Sin In Their Blood

THURSDAY

It was nearly noon when I was outside Mrs. Samuels' house. When I rang the bell she answered the door, said, “So you're the one who called. Yes, I remember you.”

“Glad of that.”

“You're late,” she said impatiently. “I've no time to wait around and gossip. I have to look for work.”

We went into the only free room in the house—outside of the John—the community kitchen, and as we sat down I asked, “Anybody around? What I have to say is strictly private.”

“Everybody is where a body should be, working or calling for their kids at school. Or calling for some white woman's kids.”

“I'll pay you for the day you've lost,” I cut in. “Now...”

“What kind of policeman are you? Paying for my time.”

“I'm not a cop. I'm... a... a friend. I need your help.”

“For what?”

“I want to know William Saxton's reasons for killing the Wilsons.”

She stared at me for what seemed a long time, her dark brown face rigid as a mask. Only her eyes moved, or seemed to move as they cut through me. Finally she said, “You're not a cop?”

“No. I used to be and.... Look, I know he killed them, and I think you do too—knew it when you took your time calling the police. Tell me why he did it and I can send him up. I think you want that, too.”

“Don't be foolish, son. You'll never send Mr. Saxton up, not in this town. My, listen to me, even now I call him mister!”

“Why not? You said that once before, in the Wilson kitchen, that's why I'm here.”

She didn't answer. We sat there for a moment, the quiet of the kitchen heavy upon us, broken only by the ticking of an old wall clock. I sat there, waiting, smelling the stale odors of recent meals, as she decided whether to trust me or not. She asked, “You hate Sax-ton real bad?”

“It isn't hate. I'm fed up with his kind, that's all.”

Her eyes studied mine and I tried not to look away, began counting the wrinkles around her eyes. I said, “Why not tell me what you know, Mrs. Samuels, let me decide if I can convict Saxton?”

She said softly, “You keep calling me Mrs. Maybe you will do something. It was a lynching.... Henry Wilson was a colored man.”

“What?” I must have shouted my surprise, the kitchen filled with the sound, echoed it.

“I shouldn't have told you, you act like it was a crime,” she said.

“It's... it's something I never thought of. You sure of this?”

“Sure I'm sure, sure as can be. Henry was one of these very light ones, more white in him than colored. See him around whites and you'd never think of him being colored. But see him around Negroes and you just naturally knows he's colored. Henry was passing. Well, that was his little red wagon and he was pulling it. I don't blame nobody for trying to escape. Me, I'm too dark to run from that old jim-crow bird. So I tries to live the best I can. More our folks stood up for themselves, we'd...”

“Take it slow. Henry ever tell you this?”

“'Course not! But I knew. And he knew I knew. There was nothing to tell or talk about.”

“You think his wife...?”

“Miss Beatrice knew. I kept house for the Saxtons since 1938. She was in college then, but she came home weekends. This was the old house over on Ridge Street. She lived there with Mr. Saxton. Henry Wilson was in the same college too, working his way through, and she took a real liking to him. Started bringing him over for supper. Miss Beatrice was in love, you can tell when a gal is in love. Of course, soon as I laid eyes on Henry, I knew.”

“You tell her?”

“What was there to tell? You think being colored meant he was no good or...?”

“I didn't mean that. They were in school—what happened?”

“One day she come home all sick, in bed for near two weeks. And after that day Henry don't come around no more. I knows what happen all right, he told her about hisself. Her soul hurt. Even old doc say he can't find no reason why she sick.”

“When was this?”

“About nineteen hundred and forty—in the Spring. Then I hear Henry go away during summer, get hisself work in another town. Never even send her a card. All time Miss Beatrice is full of misery, nervous. Mr. Sax-ton worried about her, keep sending her to doctors. No doc can help lovesickness.”

The old woman stopped, as if lost in thought. She pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, lit one without offering me any. “School start in Fall and Miss Beatrice begin phone him every day. Then, weeks go by, Henry come over to the house once again. Late in the evening and they thought I'd gone on home. But I was dozing in the kitchen, waiting for some bread dough to rise. Want to bake that night. I hear Miss Beatrice cry and she say, 'What you mean it won't work out? Why don't you give me the chance to decide that, to try it? Henry, don't put me out your life.... I'll go to pieces.' I heard that, then they both crying and kissing, make up.”

“That's what you heard—those exact words?” I asked, thinking she'd have to have some memory.

