The Devil's Only Friend (10 page)

It took some time and a bit of wrangling at the bank to get them to admit they knew me. I smiled a lot because I liked the effect it seemed to have on people. They couldn't get me into my safety box because I didn't have the key with me, but I did empty out my regular account. It was enough money to float for a few days.

I was all set to take a flop down by the river near the cement factory. I knew some guys there who knew how to go all around under the city in tunnels. But then I thought I might as well go back to my place. Sure I was afraid. But sensibly there wasn't anything more they could take from me. They had run right through me. Then again, you can't always depend on people being sensible. It would have been sensible for me to load up all my truck and go down to live in a swamp in Florida. There was just the alligators to worry about down there, I had heard, and they were generally more trustworthy than the average guy.

The super at my building gave me an extra key for my room but only after I had to hear about his bad foot and how his children were no good and about all the trouble I had caused. I could see that he only wanted a friend to listen to his troubles but I just took the key and walked away from him. He was still talking as I made it out of earshot.

Across the street and up at the far end of the block there had been a little guy watching for me to come. He was leaning on a post there by the newspaper boy's box, and he rolled into the phone booth to make a call just as I stepped into my building. And so as I clumped slowly up the back stairs, I figured somebody would come to see me eventually. It didn't make any difference who it would be. Maybe it had been Chew's boy, or Lloyd's, or Estelle Hardiman's, or the volunteer's boyfriend. Maybe there had been a number of guys I hadn't seen all up and down the street. They might all come to see me at the same time, and we could make a regular party out of it.

Already I had some regret about leaving the hospital. Though it was dead boring there, and though I could not get used to the stench of sickness, at least they brought me food and drink. They were taking care of me. Without the medicine, I knew, and without a nurse to properly change the bandages, the pain and the possibility of infection would be worse. It wasn't likely that I could sleep as well in my own bed as I had in the hospital, either. There wasn't any real plan brewing in my mind, any urgent course of action. In fact, I didn't have any recollection of making a decision to leave. I thought maybe the swelling had damaged my brain. I thought,
What a difference it would make if I turned into a retard.

As I turned the key to slide back the dead bolt on my door, I was thinking that it might be nice to listen to the radio. I wondered what progress Ray Federle had made toward finding me a gun. It was only then that something knifed into me: Eileen had told me that someone had left a note for her at work.
Federle?
Even with my brain as addled as it was, I knew it was not possible that I could have told him anything about Eileen. Why should I have believed it was him?
Probably the coppers called her. Sure, they knew me well enough.

I was too far gone to think much about it. But however much I tried to push back all the murky thoughts drifting through my brain, I had to admit to myself that I had fallen into something bigger and messier than I was prepared to slog through again.
Who bolted the door like this? Who else has the key?
I stepped inside and pushed on the door till it clicked tight behind me.

My place had been tossed, but gently. Drawers had been pulled and turned out, but all my meager junk had been placed in neat piles. They had opened up the back of my radio and left the six screws that held it together in a row at the back of the counter. It looked like a joke a kid might play. Not much had been broken or torn apart. The bed looked like it had been tipped over and put right again. I did not need to make an inventory to know that nothing of value had been taken or broken—there was nothing of real value to me in the place. I kept a few photographs in the box at the bank for sentimental reasons.

I shuffled over to the silver drawer, took it all the way out, and set it on top of the counter. Though I couldn't get down properly to see up under the counter, I stuffed my hand inside and found that Lloyd's papers had not been removed. I had tacked the envelope right close to the front, and as far as my fat fingers could grub, the papers seemed just as I had left them. In trying to force my groggy head to consider what else of value might have been taken, I fell into a sort of stupor, leaning on the counter crookedly, numbly. That was it. I had come to it. As a man I wasn't even worth a proper knockover.

There was the one thing—and I had put off thinking of it because I knew how much trouble it would be to replace it. I had augered and filed a little hole in the brass lamp that sat by my chair. In this little hole I kept the key to the bank box that seemed to hold everything worthwhile I had managed to glean in my sorry life. The majority of it, I knew well, had been earned by my father. Since the lamp operated mainly with a switch on the wall plate, it was hard for anyone to notice that the key wouldn't turn like a switch or that there was a real knob on the back of the base to let the juice through. I walked over, kicked my ottoman upright, and eased myself down into the chair. Because I had changed, the chair didn't fit me like it had before; but I was able to relax because I could see that my key had not been discovered.

Even though it was the middle of the day, I fell into something like sleep. My mind wandered over everything: my unlocked door, Federle's woman, my mother's garage, Jasper Lloyd's foul breath. I don't think I ever stopped rambling along like that—half awake—before a low knock on the door brought me to attention.

I had stiffened up so much that I could not move from the chair.

“What?” I said.

Muffled speech seemed to echo through the wood.

“It's open,” I said. “Just come right in.”

There was no answer, but now I could hear or feel the knocker's weight shifting in the hall.

“Come in, you ass! Come in!”

I was seized by a fit of coughing that propelled me to my feet, crabbed over with my hands on my knees. The knob turned, the latch clicked, and the door opened a sliver. I kept hacking and gasping until I dredged up a rubbery clot of something from my lungs. I spat it out into my hand and noted that it was flecked with blood.

“Mr. Caudill?”

I wheeled to see Lloyd's slim secretary, James, standing timidly inside my door.

“Well?” I said.

“Are you all right, sir?”

I stomped toward him so he could get a good look. He kept his horror pretty well hidden, but I was afraid he might slither back through the door, so I turned away and limped to the kitchen area.

“Your jacket, sir,” he said. “It's ruined.”

“That's fine. I got it at St. Vincent de Paul's.”

“But you've bled through the back. You've run off from the hospital.”

