Solomon's Vineyard (10 page)

I gave her one over the kidneys. She grunted and clinched with me.
She bit my arm until the blood came. I slapped her. She put her knee in
my groin. It hurt. I lost my balance, grabbed for her, and we both went
down. We rolled around on the dirty floor of the shack, both panting.
She was hard to hold, and every time she got loose she'd hit or kick or
bite me. I got over her, holding her down on the floor. She looked
beautiful and wild. She bit my arm again and I slugged her in the ribs.
She moaned, and then struggled free. My hand caught in the scarlet
shirt. The silk tore to her navel.

“Yes,” she said.

I got the idea. I ripped the shirt off her, she fighting all the time
and liking it. I ripped at her clothes, not caring how much I hurt her.
She squirmed on the dirty floor, panting. There was blood on her mouth.
I don't know if it was mine or hers. It tasted sweet. Suddenly she
stopped moving.

“Now,” she said. “Now, goddam you. Now!”

Later we lay on the floor.

“I don't understand you,” I said.

“It's fun, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Then what do you care?”

We had a time getting the clothes to cover her. I had torn them all
to pieces. We didn't have any pins. I found some fish-hooks and
fastened the black pants to the shirt. She helped me. Then I put the
hooks through the worst tears in the shirt. I backed away to look at
her. There was a bad rip over her right shoulder. I fastened it and
then I kissed her neck. I would have kissed her mouth, but she wouldn't
lei me.

“What's the matter?”

“I don't want you to.”

“All right.”

I backed away again. From a distance you wouldn't have known anything
was wrong.

“I should take up dressmaking,” I said.

“You should take up wrestling,” she said. “I feel as though I'd been
through a mangle.”

“You asked for it, baby.”

“Sure. I love it.”

“I love it too.”

It was bright outside. The sun was well up in the sky. There was no
wind; the lake looked like dark glass. Some reeds grew near the shore.
We walked to the car.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“The Vineyard.”

I started the engine and backed around so I would be heading for the
road. The tyres bumped over something. I saw it was the pile of bailing
wire and the rocks. That gave me a shock. I'd forgotten how close I'd
been to the lake. I wondered how many other guys lay under that slick
water, bound with wire and held down by rocks. I drove to the road.

“To the right,” she said.

She settled down in the front seat, watching me through half-closed
eyes. She smiled a little. Suddenly I felt scared of her. I don't know
why, but I got a feeling. There was no sense to it. She couldn't do
anything to me. But there it was.

I drove along the road, passing a few cars. The electric clock in the
car said it was seven o'clock. I saw the Vineyard on the hill to the
left, the sunlight strong on the big red buildings. From here I saw how
big it was, the vines and the fields stretching out for miles. The dark
green vines looked cool.

We came to the big gate of the Vineyard. I started to turn in. “No,”
she said. “Straight ahead.” We went on, to a small lane. She told me to
turn up that. A hundred yards up from the road, in a clump of bushes,
the lane ended. She got out.

“Come on.”

I followed her. We went through the bushes. I saw a path that led to
the back of one of the big buildings. She halted.

“This is my entrance.”

“Oh.”

“Will you be able to find it when you come tonight?”

“Am I coming tonight?”

“What do you think?”

“I guess I am.”

“You're not only coming,” she said, “but you're going to work for
me.”

“Hell,” I said. “I've got a job.”

“How would you feel if I told Pug you
didn't
work for the
Vineyard?”

“I'd feel bad.”

“Well,” she said; “drop around tonight.”

I DROVE through town to the Arkady and parked Pug's car. Some
tourists were loading a sedan in front of the hotel. I was so tired I
could hardly walk. I went down a stairway with a sign over it:
Turkish Bath.
A Finn with a square face was sorting out towels in
the office. I told him I wanted to steam out. He opened a locker for
me.

“Get me a paper.”

“Yes, sir.” He started out.

“Hey I Get that Negro, Charles, too.”

I undressed and picked up a towel and went in the steam room. The air
was full of white steam that smelled of menthol. It made my eyes smart.
I put the towel on a bench and sat on it. My body was already wet from
the steam. I closed my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. I felt
my muscles begin to go soft.