She looked at me angrily. “You think I'm a liar? That's what I hear, I never forget it. I like Miss Beatrice, she good... for a white woman. And I sit in the kitchen, think, 'Best they marry before she moons herself to death. He can pass and anyway, being colored ain't no disease.' Well, all rest of that year and the next they see each other like before and Miss Beatrice all fine and glowing again. Way I hear it, they going to wait till Henry graduates, then get married. Mr. Saxton, he likes Henry, all for it.”

She got up, knocked the ashes from her cigarette into the sink, sat down again. “Henry never graduate—war come. He drafted. Miss Beatrice almost crazy again. Mr. Saxton he so busy making money he didn't notice it much, but that girl sure nervous. Next I hear Mr. Henry is wounded and coming home and Miss Beatrice tell me she glad, she has him again. He wasn't wounded bad and soon he's out of the army and they marry. Saxton take Henry into the factory and I hear he do very good. Soon they move into the new house, Mr. Saxton, he gets himself an apartment. I go with them. Things run smooth as silk. Then about three-four months ago the letter come. This....”

“What letter?”

“Mr. Henry got hisself elected to some committee, and his picture in the paper. One night he comes in all upset. I got good ears and they whisper but I hear plain: the letter is from some cracker doctor down in Georgia where Mr. Henry was born, say he recognize him and want money. He and Miss Beatrice discuss what they should do. That's all.”

“That's all? What happened after that, did they pay?”

She shook her head. “No. They say they going to wait till they hear again. Mr. Henry has no folks and he say he don't believe doctor could recognize him— doc last seen him when he was a young boy. They don't hear no more. That the end of it.”

“Where's the letter now?” I asked.

“Lost. One day he asks Miss Beatrice if she seen the letter, he can't find it. They look and she say not to worry, probably destroyed or lost, to forget it.”

“Any idea when that was—when the letter was missing?”

She sent out a cloud of smoke, pursed her thin lips as if thinking aloud. “I'd say about two months ago... week or two after they first get letter.”

I drummed on the white metal tabletop with my fingernails. It added up. Saxton got hold of the letter, started working on the murder at once. Two months ago was when he purchased the cabin—in Henry Wilson's name. I asked, “You remember the name of this place in Georgia, of the doctor?”

“Never did hear name of place. Doctor was called Snell, I think.”

“Snell. Sure about that?”

“I'm sure.”

I stood up. “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Samuels. Think this is what I've been looking for. Don't tell anyone else about this. It's important to keep it a secret.”

“What you going to do?” she asked, her voice weary. She went over to the sink and held the cigarette under the dripping faucet, threw the butt into a paper bag full of garbage. “Suppose it all comes out, what good will it do? This town ain't too bad for colored, but it still ain't good. What town is? You think any jury convict big-shot Mr. Saxton for killing his sister and her Negro husband? Naw, he only get off. That be worse, his getting off. Why I never tell police anything.”

“Maybe he won't get off. You know the old saying, more than one way to skin a cat. Let me think about it. Did Saxton take a trip in the last two months? Go out of town for a couple of days?”

“Not that I know of. Always around.”

“Not even a business trip?”

“He ain't left town in years.”

“Okay. Remember, we never had this conversation.” I took out my wallet, removed a tenspot. “Here's for the time you lost and...”

“Put your money away, son,” she said gently, her voice full of dignity. “You think you can do some good? A jury will...”

“Forget about a jury. Forget everything and let me handle it. I think I can make the murders stick—on Saxton. Be around to see you again in a few days. The most important thing we can do to get Saxton—is keep quiet. Not a word of this, even to your son or...”

“Ain't got a son, or anybody else. I ain't talked about it before, why I talk now? What's your name again?”

“Ranzino. Matt Ranzino.”

“Funny sounding name. You Italian?”

“Yeah. Call me Matt, that isn't funny.”

“Good name. My husband named Mathew and he was a good man. Cook on a ship. Loved the water, even when he come back from a trip, we'd rent a boat and spend all day fishing, him telling me about places he been. He on a tanker that went down. Back in nineteen hundred and thirty-one. On a Thursday morning, right out in the goddamn Pacific. He drowned two thousand miles away from me. I never been same since....”

“Well—sorry to hear about it. I have to run. Sit tight till you hear from me again.”

I went out, took a cab to Max's place. I tried not to think of Saxton... there wasn't much to think about, except how rotten he was, from his heart. I thought about the old woman. Looking at her you'd never think she'd known love and romance. But she and her Mathew must have had something, the way she said it. Something like Mady and I should have.... I looked at my watch. It was nearly one and I had to be back by three to get Joe's call. I told the cabbie to drive me to a camera store I remembered.

