THE LADY KILLER: intense, suspenseful, gripping literary fiction (31 page)

Hartwig was able to engage Sarah in a little conversation. They talked of how horrible the ‘accident’ to Sandy’d been (how could she ever’ve gone with a maniac like that) and also about what a despicable character June was.

“And you mean to tell me,” said Sarah. “That’s why I couldn’t reach the boy when I tried to call her number over and over and was disconnected and I became so frustrated I threw away my own phone. Why, the rotten bitch. I’d like to wring her neck. You see I never liked her. Ever since she took Julia I’ve hated that woman. I never should have let my daughter go and I knew it. But I had to give her up. If only someone could understand.” Her tears began to drip into her drink.

“I understand,” said Hartwig trying to be nice and perhaps he did. He’d noticed the red slash marks on the bottom of her wrists and was sincerely stricken.

“I’ll bet,” Hammond interjected. “He just… That’s all he ever wanted from a woman and…”

“And that God damned boyfriend of mine who kept calling about the car. He threatened me. Says if anything happens to it and he gets out he’ll come after me. I disconnected the phone because of him too. I don’t ever want… He … he had a ticket to fly away and leave me can you believe it? Do you think he’ll ever get out?” She shifted her hair from one side of her neck to the other as if making some sort of important decision.

“I doubt it,” said Hartwig, “at least not for years,” he glanced at her, “by then we’ll all be old.”

Of course, there was a man in prison whose worldly aspirations were going out like a slowly fading lamp in the dark. Whose only connection to the outside world now was to throw threats its way. He might indeed have another day though, as it were, as an old man. Perhaps by then he’d be tempered and could live within the law. The real reason we have prisons is to wear the offender out. A nature may not be changed but it can certainly be worn out. Ask someone who’s served thirty or so years of an active life. It’s worse than the priesthood for they’re worn out to begin with.

She half smiled as if it was a good thing and it wasn’t. She knew how Barney and the man before her had hated one another and she didn’t mind talking to this other one now, meaning she must’ve been getting over something. She remembered ‘dance night’ all right. Tangoing across the mica floor. Her ex could never do that and this one though a hustler was educated and good-looking as well. So self-contained she could scarcely believe it. In other words, she’d begun to turn sympathetically to our messenger. Luckily the kids were waiting at home and after one more drink Hartwig soon had to lead her up the hill. She was light, he said, light on her feet like when she’d danced no matter how much she’d drunk. And surprisingly enough she handled her liquor pretty well, which must’ve been considerable as much as she drank.

Marcus, of course, by this time wondering whether he’d done the right thing by bringing Hartwig in on his ‘great decision’, was just about to walk down and look for him when an hour later who should come walking up the hill but Hartwig, hand in hand with his mother. In his other, of course, he had a large bottle of gin in a brown paper bag. Sarah’d bought it.

“More fuel for the unveiling,” said Hammond. “The final aphrodisiac. Get the kids drunk. The mother comatose and there you have it, the final score.”

“Not really,” I said.

Hartwig only went along with the purchase because she insisted on it. She wouldn’t go without it. Once the four got inside Kathleen took the bottle and poured it out. Not in the alcoholic’s sight, of course. But still a dangerous act if the addict gets wind of it. She might even attack you. Seems that is like a bleeding death to them. Evidently the woman was so overjoyed at the turn of events and by the fact that her son had come back to her they were able to disconcert her every time she asked for a drink, which by then would’ve been impossible to provide. She, naturally, insisted.

“You and your girlfriend are welcome to spend the night but you must go back in the morning. You…” She looked adoringly at her son, “are going to a good school and make something of yourself.”

She was tight already and not quite there but as overjoyed as she was at having her son back she still wanted what she thought best for him.

“Mom, don’t you understand, I’m not going. I’m staying here with you.” He glanced with alarm to the redhead, who’d removed her scarf and was sitting on the couch next to the host.

“Where’s my gin?” She insisted pathetically on having everyone search around the house, which they pretended to do before sitting in the living room nervously chatting until dark whereupon Sarah finally fell asleep and the three carried her upstairs to her bedroom.

“I … I think I should do watch duty,” said Hartwig sitting down next to the sleeping beauty on the queen-size mattress.

“No, no,” said Marcus playfully pulling Hartwig up, “Methinks not. You’re to come downstairs. Not up here.”

