I Will Fear No Evil (34 page)

“Yes, Miss.”

“You don’t sound happy, O’Neil. You could check by phoning Judge McCampbell.”

“Why, yes, of course.”

“Are you going to, O’Neil?”

“Perhaps I misunderstood, Miss. Weren’t you telling me to?”

“Are you recording?”

“Certainly, Miss. I always do, with orders.”

“I suggest that you play it back and answer your own question. I’ll hold. But first—how long have you been with me, O’Neil?”

“Seventeen years, Miss. The last nine as your Chief.”

“Seventeen years, two months, and some days. Not enough for maximum retirement but it has been long, faithful, and unquestioning service. You can retire this morning on full pay for life, if you wish, O’Neil; faithful service should be appreciated. Now please play back while I hold.” She waited.

“Be switched, Miss—I must need a hearing aid. You didn’t
tell
me to call the Judge. You just said I
could
.”

“That is correct. I pointed out that you could check on what I told you—officially—by making such a call. You still can.”

“Uh, Miss, I don’t see what you are driving at.”

“I’m sure you can figure it out. Do you wish to retire today? If so, send up Mentone; I want to interview him.”

“Miss, I’ve no wish to retire at all.”

“Really? You gave the impression that you were looking for another job. Perhaps with Mr. Salomon. If so, I do not want to stand in your way. Retirement at full pay is available to you, O’Neil.”

“Miss, I like it here.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. I hope you will stay for many years. O’Neil, have you ever discussed my comings and goings with anyone?”

“Only when you’ve told me to, Miss. In which case I always have your order on tape.”

“Fine. Wipe this tape and I’ll hold while you do so.”

Shortly he said, “Wiped, Miss Smith.”

“Good. Let’s start over. Chief O’Neil, this is Miss Johann Sebastian Bach Smith speaking. I want my car, one driver, and both Shotguns in thirty minutes.”

“They will be ready, Miss Smith.”

“Thank you. I’ll be shopping. Is there anything I can pick up for Mrs. O’Neil?”

“That’s most kind of you, Miss. I don’t think so. Shall I ask her?”

“If you do, it is only necessary to say that my car is going out. If she has a list, I’ll be happy to have Fred or Shorty take care of it. Off.”

(Boss, you scared the pee out of him. Was that nice?) (Running a feudal enclave in the midst of a nominal democracy isn’t easy, Eunice. When Johann said ‘Frog,’ everybody hopped—my security boss especially. O’Neil has got to know—they’ve
all
got to know—that Johann is still here . . . and that no one, not even darling Jake, reviews or vetoes what I say. Unless he marries us, in which case I’ll go female and let him decide everything.) (That’ll be the day!) (I might, dear one. Tell me, did you obey Joe?) (Well . . . I never bucked him. I suppose you could say I obeyed him. Except that I fibbed, or sometimes kept my mouth shut.) (I’d do just about the same. I think a perfect arrangement would be to do exactly what a man tells me to do . . . but wangle it so that he tells me to do what I’ve already decided to do.)

Joan felt, rather than heard, her chuckle. (Boss, that sounds like a recipe for a perfect marriage.)

(I find I like being female. But it’s different. Now what shall we wear?)

Joan settled on a bandeau, a knee skirt, an opaque cloak with hood and yashmak, plus low-heeled sandals, all in subdued colors. She was ready in less than thirty minutes.

(How’s our face, Eunice?) (Okay for a ‘shopping’ trip. No need to call Winnie; the little baggage probably hasn’t had much sleep.) (Nor do I want to call her; she might want to come along. Let’s go, sweet—we’re out to break a two-thousand-year record with no help from the Holy Ghost.) (Boss, that’s not a nice way to talk!) (Well, I’ll be frimped! Eunice, I thought you weren’t a Christian? Zen. Or Hinduist. Or some such.)

(I’m not any of those things, Boss. I simply know some useful spiritual disciplines. But it is rude to joke about anything someone else holds holy.) (Even in my
mind?
Are you telling me what I must not
think?
If I could reach you, I’d spank you.) (Oh, you can say anything to
me
, Boss—just don’t say such things out loud.) (I didn’t and don’t and never have. Quit nagging me.) (Sorry, Boss. Love you.) (Love
you
, little nag. Let’s go get knocked up.) (
Yes!
)

She took the front lift to the basement; O’Neil met her and saluted. “Car is ready, Miss—and both drivers and both Shotguns.”

“Why both drivers?”

