The Far Side of the Dollar (15 page)

“Mike?” said the voice of a man I didn’t know. He looked around the corner of the door frame. “Is that you, Mike?”

“I saw Mike yesterday.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend.” I didn’t say whose friend. “He left his car for you, I see.”

“That’s between him and I.”

His defensive tone encouraged me. I moved across the lighted space between us and stepped up into his kitchen, closing the door behind me. He didn’t try to keep me out. He stood barefoot in his pajamas facing me, gray-haired and haggard-faced, with drooping hound eyes.

“My brother didn’t tell me about a partner.”

“Oh? What did he tell you?”

“Nothing. I mean—” He tried to bite his lower lip. His teeth were false, and slipped. Until he sucked them back into place he looked as if I had scared him literally to death. “He didn’t tell me a thing about you or anything. I don’t know why you come to me. That car is mine. I traded him my crate for it.”

“Was that wise?”

“I dunno, maybe not.” He glanced at the unwashed dishes piled in the sink as if they shared responsibility for his lack of wisdom. “Anyway, it’s none of your business.”

“It’s everybody’s business, Harold. You must know that by now.”

His lips formed the word “Yes” without quite saying it. Tears came into his eyes. It was Harold he mourned for. He named the most terrible fear he could conjure up:

“Are you from the FBI?”

“I’m a police agent. We need to have a talk.”

“Here?”

“This is as good a place as any.”

He looked around the dingy little room as if he was seeing it with new eyes. We sat on opposite sides of the kitchen table. The checkered oilcloth that covered it was threadbare in places.

“I didn’t want any part of this,” he said.

“Who would?”

“And it isn’t the first time he got me into trouble, not by a long shot. This has been going on for the last thirty-five years, ever since Mike got old enough to walk and talk. I kid you not.”

“Just what do you mean when you say he’s got you into trouble? This time.”

He shrugged crookedly and raised his open hands as if I should plainly be able to see the stigmata in his palms. “He’s mixed up in a kidnapping, isn’t he?”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He never told me anything straight in his life. But I can read. Since I saw the papers today I’ve been scared to go out of the house. And you know what my wife did? She left me. She took a taxi to the bus station and went back to her mother in Oxnard. She didn’t even wash last night’s dishes.”

“When was your brother here?”

“Last night. He got here around ten-thirty. We were on our way to bed but I got up again. I talked to him right here where we’re sitting. I thought there was something screwy going on—he had that wild look in his eye—but I didn’t know what. He gave me one of his stories, that he won a lot of money in a poker game from some sailors in Dago, and they were after him to take the money back. That’s why he wanted to change cars with me. He said.”

“Why did you agree to it?”

“I dunno. It’s hard to say no when Mike wants something.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Not in so many words. I knew he had a gun with him. I saw him take it out of his car.” He lifted his eyes to mine. “You always feel sort of under a threat when Mike has something going. Stand in his way and he’ll clobber you soon as look at you.”

I had reason to believe him. “What was the make and model and license number of your car?”

“1958 Plymouth two-door, license IKT 449.”

“Color?”

“Two-tone blue.”

I made some notes. “I’m going to ask you a very important question. Was the boy with Mike? This boy?”

I showed him Tom’s picture. He shook his head over it. “No sir.”

“Did he say where the boy was?”

“He didn’t mention any boy, and I didn’t know about it, then.”

“Did you know he was coming here last night?”

“In a way. He phoned me from Los Angeles yesterday afternoon. He said he might be dropping by but I wasn’t to tell anybody.”

“Did he say anything about changing cars when he phoned you?”

“No
sir.”

“Did you and your brother have any previous agreement to change cars?”

“No
sir.”

“And you didn’t know about the kidnapping until you read about it in the paper today?”

“That’s correct. Or the murder either.”

“Do you know who was murdered?”

His head hung forward, moving up and down slightly on the cords of his neck. He covered the back of his neck with his hand as if he feared a blow there from behind. “I guess—it sounded like Carol.”

“It was Carol.”

“I’m sorry to hear about that. She was a good kid, a lot better than he deserved.”

