Murder in Mount Holly (4 page)

4

“So what, he's nice,” Mr. Gibbon said. Herbie had not come at six. Mr. Gibbon had his cold greens and grumbled about them, and now, at breakfast, he was still grumbling. Herbie had arrived late and Mr. Gibbon had heard the racket. He was awakened from a vicious dream: a Dark Stranger was trying to steal his paper bags. The Dark Stranger had snatched nearly every one of them. It was a Negro, a tall one, who wanted the bags to put watermelons in. Mr. Gibbon had fought with him, and during the fight woke to the noise of Herbie banging the bureau drawers in the next room.

“That's his name.” Miss Ball spelled it out and pronounced it. “Gneiss.”

“It sounds Jewish if you ask me.”

“Everything sounds Jewish if you say it a certain way,” said Miss Ball, trying for a little wisdom. “But he's not. He's not Jewish.”

“Probably changed it.”

“He said he's American.”

“All Jews think they're Americans. Everybody does. That's the only fault I can find with this country. Everybody thinks they're so damn big. Like this Gneiss.”

“Don't be so cranky. You don't even know him.”

“You're the one who's cranky.”

“He's okay. He looks tip-top. Very clean-looking.”

“That's not like you, Miss Ball. Sticking up for a Jew.”

“I'm not sticking up for a Jew. I'm sticking up for my new boarder.”

“He's a Jew.”

“He's not. He's a fine young man with a remarkably small nose.”

“What's the difference. They'll take over the country, like everyone else, I suppose. They'll come.” Mr. Gibbon heaved a sigh. “But I hope to God they don't come in my lifetime.”

“Shush,” said Miss Ball. “You're big and strong. You've got a lot of time left.”

“I hate that expression
you've got a lot of time left
. Like you're waiting to punch the time clock and drop dead.”

“He must be dead tired. He came by bus all the way from Holly Heights.”

“Used to have a guy in the platoon named Gnefsky, or some­thing like that. He was a Jew.”

“He's not a Jew.”

“Don't tell me! He was in my platoon, not yours. I should know.”

“I mean Herbie, the new boy.”

Mr. Gibbon muttered. He couldn't grit his teeth. He didn't have enough of them to grit.

“He wanted to know what the boy's room was. Isn't that
precious
?”

“In the army we used to call it the crapper. He probably doesn't know what
that
means either.”

“Now you just be careful what you say,” said Miss Ball. She clapped her hands and then said, “Oh, I'm so excited! It's like opening night!”

“He probably smokes in bed.”

“It reminds me of the day I saw the playback of my movie. That was in . . . let's see . . .”

For, the next few minutes Miss Ball relived a story she had told so many times that Mr. Gibbon was actually interested to see what changes she had made since the last time he heard it. There she was, Miss Ball in her first starring role, madly in love with the dashing special agent. He was an undercover man but, unlike most undercover men, everyone knew him and feared him. He was big and strong, liked good wine and luscious women and was always forking over money to flocks of ragged stool-pigeons who tipped him off. He dressed fit to kill and was very well-mannered. And when the spying was over for the day he came back to his sumptuous apartment and slapped Miss Ball around. When he got tired of slapping her around he nuzzled her, and bit her on the neck, and then threw her a gold
lamé
dress and they went out on the town where, in the middle of their expensive dinner, they were set upon by the squat shaven-headed crooks. Her undercover agent boyfriend was a real bastard, but you couldn't help liking the guy. In the end he ran out on Miss Ball. To do good.

“Here he comes now,” said Miss Ball to Mr. Gibbon.

Mr. Gibbon turned away and began staring at the loudspeaker of the radio.

“Good morning.” It was Herbie.

“You're early,” said Miss Ball. “You're an early bird.”

“
Shh
.” Mr. Gibbon did not turn. He seemed to be shushing the radio.

“I try,” Herbie whispered.

“That's what counts.”

“Shut up,” said Mr. Gibbon. He still did not turn away from the radio, and the radio happened to be playing the National Anthem. As soon as he said it the anthem ended, and the effect was quite incongruous.
Shut up
and then the end of that glorious song.

“Your first breakfast,” said Miss Ball.

“Yes,” said Herbie. “My first breakfast.”

“Did you ever shoot a machine-gun?” Miss Ball leaned toward Herbie.

“Beg pardon?”

“A machine-gun.” She chewed her toast. “Did you ever shoot one?”

“No. Why?” Herbie twitched.

“Just asking, that's all.”

“Did
you
ever shoot a machine-gun?”

“No.”

“But you'd
like
to shoot one. Is that it?”

“No.” Miss Ball laughed. “Really no.”

“You're interested in guns? You collect them or . . .”

“Gosh,” said Miss Ball, “I didn't mean to start anything. I was just wondering out loud, just making conversation. Idle conversation I guess you'd call it.”

