The Nothing Man (10 page)

Dave had been at home that night. Stukey had called him there and then Dave had called me. Everything had been happening at once, and I guess I'd been halfway off my rocker, but now I remembered. Dave had been at home. The colonel had been in the bosom of his family, tossing the wee ones on his knee perhaps while the little woman hummed a happy roundelay…

I sat drinking and thinking, musing idly, trying to sort out my feelings about Dave. They were pretty confused.

In a way, I liked him; I felt sorry for him. Yet there was another side of me that hated him, that was determined to make him go on suffering for what he had done to me. I wanted him to steer clear of trouble for two reasons. Because I liked him-because I hated him. He was a nice guy-and I wanted him to stay right where he was. Where I could get at him, dig at him day after day until…

I don't know. It is hard to be specific about one's emotions. It is difficult to stop a story at a certain point and give a clear-cut analysis of your feelings, explain just why they are such and such and why they are not something else. Personally I am a strong believer in the exposition technique as opposed to the declarative. It is not particularly useful, of course, when employed on an of-the-moment basis, but given enough time it invariably works. Study a man's actions, at length, and his motivations become clear.

It was a nice funeral, I thought. Stukey and the Randalls sent flowers, also Mr. Lovelace and the
Courier
staff. Too, the newspaper lads I knew in Los Angeles had bought a couple of big bouquets, and there was one giant-sized wreath without a card on it. I didn't think much about it. I supposed that it had been bought by the city hall crowd in Pacific City and that the card had been lost.

There were four press cars in the funeral procession. They were there on business, the boys were, since the story was still news. They had to shoot pictures and get me to do some surmising about the killer and so on, enough to pad out into a few paragraphs. But I was acquainted with most of them, and having them there was good. It made the thing seem more like a real funeral.

They were on overtime at the end of the ceremony. So the reporters phoned in their stories and the photogs sent in their plates by motorcycle courier, and we all went to the Press Club. We bumped a couple of tables together and started drinking. We had dinner and continued drinking.

Luckily, they wouldn't let me pay for anything. I had to borrow on my car to bury Ellen, and I was very, very short of money.

A waiter came up with a telephone call slip. I looked at it, casually, and shoved it into my pocket. I didn't recognize the number. I couldn't recall knowing anyone by the name of D. Chase. It was probably some friend of Ellen's, I thought. Someone who wished to offer condolences.

The party broke up about nine, and I bought a bottle and went up to my room. As a tried and true
Courier
man-one who did not need to be watched to do his duty-I suppose I should have driven back to Pacific City that night and gone to work Tuesday morning. But I was tired, and there was much heavy thinking to be done. And something told me it could not be done amid the hustle and bustle of Pacific City's greatest and only daily.

I stood at the window of my room, gazing out and downward. A fog had settled over the city, and the lights bloomed up out of it, blurred and hazy. Now and then there was the muted scream of a siren as an ambulance weaved northward through the traffic to Georgia Street Receiving.

Los Angeles. Sprawling, noisy, ugly, dirty-and completely wonderful. It would always be home to me, this place and no other. It would never be home to me.

I turned out the lights and dragged a chair up to the window. I cocked my feet up on the radiator and leaned back.

Tom Judge: at the outside, Stukey would have him in a day or two. Logically, he should have run him down before this. And exactly what was I going to do about it?

Tom might be able to hold out. He might be able to take a seventy-two-hour sweat-the three-day "investigation" period in which his sole hope and defense would rest on his own personal guts.

As I say, he might. But there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that he wouldn't. And once he broke down, it would be too late for me to do anything.

If only the murderer could have been tied in more closely with the poem. That is, if it could be established that the poet and the murderer were the same man. So far the poem had drawn very little attention. It had been mentioned by the police, paraphrased in various papers, and that was all. Ellen had had it, for reasons known only to herself. Dazed and dying she had grabbed it up-doubtless accidentally. That was the official attitude, and it was too bad that it was that.

Anyone who knew Tom would know him incapable of the poem. A few paragraphs of plodding prose were Tom's literary limit.

So it was unfortunate that the poem had been brushed off so lightly. It was unfortunate that there was not some way of proving that the murderer and the poet were one and the same man.

