Inside my flat I popped a Schlitz and drank it in two swallows. Then I opened another one and went in and took a shower. The beer and the hot water washed away the last of my anger, leaving only the moodiness. Some day. Some frigging day.
And it got worse, too. I was just coming out of the bathroom, wearing my old terrycloth robe, when somebody knocked on the front door. I thought it was probably one of the other tenants, since visitors have to be buzzed in at the building entrance downstairs. My friend Litchak, the retired fire inspector who lived on the ground floor-maybe that was who it was. He was always after me to play checkers with him.
I went out and unlocked the door. But it wasn’t Litchak; it wasn’t anybody I expected or cared to see.
It was old Ivan the Terrible.
TWELVE
We stood there looking at each other. Ivan Wade was in his early sixties and so damned distinguished-looking he made me feel sloppy and rumpled, particularly now in my old terrycloth robe; he had brown hair and a neat black mustache- the contrast was part of his distinguished appearance-and a reserved sort of face with all the features grouped in close to the center. The first time I’d met him, my impression of his eyes had been that they were gentle; looking at them now, I decided that what they really were was cold. He wore a camel’s-hair overcoat, a gray silk suit, and a perfectly knotted tie with a gold clip.
A good ten seconds went by in silence. At the end of it he said, “Do you mind if I come in?” in a voice so stiff he could have used it to punch a hole in the wall.
“I suppose not,” I said. Which was a lie. I didn’t want to talk to him, not now, all beleaguered and unprepared; I considered shutting the door in his handsome face. But then, maybe a confrontation with Wade wasn’t such a bad idea. It was bound to happen sooner or later; it might as well be now- get it over and done with. I opened the door wider and stood aside, and he came in.
He had himself a look around. Dustballs under the furniture, clothing and magazines and dirty dishes strewn around-he didn’t like any of that; distaste flickered in his eyes. The shelves of pulp magazines didn’t seem to impress him much, either. Like his wife, Cybil, he had been a successful pulp writer back in the forties, specializing in fantasy/horror stories for Weird Tales, Dime Mystery, and other publications in the genre. But then he had gone on to radio scripting, the slick magazines, some TV work, and finally to novels and nonfiction books on occult and magic themes, — he had even become a pretty adept amateur magician. He no doubt considered the pulps as having been something of a literary ghetto. Which made me, as a collector and aficionado, the rough equivalent of a slum landlord in his view.
He said, “You keep an untidy house.”
“I like it that way. It’s comfortable.”
“To each his own.”
“That’s right. How did you get into the building? Pick the lock on the downstairs door?”
“I don’t find that amusing,” he said in his hole-punching voice. “One of your neighbors was just leaving; I told him I was here to see you, and he let me come in.”
“Uh-huh. Well, to what do I owe the honor? I thought you were off selling books in New York.”
“I was. Until this morning. I decided to fly back via San Francisco so I could see Kerry.”
“Did you?”
“See her? Yes. I stopped by her office, and we had a drink together after she was through.”
I could feel my fingers curling into fists; I straightened them out again. We were standing on my worn carpet, him near the couch, me near my favorite chair, with the cluttered coffee table off to one side like a barrier waiting to be slid into place. And we were going to keep on standing there that way. I was damned if I would ask him to sit down, or offer him any other form of hospitality.
I said, “So then you decided to come see me. Does Kerry know you’re here?”
“No. I didn’t tell her.”
“That figures. All right, what do you want?”
“I should think that would be obvious.”
“Maybe. But suppose you tell me anyway.”
“I read your morning paper while I was waiting for Kerry,” he said. “You’ve become notorious, it seems.”
“That Hornback woman’s charges are a crock.”
“Are they?”
“You’re damned right they are. Kerry knows that; she must have told you the same thing.”
“So she did.”
“But you don’t believe it, right?”
“I have an open mind,” Wade said, which was another crock. His mind was closed up as tight as a party politician’s. “But the fact remains, you’ve been publicly accused and you’re about to be sued for criminal negligence. You stand to lose your license, your apparent good name, and your livelihood.”
“I’m not going to lose any of those things.”
“Perhaps not. But the possibility does exist. And you must admit that no matter what happens, all this negative publicity will damage your professional status.”
“I don’t admit that,” I said. “I don’t have to admit anything to you.”
The ghost of a smile, cold and waspish, turned one corner of his mouth. “That’s standard procedure, isn’t it? The invoking of the Fifth Amendment?”
I wanted to tell him to go screw himself. I wanted to stuff him into one of the drawers in the sideboard. Instead I jammed my hands into the pockets of my robe and glared at him.
“Assume your reputation has been irreparably damaged,” he said. “Assume that whatever the legal outcome of this matter, you’re forced out of the investigating business. How will you earn a decent living?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”
“Of course it is. You want to marry my daughter. If she agrees, you’ll not only become her burden but mine by extension.”
“I don’t intend to become anyone’s burden!”
“How would you hold up your end of the marriage contract? Or would you expect Kerry to support you?”
“All right, Wade, that’s enough.” I came out hard and angry, like a threat. Maybe it was a threat. His icy control was starting to make me lose my own, — I’m an emotional man and I don’t react calmly to people like Ivan Wade. I could feel myself sliding into a dangerous frame of mind. “I don’t like your insinuations and I don’t much like you. What happens between Kerry and me is personal and private and I think you ought to stay the hell out of it.”
“I have no intention of staying the hell out of it,” he said. “Kerry is my daughter; I have every right to concern myself with her personal life. She made a serious mistake before; I don’t want her to make another. I don’t want her hurt.”
“Neither do I. If she gets hurt it’ll be on your head, not mine.”
“Nonsense. You’re not going to marry her, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend,” I said. “And I don’t give a damn what you think or what you want. All I care about is what Kerry wants.”
“She doesn’t want you,” he said.
“That’s for her to say.”
“And she will.’”
“I don’t think so.”
“I know so. She won’t marry you.”
A sense of suspicion, as icy as Wade’s calm, began to slither through my mind. I could feel my face starting to flush, a vein pulsing on one temple. “You got to her, didn’t you? Over that goddamn drink tonight. You bastard, you finally got to her.”
“I do not like to be called names.” “No? Bastard. Meddling son of a bitch.” His own face got dark, like clouds piling up. He said, “You’re coarse and boorish on top of everything else,” and for the first time there was hard emotion in his voice. “I can’t understand how Kerry could ever have been attracted to a man like you.”