“When she drove you back to the store, I mean.”
I tried to tell myself there was nothing strange about her tone of voice. “She just drove me back, is all—then I went down and got my car.”
“You didn’t go anywhere with her, did you?”
“Hell, no—of course not. Why should I?”
“Don’t be stupid, Jack.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
She got louder. “Jack—tell me.”
“She just drove me back to the store. She’s not suspicious, or anything.”
“I don’t mean that.”
All I could think was, Could Mayda have said something?
Shirley said, “I saw Mayda early this evening. She acted kind of strange. She kept talking about you, all the time. Jack—if you ever—!”
“Take it easy. You know better than that.”
I could hear her breathing. It wouldn’t take much and she would blow up.
“Shirley?” I said.
“Yes.”
“I love you, Shirley. Will you remember that?”
“All right.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. I’ll be all right.”
“Just get that stuff out of your head, Shirley.”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you,” I said. “Ever. Okay?”
“Yes. I won’t think about it.” She didn’t speak for a time. I could hear her breathing. Then her voice came across the line, touched with desperation, a kind of dry whisper. “I’m going to work on him, Jack,” she said. “I’m going to work on him right now. I can’t stand it any longer.”
Eight
By the time the next afternoon crept across the face of the clock, I was in pretty bad shape. I needed a drink. I was afraid to start hitting the bottle. It would be too easy to lose count and go all the way. I chainsmoked cigarettes. I wandered around the store in a fog, trying to keep out of things because I knew I might foul up somewhere. Luckily, I had the place set up so I could come and go freely, acting as a general overseer. Louis Sneed and Pete Stallsworth were good repair men, or I would have been in a fix. I had a middle-aged blonde, a Mrs. Noxton, on the front desk, handling the phone, doing file work, and so forth. All she ever thought about was getting off work and hitting her favorite cocktail lounge to sop up Martinis. She was a wise one, but she could mind her own business, and that’s what counted. It was why she’d been here as long as she had.
All sorts of things came to mind. The big thing was I began to know we should have had some set time, place, or way, to contact each other. It was all right for her. She was there, on the spot. She knew what was going on. I had no idea how things were. It was like hanging by your upper lip to a high diving board over an empty swimming pool.
The later it got, the worse it got.
For all I knew, Miraglia was out there now, closing Victor’s eyes, and nodding sadly. With Shirley pulling the weep act. I wondered if she could weep. I wondered if she would weep.
Maybe she would just rear back and scream with laughter.
I knew I had to stop thinking. I couldn’t. I would get to thinking of Victor gasping for air, and I would breathe deeply. It was as if I couldn’t get enough air myself.
I tried concentrating on the money. What it could do, what it could buy. It just didn’t cut through the mood. It was so much money, I’d never be able to grasp the reality until I could actually grasp the money in my hand.
To top it off, we had a busy day at the store. They poured in and out all day, looking at TV sets, inspecting a couple of tired old short-wave receivers I’d blurbed as perfect for tracking satellites, listening to hi-fi systems, stereo tape recorders, and the like. I talked to them. My mind wandered. I couldn’t get anything straight.
Finally I went off into a corner behind a screen backing a display of phonographs, and sat in a chair, smoking. I kept thinking about Shirley. I kept trying not to wonder how it would turn out. A hopeless way to think, like Tolstoy saying to go in a corner and try not to think about a white bear. Christ. How to flip.
After a while it was time to eat something again, so I walked down to the drugstore and fooled around with a ham sandwich and a glass of milk. It was dark outside. Neons glowed in the streets. Cars hissed up and down on their way to parties, maybe, good times, or just home to the one-eyed monster, and the evening paper.
I started up the street toward the store, still thinking about Shirley. It hit me. Maybe it had been there all the time. I’d been trying to ignore it. Anyway, my mind was like pancake batter. I’d been worrying about Shirley going soft. It was me we had to worry about—because what was really in the back of my mind was the feeling that we had rushed into this too fast. Why force it? We knew how we felt about each other. What we had. We knew it would last. Money would do that.
So why not just let it coast along? Let Victor die the way he would die, in time. We could stand it, couldn’t we?
I had to see her.
If I talked with her, she’d think the same. He could eventually wind up in the hospital, and Shirley and I could see each other all we wanted. It would be on the up and up. He’d croak natural, and everything would be perfect. Except we would have to wait.
Maybe she’d been thinking this way, too. Just scared to say anything, because we’d gone too far. At least, we could talk it over. I could sound her out and see.
It was a kind of relief. So it would take longer. Maybe not. So what? We wouldn’t have worries riding us.
I found myself running up the alley. I slowed to a walk, went over and took one of the trucks, and headed across town. I had no excuse to see her. Suddenly I realized I didn’t need an excuse. It was all aboveboard; a strange feeling.
Nearing her place, I felt better. I began to whistle and sing, driving through the dark streets under streetlights. The tensions vanished.
I sang. Just anything. I let it rip out across the night. It made me feel better than ever.
In front of her house. I parked by the curb. There were no lights that I could see. I started for the porch, then thought maybe she would be in her room. I decided to take the path around back and surprise her.
I started along the stepping stones that led along the side of the house. Bright white light fell in a broad swath out on the yard. It came from Victor’s bedroom window.
I looked in. It was only a quick glance, in passing. I was in a hurry to get out back. I paused by the open window. The way he looked, I knew something was wrong.
Victor was propped up in the bed, on one arm, leaning toward the bedroom doorway, his head cocked, listening. He looked sick, and weak as hell. His skin was an ugly gray color. I heard the way he breathed. It was ghastly.
I stood there a moment. My heart rocked. He dropped back flat on the bed, mouth open, making gasping sounds, and stared up at the TV set. The set was on with the sound off. A musical production was on the screen; dancing girls and prancing boys. Big glass chandeliers flew through the air across an enormous stage set.
Victor Spondell reached to the bed table, and flipped on the intercom unit. He listened. Voices burst loudly through the speaker, carrying to me through the open window.
Shirley and Mayda Lamphier.
“For goodness’ sake, Mayda,” Shirley said. “You must be crazy to think such a thing.”
Mayda Lamphier’s voice was strained. There was a quality of awed and hesitant fright in her tone. “I thought I was crazy,” she said. “Shirley—” Her voice was shaded with pleading. “I know, believe me, I know what you’ve been going through. Anybody would flip, taking care of that old geezer. But, not this, Shirley.”
She ceased talking. Neither of them spoke. I couldn’t move from where I stood. I wanted to move, but something held me there. I knew what it was. It was doom.