“That's what I call it,” Mr. Gibbon said, turning full face upon Miss Ball.

Mr. Gibbon's face was a study in hardened stupidity. It had an old hungry look about it.

Mr. Gibbon's lips kept moving, as if he were silently cursing Miss Ball's idle conversation or finishing his egg. This made his nose—which was pointed and hooked—move also. Mr. Gibbon was wearing a khaki tie, a gray shirt—a sort of uniform.

“I'm not talking to
you
,
” Miss Ball said petulantly.

“I'm talking to you,” said Mr. Gibbon. “I went through three wars just so's I could sit here in peace and quiet and listen to my favorite song. And with you blathering I can't hear myself think, let alone listen to my favorite . . .”

“We have a new boarder.”

“. . . song,” Mr. Gibbon finished. He recovered and said to Herbie, “You been in the army?”

“No.”

“No what?”

“
What?
”

“I said, no what?”

“No what?” Herbie shook his head. “What what?”

“
You
haven't been in no army,” Mr. Gibbon roared.

“I didn't say I had, did I?”

“Didn't have to.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why,” Herbie caught on, “
sir
?”

“
'S'better. Sounds a hell of a lot better too. Reminds me of a fella we had in basic. A buddy of mine. He caught on. Didn't sir nobody.”

“What happened to him?”

“He learned how.”

“How did he learn,” said Herbie, “sir?”

“They fixed him up real good. Then he learned.”

“Fixed him up?” asked Miss Ball, suddenly becoming involved in the conversation.

“Beat the living stuffings out of him.”

“That will be just about enough of that,” said Miss Ball.

Mr. Gibbon had gone on eating, however, and did not hear. He chewed slowly, his fork upraised, his eyes vacant, but staring in the general direction of Herbie, as if he had just missed a good chance to beat the living stuffings out of Herbie.

“
Well!
” Miss Ball said, folding her hands and grinning into Herbie's face. “You come from Holly Heights?”

“Yes.”

“I've never been there myself, but they say it's nice.”

“It's very nice. Like a lot of the nice places it's very, very nice.”

“You look like a reader.”

“I like to read very much.”

“I was never a great reader,” Mr. Gibbon offered, in order to signal that he was no longer interested in beating up Herbie.

“What does your daddy do?”

Herbie cringed. He had forgotten for a while that he had a daddy—a father, that is. He thought of the man and then said, “My daddy—my father—was in tools.”

“
Was
in tools?”

“He used to make them. He's dead now, so he doesn't make them anymore.”

“There's good money in tools,” said Mr. Gibbon. “And there's still a bundle to be made in tools.”

“I was never interested in tools myself,” said Herbie. “People say I don't take after my father. Maybe they're right. I don't care about tools, although I realize they're important in their own way—just like people are . . .”

“
Hell
of a lot of money to be made in tools. Specially in machine tools.”

“It's almost time for school,” said Miss Ball, looking at her Snooz-Alarm, which she carried around with her in the house.

“Your old man make machine tools?”

“Nearly time, I said,” Miss Ball announced again.

“You don't mind interrupting an intelligent conversation, do you?” Mr. Gibbon was angry at Miss Ball. He had the habit of never saying anyone's name. He glared in the proper direction instead, to identify the person.

Miss Ball faced him. Then she patted Herbie on the arm and said, “Don't you worry about old grumpy here. That's his way of making friends.”

“If I feel like grousing, I grouse,” said Mr. Gibbon truculently. “I don't care what people think. I been through three wars.”

“Which three?” Herbie asked.

“
Which three!
” Mr. Gibbon almost choked. “You hear that?” Mr. Gibbon faced Miss Ball. “That's a laugh.” He laughed and then turned back to his breakfast and muttered once again, “Which three. For cry-eye.”

“I'd like to talk to you some time about war,” said Herbie.

“Any time,” said Mr. Gibbon. “I'm always prepared.”

“He'll talk your ear off,” said Miss Ball.

“I don't think it's a good idea, frankly.”

“He always does it. It's his way.” Miss Ball spoke as if Mr. Gibbon were not at the table. But he was at the table, studying the horror-mask cutout on the back of the cereal box.

“I mean war,” said Herbie.

“So does he,” said Miss Ball, amused.

Mr. Gibbon grunted.

“But you'll get used to it. We all do. He's not so bad. Just in the mornings he's a little grumpy. Isn't that right, Grumpy?”

“You're going to be late for school.”

“Imagine,” said Miss Ball. “You both work at the same factory. Isn't that something?”

Herbie admitted that it was something, and then he saw Mr. Gibbon rise, click his heels, and march out the door. Herbie gulped his milk and followed.