The phone rang. Softly, in actuality, yet it seemed loud and ominous, as phones do at night in dark hotel rooms.

I frowned at it. Then, I stretched an arm out and lifted it from the writing-desk. A husky, feminine voice said, "Mr. Brown-Brownie?"

"Who is this?" I said.

"I'll bet you can't guess. I'll bet you've forgotten me already."

I sighed. I said nothing. There is nothing much to say to people who ask you to guess their names while betting that you have forgotten them.

"It's Deborah, Brownie." She laughed a little uncomfortably. "You know, Deborah Chasen."

I remembered. I said something then, but I don't recall what. Something like: "Well, how are you?" or "What are you doing here?"

"I'm fine," she said. "I've been here all the time, Brownie. I was-I heard about your wife."

"I see," I said.

"Yes," she said. "I heard about it, so I didn't go. I've been waiting here for you. Did you get the flowers I sent?"

"Flowers? Oh, the wreath," I said. "I wondered who it was from."

"I sent them for you," she said. "Just on your account, Brownie, not hers. I'm not sorry about her. I'm glad."

"Well, that's very nice of you, Deborah," I said. "I see you're still your subtle, tactful self. Now, if you'll give me that horse laugh of yours my evening will be complete, and I'll go to bed."

She did laugh; then her voice went soft and throaty. It was as though she were breathing the words rather than speaking them.

"Brownie, darling-isn't it wonderful? I was just sick when I left Pacific City that afternoon. I wanted to die; I would have, too; I didn't care about anything any more. And then the next morning I read that-about her! It was like being born again, Brownie. Honestly, I was just so happy I cr-"

"Jesus, God," I said. "What kind of a woman are you? Do you realize that you're talking about my-"

"I don't care. You love me; I know you do. We love each other, and she was in the way. Now-well, now she isn't… I want to see you, darling. Shall I come over there, or do you want to come over here to my hotel?"

I cursed her silently. It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I was leaving immediately for Pacific City, but I caught myself in time. As surely as hell was full of sulphur, she'd follow me there.

"Deborah," I said, wearily, "you are a goddamned pest. I don't want any part of you, or any other woman. I've tried the double harness once and I damned well got a belly full of it, and I'm playing it alone from now on. I-"

"Pooh. I'll change your mind."

"Nothing will change my mind," I said. "Now, I suggest you take a nice cold shower and eat a couple of pounds of saltpeter and-"

"Oh, Brownie!" She laughed delightedly. "You sweet crazy thing you! I'll come over there, darling."

"No!" I said. "No, wait a minute, Deborah. I do want to see you, naturally, but I've had a pretty rugged week and I… Well, why don't we let it ride until tomorrow, baby? I'll give you a ring, and perhaps we can have lunch and a few drinks."

Silence. Then the sound-sounds-of a cigarette lighter clicking, and a long, slow exhalation. I could imagine the green eyes narrowing, hardening.

"Brownie," she said, quietly.

"Try to understand, Deborah. Put yourself in my place. My wife was killed less than a week ago. I buried her today. Now you expect me to-"

"Brownie."

"Well?" I said.

"I was doing all right before I met you. I didn't have anything, but I didn't expect anything. Then y-you-you know what you did, Brownie. You didn't tell me you were married. You held me and kissed me, and y-you… you did a lot of things I wouldn't have let you do if I'd known. And then you-now you-"

"Deborah," I said. "Just put it this way. Just say that I was a heel and I still am, and let it go at that."

"No! You're not, Brownie. You couldn't be if you tried… Boy!" She sniffed. "I'm an expert on heels! I know all about 'em, and I know… So what is it, darling? Is it the money? Are you afraid I'll embarrass you? Are-"

"Wait," I said. "Wait a minute, Deborah."

"I'll do anything you say, Brownie, Anything! Just d-don't-don't drive me away from you."

"Wait," I repeated. "I've got to think."

She waited. I thought. And, of course, I didn't need to, I already knew what I would have to tell her prove to her if necessary. That I simply couldn't provide what she above all women would want.

She would be sorry, doubtless, perhaps even angry, but there would be no further argument; she would have no illusions about its importance. Deborah might have a very beautiful soul, but it was no good at all in bed. She would be stunned at the idea of substituting a fireside chat for a good hard roll in the hay.

