Wall of Eyes

Chapter 10

Before the first show went on at nine o’clock Joey himself came backstage. He didn’t go back very often, he left it to Stevie to see that the girls were ready on time, their squabbles settled without scratching and their costumes fit to be viewed by the pure in heart.

But tonight he went back himself and stood for a minute inside the door. The girls were ready, clustered in small groups, twittering and chirping. They became quiet gradually when they saw him; they were a little afraid of this soft-voiced, hard-eyed man who signed their checks every second Monday.

“Break it up,” Joey said.

They broke it up but they didn’t come any closer to him. Marcie emerged from the dressing room wrapped in a long black cape. Stevie appeared too, quite suddenly, as if he’d dropped from the ceiling.

“My master’s voice,” he said.

Joey didn’t look at him. “There’s a special guest out front. He didn’t bring his ten-year-old son but act like he did. Keep everything clean.”

“The cleanest show in town,” Stevie said, but he couldn’t be heard above the girls: “What do you mean?”

“Who’s out there?”

“Why my own mother says it’s a swell show!”

“That’s all,” Joey said. “Except — Mamie.”

Mamie looked at him sulkily. “Yeah?”

“It’s your job to make the customers sad, pleasantly sad, not to make them commit suicide. Get it?”

The girls giggled. Mamie took a step forward, her dark eyes already brimming with tears.

“Yeah, but Joey, you don’t know — it’s Tony...”

“Dry up,” Stevie said to her. “O.K., girls, go and lock yourselves in the dressing room. We’ll be a little late tonight.”

“We will, will we?” Joey said softly.

Stevie waited until they had disappeared. “Who’s out there?”

“A cop.”

“A cop. Well, what of it? Don’t cops relax?”

“Not this one,” Joey said, “and not here.”

“Which one is it?”

“He didn’t introduce himself and he didn’t tell me he was a cop. I just happen to know.”

“Oh.”

“What difference does it make to you?” Joey said dryly. “You’re wearing enough clothes and you don’t shake your rear. He was here a couple of weeks ago, too.”

“He was?” Stevie drew in his breath. “That’s swell.”

“You haven’t been doing anything, Jordan?”

“Not a thing.”

“Well, neither have I,” Joey said. “But it gives me the same kind of feeling I get when I cross the border. I never have a damn thing on me but I always feel I have.”

“Guilty conscience.”

“Yeah. Ready now?”

“Sure.”

“Stay away from the booze tonight, Jordan. The boys will bring you cold tea. On my orders.”

Stevie went with him to the door. “Which one is he?”

“Left. Second table from the floor. Alone.”

Stevie looked out. After Joey had gone he kept the door open a little and looked out again, for a long time.

There was nothing to show that the man was a cop. He was quite small and even from a distance Stevie could see his little black moustache. Just an ordinary man in a dinner jacket. Maybe Joey was wrong...

But he knew Joey wasn’t wrong. Once you knew the man was a cop you found all sorts of reasons for believing it. The way he sat, motionless, almost rigid, as if his very muscles were determined not to relax or to have a good time. Some of the wives sat like that, the wives who didn’t drink and came along just to keep an eye on their husbands.

Stevie closed the door. There was sweat on the palms of his hands and he was trembling, but he couldn’t resist reading it once more. He took the clipping out of his pocket.

“The death occurred suddenly last night of Kelsey Heath in her twenty-eighth year, at the home of her father, Thomas Heath, 1020 St. Clair Avenue. Miss Heath had been in ill health for some time. Funeral arrangements have not been completed. She is survived by her father, a sister, Alice, and a brother, John. Please omit flowers.”

The orchestra faded, there was a pause, a roll of drums.

That was for him. He replaced the clipping and smoothed back his hair and lifted the curtain. He walked briskly on to the floor and there was a smattering of applause, a dying down of many voices and finally a hush.

“Hel-lo!” Stevie said. “So some of you came back and even brought your friends...”

He talked for five minutes, fast, not even giving them a chance to laugh. They didn’t laugh much anyway at the first show. Then he walked around the floor, still talking, pausing at some of the tables, asking a question or two, getting blushes and giggles and soft embarrassed answers.

“And what did you do to deserve this lovely lady?”

A laugh, a whisper from the man, “I guess I’m just lucky,” a blush from the lady, a yell from the crowd.

