Deadly Welcome (9 page)

Capp jabbed the end of the club into the pit of Doyle’s belly, doubling him over. And then, calmly, professionally, he went to work. Through the haze of pain and confusion of impact, Doyle realized that he was getting a scientific head beating. No blow was enough to destroy consciousness. And, in between the rhythms of the blows on his skull, Capp was taking practiced strokes at shins and thighs, forearms and biceps, hips and calves. And, in one area of cold and special horror, Doyle realized that the man was crooning softly along with his grunts of exertion. “Now … a little of this … and some more … of that. And a touch here … and here.”

He was only partially aware of it when Capp straightened him up and belted him across the belly and rib cage. He swung one almost gentle blow into the groin, and Doyle heard his own hoarse yell, coming from an echoing, metallic distance. He doubled, took a harder blow than any of the others, directly over the ear, and tumbled forward, sensing the impact of hitting the floor, but feeling
no pain from it. He lay on his side, knees against his chest, in a welcome silence.

With his eyes half open he could see the shiny black boots six inches from his face. Capp was somewhere above him, a thousand feet tall, talking to him in a remote voice.

“… have the miz’ries for a couple days, Doyle. But you’ll keep thinking on this long after you’re walking real good. And you’ll be nice and tame. On account of you know you make any trouble for Donnie Capp and he’ll come back and we’ll try it again, with a lot of different tricks I didn’t even use. And we’ll keep practicin’ on it ’til we get it down perfect enough for television. Why, there’s niggers I ain’t laid this stick on in years, and all I got to do is show it to them and they turn white as a piece of soap. I want every time you think of Donnie Capp, you get sweaty. Then you’ll be real good and safe to be around decent folk.”

He saw the boots turn, and he heard the footsteps as Donnie went through the cottage. He heard the screen door slap shut, and then a car door, and then the explosive roar of a powerful motor. The motor sound died away.

He sobbed once, more in shame and anger than in pain. After a long time he began to slowly uncoil, straightening his body an inch at a time, enduring the agony. He rolled over onto his face, worked himself up onto his elbows and was wrenchingly ill. And then, like a half-trampled bug, he crawled a hundred miles to his bed. When he had rested long enough, he could pull himself up onto his knee? and from that position squirm onto the bed. The effort exhausted him. There was a roaring in his ears. He turned and groaned and at last found the least agonizing position. And knew he could not sleep. And slid away then, sweaty, into sleep …

A moist and wonderful coolness on his forehead awakened him to a world where the face of Betty Larkin was
close to his, vast and out of focus, her mouth angry and her eyes concerned as she held the cold cloth against his forehead. He became aware that it was a late afternoon world of slanting sun, and aware that his body was one vast throbbing, shimmering pain.

“I didn’t get the license number,” he said in a low and rusty voice.

“Do you feel awful?”

“I’ve never felt worse. Nobody has ever felt worse.”

“I phoned Gil Kearnie to come out here too, and he ought to be along soon. Dr. Kearnie. He’s new here and very good.”

“How did you know about this?”

“I heard Donnie Capp talking to Buddy near the office. I just caught a few words and Donnie was talking about something he’d done to you. I know Donnie, so I went out and demanded to know. He said it wasn’t any business of a nice girl like me, but he had heard you had come back so he’d come out here and got you quieted down. I said I didn’t know you were excited. Then Buddy laughed at me and said that Donnie had just given you a little taste of the Ramona massage. So I called Donnie a dirty, sadistic little monster and I drove right out here. You didn’t answer so I came in. And you looked so terrible, I hurried back and phoned Gil and came back here. He should be here any minute. I could kill Buddy for acting like he thought it was funny for Donnie to come here and hit you.”

“It’s an old southren custom, Miss Betty. Head beating. I can be thankful it was by an expert. It’s the amateurs who kill you.”

When Dr. Kearnie arrived, Betty let him in and went out into the other room while Dr. Kearnie examined him. Except for the mustache and the tired wise look around his eyes, Kearnie looked eighteen.

After poking and prodding, Kearnie dressed the two
places on Alex’s skull and the one place on his left shin where the club had split the skin.

