The craft hit a swell, and Ralph had to steady himself. “Keep talking.”
“So this summer, finally, you came back. Helen had remarried, and I guess you realized you weren’t being fair to her. You phoned me, and then you phoned Oat Finley, because you knew he’d find out you’d returned. You were more clever with those phone calls than you realized. The police check showed you’d only made one local call from your room. This baffled me, till I realized that there wouldn’t have been a Staten Island phone book in your room. You could have called Information, but instead I suppose you went down to the lobby, looked up the number, and called Oat from there.”
“You’re smart, Paul. Wasting your time in the art business.”
“Oat Finley knew you were going to have to tell everything about your disappearance, including his attempt to kill you and his illegal smuggling business. He was already on a suspended sentence, and he knew it would mean prison for him. You figured he’d try to kill you again Thursday night, but what you didn’t figure was that instead of coming himself he’d send his nephew — who’d taken over as his criminous partner after you disappeared.”
“You’re guessing now.”
“Not at all! You were ready for something, killed the nephew, and switched identification with him, to confuse things till you could kill Finley and be safe from him. But in switching wallets you must have missed a card he carried listing Oat Finley as his next of kin. When I heard that the police called Finley to identify the body, I should have known right away it wasn’t you. You wouldn’t be listing your would-be murderer as next of kin. Apparently this card didn’t have the nephew’s own name on it, because the police only needed Finley’s word to be convinced the body was yours. Of course, the truth would come out quickly enough if they checked the fingerprints or showed the body to Helen, but you needed only a few hours. Finley gave you more time than you expected, because he saw an advantage to himself in identifying the dead man as you — he could kill you later and throw your body in the ocean, and the police would never untangle the thing. He must have figured his nephew wouldn’t be missed. He could always make up a story to cover his absence.”
Ralph suddenly swerved the boat, scanning the harbor area with a quick eye. “Talk faster, Paul. I’m getting impatient.”
“You got to Finley this morning, before he could find you, and killed him. When I found his body, the pieces began to fit together. The first dead man was a kin of Finley’s, and a nephew was missing. If the dead man was the nephew, I figured you’d killed them both — otherwise, why go into hiding again right after reappearing? When I was chasing the boat just now, I could see it was in the hands of someone who knew it. That made it you for sure. Now tell me where you’re going.”
“Away. Just away.”
“You think you can? Even if the police don’t go checking fingerprints, some newspaper’s bound to print your picture from five years ago. The cops will know quickly enough that it’s not your body, that you set up the scene in the motel room to look like you were shot opening the door. They’ve probably got a pickup out for you already.”
“Then Helen won’t have to worry.” He stared down at the gun in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time. “I thought Oat was just running untaxed whisky, and I helped him with it. Then one night I discovered there was heroin in the cases, too. I wanted out, and that’s when he tried to kill me. That’s why he sent the nephew to kill me, too. I don’t feel guilty about killing either of them.”
The craft hit another harbor swell, throwing Ralph off balance. Paul went at him, trying for the gun, but he wasn’t fast enough. There was a single shot and Ralph Jennings crumpled into the corner. By the time Paul tore his shirt away, Ralph’s blood was on them both. He tried to speak, and then died in Paul’s arms as the Brighter II cruised unmanned in widening circles.
Paul looked down at his sister, playing in the sand with her youngest child. “Do you want to tell me where you were that night, Helen?” he asked her quietly.
“I’ve told Jack, and he’s the only one who needs to know. It was just a messy little Fire Island affair, and it’s over now.”
“I’m glad. Jack’s a pretty decent guy.”
She nodded. “Maybe this summer hasn’t been so bad after all.”
Paul kicked at the sand with his bare foot. Down the beach he could see Sharon O’Connell walking toward them. “Maybe not,” he agreed.
The Girl in the Penny Arcade
by Donald Olson
Compassion, frequently one’s ruling emotion, may also coincidentally reveal a personal vulnerability.
Under the roller rink a string of refreshment booths, reeking of popcorn, hamburger, beer, and similar amusement park essences, opens upon a promenade lined with green benches. Estelle Thurman, sitting with her husband on one of the benches, has observed that cotton candy is by far the most popular of the gastronomic horrors sold at these booths and she chooses to regard this frothy confection as a symbol of universal longing, a promise of delectable enjoyment which, like life itself, melts all too quickly into nothingness.
This is not the sort of notion she would dare impart to her husband; Guy is not what you would call a man of thought and that musing look on his face cloaks nothing deeper than a gross wistfulness as he watches the cute young girls in hip-clinging jeans parade upstairs to the roller rink, from which is issuing visceral music of a generation Estelle makes no pretense of understanding.
Behind them is the penny arcade and beyond that, the rides; in front of them is the lake ringed with flares that will be lighted at ten o’clock. The annual fireworks display has been advertised for the same hour although Estelle, from past experience, knows this is a lie; greedy for every holiday nickle it can squeeze from the crowd, the park management will not climax the day’s events until midnight at the earliest.
Over Guy’s protests, they will remain, because only by preserving these rituals of the past can Estelle pay homage to the memory of little Barry. Even now her copper-colored eyes search among the children, picking out a thatch of blond hair, a pug nose, a slightly faun-like pair of ears that remind her of her dead son.
Her first glimpse of the girl interrupts this morbid preoccupation, for compassion is the ruling emotion of Estelle’s nature and the pitiful appearance of the girl makes an immediate impression on her. A certain blankness of expression and timidity of movement, and the way she holds one skinny arm before her as if feeling her way among unseen obstacles, suggest the girl might be blind; but then a youngster crosses her path waving a candied apple and the girl pauses, her gaze following the bright bobbing object, and Estelle decides she is not blind but merely defective.
Sloppy huaraches, a sleazy green blouse and pink corduroy slacks give the girl the look of a refugee from some natural disaster who has dressed herself out of a Red Cross grab bag and now wanders dazed and forlorn among throngs of the dispossessed, looking for someone to whom she might belong. Indeed, she seems to be tagging along behind a family group who may or may not be aware of her but who pay no attention as she stands gaping while they munch hot dogs at one of the counters.