5

Herbie trotted, skipped, and hopped after Mr. Gibbon, who was striding grimly down the sidewalk to the Kant-Brake Toy Factory. At first Herbie held the letter in his hand, but when he noticed that the envelope was getting sweaty and wrinkled he stuffed it into his pocket. Herbie had asked Mr. Gibbon who the man was whose name was on the envelope (a certain Mr. D. Soulless). “The old man himself,” Mr. Gibbon had answered, without breaking his stride.

At the front gate there was a sentry box, striped with red and white, and in front of it, at attention, was a militarily dressed (V. F. W. blue cap, braids, puttees, combat boots, breeches, assorted stained medals and insignia) though very old sentry. The sentry held a thick M-1 rifle (obs.) in place.

Mr. Gibbon snapped the sentry a salute and started through the gate with Herbie. “He's okay,” said Mr. Gibbon to the sentry, jerking his thumb in Herbie's direction. “Gonna see the old man. Business.”

But the sentry came forward. Herbie saw that he was about ninety. He levelled his rifle at Herbie. The rifle shook and then inscribed an oval on Herbie's chest.

“Don't you move,” the sentry said threateningly.

“He's okay,” Mr. Gibbon said. But he did not insist.

“Can't let him through without no authorization from the old man hisself.”

“He's new,” said Mr. Gibbon, but Mr. Gibbon's heart was not in it. Rules were rules. He knew better than to ask the sentry to do something that was not allowed. He knew the sentry well. Skeeter, the guys called him. He had towed targets during one of the wars.

“I got my orders,” said the sentry. His rifle was still weaving at Herbie and once it even stabbed Herbie's shirt.

Herbie tried to shrug, but he was afraid to shrug too hard. He thought it might make the gun go off. He imagined a fist-sized slug bursting through his chest.

“I'll call the C.O.,” said Mr. Gibbon. “I'll clear it through him.”

“How am I supposed to know who you are? Every man's a Red until he can show me different,” the sentry said. Mr. Gibbon walked up the road to the main office. Apparently the sentry saw no point in talking to Herbie. He stopped. Perhaps he was out of breath.

“Lots of security around here,” said Herbie, hoping to calm the man down.

“Maybe,” was the cryptic reply.

“I mean, for a toy factory. Most toy factories don't have this much security, do they?”

“Do they? I don't know,” the sentry said coldly. “I never been in
most
toy factories. Just this one is all.”

“Just asking.”

“I heard you.”

“A toy factory with a guard,” Herbie said to himself, and started to shake his head and smile.

“You think it's funny?”

“Yes,” said Herbie. “No.”

“Pretty funny for a wise guy, aren't you?”

“You think so?” It came out in the wrong tone of voice: an unintentional, but very distinct, rasp.

“I think so.”

“I was thinking,” said Herbie. “With you standing there with that loaded gun, waving it at people like me and getting mad . . .” Herbie's voice trailed off, then started up again. “I was thinking, someone might get hurt. . . .”

“Like you.”

Herbie nodded. “Like me. Exactly.”

“I got a job to do.”

“That's what I was saying. A toy factory with a guard.”

“I'd shoot you down as look at you. I used to tow targets.”

“I wouldn't doubt it.”

“I seen action. Lots of it.”

Herbie noticed that although the sentry's body was faced in his direction and the sentry's rifle was still pointed in the general area of Herbie's chest, the sentry's eyes were glazed, his mind was somewhere else. Perhaps on some of the action he had seen.

“Damn right,” said the sentry. “Plug you right there, if I had a mind to. I plugged lots of guys before. Wise guys, just like you, mostly. We had more trouble with the wise guys than the Jerries. So we plugged the wise guys. It was war. You can't have wise guys in a war, or smart alecks either. I plugged my best friend. He used to wise around the place all the time. Had to give him the payoff. Sure, I hated to do it—he was my buddy, but that's the way you lose wars. The wise guys lose them for you.”

Herbie looked at the rifle riding up and down his torso. It had one eye.

“I got my orders. I wouldn't care. I'd just
shoot
!” The last word flew out angrily with a fine spray of spit.

Herbie backed toward the gate and the safety of the sidewalk. The guard still aimed his rifle where Herbie had been. Just as Herbie was thinking seriously about running back to Miss Ball's house Mr. Gibbon appeared.

“You been cleared,” he shouted to Herbie. “It's okay, Skeeter. He's been cleared by the old man.”

Skeeter, the sentry, wheeled around and jerked his rifle at the sky. Both Mr. Gibbon and Herbie flattened themselves on the driveway. Herbie waited for the explosion, numbness, death. But there was no explosion.

“I woulda shot,” said Skeeter, the sentry.

“I don't blame you,” said Mr. Gibbon. He understood security.

Herbie said nothing.

Mr. Gibbon took Herbie to the main office and said, “You're on your own now, sojer.”

On the door to the main office was a plaque which read,
gen'l digby soulless, united states army
(
ret'd.
).

“Come in!” bellowed a voice from inside.