I put down nearly all my cash—a hundred and twenty bucks—as a deposit on the rental of a candid camera, a developing kit, a flash attachment, and some infra-red film and bulbs. When I finally got to the precinct house, the desk sergeant told me Max was out to lunch. “Over at the Roma. Captain Daniels likes that Eyetie food—and so does his stomach.”

The Roma was an old restaurant, not much to look at, but real food and expensive. As I passed the big potted plants at the door and stepped inside, I walked smack into Tops Anderson and two loudly dressed hoods. Tops had just paid his tab. He was sober and gave me a big grin, then gave the hoods one of these catch-this-it's-going-to-be-good glances. The punks grinned slightly. They were both small and dapper, spent a lot of time on their clothes and slick brushed hair. Tops said, “Will you look what we have here, the Wop sprinter! Best alley runner in town.”

“Cut it,” I said looking for a place to put the camera down. If I busted it, I'd not only be out the deposit, but Joe's plans couldn't wait.

“What if I don't?” Tops said like a kid, moving behind me, blocking the door. “Ain't no alley here for you to do your Gone-with-the-wind act.”

The hoods showed their delight with this piece of sharp wit. I started for the nearest table, to put the camera case down, when Tops slapped me across the side of my face. It wasn't much of a slap, I was going away from it, and the cashier looked at the headwaiter who came over and one of the punks snarled something at him.

I put the camera down gently, picked up a napkin and started to wrap it around my right fist, when Tops said, “Guess you didn't run fast enough—not a bad black eye. I'm going to match it!” and he came at me. He was a brawler and came in wide open—I slipped the obvious right and crossed my left to his nose. It was the first solid punch I'd landed in a hell of a long time and it felt good... it broke his nose. Ducking under his left I split his eye open with a short right and his face was covered with blood. Tops stupidly raised both his hands to his bloody puss, as some women screamed, and I banged him in the guts so hard the food he'd just eaten came bursting out of his open, gasping mouth, as he went down. Only a little of it sprayed on me— good old Matt, the mess target!

The two punks stood there, undecided as to what their move was and I grabbed the first one, spun him around, got a grip on the bottom of his coat and split it up the back to the collar. The joker went as pale as if he'd been socked. I had to hit the other jerk, he was reaching for something. I jabbed him in the middle of his striped vest and he sat down.

Max, the waiters, and a few of the patrons came over. Max flashed his badge, assured everybody things were under control. He winked at me, said, “Clear case of assault and battery. I'll...”

“Forget it.”

“But...?” Max began.

“You want these clowns for anything special?” I asked, knowing they wouldn't be eating in the Roma if Max was looking for them.

“No. But if you...”

“Then forget it.” Tops was sitting on the floor, bent over, blood and vomit dripping from his mouth. The hood on the floor was pressing his stomach, about to get sick. The other punk was holding his torn coat about him like a girl caught undressed. I pushed the door open and Tops fell out backwards. Taking the sick punk by the collar, I lugged him outside, dropping him on Tops so his clothes would get dirty as they threw up over each other. Motioning for the busboy, I told him, “Clean up this mess,” and turning to the slob in the torn coat, I said, “Give him a fin for his trouble, and get your two jerky pals off the street. Tell Tops to stay out of my way—all the way out.”

The guy nodded and shoved a bill at the delighted busboy, then ran out, helped the other two into a flashy car parked at the curb. I picked up my camera and followed Max to his table. I ordered a glass of stout, brushed the few spots off my coat with a napkin, and holding my hands under the table, took my pulse. The ticker wasn't pounding too much.

Max said, “That's more like the old Matt who...”

“Stop it, I'm through with the rough and tumble act. Just a special lesson for Tops.” I knew Max was glad I hadn't pressed charges—Tops swung too much weight. Max hadn't even frisked the hoods—they probably had gun permits.

I sipped my stout and felt better, although I could feel the sweat running from my armpits. Max pointed at the camera case. “Taking pictures?”

“Hobby I picked up in the hospital. Part of my adjusting to civilian life.”

Max nibbled on a celery stalk. “Still pack the old wallop. Bet you could take most of the heavies in the ring today.”

“That's all I need.”

“When you getting your license again?”

“I don't know. Way taxes are, I'm better off living on my tax-proof pension. Maxie, know a good private dick down in Atlanta that I can use for some confidential work?”

“Anything I can put through an official request to the Atlanta police for? Be glad to...”

“Nope, this isn't anything for the cops. In fact, want you to forget you ever gave me the guy's name.”

