Stranger At Home (7 page)

Vickers glanced sideways and said, “I imagine you do.”

Jennie shrugged deprecatingly and moved away, ostensibly toward a small table with cigarettes on it. Vickers got a magnificent view of her back, undulant and graceful. “I oughta. I been in show business since I was a kid. You learn the tricks.”

“Yes. I suppose you do.” Vickers slipped the small leather book into his pocket, and then made a last quick search of the zipper case while Jennie was giving her artistic all to the lighting of a cigarette. There was an envelope. He had no time to look at it. It followed the notebook.

Jennie said, “Cigarette?”

“Thanks.” He went over and let her hold the lighter for him. Her eyes studied the shape of his mouth.

“Well,” she said, “now Angie's got a man of her own, maybe the rest of us can relax. Not that I cared about Harry. Like I said. But Harriet's sure got the axe out for her, and I know one of Bill's babes split with him on her account.” She walked away with a lazy swing of the hips. “Me, as soon as the funeral's over, I'm going to take a trip. A long one, with all the trimmings.”

“You're forgetting the police.”

“Oh, yeah.” She reflected, then smiled. “Oh well, it won't be for long, and it's kind of exciting anyway. That Trehearne guy – he's cute.”

“Practically devastating.”

She came back and stood in front of Vickers. “Were you and Harry real good friends?”

“What did Harry say about it?”

“Oh, he never said much. Nobody ever told me much about you. I guess they'd all sort of forgotten about you by this time. Only thing I remember him saying was once when he was crying on Bill's shoulder over some deal that was going sour on him and Bill said if you were here you could tell him how to swing it, and Harry said yes, you could, and that was the trouble with you. You were so goddamned sure of yourself, and so goddamn right.” She laughed. “Are you?”

“I don't know, Jennie.” He was looking at her, but not seeing her. He said slowly, “I've been a very unlucky man. I could always do everything too easily, and too well.”

“Even love?”

He ran the tip of his finger from her ear down under her chin and tilted it up. “Even that.” She stood waiting for his kiss, and he stood looking down at her. “In South America I had a woman,” he said softly. “She nursed me through the fever. It's not a nice kind of nursing. She stole food for me. Sometimes she sold herself for a few centavos – the men were all poor down there – to buy quinine, or some goat's milk for me. Would you do that, Jennie?”

She said angrily, “Why should I do it? You got Angie, haven't you? Besides, that's silly.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He took his hand away from her chin and stepped back. “But then we're all silly at times, aren't we? Even you, Jennie.” He bowed with courtly grace. “Good day, Mrs. Bryce. Don't let widowhood sit too heavily upon you. Remember you're still young, and life goes on.” At the door he paused and glanced back at her. “I'll give your love to Angie.” He went out. She was still trying to think of something to say.

On the steps Vickers met Joe Trehearne. They stopped and eyed each other with friendly smiles that went no farther than the lips. Trehearne said,

“I didn't expect to see you so soon again.”

“Just offering further condolences to the widow, poor little thing. Be easy on her, old boy. She's the fragile sort.”

“Yes,” Trehearne said dryly. “I had her pegged that way.”

“Any further news?”

“Not yet.”

“Let us know.”

“I'll do that.”

Trehearne went in. Vickers walked down Bedford Drive to Wilshire and one block east to Roxbury and stood looking at his store.

It was a beautiful thing. It was functional and clean and proud. The windows glistened, the displays were the last and final word in swank. There wasn't a thing inside you could afford to buy if you made less than a hundred thousand a year. Vickers crossed the street and went inside.

It was just as it had been the last time he saw it. A new coat of paint, perhaps, but it was the same discreet and quiet gray. Thick carpeting, indirect lighting, the floor space divided into salons presided over by handsome females with the faintly condescending air of grand duchesses come gracefully down in the world. Vickers wandered about, keeping in the background. Women in fantastic hats bought perfumes and cobwebby stockings and underthings no more substantial than a breath of fog. The whole place had the subtle smell of wealth.

