The Devil's Only Friend (4 page)

“You should see if they'll let you back on the force,” he said. “You've lost the twinkle in your eye, Caudill.”

“I'm through with all that.”

“Quitters never win, you know that. From my way of looking at it, it's always better to be on the inside than the outside of things.”

“I'm getting by all right,” I said.

“I'm sure you are,” he said. He seemed to radiate good health—the sign of a man who thrives in his work. “The boys and I have been working on a number of things. You remember that hullabaloo we had here in the summer? About the time you quit the force?”

“I don't read the papers.”

“You don't have an interest in it?”

“Like I say, I get by all right.”

“Would you have any interest in the indictment that's coming down for Jasper Lloyd?”

I hesitated for just a flash—a flash Chew took in without any reaction of his own.

I said, “I heard Lloyd was counting down the days.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Could be that's just the story his lawyers cook up to keep him from getting dragged before the grand jury. Could be, in this case, that sooner or later the Old Man will need to spill his guts about a few things.”

“What do I care?”

“It's no use pretending, Caudill. I know you need to care.”

“You don't know anything,” I said.

“It's only a matter of time before the whole story unravels,” he said. “If you could help me out with some of the details, it could be worth something to me. From the look of it, you could use a friend on the inside.”

He was bluffing—I guessed. I knew that it was a matter of personality for the news hawks to be constantly on the prowl for stories. They could poke and prod until something popped out. And as for Chew being on the “inside,” as he termed it—the newsmen were universally hated by the officers and most of the brass. They were like pilot fish swimming for scraps, suckerfish, bottom-feeding parasites.

“Listen, Chew, I came down to ask you a favor. Even this I don't care about so much. That colored woman in the photo isn't any relation to me. I'm only looking into it for a friend.”

“A friend name of Walker?”

“You know Walker?”

“Not yet.”

I was fairly sure that Chew was only fishing, but my brain wasn't able to think quickly enough to get to all the angles. I tried on a smile. “Walker can't tell you anything.”

“Sure he can,” Chew said. “Everybody's got something to say. Maybe it doesn't amount to much by itself, but if you start to hear a few names or places more than once, you start to put together a picture in your mind—”

“Jesus Christ, Chew, can't you just look into this one thing for me?”

He finally let loose. A beaming smile wrapped around his whole face and he slapped his little paw on my shoulder.

“Don't be so serious, Caudill. I'm not asking you to sell your soul!”

It didn't strike me as funny, and I noted with worry that a few knots of businessmen were beginning to wander in for their lunch hour.

“I can't help it if I like my work!” Chew said. “You wonder why Ernie Pyle tramps around in the mud with those rat-bastard Krauts lobbing grenades at him? Who wants to be cooped up in an office all the time?”

“Just let's see what you can dig up on this colored woman,” I said. “And then I'll see if I can think of anything to tell you about this hullabaloo you're so worried about.”

“In good faith I'll ply my trade for you, Caudill. In good faith. Don't forget now.” He tapped two black fingers to the brim of his hat in a sort of salute.

“I'll be seeing you,” I said, standing up. Though I did not look back at him, I was sure that Chew had already begun to troll over the arriving customers, grubbing for another story, any odd bit of dirt that he might file away on a slip of paper.

The wind slapped me again as I left the sheltered door of the tavern. As always, I didn't know what I would do next. But it seemed that I would have to do
something
—and I hoped it wouldn't turn out so messy as the last time.

CHAPTER 4

I had to make sure my mother wasn't dead. It was about that time of the month when I looked in on her, and I was already out and about. She was pretty well set up in her little house outside the big city in East Detroit. Though she kept a telephone, and I might well have called her, I forced myself to visit in order to see if anything had fallen off the house.

I took the Gratiot line as far as 8 Mile and hoofed it the rest of the way. It was only a few blocks, and for most of that the wind was at my back. The neighborhood was quiet. The stiff wind, without any tall buildings to channel it sharply, spread over everything and put a chill in the air. Spring rain had collected in the ditches that lined the street; something farther down had stopped up. There had been talk about installing regular storm drains and putting sidewalks in, and I knew that soon the fair city of East Detroit would put the bite on me for a share of the cost.

Even though I owned the house, I stood at the door and knocked like a salesman. When the door finally opened, I was prepared for unpleasantness, yet I was still surprised when a strange woman appeared before me. She was as wrecked in appearance as my mother but possessed greater vigor.

“Yes?” she said, keeping her foot planted inside the door.

My instinct was to plow right through, snapping the ankle of the woman blocking passage to the house that I in point of fact owned free and clear. But I only muttered, “I come to see my mother.”

“Oh,” she said. “You're that Pete.” She looked me over anyway just to be sure, as if a gypsy might come into the neighborhood with a patch over his eye and a mangled hand—and know enough to claim to be me.

“Well, is my mother in?”

“Oh, sure, sure,” the hag said. “She'll be so pleased to see you.”

She stepped back a bit but still crowded the door, so that I had to squirm not to brush up against her as I passed. It might have been emphysema, but I thought I heard disapproval in the way she took in her breath behind me. Then she followed so close at my back that I could feel her tiny slippered feet scuffing at my heels. I had known the woman only a few seconds, and already I disliked her; I could see why she might get on well with my mother.

“Hey, Ma,” I said, stepping through to the kitchen.

“Oh, Peter, how nice to see you.” Her eyes glanced at me for a moment and then drifted off.

For the benefit of the woman, I bent down to kiss my mother on the cheek. From the dishes stacked in the sink and from the crumbs left in my mother's whiskers, I judged that they had just finished lunch.

“My dear friend Paulette,” she said.

I let go a nod to the woman.

“She stops in to sit with me. She lives with her son right across the back fence.”

“That's good,” I said.