“Saxton?”

I looked him in the eye and laughed. “My girl has a lost uncle down there, I'm tracing him.... in case he dies and leaves her a million.

Max shrugged and rubbed some whiskers he'd forgotten under his nose, then wrote a name and address down on a paper napkin, gave it to me, asked in a hoarse voice, “Anything else?”

“Aha. Where was Henry Wilson born?”

He threw his pencil on the table. “Why don't you lay off?” he asked wearily. I finished my drink, took a vitamin pill as he got up and used the phone on the cashier's desk. When he returned he said, “According to our records, he was born in Savannah, Georgia. Why?”

“Nothing. And thanks.” I stood up. “By the way, can you lend me fifty—till I get my pension check?”

“I'll have to go home. Libby has money. I only got twenty on me.”

“Twenty will do... for the time being.”

I thanked him for the two tens and went to the nearest bank and changed one bill into silver and found a phone booth. I called the dick in Atlanta, person to person, the coins ringing so many bells it sounded like a one-armed bandit paying off. This dick had a shrill voice, or it could have been the connection. I told him, “A friend, Captain Max Daniels, recommended you. Want you to put in a day or two getting some confidential info. There's a doctor someplace in Georgia named Snell. Probably lives and practices in some small country village. I want the name of that wide spot in the road, also the doc's present address. He's an old man and I have a hunch there's more than an even chance he died a few months ago. I want all the towns he ever practiced in, especially the towns he worked in about thirty years ago. Also want to know if there's a birth record of a Henry Wilson in any of these towns. He's about 29 or 33, don't know if he's colored or white. Also see if you can find any of Wilson's relatives—if he has any. All on the quiet. Got that?”

“Why, sure. That'll be fifty a day and expenses.”

“Okay, but don't run up too many days. And if you can get all the info in one day, I'll pay a hundred and fifty.”

“You got a deal. What address shall I send the dope to?”

“I'll phone you again in the morning.”

There was a moment of hesitation, then he asked, “When do I get a retainer?”

“I'm wiring you fifty at once.”

“I'll get started—soon as I get the fifty. You haven't told me your name?”

“It's Smith, John Smith. It's that kind of a case.”

“Get your money here—money don't know no name.”

I hung up and waited for the operator to tell me how many more quarters I had to drop in. There was little chance the guy would call Max and check—he wouldn't waste that long distance money on a hundred-buck case.

When I paid up, I got Harry Loughlin's home number from information and Flo's sexy voice said, “Hell-low?”

“Hello, baby. I....”

“Matt! Knew you'd call.” She said it so loudly, Harry couldn't have been home. He should be drinking with Joe.

“Look, I'm calling as a buddy-buddy. I need a hundred bucks for a few weeks. Can....?”

“Be on my horse and wherever you are in five, minutes, darling.”

I told her to meet me outside the telegraph office and I only had to wait a few minutes when she drove up in her roadster. I told her to park and soon as I got in, she threw her arms around me and. I kissed her hard on the cheek, fondled her breasts slightly, and she said, “Ah, honey!”

“Don't start that, this is only a loan. The romance is still out.” Her perfume smelled great and I wondered what it was called, wanted to buy Mady some. The kid never used perfume.

She opened her bag, took out a wallet stuffed with folding money. She tossed it in my lap. “Take two hundred, take it all. Matt, I...”

“Slow down,” I said, counting out five twenties. “Be back in a moment.” I went into Western Union and wired the guy seventy-five bucks and when I came out and got into the car, she asked, “Where to, hon?”

“The Lagoon.” This was a cheap bathing resort and amusement park not far from White Beach.

As she drove she kept playing with my thigh with her free hand and when I told her to cut it out, she asked, “Matt, when you going to stop teasing me?”

“Was I ever a tease? Romance is out. I told you that. Things are different since I came out of the hospital.”

“You told me that too. I'll wait... a little longer. Need any more cash?”

“Baby, don't be oversweet. No.”

When we reached the Lagoon I told her to stop in front of a small hotel and she asked, “You living in this dump?”

“Not exactly. I'm scratching around, trying to get located.”

“Matt, tell me true, there isn't another dame?” She leaned toward me.

“Stop that,” I said, watching her mouth.

She sat back. “Harry says he offered you...”

“I don't like Harry's work. Flo, what kind of perfume you using?”

“Why?”

“Like to give you a bottle, as interest, when I pay back the hundred.”-

“You know what I want you to give me, Matt.” She started for me again and I opened the door and slid out of the car.

