Charlie Martz and Other Stories (2 page)

I drove to Henderson's Corner, about two miles down the road,
had two cups of coffee, got cigarettes, and then went across the road to the post office.

I bought one stamped envelope, and had to tell the clerk three times that I thought the weather stunk before I could get away from the window and over to an addressing table near the door.

You don't have to be too sneaky about dropping a .45 caliber bullet into an envelope. It isn't that big. So I didn't worry about anyone being a witness to my breaking the law. I addressed it to Carrito in care of Jade's, the joint on Beaubien, and dropped it into the box.

I was more than halfway home when I realized my mistake. The Grass Lake postmark would stand out like muscles on a snake dancer! For Carrito not to notice it, he'd have to be as dumb as I was when I pulled the stunt.

I raced the rest of the way, trying to think of how to get Cliff out of town in the shortest possible time. I turned into the drive, pulled up behind the cottage, and then noticed the gray, '49 Buick over to the left and partly among the trees. I took it for granted who the visitor was, but I didn't take for granted he'd have a friend along. Not until . . .

“Out of the car, Jack. No tricks.”

I turned fast. The right front door opened and a young, good-looking guy in a drapey gray flannel suit was standing there with his left hand on the handle. I couldn't see the other hand because it was inside the coat—where a shoulder holster hangs. I got out his side.

“Let's go inside, Jack.” That's all he had to say.

Marty Carrito was straddling a chair turned backward, his elbows on the back and his chin resting on both hands. He didn't raise his head when we came in, but his eyes moved up from the floor and rested on me. The same slow, half-closed eyes.

“Who's your friend, Buddy?”

Before the gray suit could answer, Carrito lifted his head with a jerk, recognition all over his face.

“Oh, it's MY friend. Yeah, we're old friends. Even hold hands.”

The gray suit came around and stood in front of me. “You mean this is the guy at Jade's last night?” His right hand was out of the coat and he was holding a snub-nosed .32.

“Yeah, Buddy, this is the guy who gives his shells away.” He turned to me, still straddling the chair. “We're sure glad to see you. Thought we'd have to give Cliffy another lesson. Cliffy hasn't been minding lately.” He turned his head toward the couch. “Have ya, pal?”

Cliff wasn't on the couch but right next to it in a mess of cigarette butts and broken glass. The card table was on its side next to him. I started to go over to him, but didn't get two steps—under my own power—something hard and flat, like a cut-down revolver, smashed against the side of my face and I landed in the mess next to my brother.

“I thought he wanted to sit down, Marty, so I give him a seat.” Buddy thought it was very funny.

Carrito didn't pay any attention to what he said, just smiled and looked at me. He said, still smiling, “Check me if I'm wrong. You're Stan Ellis. You've been down in Mexico for the past year or so. Left just before Cliff got his position with us. Heard about his little accident a couple of weeks ago, and decided to play the big brother.” Now he was laughing. “See, we've got to know all about our boys. Even about their brothers.”

He stopped abruptly, jumped up, and threw the chair aside. For the first time I saw his eyes open all the way.

“You think I'm a too-big mug who takes that kind of stuff offa somebody's big brother! There're a dozen guys in the river wearing cement shoes who didn't do half of what you tried. You think I'm punchy or somethin'!”

He calmed down a little, but his eyes were still open wide. I took that as a bad sign and didn't say a word. Buddy started to laugh.

Carrito looked at him. “Shut up!” Then down at me and pointed
in my face. “You take that gimpy brother and get out of town fast. If I ever hear of you around here again, I'll blow your head off . . . after Cliff gets his. If you think I'm bluffing, stick. You'll stick for good under this goddamn ground!”

He looked at me for about ten seconds without moving. You could see that he was relaxing. He pulled a silver case from an inside pocket and took out a cigarette. He kept his eyes on me while he lit it and took a long drag. As he blew the smoke, he turned and walked out. Buddy walked out backward.

I heard the Buick start and pull away before I got up. My face ached and I felt a little blood, but I know it didn't hurt as much as Cliff's. Blood was smeared all over his face and down the front of his T-shirt. Both of his cheeks were badly bruised. Buddy's gun had been working overtime.