“You should have come forward with information, Harold.”

“I know that. Lila said so. It’s why she left me. She said I was setting myself up for a patsy again.”

“I gather it’s happened before.”

“Not this bad, though. The worst he ever did to me before was when he sold me a camera he stole from the Navy. He turned around and claimed I stole it when I visited him on his ship on visiting day.”

“What was the name of the ship?”

“The
Perry Bay
. It was one of those jeep carriers. I went aboard her in Dago the last year of the war, but I wisht I never set foot on her. The way they talked to me, I thought I was
gonna end up in the federal pen. But they finally took my word that I didn’t know the camera was hot.”

“I’m taking your word now about several things, or have you noticed?”

“I didn’t know what to think.”

“I believe you’re an honest man in a bind, Harold.”

My spoken sympathy was too much for him. It made his eyes water again. He removed his hand from the back of his neck and wiped his eyes with his fingers.

“I’m not the only one you have to convince, of course. But I think you can probably work your way out of this bind by telling the whole truth.”

“You mean in court?”

“Right now.”

“I want to tell the truth,” he said earnestly. “I would have come forward, only I was ascared to. I was ascared they’d send me up for life.”

“And Mike too?”

“It wasn’t him I was worried about,” he said. “I’m through with my brother. When I found out about Carol—” He shook his head.

“Were you fond of her?”

“Sure I was. I didn’t see much of her these last years when they were in Nevada. But Carol and me, we always got along.”

“They were living in Nevada?”

“Yeah. Mike had a job bartending in one of the clubs on the South Shore. Only he lost it. I had to—” His slow mind overtook his words and stopped them.

“You had to–?”

“Nothing. I mean, I had to help them out a little these last few months since he lost his job.”

“How much money did you give them?”

“I dunno. What I could spare. A couple of hundred dollars.” He looked up guiltily.

“Did Mike pay you back last night by any chance?”

He hung his head. The old refrigerator in the corner behind him woke up and started to throb. Above it I could still hear the sound of the boulevard rising and falling, coming and going.

“No he didn’t,” Harold said.

“How much did he give you?”

“He didn’t
give
me anything.”

“You mean he was only paying you back?”

“That’s right.”

“How much?”

“He gave me five hundred dollars,” he said in horror.

“Where is it?”

“Under my mattress. You’re welcome
to
it. I don’t want any part of it.”

I followed him into the bedroom. The room was in disarray, with bureau drawers pulled out, hangers scattered on the floor.

“Lila took off in a hurry,” he said, “soon as she saw the paper. She probably filed suit for divorce already. It wouldn’t be the first time she got a divorce.”

“From you?”

“From the other ones.”

Lila’s picture stood on top of the bureau. Her face was dark and plump and stubborn-looking, and it supported an insubstantial dome of upswept black hair.

Harold stood disconsolately by the unmade bed. I helped him to lift up the mattress. Flattened under it was an oilskin tobacco pouch containing paper money visible through the oilskin. He handed it to me.

“Did you see where this came from, Harold?”

“He got it out of the car. I heard him unwrapping some paper.”

I put the pouch in my pocket without opening it. “And you honestly didn’t know it was hot?”

He sat on the bed. “I guess I knew there was something the matter with it. He couldn’t win that much in a poker game, I mean and keep it. He always keeps trying for the one more pot until he loses his wad. But I didn’t think about
kidnapping
, for gosh sake.” He struck himself rather feebly on the knee. “Or murder.”

“Do you think he murdered the boy?”

“I meant poor little Carol.”

“I meant the boy.”

“He wouldn’t do that to a young kid,” Harold said in a small hushed voice. He seemed not to want the statement to be heard, for fear it would be denied.

“Have you searched the car?”

“No sir. Why would I do that?”

“For blood or money. You haven’t opened the trunk?”

“No. I never went near the lousy car.” He looked sick, as if its mere presence in his garage had infected him with criminality.

“Give me the keys to it.”

He picked up his limp trousers, groped in the pockets, and handed me an old leather holder containing the keys to the car. I advised him to put on his clothes while I went out to the garage.