So… I would have to tell her. But I couldn't do it over the phone. I couldn't-I didn't think I could make it stick-and I didn't want to.

I wanted to see her one more time.

"There's a little bar near here," I said. "A couple of blocks south on Main. It's called the Gladioli. If-"

"I'll find it. I'll be there. Right away, Brownie?"

"Right away," I said.

I put on a clean shirt and a fresh tie. I combed my hair in front of the dresser mirror, and suddenly I drew my arm back and hurled the comb against the glass.

My reflection tossed it back at me. His lips moved, and he cursed, and he asked why the hell it had to be this way. Why, if he didn't have the other, did he have to have all this? He said oh, you're a pretty bastard, you are. A knock-'em-dead son-of-a-bitch. They turn around to look at you, they stretch their goddamned sweet necks to get a peek. And… and that's all there is. Only what they can see. I don't get it, by God! Why, when there's nothing to do with, do you have to look like…?

The reflection shrugged. He said, that's the way it was, so that's the way it was.

Then he reached for his coat and turned wearily away. And I turned off the light, and left.

She was there ahead of me, standing up near the glazed front of the place, peering anxiously up and down the street. I came up while she was looking the other way, and she whirled around, startled, taking a swift step forward so that for a moment we were pressed against each other. I gave her a little hug, and she said, "Brownie! Oh,
Brownie!"
and gave me a harder one.

We entered the dimly lit bar. She let go of my arm and led the way to a rear booth, rounded hips swinging, slimankled, full-calved legs stretching and pressing impatiently against her skirt, horsetail of corn-colored hair brushing the small, square shoulders. She had a mink stole draped over her arm. She was wearing a thin white blouse and a tailored fawn-colored suit. They made her look bigger in all the big places and smaller in all the small ones.

We sat down on the same bench of the leatherupholstered booth; she pulled me down beside her. A sleepylooking waiter brought drinks and went away again.

"Brownie," she whispered. "Brownie, darling…" And her breast shivered against my arm.

She pulled my face down to hers and we kissed. And then gently she pushed me away again.

"I'm terribly sorry, Brownie. I must have sounded awful. It was just that I love you so much, and I know how mean she must have been and-"

"She wasn't," I said. "Foolish perhaps, but not mean."

"Well, anyway, I'm sorry. I'm -you won't have to be ashamed of me, Brownie. You just tell me how you want me to be, and whenever I get-"

"Deborah," I said, "listen to me."

"Yes, darling."

"I'm-there's something I have to tell you. I should have told you in the beginning, but it's not an easy thing to talk about and-well, I didn't think it was necessary. You were leaving. I never expected to see you again."

"Yes?" She lighted a cigarette. "What is it, Brownie?"

"I can't marry you. I can't sleep with you."

"Oh?"

"No! That was the trouble between me and my wife, why we were separated. I couldn't be a husband to her."

"Oh… I see. And all the time I thought-" The green eyes flashed happily and her face broke into a smile. "That doesn't mean a thing, darling! Not a thing."

"It-it doesn't
mean
anything?" I said.

"Why, of course, it doesn't! It was the same way with me and my husband. You just… a certain person simply isn't the right one, and you get to where you not only can't-"

"Listen," I said. "You just don't understand, Deborah. What I'm-"

"I know. I know exactly what you mean. I-No, let me tell you, Brownie. You've got a right to know, anyway. Even after he died, I couldn't. I tried-I'm human and I-I-well, I tried; just like you have, probably. And I couldn't do it. It was like there just wasn't any such thing as far as I was concerned. I'd lost all desire for it, and I was sure it was gone for good. I was sure until that day in Pacific City when I-"

"Deborah," I said. "You don't know what you're talking about. What I'm talking about."

"You think I don't." She laughed. "You just think I don't, Brownie! That's why I was so completely broken up when I found out you were married. I knew it had to be you or no one; that if it weren't you then there simply wouldn't be anyone… You'll see, darling." Her voice sank to a throaty, caressing whisper and her eyes burned like green fires. "It'll be all right for both of us. It'll be like nothing ever was before…"