‘Jesus!’ He looked concerned as he stared at me. ‘You could have lost an eye.’
‘I guess I was lucky.’
‘You can say that again. I’ve got some great stuff for a bruise like that. Come on up, Larry. I’ll give it to you. My kid’s taken up boxing, and comes back with a shiner from time to time.’
I went with him, and he took me into his apartment. His wife and kid were out which was fortunate as she was more garrulous than he. He found a tube of ointment.
‘Rub this in every two hours. I bet you won’t know you have had a bruise in a couple of days.’
I thanked him, said I had work to do, shook his hand and returned to my apartment. I rubbed in the ointment, then realizing it was getting on for 17.00, and I hadn’t eaten all day, I opened a can of soup and heated it.
I spent a long, restless night, wondering and worrying. The following morning, I found the bruise was turning yellow, but my head was still sore.
I had a heavy day ahead of me, and I reached the office just after 08.30. Once at my desk, I had no time to think of Klaus, Glenda or Marsh. I had a lunch date with a client and sold him five expensive calculators. After lunch, satisfied with my sale, I drove back to my office block. As I was getting out of the car, Sheriff Thomson materialized.
‘Hi, citizen!’
‘Hey, Joe!’
He regarded me with his cop eyes.
‘You had an accident?’
‘Golf ball,’ I said shortly. ‘I forgot to duck. How’s life, Joe?’
‘Fair.’ He wiped the end of his nose with the back of his hand. ‘You seen Mrs. Marsh?’
I kept my face expressionless.
‘No. I’ve been nursing this bruise over the weekend.’
‘She had a date with me to photograph the jail. She didn’t show up.’
‘Maybe she forgot.’
‘Seems she’s pulled out.’ Thomson gave me his cop stare. ‘I went along to her apartment, right opposite yours, and the janitor tells me she left at seven yesterday morning with luggage.’
‘Is that right?’ I tried to meet his stare, but failed. I looked down the street for something better to look at. ‘That’s surprising. Maybe she had an urgent call or something.’
‘Yeah. Well, you’ve got business. I’ve got business. See you,’ and nodding, he walked on.
For a long moment, I stared after him, then hurried up to my office. I had a feeling of fear, but there was nothing I could do except wait for Klaus’s move.
I waited for five long, uneasy days. It was when I had finished work and had returned to the loneliness of my apartment that the pressure was on. I found I was pacing the floor, my heart beating sluggishly, my mind darting like a mouse trying to avoid a cat. How I longed for Glenda during these hours.
On the fifth evening, an express delivery arrived as I was unlocking my apartment door. The envelope was bulky, and as I signed for it, I knew the wait was over.
I shut and locked my apartment door. Then going over to my armchair, I sat down and ripped open the envelope. It contained eight coloured photographs, needle sharp, and obviously taken with a powerful telescopic lens.
Shot 1 showed Glenda in her bikini on the beach and I approaching her.
Shot 2 showed Glenda on her back, naked, and I too naked, kneeling over her.
Shot 3 showed me covering her, and Marsh, his face a snarling mask, coming from behind the sand shrubs.
Shots 4, 5, 6 showed Marsh and me fighting like savages.
Shot 7 showed me standing over Marsh, horror on my face, and blood on his.
Shot 8 showed me standing in the trench, digging.
As I looked at the photographs, a Siberian wind seemed to be blowing over me. The deadly trap had been carefully sprung, I had walked into it, and the teeth had snapped shut.
I now realized why Harry had shoved me close to the body, to let the hidden photographer get his shot, and why Harry had given me the trenching tool so I dug for a few minutes before Joe took over.
My hopes of outwitting Edwin Klaus and telling him to go to hell abruptly evaporated.
As I was staring at the photographs, I heard a sound that made me stiffen and drop the photographs in an incriminating puddle at my feet: the sad, forlorn tune of a Negro spiritual, played on a harmonica. The player was outside my front door.
Getting unsteadily to my feet, my mind in a dazed panic, I threw open the door. Joe, looking enormous, still wearing the white singlet and black slacks, was propping up the opposite wall. He gave me his wide, dazzling smile and slipped the harmonica into his short pocket.
‘Evening, Mr. Lucas. The boss wants to chat you up. Let’s go.’
Leaving the door open, I went back and picked up the photographs, stuffed them into the envelope and locked the envelope in my desk drawer.
It didn’t cross my mind to refuse to go with this Negro. I was trapped, and I knew it.
We rode down in the elevator. Parked outside the apartment block was a dusty, beaten-up Chevy.
Joe was humming to himself. He unlocked the car door, reached across and flicked up the lock button of the passenger’s seat. I went around the car and got in.
He set the car in motion. At this time in the evening the streets were almost deserted. He drove carefully, still humming to himself, then he said suddenly, ‘You happy about your car, Mr. Lucas? I sure worked on it. Plenty of wax.’
I sat motionless, my clenched fists between my knees. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to him.
He glanced at me.
‘You know something, Mr. Lucas? I was just another nigger before Mr. Klaus picked me up. Now, it’s all different. I’ve got a pad of my own. I get regular money. I’ve got a girl. I’ve got time to play my harmonica. You go along with Mr. Klaus. That’s the smart thing to do. He’s a real power man.’ He chuckled. ‘Power means money, Mr. Lucas. That’s what I like — real money. Not piddly dimes, but fat dollars.’
Still, I said nothing.
He leaned forward and pressed down on a cassette and the car was filled with strident beat music.
We drove for some fifteen minutes, then he turned off the highway and headed into the country. When the cassette finished, he again looked at me.
‘Mr. Lucas, sir, I know you’re in a spot of trouble. Take my tip, Mr. Lucas, and go along. Don’t dig your own grave. You do what the boss tells you, and you’ll be happy.’
‘Screw you,’ I said, in no mood to take his advice.
He giggled.
‘That’s it, Mr. Lucas. That’s what they all say to me, but this nigger boy knows what he’s talking about. Just don’t dig your own grave.’
He swung the car into a narrow road and drove to a ranch-style house, half hidden by trees, He stopped before a farm gate, and a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Harry. He opened the gate, and as Joe drove forward, Harry waved to me. I ignored him. Joe drove to the entrance of the house and pulled up.
Lights showed in six windows.
Joe got out and went around and opened my door.
‘Here we are, Mr. Lucas.’
As I got out, Benny appeared.
‘Come on, fink,’ Benny said, and catching hold of my arm in a vice-like grip, he shoved me roughly towards the open front door. He propelled me along a passage and into a big living-room.
The room had a picture window that looked on to the distant lights of Sharnville. There were comfortable lounging chairs, a big settee before an empty fireplace. To the right was a well-stocked bar. There was a TV set and a stereo radio. Three good-looking rugs covered the floor, but the room gave off the atmosphere of being rented, and not lived in.
‘Want a drink, fink?’ Benny asked as I came to rest in the middle of the room. ‘The boss is busy right now. Have a Scotch, huh?’
I went to one of the armchairs and dropped into it.