Meeting Evil (19 page)

He walked back to where the car was parked, in front of the bar & grill, and a couple of the barflies came out from inside and stared at the distant sky.

“I can’t see nothing,” said one of them, and he turned and addressed Richie. “Wife called and says out at Exit Eleven one of the motels is on fire. Know anything about that?”

“No,” said Richie. “I just finished eating a meal here.”

“Sure you did,” said the man with the beer, hoisting it at Richie. “I saw you.”

“Out of control, she says,” said the first man, peering at the sky. “Heard it on the radio. Think you’d see some smoke if it’s as big as they say. But you’ll see it all if you’re driving out that way.”

“I’m not,” Richie said. “I’m going in that direction.” He pointed.

“West Picket,” the man said smugly, nodding.

More people were now emerging from the front door. Richie got into the car and drove slowly along the main street and then into a residential neighborhood, where he increased speed slightly so as not to look as if he were casing the area. The day was in that transitional state from afternoon to evening. Some windows were lighted, some not. He prudently put on his headlights (after he had found the switch, which was located in a different place in every car he had ever driven: there ought to be a law). He did not want to get stopped by the police for such a trivial matter. That was where criminals made their mistake, and why they couldn’t
win for long: minor matters. In the city they would jump a subway turnstile and get busted for that and then be found to have a list of outstanding warrants on them for felonies. Or out here in the sticks, they’d shoplift a beer or run the only traffic light in town and get nailed by the local law, who’d find an automatic weapon under the seat and a kilo of drugs in the trunk. Richie had been called disturbed and put on lithium, but obviously the people with the real problems were out and roaming around the universe, being unbelievably stupid, causing trouble for good men like John.

Now that the joke about going to John’s house was a distant memory, Richie thought about really going there. He had lost contact with John back before he had gone to the motel, he forgot exactly how, but could remember having no bad feeling. And he had not worried about losing touch with him completely, because he did know where he lived. Of course, he would not want to go to John’s house at dinnertime and upset the wife, who might have a certain prejudice about him to begin with, the way that redheaded little whore with the car did: right away, on sight. A certain kind of female hated his guts after one look. Others, like the fat waitress, could get the hots for him with very little encouragement. Which was scarcely better. He detested immorality. He hoped he would be allowed to make that clear to John’s wife when he met her, because as yet John seemed to have the wrong idea about him. Richie was willing to admit that some of this was his own fault: he probably pulled John’s leg too much, but it was fun to kid him. You always got a reaction, and that was something Richie was always on the lookout for. So many people walked around half dead. For them life was a complete waste. If they were awakened from their stupor, they tended to be rude. John, on the other hand, stood for something, had something to defend, was a real man.

A bouncing red ball followed by a little dog suddenly appeared in the street. Had he been driving any faster, he would most assuredly have killed the animal. As it was, he stood on the brakes and just missed the dog, which continued on its heedless way to the opposite gutter, where it snatched up the ball with its teeth.

Richie saw a small girl on the nearby sidewalk. He beckoned to her to come to the passenger’s window.

“You ought to watch for cars,” he said. “Your pet could have gotten hurt, and you wouldn’t like that, would you?”

Close up, her face was somewhat blurry when seen through his borrowed glasses. “No,” said she. “I’m sorry.” A few strands of dead grass clung to her dark hair. She was probably a tomboy and had been rolling around with the dog.

“You oughtn’t be outside anyway, now it’s getting dark,” Richie told her. “Pick up your doggie and show him to me.” She proceeded to bend down and do so. The animal, some kind of poodle mix, was still holding the ball in its mouth. Richie slid across the seat to where he could reach out the window and rub the dog’s black nose. “Good boy,” he said, and then to the girl, “You take him in now.”

“I will.” She turned and went toward a nice-looking house with a porch from the ceiling of which hung, on chains, an old-fashioned swing. Earlier in the year, in the heart of real summer, the people inside probably came out and sat in the swing in the evening, maybe with glasses of lemonade. Richie had had no personal experience of that, but knew it well from TV commercials: some kindly old gramps, accompanied by a freckle-faced kid like this one and a dog. Nicest kind of setup imaginable. He grew angry as he thought about the many things that had degenerated from the olden, golden times, and drove out of this neighborhood at a much faster speed than he had heretofore used, for now that he had
saved the dog’s life, he knew he had acquired immunity for a while against all troubles. That’s how it worked. You paid your way or had to answer for it. John would agree with that.

The darkness was coming quickly now, and even with the headlights switched on he saw too little at night in the country and thus tended to fall into a state of dispiritedness. If it was bad now, think of what it would be in the middle of winter, say a late January evening, dark since late afternoon, the chill penetrating to the bowels, the cold air painful from nose to lungs, no people at large, all inside in warm, lighted houses from which you were excluded, you all by yourself, in permanent exile, uncared-for; they encircled, insulated by loved ones. Could he be blamed for being hurt by the flagrant injustice of it?

Now that the effects of his meal were diminishing, Richie began to have negative thoughts. While other people might take him for the most decisive of men, he was not always as confident as he seemed. He knew he was basically always right, but he was not without second thoughts as to the best means to the desired ends. He was often too soft; he realized that. He should not have allowed himself to be talked out of shooting the cop outside the barn. No good could come of it. In future he should not allow John to bully him morally and cause him to compromise on principles. It was impossible for a policeman to be other than an enemy, and there could be no sense in not mercilessly exploiting any advantage you had over someone who never missed an opportunity to do you dirty when fortune ran the opposite way.