The Finn reached in the door and tossed me a newspaper. I unrolled
it. It was an extra on the fire and shooting at Gus Papas's. The
headline read:
Gangster Armies Battle!
The first paragraph said
that anarchy reigned in Paul County. I read the story. It said that at
least thirty men had engaged in a fierce gun battle at the Joyland
Recreation Park, and that at least one had been killed. More, it said,
were believed to be in the burned building. The shooting had lasted for
nearly fifteen minutes. A search was being made for Gus Papas and the
owner of an automobile found mysteriously wrecked by the building. The
rest of the story was a description of the scene. Pug Banta's name
wasn't mentioned.

If it was anarchy now, I thought, what would it be when they found
out one of the bodies was that of Caryle Waterman? Then there would be
hell to pay: possibly a state investigation. I put the paper on my
knees and inhaled the steam. An investigation was what I wanted. They'd
find out the Vineyard's connection with vice and gambling, and that
would get the Grayson girl out. Everything would be jake, only I'd
probably be dead.

I wondered about the Princess. Why had she saved me? Was she afraid
of what I might do to the Vineyard? Or did she need somebody in bed? My
guess was that it was a combination of things. She was bored with
herself, and not afraid of me. In fact, the opposite. She said she
liked big men. I was a big man. But one thing I knew: if I didn't play
along with her, she'd let Pug knock me off, no matter how good I was.
That would please Pug.

I closed my eyes. The steam was beginning to relax me. I thought,
almost contentedly, of the things I had to do. I had to get rid of Pug
Banta. I had to get the Grayson girl out of the Vineyard. And find Oke
Johnson's murderer. And there was my date with the Princess. That was
plenty.

I looked for the Johnson story in the paper. It had dropped back on
an inside page. There wasn't much new. The police were following
several promising leads, according to Chief of Police Piper. Near the
bottom there was a paragraph saying a Mrs. G. A. Kellerman, of 467 Fern
Street, had seen an odd prowler about the time Johnson was shot. The
story didn't say what was odd about the prowler.

I tossed the paper on the floor and came out of the steam room.
Charles was waiting for me.

“I want a change of clothes, Charles. And some whisky and breakfast.
Eggs and bacon and a sirloin steak.”

“Yes, sir.” He started to go away.

“And Charles. You remember Ginger?”

“Yes, Mr. Craven.”

“She come in yet?”

“About an hour ago, Mr. Craven.”

“Okay,” I said. “Scram.”

The Finn was a good rubber. His hands were strong, but he was careful
of the sore places. I don't know what he thought of my assortment of
bites and bruises. He didn't say anything about them. Charles came back
with clothes, whisky and breakfast while I was on the table. I made the
Finn stop while I had a drink. Then he rubbed me some more. Newsboys
were crying 'Extra' in the street. The Finn made me go in a room with
dry heat. It was very hot in there; the sweat ran off me. He came with
a hose and turned cold water on me. It made me jump around. I dried
myself and put on clean underwear. I poured some whisky in my coffee
and drank it. Then I drank the orange juice. I felt fine. I went to
work on the steak.

“It sounds so crazy,” Mrs. Kellerman said, giggling.

“Tell me, anyway,” I said. “You don't want Mr. Johnson's killer to go
unpunished, do you?”

“The poor man,” she said.

Mrs. Kellerman was a thin woman in a blue dress with worn places on
the elbows. She twitched when she talked, as though someone was goosing
her with a feather. She'd already told me the story of her life,
including the fact that her husband had been dead for five years.

“What time was it you saw this prowler?” I asked.

“Just at daybreak.” She shook her head. “The police were so funny
about my story. They acted as though they didn't believe me. One of the
officers had the effrontery to ask if I might have been dreaming.
Dreaming! I get little enough sleep as it is without some policemen...”

“Please, Mrs. Kellerman; what did you see?”

“It was just an accident I happened to see him at all. But I heard a
noise; it's funny how nervous a woman gets in a house, without a man, I
mean.” She giggled, twitching her body.

“What kind of a noise?”

“Sort of footsteps, shuffling footsteps. I can tell you it frightened
me.”

It was like pulling teeth. I wanted it, though. I said: “What did you
do?”

“I went to the window.” She paused, looking at me to see if I was
impressed. “And there he was.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. How would I? He looked like a priest.”

“Like a priest?”