He chided his friend. Whereupon Hartwig followed. Marcus then produced a bottle of June’s famous Scotch the only thing he’d taken from the home. He’d left his iPhone and all the supplies she’d bought him there. He and Hartwig continued drinking but Kathy’d have none of it. She knew what had to be done and that was to stop the drinking in the house. She’d go upstairs and sleep with the mother so she had no worry about Hartwig. Marcus could also stay downstairs. The two men could get as drunk as they liked but the patient’d be safe in her hands. She’d make a good nurse and she’d make a good person and she knew it. Her nature was oriented that way.

So on the gentle slope of the hillside with the ocean pounding darkly under a starry sky the four went to sleep in their idyllic setting. Sarah perhaps dreaming of the delirium tremens she’d have to undergo from withdrawal under her son’s and his girlfriend’s good intent, Hartwig of his new move to the city and the couple, who’d now be living together for the first time, the map of their future to come.

In the morning the alcoholic, who had visibly begun to shake, made them breakfast. Before he was to leave Hartwig noticed that the registration on the ex-cons pickup had expired and he advised the trio to call the cops and have it towed away.

“That way,” he advised Sarah, “you can just say they towed it. He can’t blame you as if it’d matter anyhow as long as he’s going to be away.”

The statement, however, appeared to allay her fears. The three thought it a good idea and Marcus said he’d attend to it. As to the power tools in the garage no one could rightly judge. Maybe just have a yard sale and be done with it. The people from the swamps could come up and bid on them.

Hartwig took off back over the hill to his houseboat where he was packing and getting ready to leave for he’d sold it and the new owner was soon to take possession.

“He,” said Hammond, “was lucky to sell it from what you tell me.”

“Lucky, yes, I suppose.” But surprisingly enough those things still had some value as places to live, as run down as they were, for there just wasn’t enough housing available in the area for all those who needed it. In any area for that matter. I believe he got a good price, several thousand dollars, which wouldn’t go far in the city but his grandmother had an apartment for him there so once again he didn’t have to worry about money. Some people are born with golden spoons in their mouths even in this day and age. He was one of them. Only the government as I can see could make that impossible and in a plutocracy that’s not even an option for the rich don’t assess themselves.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Marcus, of course, had been anxious to get Hartwig out of the way so he could get together with his friend Benji, who was living at his grandmother’s estate but cleaning up around the beach house so that it could be sold. Ever since Hartwig had left his mother in the lurch Benji had balked at any further association with his
old
hero.

“But just think,” Marcus had tried to reestablish his friend, “he got rid of the gangster. He put him in prison and saved mother’s house, which she’d’ve assuredly lost had the man fled.”

“We did that, you and I,” was all Benji said. “What about when the madman came back, where was Hartwig then? He ran out on my mom.” What could Marcus do but shrug his shoulders when his friend was about ready to burst into tears? Hadn’t the kid also run out? But men didn’t cry and it seems the kids knew that. If they knew anything they knew that.

One, ironically, who understood even better, evidently, was Sandy’s old mother, the rich dowager who remained on her estate and wouldn’t deign to visit the beach house where she knew her daughter’d held all those sinful parties. She not only didn’t cry but felt her daughter somehow deserved it for hanging out with the people she did. She was just surprised it hadn’t happened sooner.

“You’re kidding?” Said Hammond.

“No, I’m not. She was very disappointed, naturally, but she wouldn’t set foot in the place. She sent her grandson out to take care of business. Sell the eyesore so he could come live with her and be raised properly.”

“I … I thought you said he wanted to be a race car driver,” said Hammond. “How, I ask, is that raising any kid properly?”

Some people build cars; some race them. It’s as simple as that. Man wants to go fast even on the highway, beat the guy’s speed next to him. He needs daredevils to test what is for everyday use. Benji was that sort. He had his mother’s spirit and his father’s recklessness. He could’ve been a war pilot. I’ll bet he’d’ve made a good one. The old woman saw that. Maybe she reckoned it to being a pilot or an explorer or some such. Who knew what her
cultured
mind was thinking? Better to have a race car driver in the family than a drug addict who the old woman knew could fall into all sorts of trouble. Remember, she’d already had plenty of that with Sandy’s brother, the gay vintner who lived in the Napa Valley and really had been a wild man before he settled down…

“Settled down?” Said Hammond. “With whom?”

“With his partner, who else?” I said. “You know what I mean.”

“No,” said Hammond disgustedly. “I don’t think I do. And what about Hartwig in all of this, and the older woman’s hope for him and her daughter? Couldn’t he at least go over and console her? Explain what’d happened. Offer his sincerest condolences?”

“You mean after dumping the daughter?” I clarified.

