The Plot (20 page)

Maum Cloe shook her head slowly. “Better for go away, Alex.”

“No. We have to see Jamey.”

“Better for go away.”

Alex stamped her foot in exasperation. “Maum Cloe, I can't. William Reas must go and find out if Jamey will see Mr. Klein. Mr. Klein came all the way from New York City to see Jamey, Maum Cloe!”

The old woman shrugged in a spiritless way. “Go for ask, William Reas.” She stared ahead of her dully as William Reas walked out of the kitchen to obey her. With one of the supple movements Ethel used to hate, Alex sat on the floor next to Maum Cloe and put her head in her lap, resting it on the hand she was holding. After a few minutes, Maum Cloe's other hand came up and touched Alex' soft hair; when she touched it, her face softened as if it had been touched, unlocked, and tears began to roll down her cheeks while her body rocked softly from side to side.

Manny paced up and down the black and white marble squares of the foyer. He thought that the floor was just one big checkerboard and wondered if he was just a damn checker. If Jamey wanted out with Manny, what was Manny doing here? Why was he letting himself be used as a damn pawn; moved from New York to Charleston, from there to here. This house was much too quiet for him; there wasn't a sound anywhere.

Soundless, William Reas came into the big foyer and waited for Manny to stop pacing. “Mr. Jamey say excuse him, he too tired to see anyone today. He give me this for you, suh.” William Reas bowed to Manny, and then proceeded to the kitchen.

“Miss Alex, Mr. Jamey give me this for you.” He handed her the second envelope.

Alex took the envelope and blinked at it. “He won't see us, William Reas?”

“He say excuse him, please, he too tired to see anyone, today, Miss Alex.” He watched her opening the letter, stepping back, as Manny came into the kitchen.

Manny was waving the letter Jamey had written him. “Alex, Jamey Vaughn passeth all understanding. Positively.” He gave the letter to Alex. It said, in Jamey's tiny crabbed handwriting:

Dear Manny: Bless you for coming. Was that Alex' inspiration? You are a one-hundred-per-center. I wanted to ask you to agent, valet, and generally currycomb a youth called Louis Daignot. Louis has written my biography. It will be the only authorized Life; there will be no other. Punct
.

With my love and eternal gratitude
,

James Gillespie Vaughn
.

Manny could hardly wait for Alex to finish reading. “I don't get it, Alex. On and off, hot and cold, autobiography, biography! Last week I ran into Dwight Waterbury at the Algonquin, and he says, isn't it exciting Manny about Jamey agreeing to do his autobiography. I was pleased because even if I wasn't Jamey's agent any more, I was still his fan. Just last week, and now no autobiography! He will shove me off my rocker!” But Manny was very happy, that was obvious. He had been terribly hurt by Ethel's letter. “I always have been off my rocker; it's an advantage dealing with writers. Jamey wants Manny to agent this Louis Daignot: Manny will do. Where do I find Daignot?”

Alex said, “Here.” She gave Manny his note and finished reading her own, tucking it into her pocket.

“You have one, too? What does yours say?”

“Nothing, really, Manny.” She was blushing. “Just some of Jamey's nonsense. If you want to see Louis, he is here. William Reas, could you ask Mr. Louis to come and see Mr. Klein?”

“He not here, Miss Alex.” He stared at his mother, waiting for her orders. Even William Reas could see that she showed herself uncertain, but this only frightened him still more.

“Has he gone away?”

“Went into Chas'n this morning.”

“Where in Charleston? Oh, you know, William Reas! I can see you know. Where!”

Maum Cloe nodded; “He go to Chas'n for see Mr. Green.”

“Green? Oh. Mr. Green.”

“Take me to this Mr. Green, Alex. I want to see Daignot myself and let myself in for some more trouble, I suppose.”

“Miss Alex——” William Reas clasped his hands, turned them, and unclasped them. “Miss Ethel dead. We found Miss Ethel in the river this morning.” William Reas stared at his hands as if he didn't like them. “Miss Alex, Joseph Reas go for tell the police about how Miss Ethel and Mr. Daignot have a fight. Joseph Reas tell the police Mr. Daignot very angry at Miss Ethel.”

“How could you! How could Maum Cloe let you! I'm ashamed at you, Maum Cloe!” She rose from the floor and started out. “Come on, Manny, I'll take you to Louis.” She broke into a run.