The spotlight swerved, rested for an instant on the solitary figure in the dinner jacket. The man looked across at Stevie. He didn’t even blink at the spotlight, he just stared without moving.

It seemed to Stevie that the whole crowd was aware of it, there was a deadly quiet as if they had all withdrawn and left him alone to face this man.

“Break it up,” somebody shouted.

“Sorry, folks, I just had a hot flash. Must have been something I et, or maybe something I drenk.”

The spotlight moved with him and the man with the staring eyes dissolved into darkness.

Stevie walked off the floor five minutes before he should have, and the girls came on. He usually sat at one of the tables and ordered a drink while the girls were dancing, but tonight he went right out through the curtain.

The door of the dressing room was open but he rapped anyway, and said, “Marcie?”

She came out, with the long black cape clutched around her. She looked ill and her eyes were red-rimmed and slightly swollen.

“What’s the matter?” Stevie said.

“Nothing.” She leaned against the wall, a tired little bat with folded wings and the face of a girl. “Flu, maybe!”

“I’ve got something to show you.”

“What?”

“From a newspaper.”

“I saw it.”

“Tough on you,” Stevie said.

“Why me?” She opened her eyes wide.

“Tough on him, then, on Johnny Heath. So I guess it’s tough on you, if you love him.”

Her black wings stirred a little. “Don’t tell anybody.”

“About what?”

“Johnny and me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to get into this at all. I don’t see why I should have to.” She came closer to him and spoke in a whisper. “One of them came to the house this afternoon. He said he was an insurance agent. He said Johnny had taken out a policy in favor of me and that he had to come around to check up. He asked me if Johnny and I were going to be married. I got suspicious because I’d never heard of insurance agents doing that, and Johnny never said anything about an insurance agent, so I made an excuse and went out into the hall and phoned Johnny...”

“Yeah,” Stevie said. “Yeah.”

“So Johnny told me, he said somebody had killed her and I was to keep quiet if anybody asked me questions about us. And then” — she gulped — “somebody else was on the phone, because a man said, ‘That’s enough, Heath.’ ”

“Yeah.”

“So I hung up. I went back and told the insurance agent that he was mistaken and that Johnny was just an old friend and wouldn’t have taken out a policy in my favor. He knew I knew, then, but he went away without saying anything else.” She put her hand on his arm. “Stevie. Joey said there was a cop here tonight.”

“There is.”

“What’s he like? Is he... is he big, with a red face and gray hair?”

“He’s small. No red face.”

“Oh.” She smiled shakily. “Just a coincidence. It’s not my cop.”

“Mine, maybe,” Stevie said.

“What? What did you do?”

“We’ll see,” Stevie said. “We’ll soon see.”

It came sooner than he expected. It came while Marcie was on and Stevie was standing behind the curtain watching her. He was standing behind the curtain and somebody was standing behind him, close behind him so that the voice sounded right in his ear.

“Mr. Jordan?”

Stevie turned around, slowly, casually. “Yeah.”

“Have you a match?”

“A match?” Stevie patted his pockets, one after another. “No, sorry.”

“Well, I guess I don’t need any after all. Look,” the man said.

Stevie kept his eyes rigidly ahead of him.

“Look, Mr. Jordan. I have a whole boxful.”

“Yeah?”

“I got them out of your car a few minutes ago. My name is Higgins.”

Stevie smiled sardonically. “Now you know my name and I know yours, so that’s a dead end.”

“In my profession nothing is a dead end.”

“In the insurance business? Well, tell me about it some time. I’ve got to go on now.”

He raised the curtain and went out. Marcie had sunk into a small exhausted heap, which was her bow.

Stevie led the clapping and told the audience how good Marcie was and how good they were. When he came back, the man in the dinner coat hadn’t moved. He was still holding the box of matches under his arm, casually, as if it was part of his costume.

“You still here?” Stevie said. “Maybe you’d like a cigarette to go with all those matches.”

He hadn’t intended to mention the matches again but the man was staring at him, he had to say something to break the stare.

“You’re the one,” Higgins said. “You were up there last night in your car.”

“Up where?” Stevie said. “What car?”

If the man didn’t have that box from the car he wouldn’t have any evidence at all. Mr. Heath couldn’t identify him. There had been only the light from the dashboard and he’d had his hat pulled down. If it weren’t for the matches...

