Night Shift (20 page)

Am I crazy, then?

If he was, Chip Osway was, too. That thought came to him as he was getting into his car, and a bolt of excitement went through him.

Of course! Lawson and Garcia had threatened him in Chip Osway's presence. That might not stand up in court, but it would get the two of them suspended if he could get Chip to repeat his story in Fenton's office. And he was almost sure he could get Chip to do that. Chip had his own reasons for wanting them far away.

He was driving into the parking lot when he thought about what had happened to Billy Stearns and Kathy Slavin.

During his free period, he went up to the office and leaned over the registration secretary's desk. She was doing the absence list.

“Chip Osway here today?” he asked casually.

“Chip . . . ?” She looked at him doubtfully.

“Charles Osway,” Jim amended. “Chip's a nickname.”

She leafed through a pile of slips, glanced at one, and pulled it out. “He's absent, Mr. Norman.”

“Can you get me his phone number?”

She pushed her pencil into her hair and said, “Certainly.” She dug it out of the O file and handed it to him. Jim dialed the number on an office phone.

The phone rang a dozen times and he was about to hang up when a rough, sleep-blurred voice said, “Yeah?”

“Mr. Osway?”

“Barry Osway's been dead six years. I'm Gary Denkinger.”

“Are you Chip Osway's stepfather?”

“What'd he do?”

“Pardon?”

“He's run off. I want to know what he did.”

“So far as I know, nothing. I just wanted to talk with him. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“Naw, I work nights. I don't know none of his friends.”

“Any idea at a—”

“Nope. He took the old suitcase and fifty bucks he saved up from stealin' car parts or sellin' dope or whatever these kids do for money. Gone to San Francisco to be a hippie for all I know.”

“If you hear from him, will you call me at school? Jim Norman, English wing.”

“Sure will.”

Jim put the phone down. The registration secretary looked up and offered a quick meaningless smile. Jim didn't smile back.

Two days later, the words “left school” appeared after Chip Osway's name on the morning attendance slip. Jim began to wait for Simmons to show up with a new folder. A week later he did.

He looked dully down at the picture. No question about this one. The crew cut had been replaced by long hair, but it was still blond. And the face was the same, Vincent Corey. Vinnie, to his friends and intimates. He stared up at Jim from the picture, an insolent grin on his lips.

When he approached his period-seven class, his heart was thudding gravely in his chest. Lawson and Garcia and Vinnie Corey were standing by the bulletin board outside the door—they all straightened when he came toward them.

Vinnie smiled his insolent smile, but his eyes were as cold and dead as ice floes. “You must be Mr. Norman. Hi, Norm.”

Lawson and Garcia tittered.

“I'm Mr. Norman,” Jim said, ignoring the hand that Vinnie had put out. “You'll remember that?”

“Sure, I'll remember it. How's your brother?”

Jim froze. He felt his bladder loosen, and as if from far away, from down a long corridor somewhere in his cranium, he heard a ghostly voice:
Look, Vinnie, he wet himself!

“What do you know about my brother?” he asked thickly.

“Nothin',” Vinnie said. “Nothin' much.” They smiled at him with their empty dangerous smiles.

The bell rang and they sauntered inside.

Drugstore phone booth, ten o'clock that night.

“Operator, I want to call the police station in Stratford, Connecticut. No, I don't know the number.”

Clickings on the line. Conferences.

The policeman had been Mr. Nell. In those days he had been white-haired, perhaps in his mid-fifties. Hard to tell when you were just a kid. Their father was dead, and somehow Mr. Nell had known that.

Call me Mr. Nell, boys.

Jim and his brother met at lunchtime every day and they went into the Stratford Diner to eat their bag lunches. Mom gave them each a nickel to buy milk—that was before school milk programs started. And sometimes Mr. Nell would come in, his leather belt creaking with the weight of his belly and his .38 revolver, and buy them each a pie a la mode.

Where were you when they stabbed my brother, Mr. Nell?

A connection was made. The phone rang once.

“Stratford Police.”

“Hello. My name is James Norman, Officer. I'm calling long-distance.” He named the city. “I want to know if you can give me a line on a man who would have been on the force around 1957.”