One of the grand duchesses showed him her perfect teeth and said, “May I direct you, sir?”

Vickers started. “Thank you, no. I'm – looking for someone.”

After that he went away.

At the Beverly-Wilshire he found a cab and had himself driven to the public library. He was fairly sure that he would not meet anyone he knew in that particular place. He found a seat in a far corner, pulled several books at random from the shelves, arranged them on the table, sat down, and pulled the leather-covered book from his pocket.

The fly leaf was hand-decorated – Harry Bryce had had a talent for hilarious, if rather rude, cartooning. There was a motif of amorous mermaids with certain startling physical characteristics, and framed by their flirting tails was the legend: LOG OF THE LADY B. Below that was Harry's name, and an allusion to his rank and chief duties in the crew.

The next four pages had sketches of Vickers, Bill Saul, Job Crandall, and Bryce himself, all good-naturedly libelous caricatures. Then the log itself started.

He could remember reading each entry after Harry had written it. He could remember the four of them laughing themselves sick over the description of Job Crandall's efforts to land a sailfish while mildly drunk, and embroidering with mounting improbabilities the tale of Bill Saul's encounter with the red light district of a particularly small and uninhibited port. Vickers skipped through these pages hurriedly, but the picture of himself came back vividly into his mind. The well-fed Vickers relaxing on his yacht, enjoying his own personal sunshine and his private ocean, seeing large-handedly to his guests. Including, he thought, the guest I didn't know was there – the little man called Murder.

He came to the last two entries. It was quite easy to tell from Harry's writing when he was drunk and when he was sober. On the first of these two entries he had been cold stone sober.

The next, and last, entry was longer and written in Harry's sub-alcoholic scrawl.

Vickers noticed, quite casually, that his hands were shaking. He was dimly aware that someone had sat down quietly beside him. He should have been startled when Joe Trehearne's voice said, “Are you finding some good books?” He was not startled. He was somehow not even surprised. He did not bother to close the log book.

He looked at Trehearne and smiled. “Are you following me?”

Trehearne seemed mildly hurt. “Of course not. I can read, you know. I often go into libraries.”

“Aren't you a little off your beat?”

‘I'm also off duty, and there's no law yet against a citizen of Los Angeles entering the township of Beverly Hills.”

“What a pity.” Vickers got up. He closed the log book and held it out to Trehearne. “Would you care to take this along and read it?”

Trehearne said, “You're just loaning it to me because you love me.”

“Quite.”

“Would you mind stepping over here?” Trehearne indicated the librarian's desk. They had already attracted her unfavorable attention by raising their voices above a whisper. Vickers shrugged and walked toward her with Trehearne. She watched their approach with marked dislike.

Trehearne stopped and leaned his elbow on the desk. “You're sure you want to loan me the book, Mr. Vickers?”

“Why not?”

He held it out. Trehearne took it. He said, “Thanks very much, Mr. Vickers. I'll take good care of it.”

‘I'm sure you will, Mr. Trehearne.”

Trehearne started off. The librarian said sharply, “Here! Just a minute.”

Trehearne stopped. He gazed at the librarian as one does at a rude child. Then the light broke. “Oh!” he said, holding up the book. “You thought the...” He laughed. “No, no. It's Mr. Vickers' personal book. Here, I'll show you.” He opened the cover to show her the flyleaf.

She took one good look. Things happened to her face. Trehearne received a premonition that all was not well. He turned the book around and had a look himself. The mermaids frisked merrily around the page, their marvelous anatomies betraying a distressing lack of inhibition. Trehearne looked back at the librarian. He turned scarlet. The librarian leaned forward.

“Get that filthy thing out of here,” she said, “before I call a policeman.”

Trehearne fled.

Vickers raised his head in the cathedral hush and roared with laughter.

Later, in the cab that was taking him home, Vickers took out the envelope he had found with the log book. 