“Your car,” Higgins said. “A Chevrolet coupé, 1940.”

Stevie edged closer. “So I was up where?”

“On St. Clair Avenue.”

“Doing what?”

Higgins smiled. “That’s my question, Mr. Jordan. I have the answers — to what goes before. I know you were there.”

“I left work and went home,” Stevie said. “I can’t prove it because I live in a boardinghouse and by the time I get in at night the rest of the house is asleep.”

“Except Mrs. McGillicuddy. Mrs. McGillicuddy reported your absence to the police early this morning. She was afraid you’d had an accident. You were gone all night.”

“I was with a dame,” Stevie said. If he could get the matches...

The girls would be coming out in a minute. If he was going to do anything he’d have to do it now. Now.

Higgins didn’t see the fist coming. It caught him on the chin and he fell easily and gracefully like a woman fainting. The box of matches flew from under his arm. The lid fell off and half the paper packets were scattered on the floor.

With a little cry of rage Stevie got down on his knees and began stuffing the packets back into the box. Hurry — the girls — any minute — hurry! He had to jam the rest of them into his pockets, there wasn’t room in the box.

Hurry. He had them all now and Higgins was still unconscious and the girls hadn’t come out yet. He moved quickly towards the alley door. He heard footsteps behind him, the tap of high heels, the scream of a woman, but he was outside now and the door was closed behind him and he had the matches.

He ran down the alley, effortlessly, as if his fear and his ecstasy of triumph had combusted and given his body an engine that drove him along.

He reached his car, parked in the widening of the alley. The car was just the same except that Higgins hadn’t relocked the door, and the engine wouldn’t turn over.

The engine was dead.

“Oh, God,” Stevie said, and the engine inside him died too because the triumph was gone. He hadn’t won after all. Higgins had done something to his car. Maybe Higgins had wanted this to happen, had been waiting for Stevie to give himself away.

He sat there for a minute staring dully In front of him. Then he heard the shrill blast of a police whistle from the Bloor Street end of the alley. He slid from behind the wheel, and the running began again.

The alley was a whole block long. He didn’t look back until he got to the end of it, and had to stop running anyway because of the people walking along Davenport. He looked back only for an instant, and saw nothing but the alley itself unwinding like a gray ribbon, getting thinner and darker until it dissolved into the night.

Nothing else. He had won. Except that he had left the matches in the car he had won.

“Oh, God,” Stevie whispered.

He had to lean against the show window of a store to keep from falling. A grocery store, he always remembered that. He heard someone walk past, stop and come back again. He didn’t look up until a man’s voice said, “Could I trouble you for a match?”

“No,” Stevie said hoarsely. “No. No, you couldn’t! I haven’t got any matches!”

“Well, you don’t need to get tough about it.”

The man walked away. He was wearing a gray suit and his shoulder blades stuck out under it like wings.

A streetcar roared past and stopped at the next corner fifty yards up. Stevie began to run. The conductor saw him running and held the car for him.

Stevie swung aboard.

“How much?”

“A dime. Four tickets for a quarter.”

Stevie brought out the dime. He became aware then that he was in evening clothes and that people were staring at him. The car was not jammed, it was just crowded enough so that he’d have to stand and people would get a good look at him.

He put his hand on the overhead rail and began to read the ads. They would see how engrossed he was in the ads and stop staring at him. They did stop, most of them, but only when the car had paused again to let on somebody newer than Stevie. Six or seven more blocks made Stevie a veteran. He was one of them now, he even had a seat.

All kinds of people were getting seats. An old lady scrambled past a fat girl, and the fat girl moved over and a middle-aged man sat down beside her. Then the fat girl got out and the man was left by himself. You could almost tee the man expand with relief when the girl left, he seemed to grow suddenly and fill more of the seat, even though he was a very thin man. His bones stuck out, his shoulders were sharp underneath the gray coat It was when the car jerked suddenly and the man leaned forward in his seat that Stevie saw the shoulder blades sticking out like wings...

Stevie sat frozen, while the car lurched on and the man with the shoulder blades settled back in his seat. So far the man hadn’t looked around at all, though every time someone walked down the aisle he turned his head a little, anxiously, as if he was afraid someone was going to deprive him of the luxury of a whole seat to himself.