“It's a bad habit,” I said, turning again toward him. “I do what I want.”

He considered his words for a moment. “Mr. Lloyd wonders if you're in any condition—”

“I'm all aces,” I said, trying out my grin on him. “I'm peaches and cream.”

“If you're in any condition to assist him further.”

“You can see what kind of shape I'm in.”

The secretary had a neat businesslike timidity, and there wasn't any reason to treat him badly. It seemed possible to imagine that he was a decent fellow in his private life.

“We can arrange for personal medical care,” he said. “A nurse—”

“Can you get me some penicillin?”

“I should think so,” he said. “I can send a nurse to look at the bandages. The stitches will have to be removed.”

“Ah,” I said, and then I swallowed and tried to clamp down on a blinding surge of pain that raked my sinuses. “Why didn't you tell me that the girl was chopped up?”

“What girl?”

“Look now, don't dummy up on me. Why didn't you tell me about the girl at the Cleveland plant? Now this other girl—”

“I'm not in a position to tell you anything, sir. I'm careful to perform within the limits of my function. I only keep things in order for Mr. Lloyd.”

I knew it wasn't any use bracing him—and I knew I wasn't in any condition to play rough with anybody, even a secretary. For all I knew, James was a golden gloves champ. He'd go about flyweight, but I was already coming apart at the seams. I waddled away from him again, pacing to relieve the pain in my lower back.

“Mr. Lloyd is anxious to make some progress.”

“Well, Jesus, why don't
you
look into it?”

“I'm not sure I enjoy Mr. Lloyd's complete trust.”

As best I could tell he wasn't trying to be funny. He kept his words guarded, but I could see by his face that he was speaking more personally now than professionally.

“I don't know,” I said. “I don't know.”

“You've faced danger before. I don't believe I'd fare as well as you, given the circumstances.”

“Listen, I just got the habit of walking into trouble. I'm not anybody to rely on. I could go south any time.”

“Mr. Lloyd doesn't believe you will.”

The secretary waited me out. As a practical matter it's hard to stand stock-still for such a length of time without doing something with your hands; but he did. I was flummoxed by the whole load, and panting all the while from the pacing and the pain. A chill ran through me when it hit me that I wasn't sweating at all—did it mean something?

“I've brought you a badge of sorts.”

It wasn't a regular badge like a police shield but more like an identification tag. At any of the auto plants it wasn't unusual to see the men and women with tin tags on their coveralls, but this one was larger and heavier, and it looked like it might be worth a little something if the silver was pure. He held it up for me by its little clip. The rounded Lloyd trademark was enameled in red, and the rest of the raised text had been topped with blue, like a blueprint. It looked official, sure enough. My full name was spelled out, and Jasper Lloyd's facsimile signature scrawled out at the bottom corner. I took the badge from him.

“The badge will allow you unfettered access to any plant controlled directly by Lloyd Motors.”

“What about the paper you gave me?” I said. “Wasn't that supposed to get me into the plants?” It occurred to me that James might have arranged the whole beating to see how loyal I was, but I was ranting in my own mind.

“I'm instructed to tell you,” he said, “that notice has been given to allow your passage. The badge was my idea. I've found that—you're to report any difficulty—”

“So now I'm Lloyd's flunky? Is that the kind of job that draws a paycheck?”

“Certainly I can arrange for some payment,” he said. “A cash arrangement would be preferable.”

“I know a fella who needs a job. A colored fella.”

“I'm really not in a position—”

“Forget it,” I told him. “How much cash are you carrying with you?”

“None at all.”

I felt too dry to keep talking, but I didn't want to have to offer him anything to drink. There was only spigot water and alcohol. We were still standing just inside the door to my place.

“You can get some money, ah? Deliver it where I tell you?”

“Within reason,” he said.

“Hold on—you have a pencil?”

He slipped one practiced hand into his jacket and came up with an outsized fountain pen. From another pocket he pulled a little blank card of stiff paper. It reminded me so much of Chew that I gave a shudder. I gave him Walker's name but I couldn't think of the street number.

“You've a figure in mind?”

“Ten thousand?”

“Five?”

“Why not?”

I was beginning to like the fellow, and he continued to win me over.

“Mr. Lloyd thought you might lack adequate transportation.” He dangled an ignition key on a ring from his pinky finger.

“Well—”

“I've parked the car down below,” he said.

There wasn't a thing to do but go to the window to have a look. Down in the alley sat an old roadster, illegally parked.

“Lloyd sent over a Chrysler? He couldn't send something newer?”

“There's a bit of travel in the steering,” said the secretary. “But you'll find it suitable.” There was the trace of a smile in his voice. “The engine has been modified.”

“Anyway, it beats the streetcar.”
It's like a dream,
I thought.
What have I fallen into?

I caught him looking at his wristwatch as I turned back toward him. He stood patiently while I crossed the few feet toward him, and he dropped the key into my shaking palm. His face was placid in the main, except that now and again his eyebrows would get close together and his head would tip to one side.

“You'll want to make a visit to the younger Mr. Lloyd. He maintains an office at the big plant. He's forced at present to curtail his travels due to some pressing business with the board of directors.”

“Sure.”

“Good luck to you, sir. Good-bye.”

So far I hadn't done anything. I kept the key pressed into my palm and wondered how far I could get if I left right away and kept driving until I hit ocean. How long would it take me to get to a place where the sky was big and the clouds swept away farther than you could see? Along the back roads the hayseeds might part with some of the gasoline they'd kept in rusty tanks since before the war, and I could put the windows down on the Chrysler and let the air whip away the ringing and the buzzing that now plagued my ears. I could just walk out to the middle of a great field of wheat and lay down until I melted into the earth.

CHAPTER 11