He thought about how readily and how happily she had agreed to go swimming with him, and he knew that she had taken it as a sign of their reconciliation.
As these thoughts came to him, he felt horrible anguish and remorse. She had been the only woman who had ever returned his love, who had ever seen more in him than a little man stooped over ledgers in a hushed office, and he had destroyed her.
He whispered her name, but she was gone, she was dead, and he had killed her. He sprawled on the sand and wept.
In the following weeks, although he still missed her terribly, he did grow resigned to the loss. He felt that something dramatic and of massive import had moved through his life, changing him forever. His conscience pained him for the murder he had committed, but it was a sweet pain.
Five months later he was rescued. A small boat came to the island from a bulging gray steamer, and the sailors helped him as he climbed clumsily aboard. They brought him to the steamer, and helped him up the Jacob’s ladder to the deck, and fed him, and gave him a place to sleep, and when he was refreshed they brought him before the captain.
The captain, a small gray man in faded clothing, motioned to him to sit down in the chair near his desk. He said, “How long were you on the island?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were alone?” asked the captain gently. “All the time?”
“No,” he said. “There was a woman with me. Doreen Palmer.”
The captain was surprised. “Where is she?”
“She’s dead.” All at once he started to weep, and the whole story came out. “We fought, we got on each other’s nerves, and I murdered her. I drowned her and her body was washed out to sea.”
The captain stared at him, not knowing what to do or say, and finally decided to do nothing but simply to turn the rescued man over to the authorities when they reached Seattle.
The Seattle police listened first to the captain’s statement, and then they talked to Jim Kilbride. He admitted the murder at once, saying that his conscience had troubled him ever since. He spoke logically and sensibly, answering all their questions, filling in the details of his life on the island and the crime he had committed, and it never occurred to anyone that he might be mad. A stenographer typed his confession and he signed it.
Old office friends visited him in jail, and looked at him with new interest. They had never known him, not really. He smiled and accepted their awe.
He was given a fair trial, with court-appointed counsel, and was found guilty of first-degree murder. He was calm and dignified throughout the trial, and no one could believe that he had once been an insignificant clerk. He was sentenced to die in the gas chamber and was duly executed.
You Put on Some Weight
He was out, and it felt great. His name was Charles Lambaski, alias Charlie Lane, alias Chuck Lewis, alias Jack Kent, and he’d just done four and a half of a ten-year bit for armed assault.
Prison life had agreed with him in a way, filling him out, so that at thirty-two he looked a bare twenty-five. He was just over six feet tall, and weighed a hundred seventy-eight, very little of it fat. His face was square, with a jutting jaw and a square chunk of nose and wide-set eyes beneath heavy straight brows. His black hair was in a prison crewcut, but pretty soon he’d have a wave back in it and it would be the way it used to be. Everything would be the way it used to be.
He was on a train, coming from the prison into Grand Central. They’d given him the ticket and a suit of clothes and ten bucks and the name of a parole officer he was supposed to go see. The parole officer’s name had gone out the window the minute the train was under way, and Charlie had sat back and let his mind drift backward four and a half years. It was as though all those years had never been. It wasn’t four and a half years ago, it was yesterday, and he’d had a bad dream last night about picking up a two-bit assault rap. And now the dream was over, and he was on his way back. It was great.
When the train reached Grand Central, Charlie walked off, no suitcase, and took a cab downtown to the old stamping grounds. The cabby complained about breaking the ten, but he did it. Then Charlie walked into the diner on the corner.
The counterman was new’. He looked at Charlie and said, “Yessir?”
“Wally around?”
“Who’s looking for him?”
“Charlie Lambaski.”
“I’ll take a look.”
Charlie sat down at the counter. It felt funny, having to tell the counterman who he was. Four and a half years ago everybody had known Charlie Lambaski. But there was no sweat. Most people would remember him. And the new people would learn the name fast.
Wally came out from the kitchen, a short round guy in a dirty white apron, looking more like the assistant cook than the owner. His round face was wrinkled into a big smile, and he said, “Charlie! Good old Charlie!” And he pumped Charlie’s hand.
“Good to see you, Wally.”
Wally looked him over critically. “You’re looking good, Charlie,” he said. “You put on some weight.”
“A few pounds,” Charlie admitted.
“You want your bankbook?”
“Yeah. I’m flat.”
“Come on to the kitchen.”
Charlie followed the short man into the kitchen, and waited while Wally Addled with the dials of the small safe over in the corner. Wally got the safe open, took the bankbook out, slammed the safe, and handed the bankbook to Charlie. “There you are, just like you left it. Only with interest. I brought it around to the bank every once in a while and they put the interest in.”
Charlie looked in the bankbook. Over six grand. Great. Enough to live on until he got back in the groove. “Thanks for holding it,” he said.
“Anything for a pal,” said Wally. “Want a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I got a lot to do.”
“Sure thing.”
Charlie started away, then turned back. “Andy at the same place?”
“No, he moved about two years ago. Wait a second, I’ll write the new address down for you.”
Charlie waited, then took the slip of paper, thanked Wally again, and left the diner. He grabbed a cab, read the address to the driver, and then sat back and thought about Andy.
Andy had been his partner. They’d worked together almost all the time, doing jobs for Corsi, who was mixed up in a little bit of everything, so that their jobs weren’t too closely defined. One time they’d be collecting from a narcotics retailer who was behind in his payments. Another time they’d be helping organize some small downtown union. Another time they’d be discouraging some clown who thought he could muscle into Corsi’s territory. It was a varied and interesting job, without a lot of dull desk work, and except for the rare solo gig like the one he’d been picked up on, it had always been him and Andy all the way.
It was going to be like that again. Charlie was looking forward to it, getting into the old groove. First he’d check in with Andy, maybe stay at his place for a day or two until he got squared away, then find an apartment somewhere and let Corsi know he was available for the payroll again. Back to the old life, sweet and easy.
Andy lived on 47th Street, way over on the west side. Charlie was surprised at how rundown the neighborhood was; Andy’s old place had been a lot better. Down the street there was the 16th Precinct, which Charlie remembered from a couple pickups in his youth. It was next to a grammar school, which was maybe a good idea.