“It's easier for me to give you the perfume. What's it called?”

“It's called, go to hell you two-timing son of a bitch!” she snapped and drove off.

I got a bus to White Beach, wondering how women knew these things so damn fast.

When I got to the cottage Mady was waiting and I kissed her, mumbled, “Baby, you don't need any perfume.”

“What?” She sniffed at me, said, “You've been around some chick using Heavenly Drops—ten bucks a dram, or some such fantastic price.”

I grinned. “All in line of duty—don't worry. Anybody call for me?”

“No. And you can't make me jealous. As you said, we're alike. Bet you never got along with a girl so well before?”

“That's so,” I said, hugging her and thinking how damn true it was. “Never cared for a girl before—except to sleep with—and I suppose that's how they felt about me. Always got restless with me. Had to keep themselves busy—refurnishing my place, or go on a clothes binge, or one even went in for a correspondence course—anything to keep them busy. Of course, they were all hit-and-jump affairs, only playing me for a meal ticket.”

“Not just for a meal ticket—with those shoulders. And why are women always looking for meal tickets? Don't men, too?”

“Men happen to be the breadwinners in our society.”

Mady gave me a mock sneer, “Balls.”

“Why don't you say 'Breasts'?”

“Don't you start making fun of me. Speaking of jobs, I've been out looking. I start Monday as cashier in a movie house near here. Forty a week—means about twenty-eight take home pay.”

“Yeah,” I said, which didn't mean anything. I didn't want her to start working so soon—we hardly had any time together. But the routine of a job might be what she needed.

I let go of her and walked into the kitchen, took a pill with a glass of water. She pointed to my skinned knuckles as I was holding the glass. “Must have been a tough gal you were out with.”

“Oh that—I stumbled on an old friend.”

“Matt, if it's none of my business, say so, but what are you up to? I'm just so afraid of you getting hurt, I mean...”

“Don't worry about me, I...”

“Don't give me any of that man talk—I do worry!” Mady said.

I sat on a kitchen chair, pulled her down on my lap. “Okay, you have a right to know, but one thing—I don't want you to repeat this to anybody.”

“Repeat what?”

“I'm doing a little free detective work... I'm going to send Willie Saxton the Third to the gas chamber for killing his sister and brother-in-law.”

Mady jumped off my lap, stared at me bug-eyed. “Saxton?”

“You said yourself you didn't believe Henry Wilson was a murderer. It kind of narrows down to Saxton, doesn't it? That's why you have to keep this quiet.... Willie doesn't have a thing to lose by killing again.”

“Saxton?” Mady repeated, and shivered. “He's a louse, but I never thought of him as a killer. And he was here all Sunday night.”

“How do you know? Baby, when you're sleeping off one, you're out. You know that.”

“That's so, and I really tied one on that weekend.... That was only a few days ago and it seems like years. Are you sure he did it?”

“I've been sure all along.”

“Then why didn't you...?”

“I didn't give a damn before now... I've taken a great dislike to him, so exit Saxton the Third: justice shall triumph, praise the Lord and pass the gas chamber.”

Mady shuddered. “You seem almost happy about it.”

“I feel good. Like I smacked a guy down today who... well, I feel good about that too. The important thing is, I feel like working. As for Saxton, he means nothing more to me than stepping on a fly that's annoying us. Does he mean anything to you?”

“What kind of a crack is that?”

I stood up, took her hand. “It's just that you seem upset over my gunning for him.”

Mady squeezed my hand tightly. “Because he's mean and nasty... and now you say he's a killer. I'd snap my cap if anything happened to you.”

I kissed her, nibbled at her lips. “Don't worry about it—I can give Saxton lessons in how to be a nasty joker—if I want to. Now forget everything I told you... you think I'd let anything like Saxton spoil what we have?”

“No, you wouldn't,” she said, giving me a long, hard kiss. Then she pulled out of my arms, smiled, said, “There's work to be done. I'll make up the bed, you dust the living room.”

“Yes ma'am.”

She took a dust cloth out of the closet and I went to work. It was after three and about ten minutes later the phone rang. It was Joe and he sounded jittery. He was parked around the corner and I told him I'd be right there. I put the camera away in my room, told Mady I was going out again. She said, “Saxton?”

“No—Some more free work, for a friend.”

“You're sure friendly. My rival with the stink-water?” .

“Wrong again—a man.”

“One you skinned your knuckles on?”

“My, my, you think I've only one friend in the world? It's your brother Joe.”

“What are you two cooking up?”

“A little money-saving scheme.”