“He didn’t hit you across the kidneys?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Good. That will save you a lot of pain. And that’s dangerous. In some cases he’s done some permanent damage.”

“You’ve treated other … victims, Doctor?”

“A few. He’s an expert. He’s had years of practice, and he enjoys his work. I don’t think there’s any need of X-ray in your case. The ribs feel firm. If there’s continuing pain, come on in to the office. You’re in good shape, Mr. Doyle. If you have to take a beating, it helps to be in condition. I’ll leave you something for pain. You’ll feel a hundred years old tomorrow. My advice is force yourself to move around. Get out in the sun. Swim. Bake it out.”

“And forget it?”

Kearnie raised one eyebrow. “That wouldn’t come under the heading of medical advice. But I don’t believe it would be … practical to try to do anything about it. Not without several witnesses who can be kept beyond the reach of the deputy and his club. He’s a psychopathic personality.”

“How about the bill?”

“Drop in at the office. The nurse will have it. Take one of these every four hours. Two, if the pain is severe.” He snapped his bag shut and stood up and for a moment ceased to be the formal and professional young doctor. “The psychological effects of a beating are interesting, Mr. Doyle. The standard result is a great big desire to keep your head down so it won’t be whipped again.”

“I think that’s what he had in mind. Then I’m an exception.”

“What’s your reaction?”

“I’m going to fix his wagon, Doctor. I don’t know how. I just want him one time, without that gun and club.”

“I hope you get him. It would be a pleasure to have to patch him up.”

After Kearnie left, Betty came back in and said, “Isn’t he a lamb?”

“A nice little guy.”

“What can I do?”

“I’d like some water so I can take one of those things he left, because I am hurting slightly fierce. And then if I can lean on you, I’d like to make it to the plumbing section. When I’m back in bed you can take off.”

“No food?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And I think you will.” She got water and he took the pill. He got his legs over the side of the bed and she pulled him to his feet with slow and gentle strength. He got his left arm around her shoulders. His arm felt like a big sausage roll full of putty. She put her brown right arm around his waist. She walked him slowly to the bathroom, helped him in, closed the door on him. When he came out he opened the door himself and took two teetering steps before she could hurry to him to support him. She told him he was the color of a sheet of paper, and helped him into bed. She brought his cigarettes, found more pillows and propped him up. He sat and smoked and inventoried his bruised areas, and listened with a certain domestic pleasure to the busy sounds she was making in the kitchen.

And thought, almost with calmness, about Donnie Capp. Those men had their uses. There had been a couple like that, ones he had been glad to take on patrol whenever he could. The catlike, fearless ones, the killing breed, amoral, antisocial, and entirely dangerous.

She had found a tray somewhere and she set it on a table she had placed close to the bed. The servings were abundant and smelled good, and he discovered that he was indeed hungry.

“You knew what you were doing out there, Miss Betty.”

“That is one primitive kitchen. I guess I like to cook because I just live to eat. I eat like a wolf and never gain a pound. Knock wood. I am just not the dainty feminine type, I guess.”

“You must have left work early.”

“I’m my own boss down there, Alex. I’m pretty well caught up. Some delinquent accounts to needle. The slack season is starting. It will pick up a little in July, and then September will be a graveyard. When we’re rushed, I’m one busy kid. I even pitch in on the other end when it’s needed. I can clean and adjust a marine carb, adjust spark plugs, do compass compensation. And I can paint hell out of a hull.”

“A paragon.”

“Irreplaceable. Anyway, I like it. Sails and stinkpots both. The smell of marine varnish. Everything about the water. Buddy is the same way. We’re hooked, I guess. We’re on the stuff.”

“To get back to Donnie Capp.”

“Do we want to?”

“That little horror with the black club tried to turn me into a rabbit. The so-called nice people in Ramona don’t mind having him around because he never whips their heads. Maybe they even think he’s doing a good job. A man like that can be dangerous, Betty. He can get to thinking there’s nothing he can’t get away with.”

“I guess I’m … guilty too, Alex. I’d heard how he likes to use that club, but I thought he used it on … people who needed it. I didn’t know he’d do anything like this. Did you try to … throw him out or anything?”