An ordinary guy. An ordinary guy going home, Stevie thought, not following me.

But a couple of blocks later when someone rang the bell Stevie edged out of his seat. When the door opened he slipped out and began walking briskly eastward while the car moved on west

He remembered that the car had passed a couple of small taverns, the kind that rented out a few rooms so they could get a hotel beer and wine license. A room was what he wanted, and a phone. He’d have to phone Joey, tell him that he needed money to get out of town.

Here it was. “The Palace Hotel” in small letters and “BEER” and “WINE” in big bright neons.

When he went inside and stood at the desk he had to wait while one of the bartenders twitched off his apron, smoothed his hair, and appeared behind the desk, looking as much like a desk clerk as he had like a bartender. He even said sir.

“Yes, sir?”

“A room,” Stevie said.

“Single, sir?”

“Yes.”

“We have one left with bath.”

Actually they only had one with bath but it wasn’t good business to admit it. Especially to a guy like this in evening clothes. Probably had a quarrel with his wife, the bartender-clerk decided, and he’s going to show her what’s what by staying out all night.

“How much?” Stevie asked.

“Two-fifty.”

“O.K.” He paid in advance.

“Sign here, please.”

Stevie took the pen and wrote Steven — then he changed his mind and added an “s” to Steven and put two initials in front of it, M. R. Stevens, Hamilton.

“Hundred and three,” the clerk said. “Here’s your key, sir. I’ll show you up.”

“No,” Stevie said, “No!”

He was staring at the door of the hotel. A man was coming in. When he saw Stevie he stood for a moment, frowning, and then he came toward him. He had a thin face and his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a silent snarl.

He said, in a low voice, “That’s what I thought.”

“What?” Stevie said.

“I said I thought you were following me. Just because I asked you for a match. You must be crazy. You got a complex.”

“Your key, sir,” the clerk said. He wanted to lean across the desk to hear what the two men were saying to each other. But that wouldn’t be good business, and besides someone wanted another beer. He pulled out his apron from behind the desk and fastened it on again.

“I saw you run after the car when I got on,” the man said. “You took the seat behind me. What’s the game?”

“I never saw you before,” Stevie said dully.

“You must be crazy. You ran after the car. Now you’re here. I went past my stop on purpose to put you off. Now you’re here anyway.”

“Coincidence.”

“Hell. I heard of guys like you before. You’re per — persecuted, that’s the word.”

“Sorry,” Stevie said, “I didn’t mean a thing. I thought you were following me.”

The man looked at him and the snarl gradually disappeared. “Yeah? Now that’s funny.”

“Certainly is.”

“Wait’ll I tell the wife.” He was really smiling now. “I guess I’m too suspicious.”

“Not at all,” Stevie said politely.

“I owe you a beer for flying off like that.”

He hadn’t had a drink all night. Maybe that was why he’d acted so crazy all for nothing. Hitting a policeman...

“Thanks,” he said. “A beer would be swell.”

When they sat down the man looked across the table at Stevie and smiled rather sheepishly. “Well, what’ll it be?”

“Molson’s.”

“Two Molson’s.”

While they were waiting Stevie kept looking around for a telephone and planning what he’d say to Joey: “Joey, I’m in a jam. Could you send fifty to my cousin in Newmarket and I’ll pick it up?” Joey could spare fifty and he was a good guy in some ways.

“Something on your mind?” the man said.

Stevie gave a quick smile. “Girl trouble. I guess I’ll phone her.”

“Right over there’s the phone.”

Stevie got up and shut himself inside the booth. He had to wait until his hands stopped shaking before he could dial the number of Joey’s office.

Joey answered it the way he always did, with a sharp alert “Yes?”

“Joey?” Stevie said.

Joey recognized his voice because he changed his tone and he said, “Yeah,” instead of “Yes.”

“Joey, listen. I’m in a jam. Could you — I need some money. Could you send—?”

Joey spaced his words evenly, and he spoke slowly: “You... God... damn... fool.”

“Listen, Joey...”

But it was no use because Joey had hung up. Stevie hung up too, so hard that a nickel clanged out of the box. Stevie took the nickel out and held it in the palm of his hand. For a long time he stood there with the nickel. Then he said, “Thanks, Joey,” but the words didn’t come out as he intended.