Mady laughed, fine deep laughter that tickled me. “Watch out for Joe, those civil service characters are always thinking up some racket to make an extra buck. Where'd you get the camera?”

“Rented it. Joe and I are going to take dirty pictures,” I said, ducked her slap, and walked out of the house.

Joe had on his blue-gray postman's uniform and he looked as sloppy as in his regular suit. I sat beside him, asked, “How did things go?”

“Loughlin was sore about stalling him in the bar. I'm to meet him tonight in Seward Park at seven sharp.”

“Fine. Pick me up at the house at six-fifteen. You tell the barkeep about Harry being a pansy?”

Joe nodded, mumbled, “Jesus, I hate this! I know he's putting the screws on me, but there must be some other way of getting back at him.”

“What other way? Unless you want to stand up and fight his charges, and as you said, you'll lose your job.”

“I know, I'm doing what you told me.”

“Now the most important piece of business will be in the park. You walk with him till you reach this bench we pick out—and it has to be that bench. I'll be hiding nearby and you sit down first and...”

“You told me all that last night.”

“Unless we get a shot of him sitting on your lap, the whole deal is a bust. Soon as he hits your lap, start fighting. He'll grab your shoulder to keep from falling—that's the picture we want. Then you go into your act, calling him a...”

“I know what to do! Let's not keep talking about it.”

He was too nervous, so I said, “Go home and relax— take a couple of drinks. But don't get stiff on me.”

“What I need is sleep. Couldn't shut my eyes last night. Damn heavy delivery today, too. Lot of magazines and ads.”

“See you at six-fifteen, and be on time,” I said, opening the door. “I have to return to my dusting.”

He smiled for the first time. “Mady must really go for you. Dusting!”

I spent the rest of the afternoon fooling with the camera, to make sure I'd be able to work it in the dark. Mady wanted to know where Joe and I were going, was mad when I wouldn't tell her. She made supper and was off on a talking jag, maybe to get even with me. She kept telling me all the little things Billy did till I stopped it by talking about some of Flo's habits.

She was still angry when Joe honked his horn and as I left I told her, “Let's cut the past history from now on. Both of us. Billy doesn't mean a thing to us—or you— as of the first time we kissed. I don't expect you to brush his memory off in a few days, but I get awful jealous at the thought that any other man made you happy.”

“I'm sorry. I don't know why I keep talking about him—maybe it's a habit.”

“It's because we're not together enough. Another couple days and I'll change that.”

Joe was so jittery he stuttered as we drove to the park, locked the car, and found a bench. The bench was isolated and directly across the sidewalk from a large, head-high clump of bushes.

Joe left to meet Harry, walk him back to the trap. It was pretty, dark for so early in the evening and I stumbled around in the bushes till I made an opening, so I could shoot the bench clearly. I set up my camera and flash gun and waited. Judging by the stink, the bushes were a favorite urinal, and from the way the ground was littered—even in the dark—this particular spot was popular with lovers, although people would have to be ready to explode to forget the smell.

I checked the camera again, licked the flash bulb for better contact, made sure I had a few more bulbs ready in my pocket, listened to the night sounds of the insects and waited. About ten minutes later I saw Harry walking with that jaunty, stiff-legged, almost dancing walk of his. Joe was lumbering along as though trying to use his feet as little as possible.

Joe stopped at the bench, looked about like a ham actor, whispered, “This looks okay. Let's talk.”

“Righto,” Harry said. “I want to get this over with.”

Joe did it neater than I expected. As they both started to sit, Joe got his backside down first in a sliding motion that placed him under Harry. Harry landed in Joe's lap and Joe moved and Harry grabbed Joe's collar to keep from falling. It could be interpreted as a hug.

I squeezed the camera button and there was a split second flash that lit up the scene like a flare... I'd snafued everything! I'd put in a regular flash bulb instead of an infra-red one that wouldn't give any visible light. Or maybe I should have blamed it on the clerk in the camera store.

Joe started to say, “What do you think you're...?” as he had rehearsed and I don't know if he stopped because he realized things were wrong, or because Harry jumped off his lap like lightning, shrilled, “What the hell you pulling?”

Joe stood up, speechless, and Harry threw a punch at him. The blow didn't do anything to Joe, who seemed to shove rather than hit Harry. The push sent Harry on his back, in the bushes, and when he stood up he had a gun out, spun around, fired into the bushes. I hit the urine-soaked dirt like it was fudge and Harry fired again. It sounded like a .22, made a short bark that was lost in the sounds of the night. I heard Joe running, his heavy pounding footsteps louder than the clean sharp report of the gun.

