Girl Out Back Part 7

I pushed open the screen door of the drugstore and went in. A couple of old-fas.h.i.+oned overhead fans moved sluggishly, faintly stirring the air. At the left two teen-age boys with gooey concoctions before them slouched on stools and sprawled against the soda fountain like melting wax figures. There was a counter and a prescription department at the rear, and three booths on the right, behind the magazine stands. Most of the floor s.p.a.ce in the center was taken up with racks holding cosmetics and candy and other a.s.sorted merchandise. She was in one of the booths, watching the door. Her eyes lit up and she gave me a faintly embarra.s.sed smile.

I walked over. "You look very nice," I said, smiling down at her. She had on a crisp summery dress with very short sleeves and a lacy spray of white at the throat, and this time she'd done a better job with the lipstick. A narrow blue ribbon pa.s.sed under the cascade of tawny hair and was tied with a little bow at the top of her head. It made her appear younger, not more than twenty at most. "The s.h.i.+rt is in that paper bag," she said awkwardly. It was on the table before her, with a couple of other small parcels and a half-finished lemonade.

"Do you mind if I sit down?" I asked. "After all, I do want to thank you."

"Oh, of course," she said. "I mean-please sit down. But I'll have to run in just a minute."

She was as transparent as gla.s.s, a basically nice kid sticking her toe in the water and then drawing back in alarm. It wasn't me, particularly. It was the bleakness of her life in general. Probably anybody who bathed as often as once a week and didn't scratch himself in public could score with any one of the standard approaches if he'd merely take the trouble to restore her faith in her own desirability. She'd called me, and now by G.o.d it was up to me; she wasn't sure, either, just how much she wanted to happen, but it would would be nice just to be able to use some of the old defense patterns again, if nothing else. be nice just to be able to use some of the old defense patterns again, if nothing else.

It was interesting, but I had other things on my mind. And at any rate if I were were looking around for somebody else's patio to play in, it probably wouldn't be Nunn's. The silly b.a.s.t.a.r.d might blow your head off. looking around for somebody else's patio to play in, it probably wouldn't be Nunn's. The silly b.a.s.t.a.r.d might blow your head off.

We engaged in the usual inane small talk for a few minutes, and when she started gathering up her packages and said she had to go I merely thanked her again for bringing the s.h.i.+rt.

"I'll go out to the car with you," I said, helping her with the parcels.

"Thank you," she said. "But there's one more thing I want to get, if you don't mind."

I followed her as she prowled among the stands of merchandise. In a moment she found what she was looking for, a bottle of scented bath oil. Just as we turned to take it back toward the clerk at the cash register in the rear, I saw the man in the gray suit come in the door.

He came back too and stood waiting at the counter beside us while the woman clerk was winding up a transaction with another customer off to our left. I was standing between him and Jewel Nunn and perhaps a half-step behind them. He put down his briefcase. She set the bath oil on the counter and started opening her purse.

At that moment the pharmacist came out of his cubbyhole and said inquiringly, "Yes, sir?"

The man pulled out the little black folder I'd been sure he had, flipped it open, and said, "I'm from the Federal Bureau of Investigation . . ."

It unfolded then like some horrible and unstoppable nightmare. I saw it before she even put it down, and recognized it for what it was, but I was frozen. The clerk was coming from the left. It lay there on the open counter, not fifteen inches from the corner of his briefcase.

"I'd like to speak to the owner . . ." he was saying.

He hadn't seen it. He was looking at the pharmacist. The clerk was almost here. I snapped out of it then, at last. He was looking at the pharmacist. The clerk was almost here. I snapped out of it then, at last.

"Here, here," I said chidingly, grabbing up the bill at the same time. "Put your money away. It's the least I can do. . . ."

I grabbed her purse and stuffed it inside and closed it. He was still talking; he hadn't even looked around. I felt limp.

"Why, Mr. G.o.dwin, I couldn't. . ." she began.

"Don't be silly," I said, smiling at her. "I was just wondering how I could thank you." I tossed a five on the counter for the clerk.

But what now? My thoughts were racing as I went on exuding the old Good-time Charley from every pore. I hadn't solved anything yet; she still had it.

"But you didn't have to do that," she said uncertainly.

"Hush," I said, smiling. "I'm doing this. Suppose you wait outside and stop giving me so much trouble."

"But why?"

"You'll see." I gave it the old masterful touch, taking her by the elbow and pointing her toward the door. She went on out, still not too sure about it.

The clerk had finished wrapping the bath oil and was getting my change. The F.B.I, man and the pharmacist had gone into the back. I glanced swiftly around, searching for something. It had to be small. Then I saw it in the showcase. That would do nicely.

