“Take it out of this,” Baxter said, coming across with his last twenty.
Turner rang up the sale, then said, “But your tab—”
“I’ll settle it direct with Mrs. Chednik, and you can tell her I said so.”
“Well, all right, Charlie,” Turner said, giving him the change. “But you’re going to get into a lot of trouble.”
They looked at each other. Baxter knew that Turner was part owner of the Clinton and that he and Mrs. Chednik had decided to cut him off until he paid up. And Turner knew that he knew this. The bastard!
The next stop was the furnished efficiency he called home over on River Road Extension. Baxter walked up the stairs to the twilight gloom of his living room. A small black-and-white television glowed faintly in a corner. Betsy was in the bedroom, packing. Her eye had swollen badly.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” Baxter demanded.
“I’m going to stay with my brother.”
“Forget it,” Baxter said, “it was only an argument.” She went on packing.
“You’re staying right here,” Baxter told her. Her pushed her out of the way and looked through her suitcase. He came up with his onyx cufflinks, his tie clasp with the gold nugget, his Series E savings bonds, and damned if she hadn’t also tucked away his Smith & Wesson .38.
“Now you’re really going to get it,” he told her.
She looked at him levelly. “Charlie, I warn you, never touch me again if you know what’s good for you.”
Baxter took a step toward her, bulky and imposing in his newly pressed suit. But suddenly he remembered that her brother Amos worked in the DA’s office. Would Betsy blow the whistle on him? He really couldn’t risk finding out, even though she was bugging him beyond human endurance.
Just then the doorbell rang sharply, three times—McGorty’s ring—and Baxter had ten dollars with McGorty on today’s number. He opened the door, but it wasn’t McGorty, it was a tiny Chinese woman pitching some religious pamphlet. She wouldn’t shut up and go away, not even when he told her nice; she just kept at him, and Baxter was suddenly filled with the desire to kick her downstairs, along with her knapsack of tracts.
And then Betsy slipped past him. She had managed to get the suitcase closed, and it all happened so fast that Baxter couldn’t do a thing. He finally got rid of the Chinese lady and poured himself a tumblerful of whiskey. Then he remembered the bonds and looked around, but that damned Betsy had whipped everything away, including his goldnugget tie clasp. His Smith & Wesson was still on the bed, under a fold of blanket, so he put it into his suit pocket and poured another drink.
He ate the knockwurst special at the Shamrock, had a quick beer and a shot at the White Rose, and got to the South Camden Shopping Mall just before closing. He sat in a luncheonette, had a coffee, and watched Conabee and his employees leave at seven-thirty. He sat for another half hour, then let himself into the shop.
It was dark inside, and Baxter stood very still, getting the feel of the place. He could hear a lot of clocks going at different rates, and there was a high-pitched sound like crickets, and other sounds he couldn’t identify. He listened for a while, then took out his pocket flashlight and looked around.
His light picked out curious details; a scale-model Spad biplane with ten-foot wings, hanging from the ceiling and tilted as if to attack; a fat plastic beetle almost underfoot; a model Centurion tank nearly five feet long. He was standing in the dark in the midst of motionless toys, and beyond them he could make out the dim shapes of large dolls, stuffed animals, and, to one side, a silent jungle made of delicate, shiny metal.
It was an uncanny sort of place, but Baxter was not easily intimidated. He got ready for a long night. He found a pile of cushions, laid them out, found an ashtray, took off his overcoat, and lay down. Then he sat up and took a cellophane-wrapped ham sandwich, slightly squashed, from one pocket, a can of beer from the other. He got a cigarette going, lay back, and chewed, drank, and smoked against a background of sounds too faint to be identified. One of the many clocks struck the hour, then the others chimed in, and they kept going for a long time.
He sat up with a start. He realized that he had dozed off. Everything seemed exactly the same. Nobody could have unlocked the door and slipped in past him, yet there seemed to be more light.
A dim spotlight had come on, and he could hear spooky organ music, but faintly, faintly, as though from very far away. Baxter rubbed his nose and stood up. Something moved beside his left shoulder, and he turned his flashlight on it. It was a life-size puppet of Long John Silver. Baxter laughed uncertainly.
More lights came on, and a spotlight picked out a group of three big dolls sitting at a table in a corner of the room. The papa doll was smoking a pipe and letting out clouds of real smoke, the mama doll was crocheting a shawl, and the baby doll was crawling on the floor and gurgling.
Then a group of doll people danced out in front of him. There were little shoemakers and tiny ballerinas and a miniature lion that roared and shook its mane. The metal jungle came to life, and great mechanical orchids opened and closed. There was a squirrel with blinking golden eyes; it cracked and ate silver walnuts. The organ music swelled up loud and sweet. Fluffy white doves settled on Baxter’s shoulders, and a bright-eyed fawn licked at his fingers. The toys danced around him, and for a moment Baxter found himself in the splendid lost world of childhood.
Suddenly he heard a woman’s laughter.
“Who’s there?” he called out.
She stepped forward, followed by a silvery spotlight. She was Dorothy of Oz, she was Snow White, she was Gretel, she was Helen of Troy, she was Rapunzel; she was exquisitely formed, almost five feet tall, with crisp blond curls clustered around an elfin face. Her slight figure was set off by a frilly white shift tied around the waist with a red ribbon.
“You’re that missing doll!” Baxter exclaimed.
“So you know about me,” she said. “I would have liked a little more time, so that I could have gotten all the toys performing. But it doesn’t matter.”
Baxter, mouth agape, couldn’t answer. She said, “The night Conabee assembled me, I found that I had the gift of life. I was more than a mere automaton—I lived, I thought, I desired. But I was not complete. So I hid in the ventilator shaft and stole materials in order to become as I am now, and to build this wonderland for my creator. Do you think he will be proud of me?”
“You’re beautiful,” Baxter said at last.
“But do you think Mr. Conabee will like me?”
“Forget about Conabee,” Baxter said.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s crazy,” Baxter said, “but I can’t live without you. We’ll get away from here, work it out somehow. I’ll make you happy, babe, I swear it!”
“Never,” she said. “Conabee created me and I belong to him.”
“You’re coming with me,” Baxter said.
He seized her hand and she pulled away from him. He yanked her toward him and her hand came off in his grip. Baxter gaped at it, then threw it from him. “Goddamn you!” he screamed. “Come here!”
She ran from him. He took out his .38 and followed. The organ music began to wander erratically, and the lights were flickering. He saw her run behind a set of great alphabet blocks. He hurried after her—and then the toys attacked.
The tank rumbled into action. It came at him slow and heavy. Baxter put two slugs into it, tumbling it across the room. He caught a glimpse of the Spad diving toward him, and he shot it in midair, squashing it against the wall like a giant moth. A squad of little mechanical soldiers discharged their cork bullets at him, and he kicked them out of the way. Long John Silver lunged at him, and his cutlass caught Baxter under the ribcage. But it was only a rubber sword; Baxter pushed the pirate aside and had her cornered behind the Punch and Judy.