Fury on Sunday (10 page)

Stan didn’t know what to make of the question. Here Vince was planning to kill Bob and yet he was asking casual questions about the concert field. It was ghoulish.

“It’s all right, I guess,” he answered nervously.

He glanced over at Jane but she was leaning back on the couch, her head fallen forward in mute dejection.

Vince felt his hands start to tremble. He knew he shouldn’t be asking. It was crazy to ask and, anyway, what did the concert field matter to him? But…

“Got many
pianists
?” he asked in a timorous voice, as a child might ask a candy store owner if he had any chocolates to spare.

Stan suddenly realized he was trying to get him to manage him again! He
was
insane.

Abruptly, the idea came.

“Not too many,” he said, acting on it impulsively. “Not of your stature, anyway.”

He felt his heart begin to beat heavily. Could Vince hear the lie? He closed his hands into white fists on his knees.

Vince couldn’t tell it was a lie. An anxious, half-eager smile raised his thin lips, then was gone nervously. Blood pulsed through his body making his arm ache. That wouldn’t matter, he assured himself quickly. A bullet can be taken out, there’s nothing fatal about a bullet in your arm.

“Would you like to get back into the—the field?” Stan asked.

Oh, God, it was such an arrant lie. How could Vince possibly swallow it? He had killed, he had escaped from an insane asylum and now he was being asked to believe it was possible for him to return to concert work.

But he didn’t know how anxious Vince was; he didn’t know that Vince wanted more than anything else in the world to believe just that.

“Well…” Vince’s voice hesitated. He had to catch himself. He mustn’t be too eager. The thought came warning, cautioning.

Jane was looking up at Stan now.

“There’s a need, a very great need for good pianists,” Stan was saying, fists trembling in his lap. “The field is shallow. Very shallow.”

“But my—my
arm
,” Vince said, tense at the confession.

Stan’s throat moved quickly, he strained forward in the chair.

“Your arm can be fixed,” he said.

“You think so?” Voice shakingly eager.

“Of course, of course it can,” Stan went on, afraid lest the assurance slip from his voice and unmask his stratagem. “Look at Dinotti. A broken wrist—and him a violinist. Is he any the worse for it?”

That was true. Vince knew that. Dinotti had been out on Long Island Sound in a sailboat and the swinging boom had broken his wrist. Now he was as good as ever. And his arm could be fixed too. Blood flowed faster in his veins as his heartbeat quickened. To play again, to really play.

“You really think so?” he asked, anxious to have Stan tell him the same thing again.

“I do,” Stan said. “I’m sure of it.” He felt his confidence growing. Vince was only an impressionable boy.

Now Jane’s heart was beating quickly too as she looked over at Vince. Maybe Stan had some redeeming feature after all. If not courage then craft. It was better than nothing. Jane leaned forward on the couch.

“You want me to play?” Vince suddenly blurted out. And a hot flush crossed his face. He shouldn’t have said that. But he wanted so to play, to be told he was good enough for concert work again. All right, he hated Saul, he’d hated what Saul did to him. But, in spite of every torturing hour of practice, he loved the piano.

Stan was sweating now. He felt large drops of it trickling down across his chest. He thought of the way Vince had looked at the piano before. A look of adoration, of hungry longing.

Was it possible that he could get the gun from Vince?

Maybe he could undo his failure and save Bob after all. A flood of hope covered him. He was excited and eager to save Bob, to gain Jane’s respect. It could all come back in a rush, Jane would love him again, everything would be wonderful again. Swelling imagination filled him.

“Sure,” he said eagerly. “Sure, Vince, play someth—”

His voice suddenly broke off and sweat broke out faster on him.
If he uses his left hand he’ll know he can’t play, he’ll know I’m lying
. Stan raised his left hand and wiped it across his mouth nervously.

“Why don’t we talk terms first?” he said awkwardly. “We could…”

“What shall I play?” Vince asked eagerly.

Like a little boy, he was now eager to do right. Quickly, getting rid of it, he put the gun on top of the piano. He wanted to play, to have Stan take out contracts and maps, plan a season for him. His hands shook at the thought.

Jane was tensing herself on the couch. How fast could she get to the piano and grab the gun?