"I'll take one of those small bottles of Escapade," I said to the clerk. "And gift-wrap it, please."

I dropped it in my pocket and went out carrying the bath oil and the paper bag that held my s.h.i.+rt. She was putting her packages in the station wagon, across the street. I went over and set the bath oil in the seat and held the door open for her. She got in, and started to say something.

I shook my head at her and then looked down at my hands on the door. "Listen," I said quietly. "On your way home, about two miles out of town, there's a little road that turns off to the right in the trees. . . ."

"No," she said. "I-I couldn't."

I raised my eyes to hers then. "Please," I said earnestly. "I only want to talk to you. Just this once, and I'll never ask it of you again."

She hesitated. She wanted to, but any time they did this sort of thing in a soap opera it b.i.t.c.hed up the works in a frightful fas.h.i.+on.

"Don't say anything now," I said. Just think about it. I think you'll see there's no harm in it. I did want very badly just to talk to you for a few minutes. If you're there, it'll be wonderful; if you're not-well. . . ." I spread my hands in a gesture of resignation and went back to the car. She drove off.

I lit a cigarette and waited about five minutes. Taking out my wallet, I checked to be sure I had a twenty. I had three. Selecting the crispest and newest, I slid it in my trousers pocket with the small bottle of perfume.

I drove back out of town and turned right on the road toward Javier. She'd better be there; if she weren't, I was in a h.e.l.l of a jam and had to think of something else, but fast. The next time she took that twenty out of her purse, anywhere within a hundred miles, the F.B.I, was going to fall on her like a brick wall. Where'd it come from, anyway? It was the last one, of course, but I'd checked then cash-box three times. Probably in her purse all the while, I thought. That hadn't occurred to me.

I came to the side road and swung into it. It was a pair of sandy ruts leading off through heavy pine. I couldn't be sure, but there didn't appear to be any fresh tire tracks in them. I came around a bend where there was a small open s.p.a.ce in the shade of two large trees by a stream and when I didn't see the station wagon I knew I'd lost. She wouldn't have gone past here. Just to make certain, however, I got out and examined the ruts. n.o.body had been through here for days. I cursed the perversity of all women. What was the matter with her? Did she think I was Jack-the-Ripper?

Well, what now? Come up with something, pal, and hurry. I stopped then, and turned. A car was coming down the road behind me. I sighed wearily. Well, they always had to dramatize everything.

She stopped and I walked over to the car. "I came back," she said. "I shouldn't have. But just this once . . ."

I opened the door and slid in under the wheel; she moved over to let me in. It was very quiet out through the trees. I put my elbow on the back of the seat and turned a little, facing her. She was staring through the winds.h.i.+eld. I reached out and put the tip of one finger under her chin and turned her face, very slowly and gently, until it was just under mine. For a minute I didn't say anything; I merely continued to look into her eyes, and then at the rest of her face, and finally at her eyes again. She started to say something.

I beat her to it. "I know," I said quietly.

"We shouldn't be doing this."

"That's what I mean," I said. "We're both married, and we've got no right to. But I just had to tell you-just this once and probably never again-how lovely you are. And that I think you're very, very nice."

"You do?"

I smiled faintly. "What do you think?"

Then I went on, "It's a strange thing, but a while ago when that phone rang, I was thinking of you. You don't know what it was like, picking it up and hearing your voice."

"I suppose I shouldn't tell you this, she said. "But I was hoping I'd see you again. That's pretty awful, isn't it?"

"No," I said.

"But it is. And we can't do it again."

"Not ever?"

"No. You know that, Barney."

I didn't even know she knew my first name, or how she'd learned it.

"It's not much fun, is it?" I asked.

"And this isn't helping things any."

"I know. You're right, of course. It's crazy, any way you look at it."

"I'd better go," she said dully.

"Right now?"

"Yes," she said. "Yes. Please. . . ."

"All right," I said reluctantly. "But first I want to give you something."

"I don't think you should."

"Hush," I said. "It doesn't amount to anything. I'll put it in your purse, and you can just pretend you found it there, if you want to. But maybe you'll remember me when you use it."

The purse was lying in the seat on the other side of her. I reached over and picked it up. "Close your eyes," I said.

She closed them. I opened the purse. The twenty was still loose in it, outside the billfold. I slipped it out quickly and replaced it with the one from my pocket. I dropped in the little gift-wrapped box containing the bottle of perfume, closed the purse, and set it in her lap.

"Now?" she asked.

"Almost," I said. I put my hands up on each side of her face and kissed her very gently on the lips. "Now."

She put her hands up over mine, pressing against them.

Her eyes opened. "I've got to go," she whispered. "I've got to, Barney, please . . ."

