“What do they do to murderers in Connecticut?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I never bothered to find out.”
“They electrocute them,” she said. “They strap them in a chair and throw a switch. But you don’t have to sit in that kind of chair, Nat. Not so long as I live.”
“What’s in the letter?”
“It’s a short letter. Just who you are and what you did and where you are now. Plus a few other names of people you killed here in Buffalo. But that’s extra. You could get away with those killings, Nat. But you couldn’t get out from under murdering your wife. Not with all the connections in the world.”
And that was funny, because Ellen’s death had been manslaughter. The others were first-degree murder, and those I could get away with — if only on the grounds that New York no longer gives the death sentence except for cop killings.
I asked her what the deal was.
“First of all,” she said, “I move out. Out of here and into some other hotel. Maybe I’ll start with the Malmsly. Is it nice there?”
“It’s all right.”
“I’ll be Miss Anne Bishop again. Not somebody’s mistress. Just a nice independent girl. I’ll move out and tomorrow you can come to see me. Bring money, Nat. Ten thousand dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“You can spare it. I want it in cash, of course.”
“And it’s only the beginning.”
She shrugged easily. “Probably. Ten thousand dollars would last me a long time. But I’ve got the upper hand, Nat. I’ve got a hold. When you have a hold, then you have to put on the pressure. That’s why I went to Las Vegas with you. That’s why you’re going to pay me a lot of money for a long time. I’ve got you by the throat. I don’t intend to let go.”
“You used to be a pretty nice kid,” I said.
“You changed me.”
“Nobody changes,” I said. “The more things change, the more they remain the same. I guess it holds for people, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“It doesn’t matter. Do you hate me that much?”
“It’s not hate. It was never love and it never got to be hate, not exactly. Do you know what I mean?”
“Probably.”
She walked to the closet and got her coat. I didn’t try to stop her, nor did I help her on with the coat. I just stood and watched her get into it.
“Ten thousand dollars in cash,” she said. “I’ll be expecting you tomorrow. Make it around three in the afternoon. My lawyer will be waiting for a call at four-thirty. I don’t want to disappoint him. If I did, he’d put some letters in the mail.”
“And that would be unpleasant.”
“Wouldn’t it?” She smiled very sweetly. “Tomorrow at three. Pleasant dreams, Nat.”
I dreamed no dreams, pleasant or otherwise. I did not sleep that night. After she had gone I started to build myself a drink, then changed my mind and emptied the rye and soda in the sink. Instead I lit another cigarette and started pacing the floor. I did this until the sun came up and I didn’t get the least bit tired. When I stopped, the ashtray was overflowing for the fourth time and I was beginning to wear out the carpet.
I had breakfast at the diner around the corner. I didn’t feel like eating but I forced a plate of scrambled eggs down my throat and washed my mouth out with coffee. I smoked another cigarette. I went back to my apartment, showered, shaved and put on a fresh suit.
When your woman comes back, marry her, Tony had said.
Thanks, Tony. I could do with a little advice.
You don’t play around, Nat. You’ve got a steady deal with one broad. A good girl, not just a walking, talking piece. I knew her a long time ago. She’s a good kid.
She was, then.
You went nuts in Vegas. Gambling isn’t your kick, chasing isn’t your kick, nightlife isn’t your kick. You can do those things, but they don’t send you to the moon. Hell, I’m preaching a sermon. Let’s let it lie.
Let’s.
19
I left the Stennett again around nine. I stopped at an army surplus store and bought a money belt. The clerk didn’t know what I was talking about at first. Then he found one somewhere in the back and sold it to me. I left it in the bag he put it in and carried it downtown to the bank.
I went downstairs to the safe-deposit vault. A thin gray man led me inside, then used first his key and then my key on the box I’d rented, took it from its niche in the wall and gave it to me. I carried it across to one of the private booths along the wall and locked myself up with it. I opened the box and took out my money.
There was a lot of it, all tax-free, all mine. I counted out seven thousand dollars. There was a lot more upstairs in the checking account, enough so that I could pay Annie with no trouble at all.
I filled the belt with money. I hung my coat and jacket over the back of the chair, opened my pants and fitted the belt around me, underneath my slacks. I got dressed again, carried the empty box outside and gave it to the thin gray man. He used his key and my key to lock the box back in place.
I went to the nearest five-and-dime store. I bought a cloth airlines bag, a package of absorbent cotton and a bottle of black hair dye. I walked farther downtown, turned east and went to three secondhand clothing stores. In one of them I bought a pair of work shoes in fairly good shape. In another I bought a pair of denim slacks and a plain flannel shirt. In the third I picked up a secondhand lumber jacket, a little frayed around the collar but in pretty good condition otherwise. I loaded the airlines bag with everything but the jacket and took a cab to the bus terminal. I found a locker and stowed the bag and the jacket in it.
Around noon I had lunch downtown. I ate a few hamburgers and drank a few cups of coffee. I still wasn’t at all tired. Then I walked around downtown Buffalo. The weather was clear, a little snow underfoot but none falling — the town looked better than usual. I passed my office building and then went back and rode up to my office on the eighteenth floor. My secretary wasn’t around. I opened a few letters and left them on the desk. I looked around to see if there were anything I wanted. There wasn’t.
From the window I could see most of the city. I stood by it for a few minutes and watched cars crawl through the streets like fat shiny beetles. I thought about the town. It had been good to me.
I used my office phone to call the air terminal. I reserved a seat on a plane to Philadelphia leaving Buffalo at a few minutes to four. I used the name Nathaniel Crowley. I hung up and left the office.
The air was cooler now. I walked around for a few minutes. I looked at my watch. It was after two.
I didn’t go right away. I walked around a little more, thinking it over, trying to decide. It wasn’t absolutely necessary, wasn’t necessary at all. In fact it meant taking another chance, an extra chance. But it was something I had to do.
Maybe it was an idea of justice that had seeped into Nat Crowley. A notion of balance, and right and wrong. Maybe it was a poetic hangover from the Donald Barshter period. There was poetry in it, certainly. And I was still both people, a hard-to-figure combination of Barshter and Crowley.
Whatever it was, it had to be that way.
So at two-thirty I walked into the Malmsly. I gave my name at the desk and they called her on the phone. She said to send me straight up. I went straight up.
Her room was on a high floor. I knocked at the door and she opened it for me. She was wearing a white cashmere sweater and a pair of black toreador pants. I looked at them.