I made Cliff comfortable on the couch, cleaned him up, cleaned up the mess and then myself. When I got back to him he was wide awake, but not feeling too good. I told him the whole story, including what Carrito had said. Without making too big a chump out of myself I told him Carrito was probably right and we'd better go someplace else. Cliff was able to swear at me only once before he passed out again.

I thought we'd be able to pull out the next day, but in the morning Cliff was feeling worse. Pretty sick to his stomach. So I put off the departure and planned it for the next day. There wasn't much preparing to do—no tickets to buy—because I thought everything would be easier if we drove. So all afternoon I moped around, smoked two packs of cigarettes, and lost two thousand bucks to myself playing Canfield. About seven I was ready to blow my lid. Cliff was sleeping—much needed—so I elected to go out for a while. Out of cigarettes anyway.

The room adjoining the general store of Henderson's Corner boasted of a short mahogany bar, stained, and about a dozen
tables marred with names, initials, and intimate ads like J.H. loves M.M. It was fairly crowded. Mostly farmers and a few of their wives, but not many cottagers this time of the year. I sat at the bar, minding my own business until a little after nine. It was at this time that I noticed a fellow at a table close to the bar tearing into a very rare-looking steak. This inspiration, plus the fact that I hadn't eaten all day, moved me to a table where I had the same, plus two beers. At after dinner drink time, I was back at the bar, feeling much better, and even ready to put up with any farmer who wanted to discuss girls, wheat, the new calf, girls, beer, sports, or even girls. Twenty minutes later I was right in the middle of all of them, and didn't finally pull myself free until going on twelve. I'd had it.

A little more than halfway back to the cottage I noticed the red glow in the sky. A few people were walking hurriedly down the road in the general direction. I had never chased a fire before and didn't plan on starting now.

I didn't plan on starting, but when I turned into the cottage drive, I saw that I had chased it whether I liked it or not.

I wasn't able to get more than halfway up the drive. The volunteers were out full force, along with a few dozen ardent fans blocking the drive and doing everything they could to get in the way. It took me fifteen minutes to get a straight story out of someone. All the watchers were eager to relate the details, only they all talked at once and every story was different. But I did find out that no one had gone into the house since the fire was discovered . . . and no one had come out.

I felt numb and kinda drained. Cliff couldn't have dragged himself out without help. I thought of the cigarettes mashed out on the table, matches thrown on the floor, I even toyed with a defective wiring notion. But I wasn't even close.

It was close to me though. I felt the nudge and looked around.

“Nice homey fire, huh Jack?” Buddy. His hand in the usual place.

I let go with all I had. Brought both fists up under his chin and a knee into his groin. He staggered back, went down, and the momentum carried me over him. I landed on his face with both knees, rolled over him and kept going. I ran down the drive a few steps, saw that my car was blocked, so I cut to the left and raced for the woods and thick bushes.

I ran, stumbled and staggered through the foliage, the branches tore at my face and clothes, but kept going. If I stopped I was as good as dead. A guy with a gun was behind me, somewhere, itching to pull the trigger in my face. I was breathing hard, and the hot, fast breaths seared inside my chest. It kept going through my mind that I had to get away . . . get far enough then out back to the road . . . bum a ride to Detroit . . . but why did they do it? . . . Then it dawned on me. The bullet I mailed! Carrito got it after he had talked to us, so figured I was still playing the hero. Why hadn't he looked at the post date!

I stopped short and sunk to my knees. Slowly I fell back in a sitting position. I was thinking what a hopeless mess it all was when I heard the faint crackling noise from the direction I had just come. He was near. He wanted to kill me.

Buddy was about twenty yards away when I picked up the rock—as big as two fists. I crouched in the brush and held my body close to a tree.

I wanted him to get a few feet past the tree, then let him have it in the back of the head. But when he got even with the tree, he stopped. He was so close I could have touched him. His gun hung at his side. He glanced around and then took the decoration handkerchief from his breast pocket and began wiping his forehead and eyes.