“And his wife. Two beautiful grandchildren. The new baby.” She held up a photo of a homely baby with her shaking hand.

Paulette was still standing behind me with her arms folded. Her spine was twisted somehow, though she seemed healthy enough. I let myself down in to the chair opposite my mother across the little dinette table. There were only two chairs in the kitchen.

“I only came to see if there was anything that needed doing here.”

“You could drive me to the market.”

“You know I got rid of my car,” I said.

“Never mind then.”

“My son has a car.”

My mother said, “They have a little nigger boy who delivers from the market. I get what I need that way. It costs a little more .”

“If they can get jobs,” said Paulette, “they'll want to move in. You see?”

“The house is all right?” I asked.

“He lives in the Sojourner Truth. How does he get here? He takes the bus.”

“I told you,” said Paulette.

“I can go to the market for you, Ma. It's only down the block.”

“It's all right. I have a little rolling basket.”

“She has a rolling basket.”

That seemed to settle the matter. My mother took in a trembling breath and let out a heavy sigh. She arranged a few photographs of her neighbor's grandchildren on the table. I thought she would remain lost in her mind for a time, and I was about to get up to check through the house.

“I had a visit from my daughter-in-law yesterday,” she said.

“Eileen was here?” I said.

“She comes to see me. She takes the bus.”

“She looks okay?”

“Tommy's girl.”

“It's good she should visit,” said Paulette. She seemed to enjoy standing above us as a sort of referee.

“If you had a car,” said my mother, “you could bring her over.”

“Well, I don't have a car.”

“Alex couldn't come with her. He was busy with the school, with his schoolwork.”

I could feel Paulette's eyes sharpen on me. It was clear that she knew something about it. Maybe she had been there for Eileen's visit.

“Alex isn't in school,” I said. “He's run off. You remember?”

“Tommy's boy, I remember.”

“She remembers. Of course she remembers,” said Paulette. She put a hand to my mother's hunched shoulder.

My mother was still fumbling with the photographs. As it had been for some years, I couldn't make out what she was thinking, if somewhere behind her craggy face she was torn up by it all. Her eyes were lost in sagging, wrinkled flesh, and when they appeared at all, they were as beady and as unlit as a mouse's eyes.

“Eileen says that the boy…”

“What?” I said.

“She has a beau. Tommy's gone two years,” she said.

“She should have a beau,” Paulette said. “Pretty as she—”

“Nobody asked you about it,” I said. “Shut your piehole.”

Paulette's shapeless mouth hung open for a moment. Then she clapped it shut so that her lips made a thin, drooping line.

“When your father and I were young, we were beaus. Maybe you don't remember.”

Paulette began to draw herself together.

“Your father ran off, too. Did I tell you? He was my beau in those olden days.”

Paulette leaned close to my mother. She tried to round up the loose photographs from my mother's fumbling fingers.

“Don't get upset, dear,” she said. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

She never looked at me again. After putting a kiss on the top of my mother's head, Paulette turned away and hobbled through the little front room, pulled her long coat from the tree by the door, and left. She was wearing lavender cloth slippers with a kind of hard rubber sole. I could see a bit of the white flesh of her legs below her coat because her stockings had fallen around her ankles.

“You shouldn't let that old bag bother you so much,” I said.

“She doesn't bother me. She's my friend.”

“You keep an eye on her when she's here?”

“She wouldn't take anything. She doesn't need anything. Her son takes care of her.”

We fell into a silence. I let my eye wander around the kitchen. Except for a general griminess, the place looked tidy enough. Just the few dishes were out, and I couldn't offhand see any pressing thing that needed to be done.

“Did you want something, Peter?”

“I guess— I only came to see how you were doing.”

“I mean do you want something to eat?”

“No.”

“You should let your mother fix you something to eat.”

“I should, but I can't take anything right now.”

I tried hard to see any sign in her expression of the directness of her speech, but she could not meet my eye. I hoped that she would not make any mention of the Easter holiday that would fall the next day.

“Eileen got a better job,” she said. “A raise.”

“It's good that she's working,” I said.

“She should be home with the boy.”

I made no answer, and as the silence took root, I could see that she was getting lost. She seemed to be staring deeply at the palms of her hands, limp on the table. Except for her breathing and the bit of palsied shaking it made in her shoulders, there was nothing happening in the little kitchen. The measured ticking of the tall clock in the front room came faintly to my ears, vague enough to ignore for a while. It struck me how unbearable it must be to have lived your whole life and to have nothing to show. Then the electric icebox ticked on and the motor began to hum, and I pulled myself to alertness again.

I stood up and looked down at her. Then I pulled out the folded wad of dough from my pocket and peeled off enough bills to make a hundred. These I placed on the table, near enough to brush against her fingers. I hoped Paulette would not return before my mother had the chance to squirrel away the money.

Of course it was all on me. The boy was gone, and I had at least in part driven him away. Eileen had a beau—someone from outside the family—why shouldn't she? It was clear that I wasn't any good to her. And my mother? There wasn't anything to prevent me from showing her a little tender feeling, a little understanding. She was alone, and I was her only living child. But I could not bring myself to do it. I could not let myself be the man I knew I ought to be.

Lately I had felt my heart seem to labor in my chest. It seemed to flutter in a slow spasm now and again, even when I was sitting in my chair on the escape, doing nothing. I thought it might stop beating altogether, and I wondered how I'd feel if I knew with certainty that my life was slipping away. I wondered what I'd want to do then, how I'd wish I had lived. There was another thought that formed itself dimly, and I tried to push it back to the dark part of my mind: My life
was
slipping away at that very moment; it had been slipping away all along.

Though the sun was high up in the sky that day, it couldn't do much against the wild wind. As I left my mother's house, I turned my collar up and jammed my hat down against the cold.