What if Crawford had gone straight to Honour Mercy and given her the choice? Which way would she have gone? Richie had supposed, for a few traitorous moments, that she would naturally go to the stronger and abler and richer man, the man who could offer her the most. But now, when he stopped to think about it, it was obvious that Crawford didn’t think that way. Crawford saw little Richie Parsons as a serious threat. And Crawford might be absolutely right.
That was why Crawford had taken this expensive and roundabout method of getting rid of Richie Parsons. If he had reported Richie to the Authorities, and Honour Mercy had found out who had turned Richie in, she would probably have had nothing at all to do with Crawford.
Of course. Crawford himself had said that he did nothing unnecessary, and only if Richie was a strong competitor for the affections of Honour Mercy was this expense of time and money necessary.
Having gone that far, Richie was stopped again. Because there was nothing he could do about it.
If he didn’t take the plane, if he went back to Honour Mercy, Crawford would turn him in. There wasn’t any doubt of that. If he went back to Honour Mercy, and Honour Mercy chose him over Crawford, Crawford could lose nothing by reporting Richie. But he could gain quite bit. He could gain revenge against Richie for having double-crossed the line.
So there still wasn’t any choice. He still had to take that plane at six o’clock.
Richie felt miserable. This was the story of his life. The strong came along and took from him whatever they wanted for themselves, and there was nothing he could do about it. He could sneak around and take bits and pieces from others, coins and watches and wallets left carelessly where he could get his hands on them, but it wasn’t the same thing. He couldn’t go boldly up to anybody and take what he wanted. Yet other people could do that to him whenever they wanted. They could do it, and they did.
If only he didn’t have to be afraid all the time. If only he could go out and get a job, any job, just so he wouldn’t have to be living on Honour Mercy all the time. If only he could live without being terrified of Authority.
He had to think about it, he had to think this out carefully. He sat in the stall in the men’s room at the temporary terminal, Idlewild, Queens, New York City, fifteen miles from Honour Mercy Bane, and he tried to think of something to make the inevitability of her loss less inevitable.
If he had some sort of phony identification card — But still, his fingerprints were on file in Washington. If his fingerprints were ever taken—
For what? Why would anybody take his fingerprints? They don’t take your fingerprints when you just get a simple job somewhere. All he’d need would be false identification of some sort.
If he could steal a wallet — No, that wouldn’t be any good, he’d have to steal a wallet from somebody his age and his size and his hair-color and everything else. He needed identification that was clearly his. Besides, stolen identification would be just as bad as real identification.
There was a place where he might be able to get a fake identification card. Fake draft card, Social Security card, driver’s license, everything. It was a place he’d heard about when he was in high school, a bar you went to and the bartender, if you looked all right, he would pass you on to the guy who could give you the identification. The only trouble was, the place was in Albany, where Richie’s home was, and where the police would be most on the lookout for him.
Still, if he wanted to keep Honour Mercy, he had to have fake identification, he had to be able to work, he had to get free of this fear of Authority. If he wanted Honour Mercy badly enough, he would go to Albany and get the fake identification.
But, by the time he came back, Honour Mercy would have gone off with Crawford already, and he wouldn’t know where to look for her. Besides, false identification cost a lot of money.
He had a lot of money. He had six hundred and twenty dollars. He had a ticket to Miami, and he could turn that in for more money. And he didn’t have to come back for Honour Mercy; he could bring her along with him.
Of course. That would be a lot safer, anyway. The Albany police would be looking for Richie Parsons, but they wouldn’t be looking for him with a girl. They’d be looking for him alone.
And if he took Honour Mercy away with him, then Crawford couldn’t get her.
He hurried from the men’s room, searching for a phone booth, finally found one, and dialed home. It was quarter-past-four, according to the clock high on the terminal wall. Crawford had started back only fifteen minutes ago, and it would take him an hour at least to get to the apartment. If Honour Mercy were home—
She was. “It’s me,” Richie said, when she answered the phone. “It’s me. Richie.”
“Where are you?” she asked. “You sound as though you’ve been running.”
He was on the verge of telling her the whole story, but instinctive caution stopped him. Crawford thought Richie was dangerous competition. Richie was inclined to agree with him. But something told him not to chance putting it to the test. Instead of telling her the truth, therefore, he said, “Something’s happened. We’ve got to get out of New York.”
“Right now?”
“Right away. We can go to Albany. I can get some phony identification cards there, and then we’ll be all right.”
“I thought you didn’t want to go to Albany.”
She was right. He didn’t. The idea of it made him weak. But if he wanted Honour Mercy, he had to do it. And he wanted Honour Mercy. “I’ll explain when I see you,” he said. “Pack everything right away. I’ll meet you at Grand Central Station. By the — by the Information booth. Get two tickets to Albany. I’ll be there as soon as I can. An hour, maybe less.”
“What happened, Richie?”
“I’ll explain when I get there,” he said, and hung up before she could ask any more.
It took five long minutes to turn the ticket in for cash, filling out some silly form about why he wasn’t going after all, and then he ran out of the terminal and to the nearest taxi-stand. He climbed into the back seat of the cab and said, breathlessly, “Grand Central Station.”
The driver looked at him doubtfully. “That’s going to cost quite a bit, buddy.”
He had six hundred and twenty dollars. He had forty dollars and ninety-two cents for the ticket to Miami. And he was going to stay with Honour Mercy. “I’ve got the money,” he said, and the expansive smile was a new expression on his face. “Don’t you worry about it.”
Seven
Joshua Crawford was sitting with a phone in his hand. The line was dead but he had not yet replaced the receiver. He was staring at a spot on the far wall and his fingers were clenched tight around the receiver.
After a moment he finally did hang up. But he remained in the same position, propped up in front of his desk by his elbows, his eyes still focused absently on the spot on the far wall.
He thought about the conversation. It had been an interesting conversation, to say the least. Almost a fascinating conversation.
It had gone something like this:
“Joshua, this is Honour Mercy. I’m afraid I won’t be able to see you tonight.”
“Really? What’s the matter?”
“I just got a call from Richie.”
Guardedly: “Oh?”
“We have to leave town right away. We’re catching a train for Albany.”
“I see. How come?”
A moment’s pause. Then: “He wouldn’t tell me. He said something about getting false identification there. I don’t know. I think he’s afraid the Air Force is after him.”