He was looking into plain white when the rock smashed into his face . . . with my hand around it. Before he went down I let go with three more. I don't even know where it hit him, or if he was dead
before he hit the ground; but when I knelt beside him to check, he was very dead.

A
GUY IN A
gray flannel suit, a little on the long side, walked into the Avenue Hotel on Michigan about two hours later. He registered as Stan Conway. The clerk wasn't surprised that he didn't have a bag—very few did—but he did eye the suit with some curiosity. The clientele of this fleabag rarely owned a suit, much less one with the pants and coat matching. I wasn't going to explain, so I left him to figure it out for himself and went up to my room.

The room was dingy, old, and depressing. The only bright feature was the pint I had just placed on the dresser. I took one long one to get my feet on the ground, then went through the pockets of my new suit. I pulled out the wallet. The driver's license described one Angelo Di Vico, born Oct. 11, 1925. Buddy was even younger than I thought. Still, he hadn't done bad. If money's the judge. He was carrying over two hundred bucks. Now I was.

In the inside breast pocket I found a little black book.
The
little black book. And from the amount of names inside, Buddy Di Vico was no slouch with the ladies. Thumbed through, not looking for anything in particular. Then I stopped. Gloria Tatum, Jade's. Imperial Hotel. Room 220. I looked at every name in the book, but Gloria's was the only one with Jade's under it. I thought of the blonde sitting with Carrito at the bar. She could have been working there that night. It was a hunch and maybe just the lead I was looking for.

I went down the hall to the phone, looked up the Imperial, and dialed the number. The desk clerk, or whoever answered, had kind of a fruity voice.

“Miss Tatum, please,” I said.

“Miss Tatum isn't in yet.” Sort of a singsongy voice. “Any message?”

“Miss Tatum still work at Jade's?”

“Yes, I believe so. May I ask who's calling?”

I told him that he may not, hung up, and went back to my room.

It was two-fifteen then. The bars close at two. If Gloria wasn't the type that frequented blind pigs, she should get home by two-thirty. I decided to give her an extra half hour, picked up the
Times
and looked for the crossword puzzle.

I filled in a few but got too tangled up in female sandpipers, Egyptian sun gods, and Latin prepositions. I decided to wait for a brighter mood, tore the puzzle out of the paper, and put it in a side pocket. I had been ignoring the pint.

At a quarter to three I checked Buddy's gun, combed my hair and was ready to go.

The corner to the left of the hotel entrance was pretty bright, so I waited there until I saw a cab and a cab saw me. At five to three I walked into an all-night drugstore next to the Imperial and ducked into a phone booth.

“Miss Tatum, please.”

The same singsongy voice, but this time: “One moment, I'll connect you.”

The phone rang exactly seven times. Finally she answered.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry to disturb you, Miss Tatum. This is the night clerk,” I said. “There's a fr—”

“Why, Donald, baby, you're beginning to almost sound like a man.”

I remembered the singsong, kicked myself, and boosted the pitch. “Er . . . thank you, Miss Tatum, but there's a friend of Mr. Carrito's here who insists he has an important message for him.” It was a long shot.

“Marty isn't here yet,” she answered. “Wait. Have you ever seen him before?”

“Oh yes, I think it's Mr. Di Vico.”

“Buddy?” She seemed pleased. “Why didn't you say so. Send him up.”

I entered the Imperial through the side entrance and went up the stairs without the night clerk spotting me. I did get a glance at him. Looked just like his voice.

Room 220 was three doors from the stairs. I knocked gently and tried to feel like a Buddy Di Vico.

“Just a sec, honey.” From within.

As soon as the knob started to turn I pulled my gun, threw a shoulder, and was in the middle of the room before she knew what had happened. I covered her with the .32. It was a good thing because the black negligee was falling down on the job.

“Aren't you cold?”

“Brother, that's a new one.” She wasn't the least bit flustered and made no attempt to cover up. “If it wasn't for the suit, I'd hardly recognize you, Buddy.”

“I have a confession to make,” I said, “that was me on the phone. I want to see your boyfriend pretty bad, so I thought I'd wait here.”