“Can you prove that?”
“No, but he—”
“Don’t swear to things you don’t know,” I said. “Christ, of all the asinine things to do. All this rigmarole just to protect Mike Farrell — why? You’re not even married to him any more?”
“He didn’t do it,” she said adamantly.
“Did you see him?”
“Only for a few minutes.”
“When?”
“Last night. He’d had a big argument with Aiello and he wanted a shoulder to cry on. My God, Simon, I wouldn’t even let him come in the house. He stood on the porch and bleated at me through the door — I had it on the chain — and when I wouldn’t let him come in he stormed back to his station wagon and went away with his tires squealing. I expect by now he’s halfway to the Mississippi River.”
“Yeah. Maybe carrying the loot from Aiello’s safe.”
“No.”
“Why for Christ’s sake didn’t you tell me all this in the first place?” I demanded.
Her answer was quiet and leveclass="underline" “Because I knew you’d jump to conclusions, just the way you have. I knew you wouldn’t understand. I knew you’d get stupid and blind jealous — it’s a weakness you’ve got.”
I didn’t have time to stop and ponder whether that was true or not; I swung around the room, wheeled to face her, and said with desperate rage, “Didn’t it matter at all to you that you might have got both of us killed? It may still happen! We’re talking about an organization that lives and breathes distrust — nobody believes anything. If they find out you held out on them about Mike being here, they won’t give you another chance to change your story.”
She said flatly, “Mike had nothing to do with it. If I told them about him they’d waste a lot of time hunting him down and they’d probably kill him, and it wouldn’t get them anywhere; they’d still need to find Aiello and the loot. And believe me, Simon, we’d be in much worse danger then than we are now.”
“You keep saying you know he didn’t have anything to do with it. Can you back that up with anything besides intuition and conceit?”
“Certainly.”
“Name it.”
“He couldn’t have done it, that’s all. I don’t mean he didn’t have the chance. I have no idea whether he has an alibi that will stand up. But I do know he’s terrified of the Mafia; the only thing he’s ever wanted was to keep them happy with him. He’d grovel and crawl if he had to — he’d be a sniveling yes-man, he’d polish Aiello’s shoes. He’d do anything in his power to avoid getting them mad at him again. Mike would be the last man in the world to try anything like this.”
“He’s been in prison. He could have changed.”
Her only answer was, “I saw him last night. You didn’t. Simon, you’ve got to understand Mike. You’ve never known him.”
That much was true: I had only seen Mike Farrell at a distance. Before he’d gone to the penitentiary he’d had a nightclub combo at the Moulin Rouge; he’d been a fair saxophone player.
She said, “He’s one of those nervous men who are forever lonely. Even when he wants to he can’t share himself. I guess I must have married him because I could see he wanted to break out of that frightened shell, but he never has. I was like a lot of girls who mistake long silences in young men for maturity, but I was wrong, he wasn’t mature at all — you have to remember I was only nineteen then, it was a long time ago.”
I sat hipshot against the windowsill and watched her. She wasn’t looking at me. She said, “People like Mike are — parasites, Simon. He’d never kill a man or rob a safe — it takes too much initiative. Mike never does anything on his own. He’s one of those people who feed on everyone they touch. It’s compulsive, they can’t help it — they hurt the people who love them until the love dies. I don’t know, maybe a psychiatrist would blame it on his parents — he took me back to Cincinnati to meet them once. His father’s a shopkeeper, a nice little man, about as ineffectual as wallpaper. Mike’s mother was one of those big loud clubwomen who remind you of express trains. A martinet. She only wanted to use Mike to feed her own vanity — he was just something for her to be proud of when he played solos with the school band. The rest of the time she didn’t want him around.”
She picked up her drink and drained it quickly. “He’s an insecure man — full of anxieties. He’s never had nerve enough to steal anything, let alone a gangster’s money. It took me a long time to find out what half the wives in the world can tell you — a woman can never change a man. I tried to give him some backbone because I thought I loved him, but it just didn’t work. He hated being a musician and he hated everything about his life, and finally he got involved with Aiello and the organization.”
“Aiello,” I said, “or Vincent Madonna?”
She gave me a sharp look. “Yes, him too.” The name made her uncomfortable; she hurried on, as if to fill the gap of silence:
“I was young and wild — that was six years ago, we’d been married two or three years. It was exciting to me, all those fast characters. I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it in a way, but then it started to get dirty. I got trapped in — something I don’t want to talk about, something that got Mike scared of them.”
“Scared of who?”
She flapped a hand; her face was averted. “Aiello, Pete DeAngelo, you know. The organization. Mafia, Family, Cosa Nostra, whatever they’re calling it now.”
I said, “You’ve never told me much about Mike.”
“I wanted to forget it.”
“You’d better go on, now that you’ve started.”
When she glanced across the room at me I saw that her lip corners were turned down. She said, “I suppose so. I told you Mike got scared. He started drinking too much and making risky remarks about the mob — the kind of talk they didn’t want to get around. It was only bravado; he had no idea he was offending anybody. But he suffered for it — they threw him to the wolves. He went to prison.”
“It was a narcotics charge, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “Of course he was framed.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” she said wearily. “He’d gotten involved in some shady things but none of them had anything to do with dope.”
“Go on.”
“Well, he went to prison, and at first I enjoyed playing the role of waiting for an absent husband — it gave me a kind of untouchable immunity, but at the same time I didn’t have to put up with Mike. I know that sounds strange, but Mike did a good job of turning me sour on men. Even after he went up he kept browbeating me, accusing me of selling him into Egypt. By the time he relented and apologized, I was past caring any more. Imprisonment for more than two years is grounds for divorce here and I divorced him. But he kept writing letters, pleading with me to come on visiting days, and once in a while I did, until about a year ago. Then I met you, and I stopped going to see him. After that I didn’t get any more letters from him. The last time he wrote he said he was sorry for all the trouble he’d caused me and he wouldn’t bother me any more, wouldn’t even come to see me after he got out.”
She stopped long enough to light a new cigarette; then she said, “Simon, he’s a poor, twisted, frightened man. He’s bitter and neurotic and a fool, and far too much of a coward to have anything to do with a thing like this. I just felt I owed him this much, to keep from getting him involved if I could help it.”
Her hand still trembled, the cigarette wedged between two fingers. She seemed to have run down. I said, “You said you did something that got Mike scared before they railroaded him into prison.”
She composed herself. “It’s ancient history. I’ve forgotten it.”