I lay there, afraid to crawl and make any noise, Harry didn't pay any attention to Joe, but waited outside the bushes, the little lead thrower in his hand. He said hysterically, “Come out, you dirty son of a bitch: I'll kill you, I'll...!”

I tried to get the flash bulb loose and couldn't. I found a stone and threw it a few feet in the bushes. It was a corny trick, but at the noise Harry moved and I got to my feet as silently as I could. I stood there, hardly breathing, and Harry was still for a moment, then came toward me. As he passed the opening through which I'd been shooting the picture, I hit him. It was a straight right high on the head and it sent pain shooting up my arm as Harry crumpled to the sidewalk, out cold.

I moved my fingers—the bones weren't broken. I pulled Harry into the bushes, then walked—fast. Joe was waiting in his car and we took off like two thieves. I said, “That was my fault. Drive to the nearest police station, tell them Harry made 'improper' advances to you and...”

“No! I'm done with this, with any part of it! You and your crazy ideas!” His fat face was glistening with sweat.

“You dummy, don't you understand—things went wrong! The pix won't come out, we've nothing to show, to...”

“I'm done with this! Against it in the first place God, what a dirty mess!”

“The deal backfired, you know what will happen now?”

He didn't answer.

“We were going to surprise Harry—when the frame was complete. Now he knows what's up, he'll get you! Losing your job will be the smallest part of it... unless you go to the cops, act before Harry does.”

“I'm done, won't do a damn thing more. No!” He was bawling a little and I didn't argue. There was a fifty-fifty chance we'd scared the bejesus out of Harry and he'd leave Joe alone. But we also could have scared him enough to go all out for Joe. It was a mess.

We parked in front of the house and sat there for a while, waiting for Joe to stop crying. I told him to come in and he said no and I said, “Cut it, the game's over. Come in.”

Mady was listening to the radio and reading a magazine. She shut the radio off the moment she saw Joe's wet face. He sat down hard, held his head in his hands and really turned on the tears. I told her what happened and it took her a few minutes to understand what we had in mind, then she looked at me like I was something you stepped in on the street, asked, “Matt, how could you do a thing like that? Sink as low as... as... that?”

“You have to play a man's weaknesses as you find them. Now if Joe will only protect himself by going to the cops and...”

“And have the papers yell he was mixed up with a pansy!” Mady shouted.

“Want Joe to lose his job, or worse? Is that better, an out? One thing I never forgot in the ring—when the ref finishes his instructions he says, 'and protect yourself at all times.' Baby, that holds doubly true for everything in life. I was only doing this because Joe is a part of you—of us—and I want peace. Harry got in our hair, we had to comb him out—any way possible.”

“Why didn't you use a gun, it would have been cleaner!” Mady said.

“I would have—in a second—if we could have gotten away with it.”

She stared at me for a moment, shaking her head, then went over and knelt beside Joe, trying to comfort him. I was angry—with my own stupidity in not checking the bulb, and with Joe. But then I couldn't blame him—he was in a mess and scared, probably had never seen a gun before, except in the movies.

I went into the kitchen, drew the shades, set up my developing trays—maybe the regular flash hadn't been too strong for the infra-red film. I got everything ready, then turned out the lights and went to my room and took off my coat and tie, my ring, went to the bathroom and washed my hands. I was sweating a little and took my temperature, but it was normal. By leaving the lamp on in my room and the door of the kitchen partly open, enough light came in so I could see what I was doing without spoiling the film.

I'd just opened the roll of films, was taking out the negative, when the phone rang and a minute later Mady came in as I said, “Don't open the door!”

“What?” She snapped the light switch, flooding the kitchen. “What are you.... Oh.”

There was no point in cursing her, whatever chance I had of getting a picture was ruined—seemed as though that picture was never meant to be made anyway. She asked, “Did I spoil anything?”

“Nothing—now.”

“You're wanted on the phone.”

“Who is it?”

“A man. I don't know who.”

Joe was still sitting around like a living hangover and as I picked up the phone I wondered if Harry was smart enough to know where I lived. Or had he seen me in the park? Did he know I was living with Joe's sister?

Max's hoarse voice said, “Matt? Got news for you— Harry Loughlin jumped out of his office window. Few minutes ago.”

“Is he dead?”

“A 21-story fall isn't a tonic.”

“Any reason why he made like a bird?”

“Not that we know of. No notes or anything. Thought you'd want to know. I'm in his office now. I'm sure you're heartbroken.”