“Hold the line a moment, Mr. Norman.”

A pause, then a new voice.

“I'm Sergeant Morton Livingston, Mr. Norman. Who are you trying to locate?”

“Well,” Jim said, “us kids just called him Mr. Nell. Does that—”

“Hell, yes! Don Nell's retired now. He's seventy-three or -four.”

“Does he still live in Stratford?”

“Yes, over on Barnum Avenue. Would you like the address?”

“And the phone number, if you have it.”

“Okay. Did you know Don?”

“He used to buy my brother and me apple pie a la mode down at the Stratford Diner.”

“Christ, that's been gone ten years. Wait a minute.” He came back on the phone and read an address and a phone number. Jim jotted them down, thanked Livingston, and hung up.

He dialed O again, gave the number, and waited. When the phone began to ring, a sudden hot tension filled him and he leaned forward, turning instinctively away from the drugstore soda fountain, although there was no one there but a plump teen-age girl reading a magazine.

The phone was picked up and a rich, masculine voice, sounding not at all old, said, “Hello?” That single word set off a dusty chain reaction of memories and emotions, as startling as the Pavlovian reaction that can be set off by hearing an old record on the radio.

“Mr. Nell? Donald Nell?”

“Yes.”

“My name is James Norman, Mr. Nell. Do you remember me, by any chance?”

“Yes,” the voice responded immediately. “Pie à la mode. Your brother was killed . . . knifed. A shame. He was a lovely boy.”

Jim collapsed against one of the booth's glass walls. The tension's sudden departure left him as weak as a stuffed toy. He found himself on the verge of spilling everything, and he bit the urge back desperately.

“Mr. Nell, those boys were never caught.”

“No,” Nell said. “We did have suspects. As I recall, we had a lineup at a Bridgeport police station.”

“Were those suspects identified to me by name?”

“No. The procedure at a police showup was to address the participants by number. What's your interest in this now, Mr. Norman?”

“Let me throw some names at you,” Jim said. “I want to know if they ring a bell in connection with the case.”

“Son, I wouldn't—”

“You might,” Jim said, beginning to feel a trifle desperate. “Robert Lawson, David Garcia, Vincent Corey. Do any of those—”

“Corey,” Mr. Nell said flatly. “I remember him. Vinnie the Viper. Yes, we had him up on that. His mother alibied him. I don't get anything from Robert Lawson. That could be anyone's name. But Garcia . . . that rings a bell. I'm not sure why. Hell. I'm old.” He sounded disgusted.

“Mr. Nell, is there any way you could check on those boys?”

“Well, of course, they wouldn't be boys anymore.”

Oh, yeah?

“Listen, Jimmy. Has one of those boys popped up and started harassing you?”

“I don't know. Some strange things have been happening. Things connected with the stabbing of my brother.”

“What things?”

“Mr. Nell, I can't tell you. You'd think I was crazy.”

His reply, quick, firm, interested: “Are you?”

Jim paused. “No,” he said.

“Okay, I can check the names through Stratford R&I. Where can I get in touch?”

Jim gave his home number. “You'd be most likely to catch me on Tuesday night.” He was in almost every night, but on Tuesday evenings Sally went to her pottery class.

“What are you doing these days, Jimmy?”

“Teaching school.”

“Good. This might take a few days, you know. I'm retired now.”

“You sound just the same.”

“Ah, but if you could see me!” He chuckled. “D'you still like a good piece of pie a la mode, Jimmy?”

“Sure,” Jim said. It was a lie. He hated pie a la mode.

“I'm glad to hear that. Well, if there's nothing else, I'll—”

“There is one more thing. Is there a Milford High in Stratford?”

“Not that I know of.”

“That's what I—”

“Only thing name of Milford around here is Milford Cemetery out on the Ash Heights Road. And no one ever graduated from there.” He chuckled dryly, and to Jim's ears it sounded like the sudden rattle of bones in a pit.

“Thank you,” he heard himself saying. “Goodbye.”

Mr. Nell was gone. The operator asked him to deposit sixty cents, and he put it in automatically. He turned, and stared into a horrid, squashed face plastered up against the glass, framed in two spread hands, the splayed fingers flattened white against the glass, as was the tip of the nose.

