The Resort (22 page)

“Please, Mr. Pitz. I’m a busy man.”

“I’m sorry. I still have difficulty with it. He died of a gunshot wound.”

“From the police?”

“No, no. A holdup.”

“Where?”

“In…his store.”

“Your father was a shopkeeper?”

“A liquor store.”

“I see. Is your mother alive?”

“No. Excuse me, but is all this relevant to the position?”

“Extremely. Did your mother die of natural
causes?”

“An auto accident.”

“I see. Your sister is alive?”

“She died in the same auto accident.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Let’s see. May third, eleven years ago.”

“Do you recall the date on which you became manager of that first motel?”

Pitz gave the date to the caller.

“I will phone you again in two days’ time unless my inquiries produce negatives, Mr. Pitz.”

“Do you want my references?”

“No.”

“May I ask your name, sir?”

There was a click on the line.

*

Daniel Pitz thought a lot about that phone call during the next twenty-four hours. The man must have been impressed by his résumé to call, but the questions didn’t make sense. That man didn’t know any more about Dan’s ability to run a resort after the call than before.

Dan decided he’d better keep looking. He was writing a reply to an ad for an assistant manager when the phone rang.

“We spoke two days ago, Mr. Pitz. I’ve had some inquiries made. You are now the leading candidate for the position. My name is Clifford. I will expect you for an interview at my home tomorrow at the cocktail hour, say five. Is that convenient?”

Dan Pitz’s throat felt dry. “Yes, of course,” he managed. Clifford gave him the address. “Bring with you a list of the books you’ve read in the last five years. Please don’t come early,” he added, “and if you’re more than ten minutes late, don’t bother.” He hung up.

Punctuality was only one of Merlin Clifford’s tests.

When he hired somebody, it was damn well going to be permanent.

*

When he was in real estate, Dan Pitz had handled the houses of some well-to-do people, but never anything like the Clifford mansion. There was an impressive stone-and-ironwork gate with a gatehouse. The guard was not some elderly man dozing on the job, but a fellow who looked like he could strangle a dog. He was expecting a man named Daniel Pitz, but insisted on two pieces of identification. The guard then telephoned the main house to say that the guest had arrived at the gatehouse at five o’clock and was on his way up.

The lawn and shrubbery seemed the kind it would take a small army of gardeners to keep up, but not a soul was in sight. The house itself, set back about seventy-five yards from the road, was in the Spanish style that suited southern California. In fact, it looked like a mission more than a home, with tile roofs at various angles, parapets, openings in the stonework that looked as if they were meant for riflemen or archers. Dan always worried about a prospective employer’s financial stability. He didn’t want to get caught in someone else’s bankruptcy, but these folks looked like they were here to stay.

He heard the dog growl, then saw it, a German shepherd between himself and the entrance doors. The German shepherd his father had kept in the liquor store hadn’t done any good. The intruder had shot them both.

“Here, boy!” A Japanese man had appeared at the door, and the dog immediately went running to him and disappeared inside the house.

“Mr. Clifford is expecting you,” the Japanese man said. “This way, please.”

Dan was ushered through the entrance hallway—the floor was marble in a checkerboard pattern—to a huge living room with peaked windows two stories high. He couldn’t believe the size of the intricately woven carpet. At its other end a man of sixty or so put his pipe down in an ashtray and stood up, then advanced across the carpet, his hand out. The woman he had been talking to stayed put, watching him.

“I’m Merlin Clifford,” the man said.

“Daniel Pitz, sir.”

“Welcome. Please come sit down. My wife wants to meet you as well. Abigail, this is Mr. Pitz.”

Mrs. Clifford raised her head for a better look. Handsome young man. Though she now drew her lovers from a different stratum of society, in the old days she had permitted some of her husband’s employees to service her from time to time, and she still found herself inspecting each newcomer to see if he would do.

“What will you drink?” Mr. Clifford asked the moment Dan was seated on the edge of his chair.

He liked beer, but that wasn’t for now.

“I prefer whisky,” he said.

“Ice and soda?”

“Yes, please.”

The Japanese man had reappeared.

“Scotch and soda for Mr. Pitz, and the usual for Mrs. Clifford and myself.” Mr. Clifford turned to face Dan Pitz. “Do sit back, you’ll be more comfortable.”

Dan did as he was instructed.

“Now then,” Mr. Clifford said. “Did you bring your reading list?”

Dan handed it over. It was short and included the names of novels that Dan remembered wanting to read. Most of them he hadn’t gotten around to. To his surprise, Mr. Clifford just put the list in his inside breast pocket without examining it.

“We will get on much better,” Mr. Clifford said, “if you assume I already know the answers to any questions I ask. Understood?”

Dan nodded. For a moment, glancing around at the vast space in the room, he felt small.

“I am a student of language,” Mr. Clifford said. “One unusual word showed up in your short letter three times.”

“Oh?”

“Do you remember which word?”

“No, sir.”

“Uncongenial.”

Dan blushed.

“What do you mean by uncongenial?”

“Oh,” Dan said, “the same as everyone else does. Not right. Different. Bad different.”

“Do you remember the connections in which you used the word?”

“I think I said I found some of my employment uncongenial?”

“I think you found some people uncongenial. In the motion picture industry. The owners of the clothing store. The people at the resort in the East.”

“That’s right,” Dan said.

“Were they all Jews?”

Dan took his handkerchief out of his pocket and rubbed his wet palms. Then he realized what he was doing and, embarrassed, shoved the handkerchief
back where it belonged.
Clifford couldn’t be Jewish, could he?