“Maxie, I couldn't care less.”

He laughed. “Me too. Didn't think he had the guts for a high dive. Has he any relations?”

“Never told me of any. No reason for the suicide? Harry wasn't the one to knock himself off.” Joe jumped from his chair, his face dead-white as he heard my last words.

Max said, “One of those things. No doubt of it being suicide. Night elevator man says Harry came rushing in about twenty minutes ago, seemed sick. In fact the guy followed him into the office to ask if he wanted anything and he saw Harry take off his hat, look at him for a moment, then Harry said it was stuffy and he had a headache. Harry opened the window and went out—all with the same motion. Have another witness—a steno who was working late in the building across the courtyard. Well, send him a big wreath.”

“Nothing in his pockets to indicate why he jumped?”

“No. Usual junk.”

“Thanks for calling me, Max. See you in the morning.” I hung up and Joe and Mady were staring at me, Joe still pale, Mady's eyes big with fear. I grinned. “Every cloud has that well-known silver lining! Hell with the picture... friend Harry has splattered himself all over the sidewalk. Straight suicide and nothing to connect us with...”

“Oh God, I killed him!” Joe moaned.

“Shut up. The cops don't even know he saw you. Anyway, it was my idea.”

“I did it!” Joe said, his voice rising.

I went over and slapped him across his fat face, hard as I could. “Cut that slop, you fool! Harry's dead, good riddance. I didn't see you moaning so loud when he was killing your wife, when he bled you so you couldn't pay for her doctor? You were worrying so much you were getting everybody else sick.”

Joe rubbed his face—the red imprint of my hand on his pale skin, sat down heavily.

Mady gasped, “But this... this... Harry is dead!”

“Good. He won't blackmail any more poor slobs like Joe.”

She said slowly, “You really are... tough.” And burst into tears.

“I'm not tough, but I don't go for sloppy sentiment or dramatics, either. Look, you're sorry when you run over a puppy, but you don't feel a thing when crashing a snake. Harry was a rattler.” I turned to Joe. “And you, stop whining. Probably won't happen, but there's just a chance Harry could have told that creep he works with he was going to meet you. The creep might tell the cops, and they might check. I doubt if they'll do anything, it's plain suicide. But if they do talk to you, don't lose your head and don't lie. Your story is Harry was trying to sell you his hate sheet and you were thinking it over. You met him in the park at his suggestion, told him you weren't buying, and you parted friends. That's all you know. Understand?”

“Why don't you leave me alone? Yeah, I understand.”

“And don't tell anybody else about this—not even your wife. And stop acting like a mope, you got a tough load lifted off your back tonight.”

“Off or on my back?” Joe mumbled.

I went into the kitchen and cleaned up the chemicals, then went to bed. I was angry but didn't know who I was sore at. I couldn't really blame Joe, or Mady... they still didn't know how cheap a life was in our world.

To my surprise I fell asleep quickly and then I had a nightmare. I was back in Korea and down the empty road that ran by the hill where I was dug in, came these figures in white. It was very hot and I sweated and watched them through the sights of my sub-machine gun. And the redheaded beer driver from St. Louis, who had the side of his head completely blown off a few days later, telling me, “Maybe they ain't soldiers, but don't take no chances, Matt. Be careful, be careful as hell.” And then the stammer of the gun as it trembled in my hands... and I awoke, sweating. I grabbed my T-shirt from the chair, wiped my head dry. It was a dream I often had and the bark of the gun always awoke me.

I was thankful for that, glad I didn't dream about—seeing the bloody faces of the little girls, the boy, the women....

I couldn't hear any noise in the house or see a light and I lay back on my pillow, started to doze off, wondering if Mady was sleeping in the other bed, and why. I was just floating off to sleep when I saw this tall, white, ghost-like figure coming toward me... like the figures on the road, only taller and closer. I sat up and screamed and the figure rushed toward the bed and it was Mady in a white nightgown. Mady was sitting on the bed, asking, “What's wrong, Matt?”

“Nothing. A dream... I was back in Korea. How's Joe?”

“All right. He's gone home.” She slipped into bed and put her arms around me.

I asked, “How do you feel?”

“A little frightened... you're so hard, so... so... frightening hard.”

“Why? Because a louse dies and I don't cry? That's crap. I've seen too many people die to...”

“Don't,” she said, placing her hand over my mouth. “Don't talk like that, it makes me cold inside.”

I lay there, surrounded by the wonderful warmth of her, and she started to talk softly in the darkness but I fell asleep.