Herbie nodded to the bellow and went into the office of the retired general. Inside, he said good morning and started to sit down in a large chair.

“Don't bother to sit down,” said the man. He was, like Skeeter at the gate, wearing a fancy uniform. Very authentic-looking. “You won't be here long.”

Herbie remembered the letter. He pulled it out and handed it across the desk.

The man with the fancy uniform read the letter quickly, then looked up. “So,” he said. He fixed his eyes on Herbie, wet his lips, and began to croak affectionately. He had known Herbie's father damn well, about as well as one person can know another one. At least, the man qualified, these days. They had bowled together, had dime-beers together, grabbed ass together and been in tools together. Oh, it was all right in tools with the elder Gneiss, but he—after his retirement from the army—had moved up the ladder and built Kant-Brake from willing men and muscle, real pioneers, men with dreams and a lot of dough. Herbie's father had gotten married and stayed in tools. General Soulless couldn't stand tools himself. That is, tools
as
tools. He wanted to make something useful. He had a dream, too, if that didn't sound like bullshit. He went into war toys.

But he still had a hell of a lot of respect for Herbie's old man. They had done a lot of things together when they were young. He could write a book about all those crazy adventures. He could write twenty books. How they used to go swimming in the raw, fishing in the lake. Times had changed, but he still couldn't forget Herbie's father, a scrappier little guy there never was.

Herbie stood on one leg and then on the other. He agreed that his father certainly was a scrappy little guy. Herbie said that, of course, was before he was his father.

The man laughed. “I'll say!” he croaked. “You scrappy like your dad?”

“I guess so,” said Herbie, “yes.” But all that Herbie could remember about his scrappy old dad was the large bowling ball with the undersized finger holes.

“Them were the days,” the man said. He went on. He could—no he
should
—write a book about those days. It'd be a goddamned funny book, too. He said that some day he would write it. A big fat book. He'd put everything in it that had ever happened to Herbie's scrappy dad and him. All the roughnecks and shitheads, all the skinny girls with flat chests and freckles, and that hungry rougey old bag they met one night. Did Herbie know about that? Probably not. But the retired general wouldn't leave out a single word. He'd get it all down on paper when he had the chance. It wouldn't be any sissy novel either. It would be a big lusty novel, sad sometimes, with all a kid's important memories of growing up. The way kids see things, since kids really knew what was going on. That's why the retired general was in that business, he said. He liked kids.

Herbie wished the man luck with the novel. Then for no reason at all he thought of his mother. There was a novel, or maybe a folk opera: jazzy tunes, honky-tonk, the swish of brushes on drums as his mother gobbles sadly in front of the TV, a blue tube lighting up her bowls of ice cream. And then, mountainous, glutinous, and jiggling with the rhythm of the tunes, she slides out of the house, down the street to the brink of her open grave and then flops ever so quietly into it.

“So you want a job, eh?”

“Yessir.”

“Like the place?”

“Very much.”

“It's not just any old toy factory, y'understan',” said the man. “We got style—that's what counts nowadays. I mean, saleswise. You can't fool kids. Kids are the darnedest little critics of things. They know when you're putting the screws to them.”

“Sure do,” said Herbie.

The man continued. Kids were funny. They knew what they wanted, a certain color, size, shape, etc. They got books out of the library and studied about war and crap. They knew what was going on. If the retired general had his way he'd hire young kids, real young, impressionable, scrappy little bastards, instead of old men. But he'd get arrested, wouldn't he?

After saying this, the man laboriously got up out of his chair, walked around the desk to Herbie, and then skidded his fist over Herbie's chin in what was meant as a playful gesture of affection that old men become incapable of and, often, arrested for. The man went back to his chair heavily and repeated that he liked kids a lot.

Herbie said that if it weren't for kids where would they be? Then he thought of what he said and licked his lips.

Just the same, the man agreed.

Herbie said that he was absolutely right.

“You're a lot like your old man.” The man wiped his mouth with a chevroned sleeve.

Herbie tried to look as scrappy as possible. He looked at the twenty dollars' worth of ribbons and string on the retired general's chest. He tried to forget that his father was a runt and hoped that the retired general would forget it too.

“You got yourself a job, son.”

The man then introduced himself as General Digby Soulless, Retired, and took Herbie down into the workshops. Herbie would be in the motor pool with Mr. Gibbon. Herbie would have to know the ropes. He was issued a uniform, shoes, and a rucksack. He put on the uniform and worked for the rest of the day in silence. The rest of the men were good to him, told him dirty jokes and took him into their confidence. They saw that the old man himself had brought Herbie down and introduced him. So this is the army, Herbie thought throughout the day. At the end of the day Herbie went out through the main gate with the rest of the men. And when Skeeter, the sentry, saw Herbie approaching in uniform, he saluted grandly and nearly dropped his rifle.