“What do you mean?” Dan asked.

“You know very well what I mean. Was the common denominator of the people you found uncongenial the fact of their Jewishness? Are you circumcised, Mr. Pitz?”

Dan looked over at Mrs. Clifford. Her gaze did not relent. “Yes. Most men my age—I’m not Jewish, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I established that before inviting you here. I just want to clarify what you meant by uncongenial. Is there something about Jews you don’t like?”

Dan felt he had to take a chance.

“Pretty much everything,” he said, smiling in Mrs. Clifford’s direction and noticing that she now smiled, too. Mrs. Clifford was thinking that while she didn’t want the bother of becoming regularly active with employees again, she might enjoy this young man just once or twice.

“Explain that,” Mr. Clifford said. “If you will. What don’t you like about them?”

“Well,” Dan said, spreading his fingers as if he were about to play the piano. “They’re very aggressive. I mean in school they were the pushy ones, trying for the straight A’s, scholarships, things like that. They were always running for student government. Both kids who ran our Drama Society were Jews, and I felt it wasn’t fair that Christian kids did all the acting and the Jews ran the place.”

He hoped that would satisfy Mr. Clifford. You could get yourself in a lot of trouble saying things like he just did. You had a feeling the Anti-Defamation-whatever-the-hell-its-name-was recorded everything you thought as well as said about the Hebes.

“Go on,” Mr. Clifford said. “I’m interested in your views.”

“About Jews?”

“I believe that’s what we’re talking about.”

Dan looked over at Mrs. Clifford. She was smiling in that special way again. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman, attractive, in fact, if a little bit older than he would have preferred. Still, older women could be great in the sack, all that experience and nothing to lose. Dan felt encouraged.

“Well, everyone knows the people on top in the film business are Jews. The ones—”

“That’s not quite true,” Mr. Clifford interrupted. “The Chairman of Fox is not a Jew, nor is the head of production. Zanuck is not a Jew.”

“But they predominate,” Dan said hastily.

“Go on.”

Dan wondered whether he was on the right track. “Well, the ones I got to work with, lower down the ladder, they were flashy types, just like I later found in the clothing business, which is why I liked real estate better.”

“Aren’t there plenty of them in real estate?” Mrs. Clifford asked.

Dan turned to her. He knew when a woman was interested. “Oh certainly, but you can avoid them if you want to.”

“Are you uncomfortable with Jews?” Mr. Clifford asked.

“Well, yes.”

“But you wouldn’t want to do them any harm, would you?”

Mr. Clifford noticed the momentary twist in Dan’s lip, not quite a twitch.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Mr. Clifford said, already having had his answer. “Do you think you would have difficulty working with them?”

“Jews?” Dan asked.

“Ah,” Mr. Clifford said, “there are the drinks.” He waited till the Japanese had served Mrs. Clifford and Pitz, then took his own drink. Dan watched the Japanese leave the room.

“Don’t worry about his overhearing anything, Mr. Pitz,” Mr. Clifford said. “He’s been with me for years. He’s like a son.”

Dan saw the look Mrs. Clifford shot at him at the mention of a son. That might be worth exploring privately with her. His view was that you always needed something on the other guy, and women were a good way to get what you needed. He smiled at Mrs. Clifford to let her know he knew of her interest.

“I was asking,” Mr. Clifford said, “whether you would have difficulty working with Jews.”

“Is this a Jewish resort the ad was for?”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Mr. Clifford said. “There are Jews there.”

“What about the owners?”

“The owners are Mrs. Clifford and myself.”

“It isn’t one of those, er, restricted places then?”

Mr. and Mrs. Clifford looked at each other.

“Mr. Pitz,” Mr. Clifford continued, “I want an absolutely honest answer to the next question.”

“Certainly.”

“Are you capable of murder?”

Dan Pitz sat frozen.

“Please remember my earlier warning,” Mr. Clifford said. “Are you capable of murder?”

This wasn’t a courtroom
.
He could say anything.
“Isn’t everyone?” he asked, his palms sweating again.

“I’m not asking about everyone, I’m asking about you.” Mr. Clifford seemed annoyed. “Can you kill if necessary?”

“I think so,” Dan said.

“Good,” Mr. Clifford said. “I’m glad you chose not to obfuscate. Just for Mrs. Clifford’s elucidation, I should tell her that your mother and sister died in an automobile accident under circumstances remarkably similar to the ones obtaining when the manager of your first motel died, am I right? Please don’t be alarmed, Mr. Pitz, I’m not about to inform the police. From the dates you supplied on the phone, I was merely able to have the newspaper accounts of the time researched. I would guess that you used rubber cement, is that correct?”

How the hell could he know?

“What kind of fuse did you use, Mr. Pitz?”

“An ordinary display fireworks fuse.”

“How much rubber cement did you use?”

“Just half a gallon.”

“Why was no container found?”

“Oh,” Dan Pitz said, “I transferred it to an empty half-gallon milk carton.”

“Very, very clever, Mr. Pitz. According to the news account, your mother and sister were in the front seat
and you were in the back
seat when you noticed something was wrong with the car. You had them pull over, you got out to see what was wrong, and suddenly, the interior of the car was a mass of flame from an explosion, and there was nothing you could do but watch your mother and sister being incinerated.”

Dan coughed into his hand, “Well, actually, not having done this before, I lit the fuse, got out, and ran like hell. I ran back only after the explosion. There were one or two cars coming down the road, and I thought I’d better be close to it.”

“The newspaper had you trying to pull them out of the fire.”

“Not really,” Dan said. “It was one big ball of fire right away even before the tank went.”