He went back to his table. The beer was there and the man was already drinking his and munching popcorn from the bowl in the center of the table.

“Trouble?” he said. “Well, sit down and forget it.”

“She hung up so fast I got the nickel back.”

“You’re lucky she’s that way and not the other way. You know — blah, blah, blah.”

“I sure am,” Stevie said. “I sure am a lucky guy.”

The beer hit him hard because he was hungry and tired and wanted to be hit hard. There was no reason to stay sober, there was no more shows for him tonight and he didn’t even have to drive home. He had a room right here, he could just go upstairs and sleep it off. And in the morning he’d send out for a suit, a cheap suit so he’d have enough money left for train fare to some place.

“What’s a good place?”

“A good place?” the man echoed. “What do you mean?”

“To go to, when you don’t want to go home. I thought I’d go to another town.”

“Just on account of a dame?” the man said, admiringly. “Well, personally, I’d like to live in the States, some place like Buffalo or Detroit.”

“I have no passport.”

“My wife’s over there now. She’s got a cousin in Buffalo. I’m on my own for a while. I’ve got a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and the apartment’s so dirty I’m scared to start cleaning it for fear I’ll get typhoid or something. If she doesn’t come back soon I’ll have to move out.”

Stevie beckoned to the waiter. “Two more of the same.”

“Not for me,” the man said. “Three bottles is my limit. I’ll be taking a taxi home at that. But you go ahead.”

“I’ve got a room here.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I was going to say, if you didn’t mind the dirt you could come home with me. The place is kind of lonesome and I thought — until your girl got over it...”

“Thanks,” Stevie said. “I couldn’t do that. I don’t even know your name.”

The man laughed, slapping his thighs. “By God, you don’t! No more than I know yours. You might even be a crook for all I know.”

“I might,” Stevie Said.

“I’m a great one for judging people by their faces. I like your face.”

“I like yours.”

“Anyway, I’m a sucker for people in trouble. That’s how you look, like a nice fellow who’s in trouble. It’s none of my business what the trouble is, of course. Maybe it’s a girl and maybe it isn’t, but the offer still goes.”

“Offer?”

“You can come home with me.”

The kindness and the beer went to Stevie’s head. He wanted to cry. He decided that he would cry and put his head down on the table. But one of the bartenders came over and tapped his shoulder and said, “Closing time, mister.”

Stevie raised his head. “Yeah. What time?”

“Closing time.” He turned to the man. “Is this a friend of yours?”

“You bet he is,” the man said. “We’re just leaving. Can you call a cab?”

“I can call a cab, sure,” the bartender said, “if you got a nickel.”

The man took hold of Stevie’s arm and led him out. They waited on the sidewalk for the cab, with Stevie leaning against the man, saying, “Thanks, Joey. Thanks, Joey.”

When they were inside the cab Stevie slid into a corner and closed his eyes. The man didn’t bother him until the cab stopped. Then he said, “We’re here,” and Stevie opened his eyes and got out, not caring where he was. It was nice to have things decided for him, it was nice to have a friend who liked his face.

The cool air had sobered him a little and he could walk by himself, follow the man through the lobby and up a flight of stairs and through a door.

“Here we are.”

The man turned on a lamp, and another lamp. The room sprang up at Stevie. There was something wrong about it, something wrong, something missing.

He rubbed his hands over his eyes to wipe away the blur. But there was no blur, there was nothing the matter with his eyes, it was the room, the room itself...

“Sit down,” the man said. “Make yourself at home.”

“I’d like some water,” Stevie said.

“Sure. I’ll get you some.”

The man went out. Stevie followed him, through a dining room into a kitchen. The tap roared for a minute. There was something wrong in this room too. If he could think, if he could remember...

It hit him when he was holding the glass of water to his lips. The shock was so sudden that his throat was constricted and the water couldn’t get past. It dribbled down his chin.

There were no dirty dishes in the sink. There was no dirt anywhere in the apartment. There was no wife, no cousin in Buffalo.

He raised his head and saw that the man was watching him, quietly, the man was waiting for something.

“You’ve got it now, Mr. Jordan?” he said finally.

The glass fell out of Stevie’s hand and splintered on the floor. His mouth moved stiffly. “Who are you?”

The man said, “My name is Sands.”