“Well, why don’t we—?” Stan started.

“Shall I play the Polonaise?” Vince asked, forgetting about his left hand completely.

Stan swallowed hard. “No, no,” he said hastily then forced a smile to his lips as Vince looked suspicious. “I mean,” he went on quickly, “you’re out of practice, Vince. You should start out easy. You know that.”

“What should I play then?” Vince asked sullenly.

Stan glanced at the piano, at the gun resting on top. He forced his eyes back to Vince. If he could get Vince so distracted with playing that he could get the gun…

“Well, I don’t know,” he fumbled for time. “You have to remember it’s going to be a little rough but—”

His voice broke off as Vince looked at him coldly.

“Well, you know you haven’t played in a long time,” he said, new sweat breaking out on his face and body.

“
I’m as good as ever
,” Vince said in a tight, hard voice. “I can play better than anybody.

“You bet you can, Vince,” Stan said. “Sure. I just—”

Good God, how did you reason with a lunatic? His mind raced and tripped over itself, trying to find a piece that had no left hand.

“I said what shall I play?” Vince said, losing patience.

“How about—Chabig’s
Tantivy
?” Stan lunged for a suggestion.
The left hand doesn’t come in for at least twenty measures
, he exulted inwardly.

“Oh, all right,” Vince said.

Jane’s eyes were fastened on the heavy pistol on the piano. When Vince got into the piece, she’d try for it.

Stan was sweating again. The piece was fast, very fast. What if even Vince’s
right
hand wasn’t as good as it had been? What if he made mistakes and faltered, lost his temper? He dug nails fiercely into his palms.
He’s got to be able to play it, he’s got to
…

Vince turned from them, a smile faltering on his lips. Yes, that was a good one. He thought of the long hours of practice he’d spent memorizing this piece. In his mind, he saw the score as clearly as if the music were resting on the piano.

His right hand arched over the keys, settling like a diffident spider. The pads of his fingertips pressed into the ivory keys to get the feel of them. From the corner of his eyes he saw Stan get up. It didn’t matter. He could get the gun before they could do anything.

He looked back at the keyboard, hearing the flurry of Saul’s old commands like cool winds in his mind.
Never drive down the keys, never use your fingers like senseless mallets. Press. Make the note ring clear and certain. Combine. Blend. Build to the climax
.

In the quiet of the room the first notes of the
Tantivy
sprinkled.

Jane slid to the edge of the couch with a careful guarded movement. Stan saw her move and caught his breath. He suddenly realized she was going to try for the gun and he almost started running for the piano.

He caught himself. He took a slow, wary step toward the piano. It seemed as if he hardly moved at all.

The music sprayed through the room, an icy clatter of notes. No fear of his right hand, Stan noted with the back of thought. Vince’s touch was, as ever, supreme. He took another step, feeling his throat tighten.

The gypsy violence discorded into his ears as he edged closer. Surely Vince could see him coming. But Vince was absorbed in his playing. Stan tightened as he saw Vince’s left hand slowly raising and preparing to strike. Chabig had saved the left hand in order to
make the entry one of shocking dissonance. The pianist struck with all his power a chord of five notes. Stan moved more quickly, his hands shaking. What if Vince saw him coming?

Now Jane looked up and saw Stan coming closer. But she knew the piece too and knew that any second Vince’s left hand would smash down on the keys.

She stood up. She was almost behind Vince and he couldn’t see her clearly. Stan couldn’t get there in time, she had to get the gun.

Stan tried to catch her eye, but her attention had returned to the piano and the heavy black pistol on it. Stan stopped and began to shake. He hadn’t meant it to be this way. She’d be killed!

He strained forward and as in the middle of a step as Vince’s left hand drove down on the keys.

The gagging scream of agony stiffened them both. They stood there gaping at Vince as he raised his left hand in front of his eyes.

It won’t play!
The words were like a hot flame playing on his brain. He tried to move the fingers but they were like rotted sausages. And a shooting pain filled his arm.

His face grew taut, the vein at his right temple began to throb and suddenly, with a wrenching sob, he drove his clenched left hand down on the keys. He jerked up the bunched hand and drove it down again, smashing down a cluster of white and black keys, filling the room with thick dissonance.