“Well, Finchley should be on call. But Dabrowski is bucking my authority a touch. Claims he’s senior to Finchley. Do you wish to settle it?”

“Of course not;
you
must. But perhaps I can smooth some feathers.”

“Yes, Miss.”

He conducted her to her car; both teams were lined up by it, they saluted in unison. She smiled at them. “Good morning, friends. I’m glad to see you all looking so well. It’s been a long time.”

Dabrowski answered for them, “It has indeed, Miss Smith—and we are glad to see
you
looking so well.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes traveled across them. “There is one thing no one has told me . . . about the tragedy that started this strange sequence of events. Which team was driving the night Mrs. Branca was killed?”

For a long moment no one spoke. Then O’Neil answered, “Finchley and Shorty had the duty that night, Miss Smith.”

“Then I must thank them—for Mrs. Branca and for myself. Although I know that Dabrowski and Fred would have acted as bravely, as promptly.” She looked at Finchley, then at Shorty, her face unsmiling but serene. “Which one of you avenged Eunice? Or was it both of you?”

Finchley answered. “Shorty got him, Mrs.—Miss Smith. Bare hands, one chop. Broke his neck.”

She turned to Shorty—six feet six of smooth-black soul, two hundred ninety pounds of sudden death—and a preacher in his time off. She looked up at him and said gently, “Shorty, from the bottom of my heart—for Eunice Branca—I thank you” (I
d
o thank him, Boss! This is news to me. I was dead before that lift opened.) “If she were here, she would thank you—not just for herself but for other girls that killer will never kill. I’m glad you killed him in the act. If he had gone to trial, he might be out by now. Doing it again.”

Shorty had said nothing up to then. “Miss—Finch got ’im, too. Zapped him. Couldn’t rightly say which one got him first.”

“Nor does it matter. Any of you four would have protected Mrs. Branca with your life. She knew it—and knows it, wherever she is. I know it, and Chief O’Neil knows it.” Joan felt tears start, let them flow. “I—all of us!—just wish to Heaven she had waited indoors until you two arrived. I know that each of you would rather see me dead than her. I ask you to do me the honor of believing that I feel the same way. Shorty, will you say a prayer for her tonight? For me? I don’t know much about praying.” (Damn it, Boss, you’ve got me crying.) (Then say a Money Hum. For Shorty. He’s still blaming himself for the unavoidable.)

“I will, Miss. I have every night. Although—Mrs. Branca—doesn’t need it. She went straight to Heaven.” (So I did, Boss. Though not the way Shorty thinks.) (And we shan’t tell him. Have I said enough?) (I think so.)

Joan said, “Thank you, Shorty. For me, not for Eunice. As you say, Eunice doesn’t really need prayers.” She turned to O’Neil. “Chief, I want to go to Gimbel’s Compound.”

“Certainly, Miss. Uh, Finchley, man the car. Both Shotguns.” O’Neil helped her in, locked her in; she locked herself in. The armor door lifted and the big car rolled out into the street. (Joan, what in the world are you going to buy at Gimbel’s?) (A gag. For you. I’ll change that order in a moment. Eunice, where did you buy clothes? You were the most smartly dressed gal in town—even when you were the nakedest.)

(Pooh, I was never naked; Joe’s designs made all the difference. Joan, where I shopped you should never shop.) (Can’t see why not.) (Johann might but
you
can’t; it wouldn’t do. Mmm . . . while I could not afford the stylish places, I know of them. Come to think of it, two of them lease space inside Gimbel’s Compound.) (So that’s where we’ll go—second. I’ll tell Finchley the change . . . and tell him to have Fred escort me; I think Fred feels left out.) (Wups! Fred can read.) (So?
Oh!
Well, Fred can guard me later.) She thumbed the order switch.

“Finchley.”

“Yes, Miss?”

“I got so preoccupied that I forgot one other stop. Please drop Shorty and me at the unloading zone where State passes over Main.”

“State and Main, Miss.”

“Please have Shorty hang the radio link on his belt; there’s no parking around there. Or was not the last time I was downtown. How long has that been? Over two years.”

“Two years and seven months, Miss. Sure you don’t want both Shotguns with you?”

“No, they can take turns staying with the car. If you have to get out, I want you covered.”

“Oh, I’ll be all right, Miss.”

“Don’t argue with me. You wouldn’t have argued when I was old Johann Smith; I assure you that
Miss
Johann Smith still has his poison fangs. Pass the word along.”

She heard him chuckle. “I’ll do that, Miss Smith.”