. . . all we know of heaven, and all we need of h.e.l.l," I said, softly. Oh, knock it off you lousy ham, I thought. You've got the twenty? what do you want to do, make a production of it? I said, softly. Oh, knock it off you lousy ham, I thought. You've got the twenty? what do you want to do, make a production of it?

"What is?" she asked.

"Parting," I said.

"Is it a poem?"

"Yes," I said. "Maybe it's not the parting she had in mind, but it can be rough enough."

"Good-bye," she said.

"All right." I kissed her again, and this time she cracked a little. She put her arms up about my neck and clung tightly for just an instant before she began pus.h.i.+ng me away.

"You'd better get out now," she said, and there was a slight edge of raggedness to her voice. I wasn't getting off so lightly myself, after that deal last night, and I wondered what the percentage was in beating my brains out this way after I'd already accomplished the mission. Well, you had to follow through and lend it a certain amount of verisimilitude. I got out, a little awkwardly under the circ.u.mstances, and closed the door.

"I won't see you again?"

"Don't ask me to," she said. "I don't think I can trust you."

"Did you want to?" I asked.

She didn't say anything. She turned the station wagon around and drove off without looking back.

When the sound of her car had died away, I took the twenty-dollar bill from my pocket. It was exactly like the other two, brand new, with that line of stain along the edge. And it had been right there on the counter, almost under his hand. I shuddered.

Flicking the lighter, I touched flame to one corner and watched it burn. I ground the ash to powder in the rut and pushed sand over it.

There may be more of you, boys, I thought; but don't count G.o.dwin out altogether. He has a number of a.s.sorted talents, and you can see he doesn't care how he uses them.

When I got back to the store, Ramsey was in the office. He was as quiet and as courteous as ever, and the call was merely a routine follow-up, but in a little while I began to be afraid of him.

It did no good to remind myself that I'd committed no crime except that of withholding information, and that that wasn't remotely susceptible to proof because n.o.body else knew I even had the information. He scared me, anyway. It was the questions.

Why? I wondered. What exactly is there about a trained investigator that frightens you when somebody else asking the same questions would merely be a nuisance or a bore? It took me several minutes to isolate it, and when I did it was absurd-at first glance. It's simply that he's listening to the answers.

It's no more than that. In this antic bedlam of two billion people yakking all at the same time sixteen hours a day, a man who listens to the answers to his own questions can scare you. The tip-off is the complete, utter, absolute lack of any response at all to anything you say. He doesn't have time to respond; he's too busy listening. You say something. It doesn't merely rattle on his eardrums and cause him to say Har, har, that's a good one, Har, har, that's a good one, or or Say, that's too bad, or Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned. Say, that's too bad, or Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned. He absorbs it. There's no other word for it. He closes himself around it with the terrible silence and the impersonality of quicksand engulfing an unwary animal, and when he does, it's irrevocable. There's no use trying to tell him something else six months later, because he knows what you said the first time. And in the end, of course, if you're guilty of something, he kills you with simple mathematics. It's easy to make two answers jibe. Try ten thousand. He absorbs it. There's no other word for it. He closes himself around it with the terrible silence and the impersonality of quicksand engulfing an unwary animal, and when he does, it's irrevocable. There's no use trying to tell him something else six months later, because he knows what you said the first time. And in the end, of course, if you're guilty of something, he kills you with simple mathematics. It's easy to make two answers jibe. Try ten thousand.

Then, I reflected, a tape-recorder should have the same effect. No. Not necessarily, but the reason for that was obvious. It was a matter of conditioning. In the twentieth century we accepted the miraculous as commonplace in the Machine, but we still expected Man to talk more than he listened. When he didn't, it was unnerving.

Well, I thought, shaking off the apprehension, I can still beat them. Simply because there is no longer any link at all between the inner track, where I'm operating, and the outer track where they are.

But a few minutes later when he stood up, gravely shook hands, and said, "We appreciate your co-operation very much, Mr. G.o.dwin," I wondered.

One of us was a sucker. Which one?

Nine

I sweated it out all day Sat.u.r.day, fighting my impatience, and didn't go back to the lake until Sunday. I had to be very careful now; any unusual behavior could be dangerous. Jessica watched me load the tackle in the car late Sat.u.r.day night, and we spoke to each other for the first time in forty-eight hours.

"Do you really want to go fis.h.i.+ng again?" she asked tentatively.

"Oh, I don't really fish," I said. "I wreathe garlands in my hair and chase nymphs through the woodland aisles. Great for the waistline."

She turned away.

"And if you catch one," I added, "it beats a cold shower all to h.e.l.l." The next time she married she might have better luck in finding somebody she could tease and get away with it.