Jane broke into a run for the piano.

Stan couldn’t hold back the cry. “
Jane!
”

Vince leaped up at the yell and knocked back the piano bench. As he lunged for the pistol, Jane jumped on him and they both went crashing into the piano.

Stan started forward, eyes widening, hands snapping into fists.

Vince screamed into Jane’s face as she drove a fist into his wounded arm. He jerked up the pistol but she shoved it aside and he couldn’t get a grip on the trigger.

She struck at him again, but missed and lost her balance. Vince felt her soft body against him. From the corner of his eye he saw Stan rushing at him.

With a strangled cry he ripped the gun up and drove it across her temple. Jane reeled back with a dull cry and fell on her back.

Stan jolted back as the gun was shoved out at him. He stepped back and almost tripped.

Vince stood there breathing hoarsely.

“Trick me, haah?” he gasped.

He turned toward Jane who lay motionless on the floor. Slowly he turned the pistol on her.

“
I’m going to blow your guts out
,” he said in a low choked voice.

Then, suddenly, his breath stopped. He stood there, stomach and chest trembling while his eyes focused on the hallway that led to the front door.

The doorbell was ringing.

The cab pulled up to the curb and Ruth got in quickly.

“367 West 54th,” she told the driver.

“Yes, ma’am.”

The driver pulled the door shut and the cab pulled away from the curb. The street was completely silent except for the sound of the motor.

Ruth shivered as she settled back on the cold leather seat.
God, I hope he isn’t angry when he sees me
, she thought.
What if he knows what I’m thinking; about Jane trying to get him there?

Her throat moved. Maybe she should go home. Maybe it would be better. Nothing could be wrong. Maybe it was better she just went home to bed and let herself worry. That was better than Bob’s knowing she hadn’t trusted him.

But it wasn’t a matter of trust, she told herself.

Oh, it was no use arguing with herself. She might as well clear her mind of everything. She was going and that was all there was to it. She loved him too much to lie awake at home, tossing on the bed and dying a thousand deaths of fear each second. It was no use. If she was going to make a
faux pas
, then she was going to make it. Better that than a nervous breakdown of concern.

Bob would forgive her when he knew she only did it because she was afraid.

The cab crossed Twenty-second and, at Twenty-third, turned right and headed toward Lexington.

“Could you go a little faster?” she asked.

“Beg pardon, ma’am?”

“Could—could you drive a little faster. This is rather urgent.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Rather urgent. Now she really felt silly. She could just visualize all of them together and the cab driver telling them,
So she tells me to drive faster, see?
And then they’d all break into breathless laughter.

She almost smiled at herself, the scene seemed so real.

But what if it were true? What if Bob was in danger?

Time suddenly fell on her like a weight. How far had he gone? Was he at Stan’s apartment yet? She’d had to dress, go downstairs and wait for the cab.

She leaned forward.

“I’m sorry to bother you but—do you have the time?”

“Quarter to four, ma’am,” the driver said.

“Thank you.”

“Be there in a jiffy, ma’am.”

She smiled as she leaned back on the cold seat.

It was that tightness in her stomach she couldn’t rid herself of. It wasn’t intuition, she knew that. This business about pregnant woman’s intuition was just a lark she’d made up for Bob. No, she was worried, that was all. She couldn’t help it.

Anyway, she rationalized, how would any woman feel to have her husband called away at almost four o’clock in the morning? How would any woman like to be wrenched from sleep, and watch her husband dress and leave her? Especially when she wasn’t sure why he was going, even
where
he was going. No, pregnancy had nothing to do with it. Any sensitive woman would worry under circumstances like that.

She took a nervous breath of the cold morning air. Why did it have to happen? She felt such a horrible foreboding. It was probably just because it had happened in the dead of the night. It was a strange time, a silent, barren time. It was a frightening time, this lonely empty shell of hours that was not night and not day. And it frightened her to be out in the streets in a cab now.

Up Lexington Avenue, past the silent store fronts, the dead faces of the restaurants, now and then past the thin, green neon of a bar still open, people in there drinking. How could they be awake and living at this hour?
Maybe they were another race that lives when all of us go to sleep
.