I found the garage light and turned it on, unlocked the trunk, and with some trepidation, lifted the turtleback. The space inside was empty, except for a rusty jack and a balding spare tire. No body.

But before I closed the trunk I found something in it that I didn’t like. A raveled piece of black yarn was caught in the lock. I remembered Sam Jackman telling me that Tom had been wearing a black sweater on Sunday. I jerked the yarn loose, angrily, and put it away in an envelope in my pocket. I slammed the turtleback down on the possibility which the black yarn suggested to my mind.

I
WENT BACK
into the house. The bedroom door was closed. I knocked and got no answer and flung it open. Harold was sitting on the edge of the bed in his underwear and socks. He was holding a .22 rifle upright between his knees. He didn’t point it at me. I took it away from him and unloaded the single shell.

“I don’t have the nerve to kill myself,” he said.

“You’re lucky.”

“Yeah, very lucky.”

“I mean it, Harold. When I was a kid I knew a man who lost his undertaking business in the depression. He decided to blow out his brains with a twenty-two. But all it did was blind him. He’s been sitting around in the dark for the last thirty years. And his sons have the biggest mortuary in town.”

“So I should be in the mortuary business.” He sighed. “Or anything but the brother business. I know what I have to go through.”

“It’s like a sickness. It’ll pass.”

“My brother,” he said, “is a sickness that never passes.”

“He’s going to, this time, Harold. He’ll be taken care of for the rest of his life.”

“If you catch him.”

“We’ll catch him. Where did he head from here?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Where do you think?”

“Nevada, I guess. It’s always been his favorite hangout When he has money he can’t stay away from the tables.”

“Where did he live when he worked on the South Shore of Tahoe?”

“They were buying a trailer but he lost that when he lost his barkeep job. His boss said he got too rough with the drunks. After that they moved from one place to another, mostly motels and lodges around the lake. I couldn’t give you any definite address.”

“What was the name of the club he worked at?”

“The Jet. Carol worked there, too, off and on. She was sort of a singing waitress. We went to hear her sing there once. Lila thought she was lousy, but I thought she was okay. She sang pretty sexy songs, and that’s why Lila—”

I interrupted him. “Do you have a phone? I want to make a couple of collect calls.”

“It’s in the front room.”

I took the rifle with me, in case he got further ideas about shooting himself, or me. The walls of the front room were as crowded as the walls of a picture gallery with Harold’s photographs. Old Man, Old Woman, Young Woman, Sunset, Wildflowers,
Mountain, Seascape; and Lila. Most of them had been hand-tinted, and three portraits of Lila smiled at me from various angles, so that I felt surrounded by toothy, flesh-colored face.

I went back to the bedroom. Harold was putting on his shoes. He looked up rather resentfully.

“I’m okay. You don’t have to keep checking up on me.”

“I was wondering if you had a picture of Mike.”

“I have one. It’s nearly twenty years old. After he got into trouble he never let me take him.”

“Let’s see it.”

“I wouldn’t know where to find it. Anyway, it was done when he was a kid and he doesn’t look like that anymore. It’s an art study, like, of his muscles, in boxing trunks.”

“What does he look like now?”

“I thought you saw him.”

“It was dark at the time.”

“Well, he’s still a fairly nice-looking man, I mean his features. He quit fighting before he got banged up too bad. He has brown hair—no gray—he parts it on the side. Mike always did have a fine head of hair.” He scratched at his own thin hair. “Greenish-gray eyes, with kind of a wild look in them when he’s got something going. Thin mouth. I always thought it was kind of a cruel mouth. Teeth not so good. But I dunno, he’s still a nice-looking fellow, and well set-up. He keeps himself in pretty good physical shape.”

“Height and weight?”

“He’s an inch or so under six feet. He used to fight light-heavy, but he must be heavier now. Maybe one eighty-five.”

“Any scars or distinguishing marks?”

Harold jerked his head up. “Yeah. He’s got scars on his back where Dad used to beat him. I got some of my own.” He pulled up his undershirt and showed me the white scars all up and down his back, like hieroglyphs recording history. Harold seemed to take his scars as a matter of course.