Hardly. He wouldn’t dare go near the old woman now. Maybe if the Europe trip’d gone off and the two’d returned from there locked together, OK. But that hadn’t happened. I don’t think she particularly wanted to see Hartwig and he’d’ve felt clammy around her. Then how do you tell the mother of her wayward daughter that some devil cut her heart out and chucked it at your portrait like a piece of calamari. You just don’t do that. At least a normal person doesn’t. Now if Brochowitz’d survived he might’ve indeed taken pride in revealing the story to the mother of the only person he’d ever really loved in his life and that was the surrogate he’d made into his mother, her daughter. The love/hate relation all over. Hartwig was off in a different direction or so it seemed. We, of course, all meant to attend Sandy’s funeral, which was to be held one Sunday afternoon at the tiny church of St. Aidan’s in Salinas. The two boys had arranged the affair. The grandmother’d paid for it.

“I shall certainly not attend. I don’t mean to get robbed by the vagabonds my daughter hung around with nor rub shoulders with them either.” Had been her words on the matter and she was adamant.

The five of us were going in Harper’s car and when I asked Hartwig to accompany us, he said,

“I’ll be going, naturally. But I’m taking my own (car). Might just be one of the last times I drive it, and six in the old Mercedes is one too many.”

I felt that reasonable since it was true he wasn’t taking the old wreck along with him. You didn’t need a car in the city and he’d been trying to get rid of his jalopy for quite some time. I saw no hesitance there. But when the day before I talked to him and he said,

“Listen, if I don’t get there in time don’t worry. I’ll be there. I’ll just meet you fellows in the bar a little later,” I had second thoughts.

He knew we intended to celebrate in Scowley’s, the famous old pub in Salinas. Who wasn’t going to celebrate in Scowley’s after the service for someone who was one of the beach’s mainstay characters? Still I thought to myself, you know Hartwig’s just downright afraid to attend that function after all that’d happened. The dauntless Hartwig had finally exhibited a chink of fear in his nature. There would undoubtedly be many people there who would blame him (falsely, of course) or at least wouldn’t be friendly and I don’t believe he wanted to face them. He’d thought a lot about it and the pressure’d simply be too great. What was he going to do, talk to Mort the movie guy or old Bill, the cook, who’d loved Sandy and now hated Hartwig, to say nothing of others he might be held accountable to? The Adamses (painters), Monahan the bar owner, etc. And you’ll never believe what occurred later on to confirm my suspicions and point out that there just might’ve been something more humane in Hartwig than any of us’d ever seen. Of course, there might not’ve but all reasonable explanations pointed to the contrary. Does that mean something’s the truth? Unfortunately not always.

The affair began in the early afternoon around two p.m. Although the sun filtered in along the horizon, a low cloud cover had formed directly above us and a brisk wind kept it heading inland towards the mountain. Although I told you that little chapel resembled a circus tent the way its roof joists slanted directly over its walls and plunged into the ground exactly like guide wires, compared to the
christening
that’d been held there, this gathering had the atmosphere of a circus. Funerals are one of two things. They’re either serious or they’re not. In the latter case they seem to be celebrations of the life to come rather than lamentations of those who’ve expired though I did notice several tearful faces. And those not only of the women, but men too. One I might’ve expected such behavior from, another I’d never’ve dreamt it of.

Bosworth, the priest, with all his worthy dubiousness about everything including the mundane to existence itself was there in his purple stole (which must’ve had something to do with funerals) along with his blond wife and two towheads, both girls. The females wore purple scarves and were also dressed in black. Barry had suggested a morality play but more likely the dress was caused by the pecking order feeling and suggested by the wife who tried to mimic her husband’s obeisances whenever she could. She … she should’ve been the priest or priestess as it were. I’m sure she’d’ve made more sense.

All up and down Wharf Road, along which the chapel ground stood, cars parked, people got out, commingled with the throng that had begun to gather in the yard with its tiny gazebo model before its bigger brother church. As people gathered and began their industrious chatter, Frau Eva as she was called, Bosworth’s wife, retreated to the kitchen at the rear of the church where she was cooking up a repast with the help of her little ones.

Benji and Marcus, the two lads dressed in identical dark suits, which signified they weren’t theirs but rentals, stood to either side of the door like two Chirons guarding the river Styx. They were handing out leaflets to each mourner who entered the chapel to do their circuit and pay their respects.

“Leaflets at a funeral?” Said Hammond. “Sounds more like a voter’s campaign than a funeral. I mean…”

“There was, I suppose, some of that too,” I said, “as there must be in all such affairs, but Marcus had gotten the bright idea of having locals express their sentiments for the deceased on paper. Some of them had even written poems about her…”

“You mean about the fallen woman?”

