The Neon Jungle

Chapter Thirteen

The place was called Artie’s Dayroom, and, except for the fish, it was a very ordinary place. It was a single narrow room with a sturdy dark bar, six plywood booths, twelve unanchored bar stools, a vast turbulent jukebox, framed licenses, a framed dollar bill, a simple liquor stock, a large beer trade... and the fish.

Where there had once been the traditional mirror of the back bar, Artie had a built-in tank installed, indirectly lighted, and stocked with tropical fish that were like mobile costume jewelry and bits of gay ribbon darting and drifting among their weeds, snails, and castles. Artie was a pork-bellied leathery man with vague eyes and a high-pitched voice. When trade was slack he watched the fish. Good business came from the loners. The ones who would claim a stool and drink steadily and watch the fish. More restful than TV, Artie said. Vern could see what he meant. He had been in the bar since nine, waiting for the slow minutes to pass until ten o’clock. Monday-night business was slow. A bar-stool couple sat with their thighs touching, murmuring, their noses an inch apart, their eyes looking drowned. Two loners watched the fish. A habitue of the place, Rita, fed coins to the jukebox and jiggled slowly in front of it, snapping her fingers. She had the puffed, forgotten face of the alcoholic.

The music stopped and she came over to her glass, beside Vern’s. She took two long swallows and said leaning against Vern’s arm and shoulder, “Din that one get you, Vern? Din that send you?”

“I wasn’t listening.”

“You just got no ear, baby. No ear ’tall. My God, that one’s bedroom music, Vern.” She turned and yelled down the bar, “Gimme another drink and some nickels, Artie.”

The soft pressure was removed from Vern’s arm. She got her fresh drink and the nickels and went back to the machine, bending over to study the labels in her nearsighted way.

Vern took another sip of his drink. He turned and looked through the glass of the door. The street gleamed wet in the night rain, and green neon across the street was reflected against the shiny black. It was a night to nurse a drink. It was a night to sit and feel a funny knot in your middle. This thing had, all at once, got out of hand. He sat relaxed on the stool. He could hear Rita, behind him, snapping her fingers over the music beat. He thought of the packed jars, nested in the tamped earth.

At three minutes of ten Vern picked up his change, leaving half a buck for Artie, and said, “See you.”

“Folding early, kid?” Artie asked.

“Long day,” Vern said. He made himself move slowly. He felt all knotted up inside. The rain had stopped. He turned right and walked in the direction he had been told, thinking of how it could be a setup, of how it could be a nice neat way of protecting the list of peddlers, of how he could be meat for the quick identifying spotlight and the short burst that would tear him apart inside. But they didn’t like it rough anymore. Now things were legitimate, with the syndicates settling disputes over area and territory. If they decided you were a handicap, it was a lot easier to wire your ankles to a cement block and put you in forty feet of water.

Out of the corner of his left eye he saw the black gleam of the car hood. He didn’t turn. The voice said, “Lockter!”

He turned then and crossed over to the car door. The front door of the sedan opened. No interior lights went on and he noted that and guessed they had been disconnected. The dash glowed faintly green. The Judge was behind the wheel. Lockter realized he’d never seen the Judge driving a car before.

He got in and pulled the door shut. He was aware of somebody behind him in the backseat, and as the Judge drove on, Vern started to turn to look back.

“Eyes front,” the Judge said softly.

“Sure.” Vern told himself that this was no time to gabble. Let them do the talking. Act calm. He lit a cigarette. They turned into a run-down residential section where the streetlights were widely spaced, and parked where it was dark. The Judge turned off the lights, left the motor on. It was barely audible.

Vern made his hand slow as he lifted the cigarette to his lips. He took a deep drag, snapped the butt out the wing window toward the unseen sidewalk. He realized then it was a one-way street, and that no car could head toward them, throw headlight beams into the dark sedan.

“Have a busy day, Lockter?” the Judge asked.

“I certainly did.”

“You started out with that idiotic note.”

“O.K. I was wrong. I admit that.”

“Not so much wrong as stupid. Say it.”

“I was stupid.”

“How did the contact go?”