It was Vinnie, grinning at him.

Jim screamed.

Class again.

Living with Lit was doing a composition, and most of them were bent sweatily over their papers, putting their thoughts grimly down on the page, as if chopping wood. All but three. Robert Lawson, sitting in Billy Stearns's seat, David Garcia in Kathy Slavin's, Vinnie Corey in Chip Osway's. They sat with their blank papers in front of them, watching him.

A moment before the bell, Jim said softly, “I want to talk to you for a minute after class, Mr. Corey.”

“Sure, Norm.”

Lawson and Garcia tittered noisily, but the rest of the class did not. When the bell rang, they passed in their papers and fairly bolted through the door. Lawson and Garcia lingered, and Jim felt his belly tighten.

Is it going to be now?

Then Lawson nodded at Vinnie. “See you later.”

“Yeah.”

They left. Lawson closed the door, and from beyond the frosted glass, David Garcia suddenly yelled hoarsely,
“Norm eats it!”
Vinnie looked at the door, then back at Jim. He smiled.

He said, “I was wondering if you'd ever get down to it.”

“Really?” Jim said.

“Scared you the other night in the phone both, right, dad?”

“No one says dad anymore, Vinnie. It's not cool. Like cool's not cool. It's as dead as Buddy Holly.”

“I talk the way I want,” Vinnie said.

“Where's the other one? The guy with the funny red hair.”

“Split, man.” But under his studied unconcern, Jim sensed a wariness.

“He's alive, isn't he? That's why he's not here. He's alive and he's thirty-two or -three, the way you would be if—”

“Bleach was always a drag. He's nothin'.” Vinnie sat up behind his desk and put his hands down flat on the old graffiti. His eyes glittered. “Man, I remember you at that lineup. You looked ready to piss your little old corduroy pants. I seen you lookin' at me and Davie. I put the hex on you.”

“I suppose you did,” Jim said. “You gave me sixteen years of bad dreams. Wasn't that enough? Why now? Why me?”

Vinnie looked puzzled, and then smiled again. “Because you're unfinished business, man. You got to be cleaned up.”

“Where were you?” Jim asked. “Before.”

Vinnie's lips thinned. “We ain't talkin' about that. Dig?”

“They dug
you
a hole, didn't they, Vinnie? Six feet deep. Right in the Milford Cemetery. Six feet of—”

“You shut up!”

He was on his feet. The desk fell over in the aisle.

“It's not going to be easy,” Jim said. “I'm not going to make it easy for you.”

“We're gonna kill you, dad. You'll find out about that hole.”

“Get out of here.”

“Maybe that little wifey of yours, too.”

“You goddamn punk, if you touch her—” He started forward blindly, feeling violated and terrified by the mention of Sally.

Vinnie grinned and started for the door. “Just be cool. Cool as a fool.” He tittered.

“If you touch my wife, I'll kill you.”

Vinnie's grin widened. “Kill me? Man, I thought you knew, I'm already dead.”

He left. His footfalls echoed in the corridor for a long time.

“What are you reading, hon?”

Jim held the binding of the book,
Raising Demons,
out for her to read.

“Yuck.” She turned back to the mirror to check her hair.

“Will you take a taxi home?” he asked.

“It's only four blocks. Besides, the walk is good for my figure.”

“Someone grabbed one of my girls over on Summer Street,” he lied. “She thinks the object was rape.”

“Really? Who?”

“Dianne Snow,” he said, making a name up at random. “She's a levelheaded girl. Treat yourself to a taxi, okay?”

“Okay,” she said. She stopped at his chair, knelt, put her hands on his cheeks and looked into his eyes. “What's the matter, Jim?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes. Something is.”

“Nothing I can't handle.”

“Is it something . . . about your brother?”

A draft of terror blew over him, as if an inner door had been opened. “Why do you say that?”

“You were moaning his name in your sleep last night.
Wayne, Wayne,
you were saying.
Run, Wayne.”

“It's nothing.”

But it wasn't. They both knew it. He watched her go.

Mr. Nell called at quarter past eight. “You don't have to worry about those guys,” he said. “They're all dead.”