Yes, I said. If indeed that’s what she was and not just human, whatever humanness meant to her. Extreme loneliness is my guess. The two boys had had the statements printed up and were handing them out at the door. A more fitting epitaph to my mind than the hackneyed salutation we see on gravestones. Occasionally there’s a dandy, a real self-exposing original saying but not very often. After you passed the small box of ashes (hers) next to a yearbook photo of the deceased on the altar where two oblong candelabras burnt on either side under the wooden hand carved wreath, which resembled enormous wings and reached to the ceiling, one heard Bosworth and his incantations. He greeted each mourner personally with his own sign of the cross and dubious blessing while you gave ‘your own’ remembrances (I’d hate to think what some of them probably were) before making the turn through the corridors on either side of the wall-to-wall pews to once more join the crowd outside.

And believe me, they were all there. Those who I didn’t recognize, I guessed at. Old Bill, the cook, Sandy’s one friend who truly did love her (probably the only one who ever had) and about whom she claimed he was the only man in the world she’d never sleep with was recognizable by his cook’s hat which tilted to one side like an accordion, and his obviously soiled apron. He must’ve taken a break from his job at the Windjammer to attend though his boss, Monahan was also there. The Irish lunk with the ruddy complexion. Owners, of course, always have more lenience than their help when it comes to making one’s own time. The obnoxious cook had captivated Marcus and Benji by imposing his ideas as to why they were all there.

“It’s not just to honor someone you knew,” he blathered, “but to the only one you knew. And now she’s gone.” He patted the two kids on the shoulders and made his way out of the crowd leaving the others gathered behind the priest who, incanting all the way, had begun to lead the procession up the hill to the small graveyard nestled there on top among the cypress trees.

Once there the priest stopped at a hole among the motley assortment of gravestones. A pile of earth surrounded it. Marcus and Benji, who together had been carrying the small ornate box of ashes in a clumsy fashion, stood before the final resting place. This was to be the socialite’s niche or at least what was left of her. The priest issued some more prayers for the dead and Benji was instructed to bury the ashes as they say. He wouldn’t do it.

“Really,” said Hammond. “What do you mean wouldn’t do it. Why not? That’s where they belonged wasn’t it? You weren’t about to spread them over the lagoon.” He was learning.

“He,” I said, “was waiting for his friend. He just didn’t want to set the box in alone I don’t know why. Both boys took a hand and set it in together. Benji buried it all right. He didn’t need help with that. But with the depositing. Of course, a few shovels full filled that hole. It wasn’t like you were working on a full sized eight by eight.”

After that little service the crowd once more filed down the hill to the small yard before the church where by that time the wife had set up tables for the buffet, bottles of wine and all. Though extra chairs had been set out most of us had to eat while standing. A few unlikely souls had filled their plates and returned to the chapel where they sat in the pews and ate much like, I suppose, the homeless did when the priest let them in on cold winter nights and fed them. The true role of any priest to my mind, for what’s a man’s soul if he’s starving to death? You are what you eat as the saying goes and if you’re too hungry you’re a mental wreck.

One of those, whose grief I never would’ve depicted, was the contractor’s. This was Stich whose tears rolled down his wide cheeks. He was there with his wife minus the tot. It was all they could do to keep Sarah in tow. She wore a very tight print dress all-Hawaiian. She really did look beautiful. Hartwig was right. No wonder… To the surprise of the visitors she’d waited until the last minute until she’d broken down and they (Marcus and his girlfriend) had to bodily help her to the car.

“She … you mean she was even there,” said Hammond. “That surprises me. The way she and Sandy’d gone at it. If anything she should’ve been rejoicing that one who thought she was so superior to her in every way was no longer. If fact, wasn’t it at the christening at that very same church that the grandmother of the child watched the christening procession of her own grandson from the bar window as it passed. Afraid out of guilt over her depressing life that she’d never been ‘good enough’ to join in such a celebration; thinking she’d run into June who she envied and abominated.”

“Yes,” I said. “This time you can be sure June was far away.”

She wanted no part of Sandy’s debacle though the two had grown up as childhood friends in the plush district of our city. Sarah was there. She hugged her daughter with an emotional desperation that almost wrestled her from her own body. Though there’s no such thing as redemption per se as the church likes to sell wherein man saves himself and reaches out to heights sublime, sometimes good things do happen to people who aren’t so bad. And sometimes they also unfortunately occur to those who are. We don’t make Karma, remember, Karma makes us.

Why right after the celebration Stich whisked her and the two boys up to his scenic modern home on the mesa that he’d built. Sarah was flattered; she’d never been there. As I said it was a cheery day all around and she didn’t drink. She was happy and so were some of the others whose futures were looking up. There was even some exegesis by those who’d remained.