When the car stopped, Joan hooked up her yashmak, concealing her identity—either or both of them—from the curious. Shorty unlocked her and handed her out. On the crowded pedestrian walk of Main Street Joan felt suddenly vulnerable . . . except for the tower of strength beside her. “Shorty, the building I’m looking for is in the thirteen hundred block—thirteen-oh-seven. Can you find it?” The question was to make him feel useful; she knew where the Roberts Building was, she owned it.

“Oh, sure, Miss—I read numbers real good. Letters, too—just words bother me.”

“Let’s go then. Shorty, how do you manage in your real profession? Not being able to read the Bible, I mean.”

“No trouble, I use talking books—and as for
the
Book, I got every precious word memorized.”

“A remarkable memory. I wish I could say the same.”

“Just takes patience. I had the Book down pat while I was still in prison.” He added thoughtfully, “Sometimes I think I ought to learn to read . . . but I can’t seem to find
time
.” (The poor dear probably never had a teacher who could teach, Boss.) (Never tamper with a successful organization, Eunice; he’s found his niche.)

“This must be it, Miss. ‘One, three, oh, seven.’ ”

“Thank you, Shorty.” She was not asked for her I.D. at the building entrance, nor did she offer it, for she had none, either as Johann Smith or Eunice Branca. The guard noted the “Licensed & Deputized” shield (which matched his own) on Shorty’s uniform, released the cage turnstile, and waved them on through. Joan Eunice smiled at him with her eyes—and made note that security at the Roberts Building should be tightened; the guard should have photographed Shorty’s I.D. and logged his shield number. (Boss, he
can’t
handle so many people that way; he has to use his judgment.) (Look who’s talking! If that apartment house you used to live in had had tight security, you would never have been mugged. If we can’t stop violence outdoors, we must try to keep it from coming indoors.) (I won’t argue, Boss darling—I’m
excited!
) (Me too; this veil is a help.)

On the twelfth floor they went to the suite occupied by the Johanna Mueller Schmidt Memorial Eugenics Foundation, H. S. Olsen, M.D., Sc. D., Director, Please Ring and Wait. The guard let them in, went back to his picture magazine. Joan noted with approval that there was a goodly number of women and couples in the waiting room. She (Johann) had jacked up Olsen about the (public) purpose of the Foundation—to offer superior anonymous donors to licensed and qualified females—in her last letter accompanying a quarterly check; apparently it had had good effect.

“Wait here, Shorty; there’s video over there.”

She went to the barrier desk separating the waiting room from the outer clerical office, avoided the sign “Applications” and got the reluctant attention of the only male back of the barrier, motioned him to her. “What is it, Ma’am? If it’s an application, go to the far end, present your I.D. and fill out the questionnaire, then wait. You’ll be called.”

“I want to see the Director. Dr. Olsen.”

“Dr. Olsen never sees anyone without an appointment. Give me your name and state your business and possibly his secretary will see you.”

She leaned closer, spoke softly. “I
must
see him. Tell him that my husband has found out.”

The office manager looked startled. “Your name?”

“Don’t be silly. Just tell him that.”

“Uh . . . wait here.” He disappeared through a rear door.

She waited. After a remarkably short time he appeared at a side door of the waiting room, motioned her to him, then conducted her down a passage toward a door marked “Director—Keep Out” and to a door near it marked “Secretary to the Director, Ring & Wait.” There he left her with a woman who reminded Joan of Johann’s third-grade teacher, both in appearance and authoritarian manner. The woman said frostily, “What is this nonsense? You may start by showing me your I.D.” (Three fingers stiff into her solar plexus, Boss, and say she fainted!) (Maybe. We’ll try my way first.)

Joan answered in still more frozen tones, “Not likely, Miss Perkins. Why do you think I’m veiled? Will you announce me? Or do I call the police and the news snoops?”

Miss Perkins looked startled, left her stenodesk, and entered the private office behind it. She came out shortly and said angrily, “You may go in.”

Olsen did not get up as Joan entered. He said, “Madam, you have chosen an unusual way of getting my attention. Now what is it? Come to the point.”

“Doctor, don’t you offer chairs to ladies?”

“Certainly. If they are ladies. A point you have gone to some trouble to render dubious. Speak up, my good woman, or I shall have you removed.” (Boss, did you see him glance at the mike? That old bat in the next room is taking down every word.) (So I assumed, Eunice. So we won’t talk yet.) Joan stepped close to the Doctor’s desk, unhooked her yashmak, let it fall to her left shoulder.