“He had on black robes, like priests wear. And he carried a staff.”

“I never heard of a priest with a staff.” Mrs. Kellerman giggled.
“Neither did I. And his face didn't look like a priest's. It was so
pale and—uh—sinister-looking.”

“What did he do?”

“He just shuffled by the house and disappeared.”

“In back.”

“Yes, in back.”

“Would you know him again, Mrs. Kellerman?” She thought. “I don't
know. It was so early. It wasn't very light.” She giggled suddenly.
“And I was so frightened.”

I asked some more questions, but that was all I could get out of her.
A man in a black robe with a staff had shuffled by her house. I began
to see why the police didn't think much of the story. You don't sec
many guys like that, and if you do, other people see them, too. “Thank
you very much, Mrs. Kellerman.”

“Won't you have some coffee? And a piece of cake. My husband used to
say my cake was wonderful.”

“I love cake, Mrs. Kellerman; I really do. But I have an
appointment.”

From there I went around to the Drive-It garage to say that the sedan
had been stolen. I told the manager I had parked it in front of the
Arkady about eleven the night before and hadn't been able to find it
when I came out this morning. He took down the details and said he
would report it to the police. He didn't seem worried. I suppose the
insurance and my deposit took care of him.

I had to wait a long time in McGee's outer office. He was busy on the
telephone. I almost fell asleep in the wicker chair. Finally the girl
said: “He will see you now, Mr. Craven.”

McGee leaned over his desk and shook my hand. His skin felt clammy.
“Have you heard the news?” he asked.

“I don't know,” I said.

His eyes, in the triangles of flesh, were bright. “Caryle Waterman,”
he said slowly, “was killed in the gun battle at Joyland.”

“Yeah? Who's he?”

“The son of our richest citizen.”

I whistled. “That's something!”

“Yes. I've been talking with a representative of the Governor. The
Governor's going to blow the town open ... if he can.”

“Why can't he?”

He began to wash his hands. “He'll find it difficult... as I have.”
He smiled and tapped his yellow teeth with a fingernail. I got the
feeling he wouldn't be too pleased if the Governor did get somewhere.

“But what about Miss Grayson?” I scowled at him. “What are we going
to do?”

“I think it would be better if we did nothing for a time, Mr. Craven.
It is possible the Vineyard will become involved in the investigation.
If it does, and mind you, I'm not saying it will, we will have
something to talk to Miss Grayson about.”

I thought this over. It didn't seem like a bad idea. “I may be able
to throw a few things to the Governor,” he said, smiling again. “A few
very interesting things.”

“Well, we'll give it a couple of days,” I said. “When'll I come to
see you again?”

“Would you like to go out to the Vineyard on Sunday? That's the day
Solomon's body is on view.”

“That would be fine.”

“I'll pick you up at your hotel.” He made the Washing motion with his
hands. “Say, about ten o'clock?”

“It's a deal, “I said.

I got Ginger's room number from Charles, the Negro. It was on the
third floor: 347. I knocked on the door. I waited and knocked again. I
heard someone move. “Who is it?”

“Telegram.”

“Stick it under the door.”

“I can't, miss. You gotta sign.” She sighed. “Okay. Wait a minute.”
She moved around the room and then opened the door. She had on a green
dressing-gown. “My God! Aren't you dead?”

“Not me.”

She stared at me, her eyes wide. I could see her pyjama legs under
the robe. Her red hair looked good, hanging over her shoulders. “How
about lunch today?”

“How'd you get away?”

“Never mind,” I said. “What about lunch, sugar?”

“Listen, big boy, you're lucky to be alive. We both are. Let's leave
dynamite alone.”

I grinned at her. “I thought you were on my team.”

“I know what's healthy.” She slammed the door.

I slept the rest of the day in my room. It was hot, but I didn't
mind. I felt a lot better when I woke up around six. I had some whisky
and a shower, and then I ate dinner in the coffee shop. I read a paper
while I ate. There was even more excitement about Caryle Waterman, and
the editor, in a front-page editorial, demanded that his murderer be
found. The police were still looking for Papas. I began to wonder if
Pug Banta's men had caught up with him. It said three more bodies had
been found in the building, but that so far no one had identified them.
There was nothing at all in the paper about Oke Johnson.