“I don’t mean to sound square,” Raymond said, “but you might consider a different way of life.”
Sandy was still gazing at the television screen. “Look at that”-amazed-“all four of the husbands said John Travolta. Jesus. You know how many John Travoltas there are around? If I had my choice, who I’d pick, you know who it’d be?”
“You said Robert Redford.”
“No, he’s the one I’d like to make whoopee with. No, I mean the one, like somebody I wouldn’t mind being married to.”
“Who’s that?”
“Don’t laugh, but Gregory Peck.”
“Is that right?”
“I mean a young Gregory Peck.”
“Yeah, I’ve always liked him.”
“He’s so… calm. You want to know something? When you first came here, the first time, you reminded me of him. A younger Gregory Peck-that’s what I thought of.”
Raymond smiled. “Were you smoking?”
“No. I didn’t have nothing but seeds and stems. I told you that, didn’t I? Didn’t we discuss that one time?”
“You’ve been smoking today though.”
“Some, but I don’t feel it. God, I wish I did.”
“I know what you mean,” Raymond said. “Mr. Sweety told us about the gun.”
Sandy sighed and seemed tired again. “Here we go.”
“A Walther P .38 HP model, made in Germany about 1940,” Raymond said. “It’s probably been to war, killed some people. But the only ones we know for sure it’s killed are Alvin Guy and Adele Simpson. Mr. Sweety says you’re the one gave it to him.”
“He said that?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know-I thought Gregory Peck was cool,” Sandy said, “but I think you could give him some lessons. I’ve been seeing it coming and, I’ll tell you the truth, I don’t know what to do. If you think I’m gonna testify against Clement-I mean even if he was paralyzed from the neck down and had to be fed with a spoon-even if you swear you’re gonna put him away forever, like the last time, make me all these promises if I’ll say he had the gun, whatever it was that time, and I wouldn’t do it and thank God, Christ, I didn’t, cause he walked out of the courtroom, didn’t he?”
“He isn’t gonna walk this time,” Raymond said, not even convincing himself.
Sandy said, “Bull shit, you don’t know. Practically everybody he knows made him in that house-where was it, on St. Marys-with that fucking gun and he walked. The only way in the world-I’ll tell you right now-I’d ever testify against Clement is if he’s dead and buried with a stake through his heart and even then I’d be nervous.” Sandy got up. “You can send me to jail you want, but I swear I’m not saying one fucking word.” She went over to the front windows again and stood motionless, looking out.
Bob Eubanks was saying, “Now, gentlemen, listen carefully. Who will your wife say, of all your friends, is the most oversexed? First names only, please.”
Raymond got up. He walked over to the set thinking, Jerry. Turned it off and stood next to Sandy looking down at the city… cars coming off the Chrysler Freeway and turning onto Jefferson, the Renaissance Center, people in there coming out of work, conventions, meeting for drinks…
“Have you seen him today?”
“No.”
“You talk to him?”
“No.”
“Why do you stay with him?”
He didn’t think she was going to answer; but she said, after a moment, “I don’t know.” Listless again. “He’s fun…”
“He kills people.”
“I don’t know that.” She started to turn from the windows and Raymond put his hand on her shoulder, lightly, feeling small bones.
“You wish he’d disappear, leave you alone,” Raymond said. “You won’t make the move because you’re afraid to. He scares you to death. So you pretend he’s a normal person, maybe just a little wild, and say he’s fun. Was he fun when he put Skender’s leg up and took the pipe?…”
“I’m not saying one fucking word to you!” She tried to turn and pull free, but Raymond put both hands on her shoulders now and held her facing the pane of glass, the view.
“All I want you to do is listen,” Raymond said. “Okay?” Relaxing his grip, his hands moving gently over her shoulders before coming to rest. “I wondered, why didn’t he kill Skender? He killed the judge, he killed the woman with the judge. You see, I don’t think Clement planned it or anybody paid him to do it. He kills in the line of business, or when he feels like it. I think he came out of the racetrack looking for you and Skender-I know you were setting the poor guy up-and I think the judge got in Clement’s way, that’s all, and one thing led to another and… what does Clement do when he gets mad at somebody? Well, he might shoot you. Or, if he halfway likes you or feels sorry for you, he might only break your leg, let you off with a warning. You see what I mean?”
“You answer your own question,” Sandy said.
“What question’s that?”
“Will I testify against him. You admit he kills people he gets mad at. Or breaks their leg. What do you think he’d do to me?”
“I’m not asking you to testify. Have I said anything about testifying?” Raymond paused. “Are you thinking about something else?”
“Are you kidding-something else?”
“I think you’re missing the point here,” Raymond said. “What happens, say in the next day or so, before we pick him up, Clement finds out Sweety has the gun?”
“Oh, Jesus-”
“He’d want to know how he got it, wouldn’t he?”
Sandy came around and was looking up at him with a terrible fear in her eyes that seemed almost a yearning. “Why? I mean he doesn’t have to know that, does he?”
Raymond’s hands moved gently on her shoulders. “What were you supposed to do with the gun, get rid of it?”
“Throw it in the river.”
There it was. Not something he could use; still, it was nice to hear, verifying what he had put together in small pieces.
“So why’d you take it to Sweety?”
“Because I was going there.” She was a little girl again, pouting, resentment in her tone. “I’m not gonna walk out on the Belle Isle Bridge. What am I suppose to be doing if somebody sees me? Standing there on the bridge…”
“I know, it sounds easy,” Raymond said, “but it isn’t. What’d you tell Sweety to do with it?”
“Anything he wanted. Just get rid of it.”
“And he looked at it the same way you did. So he hid it down the basement. But weren’t you afraid he might call Clement?”
“Why would he?” Her tone changed as she said, “Listen, I’m not making a statement-if you think you’re being clever.”
“I told you, I’m not asking you to snitch,” Raymond said. “But how come you didn’t tell Clement you took the gun over there?”
“God, I don’t know.” Weary again. “He gets so picky and irritated sometimes…” She turned to the window and Raymond kept quiet, letting her stare at her reflection against the fading light. Almost at once the T-shirt image on the window changed to white and she was looking up at him again. “Wait a minute-if you know where the gun is then you already picked it up, huh? You’re not gonna leave it there.”
“Sandy,” Raymond said, “what difference does it make where the gun is? What’s that got to do with you?”
“He’ll find out-”
“Wait. Let me suggest something,” Raymond said, “before he finds out anything, tell him you took the gun over there. That’s all. You’re off the hook.”
“But I didn’t do anything to get him in trouble-I didn’t. Will you just, God, explain it to him?” In desperate need of help, but not listening.
“Sandy, look, all you have to do is tell him the truth. You gave the gun to Mr. Sweety. Tell him, because you were afraid. Isn’t that right? I don’t think Clement was very smart to give it to you in the first place, but that’s not your fault. At the time, I can understand him being a little nervous. What is this? He’s hardly out of bed, reading about the judge in the paper and we’re banging on the door. The gun’s down in the Buick or somewhere-he just wants to get rid of it, quick.” Raymond paused. “Sandy? Look at me. You listening?”