She couldn't see; I don't know how she could. I don't know how she could stand or go on breathing. But she brought her head up, wobbling, and she raised her arms, raised them and spread them and held them out. And then she staggered toward me, just as a car pulled into the yard.
"Guhguh-guhby… kiss guhguh-guh-"
I brought an uppercut up from the floor. There was a sharp cr-aack! and her whole body shot upward, and came down in a heap. And that time it stayed down.
I wiped my gloves on her body; it was her blood and it belonged there. I took the gun from the dresser, turned off the light and closed the door.
Elmer was coming up the steps, crossing the porch. I got to the front door and opened it.
"Hiya, Lou, ol' boy, ol' boy, ol' boy," he said. "Right on time, huh? Thass Elmer Conway, always right on time."
"Half-stiff," I said, "that's Elmer Conway. Have you got the money?"
He patted the thick brown folder under his arm. "What's it look like? Where's Joyce?"
"Back in the bedroom. Why don't you go on back? I'll bet she won't say no if you try to slip it to her."
"Aw," he blinked foolishly."Aw, you shouldn't talk like that, Lou. You know we're gonna get married."
"Suit yourself," I shrugged. "I'd bet money though that she's all stretched out waiting for you."
I wanted to laugh out loud. I wanted to yell. I wanted to leap on him and tear him to pieces.
"Well, maybe…"
He turned suddenly and lumbered down the hall. I leaned against the wall, waiting, as he entered the bedroom and turned on the light.
I heard him say, "Hiya, Joyce, ol' kid, ol' ol' ol' k-k-k.. I heard a heavy thump, and a gurgling, strangled sound. Then he said, he screamed, "Joyce… Joyce… Lou!"
I sauntered back. He was down on his knees and there wasblood on his hands, and a big streak across his chin where he'd wiped it. He looked up at me, his mouth hanging open.
I laughed-I had to laugh or do something worse-and his eyes squeezed shut and he bawled. I yelled with laughter, bending over and slapping my legs. I doubled up, laughing and farting and laughing some more. Until there wasn't a laugh in me or anyone. I'd used up all the laughter in the world.
He got to his feet, smearing his face with his big flabby hands, staring at me stupidly.
"W-who did it, Lou?"
"It was suicide," I said. "A plain case of suicide."
"B-but that d-don't make-"
"It's the only thing that does make sense! It was the way it was, you hear me? Suicide, you hear me? Suicide suicide suicide! I didn't kill her. Don't you say I killed her. SHE KILLED HERSELF!"
I shot him, then, right in his gaping stupid mouth. I emptied the gun into him.
Stooping, I curved Joyce's hand around the gun butt, then dropped the gun at her side. I went out the door and across the fields again, and I didn't look back.
I found the plank and carried it down to my car. If the car had been seen, that plank was my alibi. I'd had to go up and find one to put under the jack.
I ran the jack up on the plank and put on the spare tire. I threw the tools into the car, started the motor and backed toward Derrick Road. Ordinarily, I'd no more back into a highway at night without my lights than I would without my pants. But this wasn't ordinarily. I just didn't think of it.
If Chester Conway's Cadillac had been traveling faster, I wouldn't be writing this.
He swarmed out of his car cursing, saw who I was, and cursed harder than ever. "Goddamit, Lou, you know better'n that! You trying to get killed, for Christ's sake? Huh? What the hell are you doing here, anyhow?"
"I had to pull in there with a flat tire," I said. "Sorry if I-"
"Well, come on. Let's get going. Can't stand here gabbing at night."
"Going?" I said. "It's still early."
"The hell it is! It's a quarter past eleven, and that damned Elmer ain't home yet. Promised to come right back, and he ain't done it. Probably up there working himself into another scrape."
"Maybe we'd better give him a little more time," I said. I had to wait a while. I couldn't go back in that house now. "Why don't you go on home, Mr. Conway, and I'll-"
"I'm going now!" He turned away from the car. "And you follow me!"
The door of the Cadillac slammed. He backed up and pulled around me, yelling again for me to come on. I yelled back that I would and he drove off. Fast.
I got a cigar lit. I started the motor and killed it. I started it and killed it again. Finally, it stayed running, it just wouldn't die, so I drove off.
I drove up the lane at Joyce's house and parked at the end of it. There wasn't room in the yard with Elmer's and the old man's cars there. I shut off the motor and got out. I climbed the steps and crossed the porch.
The door was open and he was in the living room, talking on the telephone. And his face was like a knife had come down it, slicing away all the flabbiness.
He didn't seem very excited. He didn't seem very sad. He was just businesslike, and somehow that made it worse.
"Sure, it's too bad," he said. "Don't tell me that again. I know all about how bad it is. He's dead and that's that, and what I'm interested in is her… Well, do it then! Get on out here. We ain't going to let her die, get me? Not this way. I'm going to see that she burns."
7
It was almost three o'clock in the morning when I got through talking-answering questions, mostly-to Sheriff Maples and the county attorney, Howard Hendricks; and I guess you know I wasn't feeling so good. I was kind of sick to my stomach, and I felt, well, pretty damned sore, angry. Things shouldn't have turned out this way. It was just plumb unreasonable. It wasn't right.
I'd done everything I could to get rid of a couple of undesirable citizens in a neat no-kickbacks way. And here one of 'em was still alive; and purple hell was popping about the other one.
Leaving the courthouse, I drove to the Greek's place and got a cup of coffee that I didn't want. His boy had taken a part-time job in a filling station, and the old man wasn't sure whether it was a good thing or not. I promised to drop by and look in on the lad.
I didn't want to go home and answer a lot more questions from Amy. I hoped that if I stalled long enough, she'd give up and leave.
Johnnie Pappas, the Greek's boy, was working at Slim Murphy's place. He was around at the side of the station when I drove in, doing something to the motor of his hot rod. I got out of my car and he came toward me slowly, sort of watchfully, wiping his hands on a chunk of waste.
"Just heard about your new job, Johnnie," I said. "Congratulations."
"Yeah." He was tall, good-looking; not at all like his father. "Dad send you out here?"
"He told me you'd gone to work here," I said. "Anything wrong with that?"
"Well… You're up pretty late."
"Well," I laughed, "so are you. Now how about filling 'er up with gas and checking the oil?"
He got busy, and by the time he was through he'd pretty much lost his suspicions. "I'm sorry if I acted funny, Lou. Dad's been kind of nagging me-he just can't understand that a guy my age needs a little real dough of his own- and I thought he was having you check up on me."
"You know me better than that, Johnnie."
"Sure, I do," he smiled, warmly. "I've got plenty of nagging from people, but no one but you ever really tried to help me. You're the only real friend I've ever had in this lousy town. Why do you do it, Lou? What's the percentage in bothering with a guy that everyone else is down on?"
"Oh, I don't know," I said. And I didn't. I didn't even know how I could stand here talking to him with the terrible load I had on my mind. "Maybe it's because I was a kid myself not so many years ago. Fathers are funny. The best ones get in your hair most."