“Uh-huh.”
He sighed. “It means a change in my living pattern,” he went on. “I’ve got the mark of Cain now. I don’t imagine we can go on living in this town, not very comfortably.” He smiled softly. “Maybe we’ll travel, Bill. Joyce has always wanted to travel, though she’s never pressed the point. I think she feels cramped in a town like this one. She’s used to a more sophisticated environment. I can afford to retire. Maybe we’ll try traveling until everything cools off.”
Our ten minutes were up, and with interest. The guard came back, an apologetic look on his face, and told me I’d have to be going now. I shook hands with Murray and he pumped my arm.
“It’s funny,” he said. “I couldn’t tell this to anyone else, not so easily. I feel pretty close to you, kid. You’re easy to talk to.”
The guard opened the door. I stepped out of the cell and he closed the door and locked it. I took a last look at Murray, smiled at him, said something cheerful. Then I walked with the guard along the corridor and down the stairs.
The bastard tipped. Murray tipped, he caught on, he knew. And now, cute as a palmed jack, Murray Roger was playing games of his own.
Well, what else? He had a perfect explanation, a hell of a convincing confession. He was a killer, he couldn’t get away with it, he was admitting it and taking the consequences. He had an explanation for everything, even had a way doped out to beat the tax boys and keep them from hanging an evasion rap on him. He told me this, earnest and sincere, and there was only one hang-up.
Because I damn well knew he hadn’t killed anybody and he damn well knew it. There were three possibilities—he was crazy, or he was just trying to save his neck. Or finally, he knew. And if that were the case, God alone knew what he was up to. God and Murray Rogers. I spent the rest of Saturday listening to the radio and dying to tell myself everything was clear and clean and he didn’t know a thing. I tried reaching Joyce once. The phone rang and rang and rang and I put the receiver back on the hook and gave up.
My own phone rang that night. It was Barb Lambert. What was I doing? Did I feel like coming over? I didn’t, at first. But there was calmness and softness and warmth in her voice and it reached me. I told her I would pick up a bottle and come over right away.
The liquor store around the corner sold me a fifth of Cutty Sark and I drove to Barb’s house. We spent the first half hour making a dent in the bottle and becoming comfortable. The comfort didn’t last. When I draped an arm over her shoulder I could feel her whole body go slightly tense. I took the arm away and she turned to stare at me.
“Bill—”
“Go on.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Barb said. “I—what’s happening with us, Bill?”
“What do you mean?”
She looked away for a moment or two. Then she said, “You swept me off my feet, you know. I was going along in a quiet little rut and then you came along and changed things. I started caring again. I started to feel alive. I thought you liked me.”
“Of course I like you—”
“But things are changing,” she said. She was staring at me now, eyes wide, innocent. “You’re all wrapped up in something, Bill. You don’t really seem to give a damn about me. You slept with me once. Or don’t you remember?”
“Barb—”
“But you don’t seem to remember. Don’t you want to—to sleep with me again? Wasn’t I any good?”
I didn’t answer her. I stood up, took fresh ice cubes from the silver bucket on the walnut breakfront. I put the ice in our glasses and poured some fresh scotch over the cubes. I set her glass on the coffee table in front of her. She didn’t pay any attention to it. I took a long drink and waited.
“I’m shameless,” she said. “I like you, Bill.”
There were tears welling up in the corners of her eyes but she was determined not to let go of them. She wouldn’t cry.
“Bill,” she said, “I don’t want to be—used. I want to mean something. I want you to like me and to—to love me. I want us to get married, Bill. I’m not in any hurry. But I have to feel that we’re moving toward something, not just wandering around in circles. I’m not a kid in college any more. I’m not that young. Do you see?”
“I see.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I wish I knew you,” she said. “I only wish I knew you. But I don’t know you at all.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Who are you, Bill?”
“You know the answers.”
She shook her head very gravely. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t think so. There’s something about you that doesn’t make any sense to me. It doesn’t fit. I wish I could put my finger on it. You just came to town and slipped into a slot and fitted in perfectly, but there’s a part of you that doesn’t fit. I—I wish I knew more about you.”
“You’re making a big thing out of nothing,” I said. “I’m just another ordinary Joe, that’s all. You can’t make me into a romantic figure any more than you can call yourself a call girl. We’re ordinary people, Barb.”
I tried to kiss her. She pulled away, shaking her head. “Not now,” she said.
I finished my drink. She changed the subject, somehow, and we talked for a few moments about trivia. The trivia didn’t grasp us all that firmly and the conversation ran out of gas. The silence that followed was uncomfortable, awkward.
Then Barb said, “You can always tell me. Whatever it is, you can tell me, Bill. You know that, don’t you?”
“Even if there’s nothing to tell?”
Deep eyes cast downward. “There is,” she said. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
14
I spent Sunday night in the little neighborhood tavern where Joyce and I had swigged Black and White and first doped out the way to separate Murray Rogers from his money. I went to the bar sort of by accident. There was dinner in a diner, then aimless driving while the sky went from gray to black in a slow fade. I kept driving, and I worried about Murray and played games guessing how much he knew, and the Ford found that particular bar. There was a handy parking space, I had a thirst. The Ford rolled into the space and I found a stool for myself in the bar.
The same bartender was on duty, the same show on television. I finished one drink and let the bartender pour a new one for me. He took a dollar away and brought back a shiny quarter. I picked it up, held it between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand. I moved my right over it, letting the coin drop into my palm at the last minute. I plucked empty air with my right hand, made a fist.
“Pretty,” the bartender said.
I had forgotten he was there. He was looking at my hands with something approaching interest.
“Do it again,” he suggested.
“It’s nothing.”
“Lemme see.”
So I did it again.
“Jesus,” he said. “Could swear it’s there.” He tapped my right fist. I opened it, empty, then opened the left one and showed the coin.
“Again,” he said. “If I don’t see it this time, the house buys a round.”
This time I did take the coin in the right hand. He thought he had it cased and tapped the left one. I showed him he was wrong. He clucked admiringly and poured a fresh shot in my glass.
“That’s a talent,” he said.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s a real talent,” he said. “Try it again for a buck?”
So what the hell. I was quick and smooth this time and when he tapped the left hand I opened it and the right hand at the same time. There was no coin in either hand. He stared at me.
“Try your shirt pocket,” I said.