And as if on cue, as if to color Alex' haste, to underline its grim portent, Maum Cloe began to keen. Manny listened to the sound for a moment and then ran clumsily after Alex.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“What a place!” Manny said, waving his hat to keep off the odors, as if bad smells were insects.

Alex reached over and opened the car door on Manny's side. “I'll wait here, if you don't mind. You go in and ask for Louis.”

Budder was still playing his complicated double Canfield. Libbie Mae was going through her treasured stack of movie magazines. Every time she came to one of the pictures of the actors she particularly admired, she would glance hopefully at Louis, but the amorous thoughts engendered by Libbie Mae's movie heroes did not seem to penetrate; Louis was quite unconscious of them. Budder wasn't unconscious. He said it was a good thing Louis boy was thinking how to get them twenty thousand dollars; it would be Sis Lib's old-age pension, her unemployment insurance. When Manny knocked on the door, she jumped up and the pile of movie magazines slithered in all directions. Budder looked up, knocking the black queen against his front teeth. Louis did not move. Libbie Mae listened to Manny, then shut the door in his face and stood inside with her back to it. “Lil man out there says he wants to see Louis.”

“Who say he want to see Louis?”

“Lil man.” Libbie Mae frowned.

“What this man want to see Louis about? Ask about what, Sis Lib.” Budder swept up his solitaire decks and shuffled the cards expertly. “We can't have Louis boy bothered with stuff now.”

Libbie Mae opened the door again, conferred briefly with Manny, closed the door again, shoved her back against it as if Manny, patiently fanning the odors with his hat, was trying to force it open. “He say he is Mr. Emmanuel Klein from Rockefeller Center, New York City, Mr. Vaughn's literary agent, he say.”

Louis stood up and faced the door.

“Tell him Louis busy. Tell him Louis say go mind his business.”

“Hold your horses, Budder!”

“Yes, hold on, Sis Lib. Literary is writing; maybe he got business about Louis' writing, about them papers? You ask. It don't cost to ask, Sis Lib. Go ask the gentleman, hear?”

They both heard Manny's voice through the thin door. Manny was becoming irritated, and his voice went shrill. Libbie Mae did her business with the door again and said, “Say he just found out Mr. Vaughn wants Louis should write a authorized—wait a minute—a authorized …” She opened the door again, but this time Manny wouldn't let her close it in his face; he pushed inside. Budder, standing near the door, still shuffling the greasy cards, caught a glimpse of Alex in the sedan. Budder shoved his sister to one side, yanked Manny into the room, and went out, slamming the door after him.

Manny smoothed down his jacket and his sleeve. He looked from Libbie Mae to Louis. “Mr. Daignot? I am Manny Klein, perhaps Jamey mentioned me? His agent?”

Louis was rubbing his hand across his eyes. “Yes. What was that you said about an authorized——”

“An authorized biography of Jamey. Contrary to a certain publisher, contrary to his unfounded boast, probably invented to needle poor old Manny Klein, God alone knows why, there will be no autobiography! Jamey asked me to take you on. You are to be his official biographer, that is quite something, isn't it, Mr. Daignot?”

Louis said, “That is quite something.” He almost fell down on the old red couch and rubbed his knees as if they were weak. “Quite something—quite something. My God!” Louis said, jumping up.

After one glance at the house when Manny was jerked inside and the door slammed after him, Alex stared into the windshield. She would not look at Budder. Budder wanted her to look at him; he pulled straight his loosened, crooked tie, he ran his fingers through his thick cornshuck hair, smoothing it, he thrust one hand into his trouser top. Alex continued to stare ahead. Budder, jerking the car door open, leaned close to Alex. “It don't hurt none to be polite, hear?” He pretended to be shivering in her continued coldness. “Doan' you want no part of me, sugar? You got your eye on Louis boy, too; everyone got his eye on Louis boy; Ethel, Sis Lib, and you. But I got my eye on him, too.” He always moved more quickly than seemed possible, and it took no time to pull and scoop and lift Alex out of the car. He kept one hand over her mouth, closing the car door with his shoulder, kicking at the door of his shack until Libbie Mae, recognizing his touch, opened it. Then he motioned to his sister and dropped Alex on the red plush couch from which Louis had risen.

Louis said, “What did you come back here for, Alex? Are you crazy coming here?”