As he drove through the night, on the dead-black back roads on which the only light came from his headlamps, Richie decided that with the first police car he subsequently encountered (which would probably not happen until he reached
the next town, unless he got lucky), he would pretend to be lost and would ask for directions, and when the cop started to speak, would shoot him point-blank in the face. It was essential that the man see it coming, if only for a split second.
Blam!
In his last instant of life, he knows he has been suckered, has done a lousy job, couldn’t even protect himself, dies in disgrace, not honor. Brave men should piss on his grave. It took no courage to bully people when you wore a gun and a club and handcuffs and were part of a big nationwide army, paid to interfere with anybody you decided to bother. What took bravery was Richie’s way of life: standing alone against all comers, never giving an inch—except of course for friendship, and then being ready to go all out.

He was pleased when he at last came to an interesting road that held more promise of life. Looking down it, he could see, within half a mile, an area of light and movement. Having driven there, he pulled into the parking lot of a medium-sized shopping center with discount pharmacy, liquor store, supermarket, women’s-wear, and others, all open but none crowded at this hour. Though he did not need money at the moment and had better things to do, he amused himself by quickly assessing some of these stores as to their vulnerability to robbery. Supermarkets had more and more people to maintain surveillance from high offices, either eye-balling or with monitor TVs, and some liquor-store managers kept guns beneath the registers. He would not have feared a toe-to-toe gunfight but hated the thought of being blindsided while he turned to another customer. The paint store might be easy to knock over, but who could say how good a day they had had, how much was in the till? The discount drugstore might offer better possibilities. There was sure to be a woman at the register. The prescription department was usually
too far in the rear for the pharmacist, who was always busy anyway, to see clearly up front.

Richie looked hard for a police car, for cops always spent a lot of time around shopping centers, on the take, naturally, but before he could spot one he saw a lighted telephone booth at an outside corner of the supermarket, and he went there and asked Information (now called by another name by an annoyingly perky female voice) for the number of John Felton, giving the address he had maintained in his flawless memory.

He used the telephone credit card from Randolph J. Pryor’s wallet. The first ring was answered by a woman with a voice in complete contrast to that of the operator. It was ladylike even when suggesting some anxiety.

“I hope I’m not bothering you at mealtime,” he said, “but I have business with John.”

“I’m sorry,” said she. “I just don’t know where he is. He’s been out all day. I’m worried.”

“Don’t be!” said Richie. “He’s fine. He spent the day with me. I just bought a real nice house from him. He stands to make a sizable commission.”

“Oh, God. I was mad at first. Then when hours went by without hearing, I got worried. I was even going to watch the TV news to see if there had been a big accident, but wouldn’t you know, our set chose that moment to stop working—and the batteries in the little radio were dead.” She chuckled. “But this is great.”

She had whined too much: Richie did not like that. Nevertheless, he laughed grandly. “Well, ma’am, he was in good hands with me. I’m a business executive, being transferred up here from down South.”

“Oh, that’s terrific.” No doubt her excessive emotion was
due to the relief with which he was able to provide her. “I was really worried. He called a couple of times early on, and talked sort of crazy, which isn’t like him, and it made me mad at first.”

“I’m sure he was just joking,” Richie said. “He wanted it to be a surprise, and I’m sorry now if I blew the whole thing. I just wasn’t thinking.” He cleared his throat for effect. “This is a pretty good-size sale. John was real excited.”

“Must have been,” said the woman. “He doesn’t ordinarily joke very much. But he hasn’t made a sale in a while. We can really use the money.”

“Speaking of money,” Richie cried, “that’s just why I’m calling, uh, Mrs. Felton—you
are
Mrs. Felton?”

“Please call me Joan.”

“Fact is, I guess John was so excited he forgot to take the deposit check. I discovered I still had it after leaving. I sure would like to get it to him so there’s no possibility of somebody else buying the place behind my back. I called his office, but it’s closed by now.”

“Are you nearby?”

“Maybe halfway between there and Hillsdale.”

“So he
was
out there,” said Joan. “Funny, I never knew Tesmir to list properties so far out.… If you could give me an address where John can pick up the check—he should be home soon.”

“I’m heading for the city.”

“Well, would you mind dropping it off here? It’s on the way. But I’m awfully sorry to put you to the trouble.”

“No problem,” said Richie. “I assure you.” He pretended to need the address.

“John might beat you home. Who shall I say…?”

“Pryor,” said Richie. “Randolph J. Pryor.”

“You turn at the second light on High. That’s Bacon, and you—”

Richie politely interrupted. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll try to find it.”

“Mr. Pryor,” Joan said, “if you were trying to get this number earlier and it was busy, my three-year-old had the phone off the hook. She does that. I’m sorry if it happened.”

“Think nothing of it,” Richie said and hung up before he got too suspicious about why she was always apologizing. He liked women to be modest, but there was something wrong with demanding forgiveness for damages that had not been done, and he wanted to preserve the elation evoked by the new idea, which was so intense as to make him forget what the previous plan had been, recalling it only vaguely as, en route to the exit, he passed a parked police car, the driver of which was drinking from a cup and took no apparent notice of him.