“I came back after my second delivery. There was a guy hanging around. He came over to the truck when I got out. He said he’d been looking for the Varaki kid. He said she wasn’t in school. He’d checked that. I said she was up in her room. He said I should go make some deal with her to get her out of the house tonight. I said I could do that all right. I asked him what the score was. He said she was going on a trip. He said he’d hang around until I set it up with her and gave him the word. He gave me an address to take her to, about nine tonight. I went in the house and she wasn’t there. I couldn’t figure it out. The old man was acting funny. So funny I didn’t want to get too nosy. Finally I figured that Doris character was the one to ask. She knows everything that goes on. She tells me, in a sort of nasty way, that Teena had had a nervous breakdown and she’s in a sanitarium. The new kid is there. Dover. I finally figured it out that Dover had been brought around by Darmond and that Darmond spotted her and did something about it right away. He always has his nose in other people’s business. So I went down and saw that guy again and told him. Then he came back about five and told me how I should meet you.”

The Judge said softly, “Mr. Darmond had a busy day. Rowell had some of his people pick up the kids the Varaki girl ran around with. One of the boys implicated two pushers. The Varaki girl is in a private sanitarium. Shadowlawn. Run by Foltz. I think, Lockter, you can read what is written on the wall.”

“I guess so. The old cycle. When the cure starts to take she’ll get religion. Then she’ll say I got her some stuff. Then they’ll land on me. I’ll do more time.”

“They’ll want to know where you got it.”

“So I tag one of the pushers they’ve already picked up.”

“And that’s all?”

“Sure. Why should I give them more than that?”

“Because you happen to possess information that can be traded, Lockter, for personal freedom. Understand, it won’t do any more than inconvenience us. But we don’t like being inconvenienced. The stuff is rolling in smoothly, and will keep on coming in smoothly. To guarantee continuity of supply, we can’t cut our standing order. And if we can’t distribute, that means a lot of money tied up in stocks that won’t move until a new distribution setup is arranged.”

“I... see what you mean. If you want me to take a fall, O.K. But she won’t talk for maybe ten days, two weeks. I could run.”

“We don’t like that either.”

Vern heard his own voice go shrill. “Well, what the hell do you want me to do?”

He half heard a shifting behind him, and he managed not to glance back in his sudden panic.

“Don’t get nervous, Vern,” the Judge said softly.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You should be, Vern. We talked about you today. We can’t risk trying to take that girl out of Shadowlawn. It could be done, perhaps, but it isn’t a good gamble. We’d be very stupid to trust you, Vern, because we haven’t got enough of a handle on you. You’re too erratic to be trusted, in any case. Then we discussed killing you. That could be done with minimal risk. I’m sure you can see that.”

“Now wait, I...”

“But that would leave your friend Sussen in possession of as much inconvenient information as you have. We could make your death look accidental. But two fatal accidents compound risk. I assure you, we are not being melodramatic. This is a matter of business. We realize now that your rather dramatic distribution system was a mistake. We should have kept our... normal methods. Now this will be an intelligence test, Lockter. What do you think we would like you to do?”

“My God, I don’t—”

“Think, Vern. Think hard.”

Vern lit a cigarette, noting that his hands shook. The back of his neck felt cool. He did not like the way the Judge had made him feel young, stupid, unimportant. He thought back over the bewildering conversation. He said, thinking aloud, “You think you need more of a handle on me. And you think Stussen isn’t of any use any more on account of... I guess you’ve decided to give up the delivery system.”

“Correct. You’re doing splendidly.”

“Then I guess maybe you want me to kill Rick Stussen.”

“There’s a certain promise to you, son. Under stress you can think quite constructively. You do that and then we’ll be happy to trust you to take a fall for supplying the girl and not attempt a trade. I would say that in view of your previous record, three years would be a reasonable sentence. Three years and a guarantee of employment when you are released. If you bungle the killing, no information you can give them will keep you from at least a life sentence. We, of course, would like to have evidence of premeditation.”

“What do you mean?”

The Judge turned on the dash lights, took a small notebook and a pencil from his pocket. “I’ll dictate and you write, Vern. I think if you lean close to the dash lights, you can see well enough.”

