The Night Remembers

24

“How long did you know Stella Czmek?”

“Not long.”

“How long would that be?”

“Couple years.”

“Bullshit.”

“They let you in here, didn’t they?”

“ ‘They’?”

“Those nigger women.”

“I’m asking you about Stella Czmek.”

“I don’t know anything about her.”

“That’s why you’ve got a houseful of crates from Vandersee’s.”

“She just stored the stuff here. Gave me money for it.”

“What’s in the boxes?”

“Don’t know. Never looked.”

“You really expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t have to answer your questions.”

I decided to roll the dice. “Why don’t you call the police?”

“What?”

“You heard me. Call the police.”

“I’ll call them when I feel like it.”

“You’re afraid to call them.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Because of what’s in those boxes, that’s why.”

“You leave them boxes alone.”

We sat in his bedroom upstairs. I had stretched him out on the bed and put the wet towel across his forehead. I sat on a straight-back chair across the room. He stared at the ceiling. Above him was another painting of Jesus, a velvet painting. In this one Jesus appeared to be scowling. I could understand why.

In the street below traffic shooshed along the damp boulevard. Somewhere nearby a dog barked. Bainbridge’s breathing was very loud. He didn’t sound so good.

I had a cigarette going. My lungs probably didn’t sound so good, either. I said, “Who was here tonight?”

“Nobody.”

“You knocked yourself out?”

“I tripped.”

“Right. Was it Conroy?”

The way he blinked, I could tell he knew who I was talking about. “I don’t know no Conroy.”

“He drives a new green Chevrolet. It was seen parked along the side street about an hour ago.”

“Those nigger women again.”

“What does Conroy want from you?”

“Nothing.”

“Why did he come here?”

“He didn’t come here.”

“What’s in the boxes?”

“Vases.”

“Anything else?”

“Just vases.”

“From where?”

“Hong Kong.”

“Why would she want all those vases stored here?”

“You’d have to ask her.”

“You just stay on the bed.”

“Where you going?”

“Going to start looking through the boxes.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’ve got some mouth for a reverend.”

“You leave them boxes alone.”

He started to get up. I pushed him down harder than I needed to. He cracked his head on the metal bedpost. He said another word reverends aren’t supposed to say.

I said, “Why don’t you call the police?”

“You leave me alone.”

“Why not, Bainbridge? Why not call the police?”

“You bastard. I’m an old man.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, so am I.”

“Who the hell you work for, anyway?”

I pointed to the bed. “You stay there. You hear me?”

Twenty minutes later I’d gone through ten of the packing crates on the second floor. Vases were what he’d promised, and vases were what I found. Vases. Cheap blue ones and cheap purple ones and cheap yellow ones, each with raised dragon figures, each with a somewhat lopsided mouth in which to put cut flowers.

For my trouble I had received a bruised thumb, having never been much good with a hammer, a body slick with sweat, and the growing suspicion that my suspicions were unfounded. Maybe Stella Czmek had taken on Vandersee inventory as a favor to Vandersee, or with an eye to setting up her own import-export business. Or just because she plain liked vases.

Whatever, there seemed to be no sinister intent in storing them here.

I changed my mind as soon as I found the open crate on the bottom of a pile. The first thing I checked for was some small difference between it and the other boxes and I found it without much trouble at all, a small rubber-stamp black star along the bottom of the crate. The second thing I checked on was the inside of the box, which was where I found two more eyesore purple vases, and an indentation in the bottom of the box where some sort of book had lain. At least I assumed it had been a book. That’s what it looked like under the dull glow of the flashlight I’d borrowed from Bainbridge’s bathroom.

I spent the next twenty minutes checking all the other boxes, upstairs and downstairs, for sight of the black star again. It was not to be found.

I took the empty box back to Bainbridge’s bedroom.

He lay propped up against the back of the bed now. He had his Bible spread out on his lap. From somewhere he’d produced a pair of ancient wire-rim glasses. He probably played Scrooge in the local KKK chapter’s version of “A Christmas Carol.”

“What does this black star mean?”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“Look at it.”

“Don’t need to look at it. Don’t know what it means.”

“Look at it.”

He sighed and swung his head around. You could still see where he’d been smacked hard in the forehead. He looked enfeebled. I wished I could feel sorry for him but I couldn’t.”

“Don’t have no idea what it is.”

“This is what Conroy wanted, isn’t it? He’s the one who opened this box tonight, isn’t he?”

“Don’t know no Conroy.”

“What was in the book?”

“What book?”

“There’s an indentation on the bottom of the box. That means that when this was shipped from Hong Kong, somebody hid some sort of contraband in the bottom of the box.”

He went back to his Bible. “Wouldn’t know about anything like that.”

I grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him around. I slapped him once hard across the mouth.

His Bible dropped on the floor. He put his face down on the bed and started sobbing. He sounded sick and crazy.

“What the hell’s going on here, Bainbridge, and what does Conroy have to do with this?”

He waved me off, apparently afraid I was going to hurt him some more.

I went over and sat in the straight-back chair and lighted a cigarette and stared down at the boulevard and the traffic lost behind the white wavering sheet of snow. The smells and creaks and ravaged condition of the old house had begun to weigh on me.

And so had Bainbridge.

Angry, not knowing what else to do, I went over to his bureau and began looking through the drawers. They were empty except for pieces of newspaper that dated back to 1948. It was like opening a time capsule, one of the newspaper ads advertising Harry James at Danceland. Sharon and I might well have been there, her in a corsage for our occasional night out, me in my new Wembley tie, eager to foxtrot.

The memories calmed me down.

I went back to the chair. “I want you to tell me about Conroy.”

“I don’t know about him.”

“You’re lying.”

“You going to hit me again?”

He looked so old and frail, I couldn’t even bluff. “No.”

He was relieved. “You shouldn’t ought to hit somebody like me that way.”

“I didn’t hit you. I slapped you.”

“Still and all.”

“Conroy. What the hell’s he got to do with all this?”

“I can’t tell you. I’m afraid.”

“Tomorrow I’m going to have the police come and question you.”

He shook his head. “Then I’ll be gone.” He lifted his Bible. “The Lord will protect me from people like you.”

Conroy had scared him, and now I was just wasting my time here. I stood up and said, “If you hear from Conroy, tell him I’m looking for him.”

He stared up at me with his birdy eyes. A terrible grin exposed his dentures. “You think he’ll care? You really think he’s afraid of you?”

He was starting to enjoy himself again. It was time for me to leave. Before I saw Conroy, there were a few other answers I needed.