“No. I know the type. He wanted the ‘Mister Deputy, sir,’ treatment and I gave it to him. To make sure I’d stay humble, he took his little club and went to work like a man felling a tree.”

“That’s terrible!”

“The worst thing is I can talk rough, but I know damn well I’d better not be fool enough to go after him.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Alex Doyle. He’s not coming after you again. Even though Daddy’s dead, there’s still some push behind the name of Larkin. And I am going to let Donnie know and let Sheriff Lawlor know that if there’s anything else like this, Buddy and I are going to make the biggest stink they ever ran into. And I know that doesn’t change the fact that he has already hurt you.”

“I’ve been hurt before. I’ll get over it. But it would be nice to know it isn’t likely to happen again very soon.”

She took the tray away and washed the dishes and came back and sat by the bed. It was one of those rare evenings when for a short time all the world is suffused with an orange-yellow glow and all objects are strangely vivid and distinct. The glow from the window by the bed fell softly on her face, lighting it so clearly that he could see, in the light gray iris of her eye, little flecks of golden brown close to the pupil. And the strong brown column of her throat with the tender hollow at the base of it, and a heaviness of the level mouth, and a tawny brown of her eyebrows, a shade darker than the sun-struck mane of hair. Here was the special and stirring beauty of the female creature in perfect health, all glow and warmth.

She looked away suddenly and stood up with an awkwardness she had not displayed before. He knew he had stared at her too intently, and had upset her perfectly unconscious poise.

“I guess I’d better go.”

“Thanks for everything you’ve done.”

“It doesn’t make much of a welcome home.”

“I didn’t expect too much.”

“Alex … Just why did you come back?”

“I told you.”

She looked down at him, frowning in the fading light. “Something bothers me a little. You don’t seem to … fit.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Neither do I, exactly. Maybe I shouldn’t try to say anything.”

“Go ahead.”

“You say you’ve been just wandering, working on construction jobs. The way you talk, it isn’t always the same. Sometimes it’s real piny woods talk. And then you change and talk as if you had a lot more … background and education. I’m not a snob. It just seems strange to me. And there is about you something I can’t quite put my finger on. I guess it’s sort of an unconscious … air of importance. Not importance, maybe. Significance. As if people had been paying attention when you had something to say. And those real sharp bright sports shirts and slacks don’t seem to me to be … right. They’re what you’d buy, I guess, if you are what you say you are. But in some way they’re wrong for you.”

“I’m bugged by the gay threads, doll.”

“I just want to know if you’re putting on some kind of an act that I don’t understand.”

“That’s a pretty strange idea, Betty.”

“Your nails are well kept, Alex. And your hands aren’t callused.”

“Nowadays we sit up there in those big cabs and push the little buttons.”

“If it is an act, Alex, has it got anything at all to do with … Jenna?”

“Honey, I came back to my home town. With a buck or two saved. Thought I might stay if I found something just right. But the man worked me over good with his little club, and now I’m not so high on sticking around. When the lumps are gone, I might just up and move along in case he gets some more ideas. That’s all there is.”

She stared at him for a few more moments and then smiled and said, “All right. Good night, Alex.”

He lay and listened to the jeep drive away into the dusk. He had a new and special appreciation for her. She was a big healthy blonde and he had been careless. Her
intuitions and perceptions were almost frighteningly keen. There was nothing opaque about Miss Betty. And now he could not, when he was with her, revert to a flawless performance of the role he had selected for himself. She was sharp enough to realize that would confirm her guess. And so he would have to maintain the same level of carelessness. It would be easier and safer to avoid her. But he found that prospect surprisingly distasteful.

By the time Doyle was up and shaved and dressed on Thursday, he knew that it wasn’t going to be one of the best days he had ever spent. His arms were leaden. Each slow movement had to be tested cautiously to see how much it was going to hurt. Even in areas where he could not remember being hit, his muscles felt as though they had been dipped in cement and rolled in broken glass.

It was a day of high, white, scattered clouds that frequently masked the sun, and a fresh northwest wind with a hint of chill in it. After he had breakfast and cleaned up, he hobbled slowly out onto the beach, dragging an ancient gray navy blanket.