“Look, I don’t—”

“Come now, Vern. This is just good procedure. Date it, please, at the top. Go ahead. That’s fine. The salutation should be — let me see now... ‘Darling baby.’ That’s certainly anonymous enough. Here’s the message. ‘Maybe I’m wrong, but I meant what I said last night about that Rick Stussen. He’s too damn dumb to live. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to figure some way to kill him so they’ll never catch me. Burn this note, baby. I trust you. It would look like hell in court, wouldn’t it? Ha-ha! Same place, same time tomorrow night, baby. All my love.’ Now sign it ‘Vern.’ Thank you, son.” The pad was taken out of his hand. The Judge examined it. “Glad you didn’t try to disguise your handwriting. You gave us a sample this morning, you know.”

Vern felt a coldness inside him. One thing was perfectly obvious: With that note in existence, he would not dare kill Stussen. They couldn’t trap him that way. So pretend agreement, and make plans, and run like hell. Run to where they’d never find him. With that decision made, confidence began to seep back into him.

“Now, Vern,” said the Judge, “let us just review your possible courses of action. One, you kill Stussen skillfully. Then you are picked up for supplying heroin to the Varaki girl and this note in our files guarantees your loyalty to us, because if you talk, the note will be sent to the authorities and the Stussen affair will be reopened. Two, you bungle the Stussen killing and you are picked up for it. You will still keep silent because this note, showing premeditation, will guarantee your electrocution. Three, you try to run for it. One of our people will kill Stussen and we will send the note in and let the authorities help us run you down. No matter who finds you first, our people or the law, you will quite certainly die. I think we can safely say, Vern, in the vernacular, that this note wraps you up.”

“If I don’t bungle it, and do my time without talking, do I get the note back?”

“I’m sorry, my boy. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. The note will be kept in a safe place. It could be considered a form of contract for your future services. A business asset.”

Vern thought of all the implications for three long seconds and then, moving very quickly, stabbed his hand out at the pocket where the Judge had placed the notebook. His fingertips barely touched the fabric when he was slugged from behind, rapped sharply over the left ear. It was done skillfully. He spiraled down through grayness to the very edge of unconsciousness and then came slowly back up to the real world of the car and the dim dash lights and the darkness. He bent forward, his hand cupping the throbbing place over his ear.

“We’ll let you out here, Vern,” the Judge said. “Today is Monday. Make this week’s deliveries. You’ll have to take care of Stussen before next Monday. Monday morning leave the collection in the usual place. But there’ll be no more deliveries, of course. That means you’ll have between now and next Saturday night to plan how you’ll arrange the matter of Stussen. It should occur Saturday night or Sunday.”

“Want to tell me exactly when, where, and how?” Vern asked bitterly.

“I’ve never cared a great deal for sarcasm,” the Judge said.

Vern got out of the car. It rolled smoothly away and, forty yards up the street, the Judge turned the lights on. Vern walked for a little way, and then he was sick. He supported himself with one hand against a tree. He wiped his lips with his handkerchief and threw it over a hedge into a small yard. His heels made empty sounds in the street. It was always the same. One slip, one impulse, and they came in on you. Impulse to fix the kid up. Impulse to take over and suggest a course of action. One slip and they had you. No more the soft-stepping, the slick cat-foot silences, the secret ways. No more. The money there, tamped in dirt. No good. Paper. Use it and all the Rowells moved in. Where did you get it? How did you get it? No more escape.

Unless...

He stopped. The city night was like soft movement around him. Unless. And that was the one thing that would make the note valueless. He wondered why he had forgotten. Someone had to kill Stussen violently and in anger and with an utter carelessness of consequence, and with a perfect willingness to confess the crime. The old man had the shoulder meat from hoisting ten thousand crates of food, ten thousand sides of beef. The old man had anger. Anger now at what had happened to Teena. Anger at what could happen to Jana. Jana, unused wife, feeling the shifting subtle torment of the body’s demands, while the old man dreamed of a lost son and now would dream of a daughter equally lost. Jana, moving in ancient instinctual patterns, most vulnerable because of that lingering Old World tradition of submission. And he sensed how it could be done.