“Just can't stay way from you, Louis boy.” Budder pulled the knife out of his pocket and flipped it into the wood of the door, behind Libbie Mae. As if this were a vaudeville act, Libbie Mae did not even flinch when the knife struck behind her, but, her eyes on Alex, reached up, pulled the knife out of the door, and held it quite smoothly, professionally, in her fist. Budder had still another knife in his hand.

Manny rushed to Alex. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?” She shook her head, held out her hand, and pulled him down next to her. “Alex, did you suspect something like this?”

“Please.” She saw no one but Louis. “Louis, what is this about Ethel?”

“What's going on here, Mr. Daignot?” Manny said. “Who are these characters? What makes?”

Alex said, “Manny doesn't know, Louis, about anything. Joseph Reas, he's gone to the police——”

“I guessed that, Alex.” He did not look at her, waving his hand, waving her anxiety away, apparently hypnotized by the glitter of Budder's knife. If Jamey authorized him to do the only biography, Jamey knew about the autobiography. There couldn't be such a coincidence; Jamey had to know about the autobiography if he wrote this guy about the biography. If Jamey knew about the autobiography, then he knew why Ethel wanted to kill him; if he had known Ethel wanted to kill him …

Manny brushed off his trousers angrily. “I suppose it would be ridiculous to ask you to let us leave here immediately?”

“Yeah, ridiculous. Listen, Louis boy! Hey!” Budder pricked the back of Louis' hand with the point of his knife; a tiny bead of blood appeared. “I'm getting tired of this. Are you going to help out Sis Lib in her old age, or do I get the police?”

“Shut up.” Louis put the pinpoint of blood to his mouth, sucking thoughtfully. If Jamey knew Ethel intended to kill him …

“What is he going to tell the police, Louis?” Alex had taken Manny's hand; now she dug her nails into it.

“He's going to tell the police why I killed Ethel, Alex. Budder thinks I had a good motive.” His tone was absent-minded. His mind kept boggling, his mind, like a balky horse, kept refusing the jump. If Jamey knew Ethel was going to kill him, then …

He heard Alex gasp, and smiled at her. “I didn't kill Ethel, Alex.”

Budder laughed. “Going back to she jumped in the river because that old man fired her?”

“No.”

“No. She was killed, hear?”

“I hear.” If Jamey knew Ethel intended to kill him …

“If you're so pyure, Louis boy, then you don't mind if I give the police them papers, do you?”

If Jamey knew Ethel intended to kill him, if Ethel didn't commit suicide, if Ethel had been killed, then Jamey killed Ethel. “No. Don't go to the police, Budder.” Budder was rubbing his knife blade on his trousers. He was breathing on the blade. “You told me yourself, if you go to the police, all you get is
a
for effort. You want more than that, Budder.”

Libbie Mae was trembling with anger. She was watching the way Alex kept staring at Louis and the way he looked at her. The knife wavered in Libbie Mae's hand, her fingers twitched on the handle, as she stared at Alex. Her breath whistled through her nostrils and hurt in her chest.

“Don't go to the police, yet. Budder, you're a practical man—I have to get out to the plantation; I have to see Mr. Vaughn.” He hoped that Budder would think that Jamey was going to give him the money. Maybe Jamey would give Budder the money. Maybe Jamey would want to bribe Budder. If Louis told Jamey that otherwise Budder would go to the police? What was he supposed to do? He had to see Jamey. “Jamey,” he would say. “Once I discovered you knew about the autobiography, I knew you killed Ethel. I know you killed her, but what am I supposed to do?” He had to fight down a preposterous, extravagant, surely fantastic, desire to accept the guilt for Ethel's death rather than put it on Jamey, rather than put it where—surely—it belonged.

Because, as Louis now admitted, he had let himself get in as deeply as he had because of his ambivalent feelings toward his “spiritual father,” he now had to argue against letting himself be used as Jamey's pigeon, Jamey's patsy. Because his mixed feelings, his blindness, had given Ethel the weapons she needed to kill Jamey, now with Ethel dead instead of Jamey, he had to fight down this preposterous desire to dash right out and martyr himself for Jamey. Because he had caused this, he would take the blame if necessary, but he had better go and hear for himself whether Jamey expected him to be his patsy. “I'm going to the plantation, Budder.”

“You go to the plantation, Louis boy, I go with you. Come on. I'm going with Louis boy, Sis Lib; you keep your eyes on these two, hear?”