It was a bad afternoon. Quite suddenly it was a bad evening. Somebody had awakened me with his snoring. I listened to the snoring for a while. It stopped when I held my breath and started again when I let my breath out. For a long time I missed the significance of this.
There were too many other interesting things to do and think about. The staring speck was back again in the center of my mind. It moved, and my hands moved with it. They felt my face. It bored me. Ruins always bored me.
I was lying in a room. The room had walls. There was a window in one of the walls. Snow-capped mountains rose against a yellow sky which darkened to green, then blue. Twilight hung like blue smoke in the room.
I sat up; springs creaked under me. A man I hadn’t noticed moved away from the wall he’d been leaning on. I dropped my feet to the floor and turned to face him, slowly and carefully, so as not to lose my balance.
He was a thick young man with shiny black curls tumbling over his forehead. One of his arms was in a sling. The other arm had a gun at the end of it. His hot eyes and the cold eye of the gun triangulated my breastbone.
“Hello, Tommy,” I tried to say. It came out: “Huddo, Tawy.”
My mouth contained ropes of blood. I tried to spit them out. That started a chain-reaction which flung me back on the bed retching and cawing. Tommy Lemberg stood and watched me.
He said when I was stilclass="underline" “Mr. Schwartz is waiting to talk to you. You want to clean up a little?”
“Wheh do I do dat?” I said in my inimitable patois.
“There’s a bathroom down the hall. Think you can walk?”
“I can walk.”
But I had to lean on the wall to reach the bathroom. Tommy Lemberg stood and watched me wash my face and gargle. I tried to avoid looking into the mirror over the sink. I looked, though, finally, when I was drying my face. One of my front teeth was broken off short. My nose resembled a boiled potato.
All of this made me angry. I moved on Tommy. He stepped back into the doorway. I lost my footing and fell to my knees, took the barrel of his gun in the nape of my neck. Pain went through me so large and dull it scared me. I got up, supporting myself on the sink.
Tommy was grinning in an excited way. “Don’t do things like that. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Or Culligan, either, I bet.” I was talking better now, but my eyes weren’t focusing properly.
“Culligan? Who he? I never heard of any Culligan.”
“And you’ve never been in Santa Teresa?”
“Where’s that?”
He ushered me to the end of the corridor and down a flight of steps into a big dim room. In its picture windows, the mountains now stood black against the darkening sky. I recognized the mountains west of Reno. Tommy turned on lights which blotted them out. He moved around the room as if he was at home there.
I suppose it was the living-room of Otto Schwartz’s house, but it was more like the lobby of a hotel or the recreation room of an institution. The furniture stood around in impersonal groupings, covered with plastic so that nothing could harm it. An antique bar and a wall of bottles took up one whole end. A jukebox, an electric player piano, a roulette layout, and several slot machines stood against the rear wall.
“You might as well sit down.” Tommy waved his gun at a chair.
I sat down and closed my eyes, which still weren’t focusing. Everything I looked at had a double outline. I was afraid of concussion. I was having a lot of fears.
Tommy turned on the player piano. It started to tinkle out a tune about a little Spanish town. Tommy did a few dance steps to it, facing me and holding the gun in his hand. He didn’t seem to know what to do with himself.
I concentrated on wishing that he would put his gun away and give me some kind of chance at him. He never would though. He loved holding the gun. He held it different ways, posturing in front of his reflection in the window. I began to draft a mental letter to my congressman advocating legislation prohibiting the manufacture of guns except for military purposes.
Mr. J. Edgar Hoover entered the room at this point. He must have been able to read minds, because he said that he approved of my plan and intended to present it to the President. I felt my forehead. It was hot and dry, like a heating-pad. Mr. Hoover faded away. The player piano went on hammering out the same tune: music to be delirious by.
The man who came in next radiated chill from green glacial eyes. He had a cruel nose and under it the kind of mouth that smiles by stretching horizontally. He must have been nearly sixty but he had a well-sustained tan and a lean quick body. He wore a light fedora and a topcoat.
So did the man who moved a step behind him and towered half a foot over him. This one had the flat impervious eyes, the battered face and pathological nervelessness of an old-fashioned western torpedo. When his boss paused in front of me, he stood to one side in canine watchfulness. Tommy moved up beside him, like an apprentice.
“You’re quite a mess.” Schwartz’s voice was chilly, too, and very soft, expecting to be listened to. “I’m Otto Schwartz, in case you don’t know. I got no time to waste on two-bit private eyes. I got other things on my mind.”
“What kind of things have you got on it? Murder?”
He tightened up. Instead of hitting me, he took off his hat and threw it to Tommy. His head was completely bald. He put his hands in his coat pockets and leaned back on his heels and looked down the curve of his nose at me:
“I was giving you the benefit, that you got in over your head without knowing. What’s going to happen, you go on like this, talk about murder, crazy stuff like that?” He wagged his head solemnly from side to side. “Lake Tahoe is very deep. You could take a long dive, no aqualung, concrete on the legs.”
“You could sit in a hot seat, no cushion, electrodes on the bald head.”
The big man took a step toward me, watching Schwartz with a doggy eye, and lunged around with his big shoulders. Schwartz surprised me by laughing, rather tinnily:
“You are a brave young man. I like you. I wish you no harm. What do you suggest? A little money, and that’s that?”
“A little murder. Murder everybody. Then you can be the bigshot of the world.”
“I am a bigshot, don’t ever doubt it.” His mouth pursed suddenly and curiously, like a wrinkled old wound: “I take insults from nobody! And nobody steals from me.”
“Did Culligan steal from you? Is that why you ordered him killed?”
Schwartz looked down at me some more. His eyes had dark centers. I thought of the depths of Tahoe, and poor drowned Archer with concrete on his legs. I was in a susceptible mood, and fighting it. Tommy Lemberg spoke up:
“Can I say something, Mr. Schwartz? I didn’t knock the guy off. The cops got it wrong. He must of fell down on the knife and stabbed himself.”
“Yah! Moron!” Schwartz turned his contained fury on Tommy: “Go tell that to the cops. Just leave me out of it, please.”
“They wouldn’t believe me,” he said in a misunderstood whine. “They’d pin it on me, just because I tried to defend myself. I was the one got shot. He pulled a gun on me.”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Schwartz spread one hand on top of his head and pulled at imaginary hair. “Why is there no intelligence left in the world? All morons!”
“The intelligent ones wouldn’t touch your rackets with a ten-foot pole.”
“I heard enough out of you.”
He jerked his head at the big man, who started to take off his coat:
“Want me to work him over, Mr. Schwartz?”
It was the light and meaningless voice that had argued with Culotti. It lifted me out of my chair. Because Schwartz was handy, I hit him in the stomach. He jackknifed, and went down gasping. It doesn’t take much to make me happy, and that gave me a happy feeling which lasted through the first three or four minutes of the beating.