the park, kicking leaves from our path, talking about the latest books and about art. She was way ahead of me on that subject.

“You said you painted a little?”

“Very little. But right now I’m involved in something quite interesting, Tony. A man—a sort of dealer—has commissioned me to obtain certain works of art.”

She talked vaguely about her work, and I talked vaguely about the reasons I’d left Chicago. Things didn’t get definite until we returned to her apartment toward evening.

I saw a lot of Laura Ring after that. We took in a few shows uptown, and a greater number of colorful Village bars, but mostly we just stayed around her apartment because I liked it there. It was perhaps three weeks after I’d first met her that she asked me the question.

“Tony?”

“Yes?”

“Were you ever in trouble with the police?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

“I don’t know. There are always a lot of police on patrol in the Village. Sometimes when we pass them, you seem to tense up.”

I lit a cigarette and pondered what to tell her. Finally I decided on the truth, since she’d guessed it anyway.

“It was that thing I mentioned, back in Chicago with Cathy. She was a wild sort of girl, and one night after a few drinks we stole a car. We were going to head west with it. We got as far as a motel in Iowa. I woke up in the morning to find that Cathy had skipped out with my money and left me with the hot car. The police found it in the motel parking lot. Since we’d crossed the state line, it was a Federal offense, and I ended up with a year and a day in jail. They let me out early, but it was still a bit of a blow. I’d never been in trouble before.”

She asked me how old I was when this had happened.

“Twenty-four. Old enough to know better.”

“What ever happened to Cathy?”

“I heard from her once, after I got out of jail. She was living in San Francisco, married to an insurance man. I don’t know why she even bothered to write to me. I never answered her.”

She patted my knee. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I guess I’m over it now. Except for the nerves when I see a cop.”

Laura said nothing more about it that night, but the next time I saw her, a few days later, she began the conversation with a question. “Tony, could I trust you? Could I talk to you about a business deal and rely on your silence?”

“I guess so,” I answered with a smile. “But our relationship at this point is hardly a business one.”

“I told you a while back that I was commissioned by a man to obtain certain works of art. There’s something coming up that needs a man—someone like you.”

Her voice was dead serious, and I tried to read something in the deep luster of her eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“Tony—would you be willing to risk another run-in with the police? What I have in mind could be dangerous.”

I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’d be a second offender. I could get 20 years.”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “It would be worth $10,000 for a single night’s work.”

I stopped shaking my head. “Tell me about it. I’m not promising a thing, but tell me about it.”

She walked to the bookcase and brought back an oversize volume of color plates. The one she opened to showed a sort of cup or chalice encrusted with jewels. “Have you ever heard of the Institute for Medieval Studies?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“They maintain a sort of museum in North Jersey, filled to overflowing with priceless art objects imported from Europe. This particular piece is the chalice of Salisbury Cathedral. Those jewels along the side are worth a fortune in themselves.”

“Don’t talk about fortunes. How many dollars?”

“Who knows? Maybe it’s priceless. In any event, the man who hired me will pay $70,000 for it. Out of that, I’ll pay you 10.”

I looked at her steadily. “You’re planning to steal this thing from the museum, right?”

“Tony, you can get out now if you want.”

“Was this all you wanted me for? From the beginning?”

“Of course not! But you’re here and I need someone. I can’t do it alone.”

“All right,” I said. “Tell me.”

It’s hard to explain why I went along with her at that moment. Perhaps it was only because the alternative—to walk out of her apartment and her life—had very little appeal for me.

Laura got up and walked back to the bookcase. This time she produced a rolled-up map of the North Jersey countryside. I’d driven over there once or twice since coming east, but I didn’t really know the area.

“Here,” she said, pointing to a junction of two roads. “This is the state highway, and over in this section is the Institute. You’ll notice I’ve drawn in a large building with a smaller one some distance behind it. The smaller one is our goal—where the chalice is.”

As she talked, her long hair fell occasionally over her face. She brushed it back with a quick, impatient gesture that I liked. At that point I think I would have followed her into hell itself. “What is it?” I asked.

“A rebuilt chapel, transported here from Spain. They use it as a showcase for some of their special treasures.”

“And you’re going to rob it?”

She lifted her eyes to mine. “We are.”

I got up and lit a cigarette and started stalking about the room. “Even if I agreed to it, the thing’s probably impossible. Don’t they have guards, alarms?”

“They have guards
and
alarms
and
spotlights. But it can be done, by two people.”

“How?”

“The alarms are on the doors and bottom windows only. There’s one window around the back, maybe 20 feet above the ground, that has only a metal screen over it—no alarm. The screen can easily be cut.”

“Is the window kept locked?”

“It doesn’t open. It’s stained glass, from this church in Spain. But the windows are all leaded into place. With a small torch you can melt the leading and lift the whole thing out.”

“Lot simpler to break it.”

“Not the way I have things worked out, Tony. The place is closed to the public on Mondays, and the guards only patrol the outside. If we pull the job on a Sunday night, get the chalice and replace the window, the theft won’t even be discovered till Tuesday!”

“How often do the guards check the building?”

“Once an hour. Plenty of time for fast workers.”

“How do I reach the window in the first place?”

“Did you ever see these trucks Con Ed uses to change street lights?”

Just about then I knew I was hooked. She had the thing worked out with a clockwork precision that amazed me. Whatever the risks, whatever the gain, I was in it with her right up to the end.

On Saturday night I dreamed about Cathy. It was the first time in nearly a year that she’d intruded on my sleep, and I didn’t like it. She was standing in the doorway of that motel, looking the way I remembered her. She was laughing.

I rolled out of bed a little before noon, glanced out at the sunny street where churchgoers strolled briskly against the autumn breeze, and opened a can of beer. It tasted terrible before breakfast.

By midafternoon I was at Laura’s apartment, ready for the big adventure. She greeted me through the closed door, then opened it carefully to reveal herself in an unflattering male uniform.

“Come on in,” she urged. “I’ve got yours, too.”

“Where’d you get them?”

“Same place as the truck. I know a fellow with the New Jersey power company. This one’s off duty on Sundays.”

“How much did you tell him?”

She smiled her wise smile. She seemed very wise just then. “Nothing. The poor boy thought he loved me once. He’d do anything I asked. It’s good to have a few like that around. They come in so handy.”

I sat down and lit a cigarette. “I’m learning new things about you every day.”

“You’ve only scratched the surface, Tony. Now take off your clothes. I’ve got the other uniform in here.”

It fit me better than I’d expected. “I guess it’s all right. The pants are a bit tight.”

She frowned at that. “You think you’ll be able to climb down the rope? And back up again?”

“Sure,” I said, hoping silently that I was still in condition. “Tell me something, though. This guy who’s buying the chalice—how’s he going to get rid of something as famous as that?”

“He doesn’t intend to get rid of it. He’ll just keep it to look at, and maybe someday sell it secretly to another collector. There are men like that. They buy paintings, statues, rare books, anything that could be considered an art treasure.”