There was nothing in it but a lock of soft black hair.

He held it in his fingers, and sat looking at it. He was dimly aware that the cab had turned and begun to climb the hill. He was dimly aware that it slowed and shifted into second at the place where the road twisted and became even more steep. He heard nothing but the complaining snarl of the motor until something snapped past his head, close. Very close. Little stinging flies attacked his cheek. He saw a neat round hole in the window beside him, and as he went down quickly onto the floor he saw that there was another hole, less neat, in the rear window. He put up his hand to his face and pulled out a tiny sliver of glass. There was a little blood and he got out his handkerchief. The cabby drove on. He was thinking about hamburgers and cold beer, and the cute redhead who served them, and wishing he didn't have a wife and two kids.

He ground the cab to a stop in front of the house on top of the hill and said, “That'll be a dollar and thirty cents.”

Coolin the hound lay on the rug beside Vickers' bed. He did not sleep. His eyes were deep-sunken and watchful under the rough gray ridges of his brows. His ears moved, delicately, testing the meaning of each sound. Once or twice he raised his head, but he knew that there was no need to rise.

His master slept, and dreamed.

The long windows were open. The night was cool. It had fog in it, and the damp bitter-sweet smell of the garden, and it was quiet. Michael Vickers lay on his hard clean bed that had no pillows.

His eyes were closed, but he could see the room. It was tall like the nave of a church, and dim, and wonderfully still. He could feel the coolness and smell the freshness of evergreens on the air.
This is my place
, he thought.
I am safe here
. The sheets of his bed were crisp and had a white feel against his body.

He pushed them back and rose.

The high room stretched before him. He walked slowly down the middle of it, and the moist air pressed against him. It was almost as heavy as water. He looked down and saw that it covered him like water, so that he could see only a warped and veiled reflection of his body. He was glad of the veil. He did not want to see himself. He ran his hands over his flesh. It was well-fed and strong, shaped into smooth beauty. He could feel it, and he thought,
This is good
. But he did not want to see. He walked on, gliding through the thick blue air. There was a window, tall like the window of a church. White curtains fluttered from it. There was no glass in the window, and beyond it there was darkness. Vickers knew that he must go to the window. There was something outside that he must look at. He stopped.
If I go
, he thought,
I shall be destroyed. I will not go
.

The window came to him. It moved quite easily, and it did not seem to be angry, only inevitable, like the next tick of a clock. He put his hands on the broad sill and looked out.

There was a street. It was narrow and crooked. It had no lights and no paving. There were little mud-walled houses. There was garbage and the odor of it, heavy and rank, and filth, and a dead rat lying in the dust, and a subtle breath of heat. Vickers drew back. He was afraid. He willed his feet to move, to go away, but the floor slid under them like a running stream. He cried out, loud enough for God to hear, and all that came from his mouth was a whisper:
Angie! Angie!

There was someone behind him, and he knew that there was no escape.

From a great distance a voice said,
Turn around, Vickers. Turn around, Vickers
. It came closer.
Turn around Vickers Turn around Vickers Turn around Vickers
. He turned. His lovely room was gone and there was only darkness as unstable as a cloud blown by the wind. There was someone hidden in it. He smelled of hate. That was all that betrayed him, the voice and the dark red smell of hate. Vickers waited.

The blow fell.

The window cracked and fell in tinted shards of sound. The darkness rolled away like thunder. A huge brazen sun clanged like a bell-clapper against a sky of sheet copper. Vickers' head was on fire. He could feel the flames rise and shoot out through the crevice in his skull. His throat was filled with hot sand. It ran out of his mouth and trickled down his chest. He watched it. He could see his body now. It was gaunt and pinch-bellied, and there were marks on it. The long ribbon-shaped weals of the belt. The red-tinged blossoms of the fist. The spreading mark of the boot, like spilled ink. He thought,
That's what I didn't want to see
. He dropped onto his hands and knees.