The Erection Set (34 page)

Somehow he managed a crooked smile, all greasy with blood and spit. He lay there, letting the initial shock wear off, knowing what would happen when all those nerve endings registered incredible pain in another ten seconds.
“El
Lobo,” he said.

“I killed
El
Lobo ten years ago,” I told him.

“The Dog?”

I nodded.

He pulled the trigger on a gun that wasn't in his hand anymore.

“One more time,” I said.

He shook his head.

“Who?”

The guy smiled and gave me that same negative sign so I let him look down that big black hole of the .45 and for one second he wanted to tell me but that one second was too late. The blast of the shot was muffled in the small roll of fat around his belt and I remembered the others, with Lee last in the bathtub, and while he was dying I said, “Good luck, sucker,” and got out of there while the woman was still screaming in the window and the sirens were whining their way up the avenue.

Before I cut out I took a look at his shoes to make sure.

They were brown.

It was just an old dirty beat-up pile of junk, but it smelled nice and it looked nice and after I clawed my way through the spider webs and the warped boards I found the old room where my father screwed my mother and got me out of the bargain and it still smelled of their compact, that wild love that put them both in the tall deep where the sod falls in on top of you.

She had told me of that room and until now nobody had ever let me look inside, but now it was mine and there was no old man, no costumed guards at the gates, just mine where my father fucked my mother when nobody was watching in that little lonely cot in the topmost room with the moon coming through astride the salt air with the continuous, monotonous roll of the breakers.

I said, “Hi Ma.”

I said, “Hello, Dad.”

The wind sounded a laugh.

“I'm home now,” I said.

Nothing.

“I love you. Tough, and it's all over, but I love you.”

Nothing.
Hell, I didn't expect anything anyway.

Nothing.

“Dad
...?”

Nothing. It was all shit and why bother? Okay, fuck the shit.

Such a tiny room. Here was where I was conceived, the act of love in the midst of nothing, a single, one-screw generation ago. And now I sit on top of the throne, the issue, the residue, the bastard. The damn lousy killer and all I want to say is
Ma
...
Dad
...
what the fuck can I do?

Think, son. They took it all away from us a long time ago. Now it's your turn. There aren't many big ones left anymore.

I lay on the bed where my dad screwed my mother when nobody was watching and I felt very comfortable. For the first time I realized what she was like.

Outside somebody was going to kill me.

Like maybe.

I took my pants off and made myself come.

 

The rain was a dismal thing, one of those downpourings that squash the little people inside, cringing around a sink or using the weather for an excuse to vacuum....

I said, “Lovely,” and walked out into it, breathing the soft, salt spray with that luscious sexy tang and wondered where Arnold Bell was with his muffled .22-caliber job and what he was thinking ever since his partner had been carried away in a rubber body bag into the New York City morgue. Damn. They won't move in so fast now, will they, Dog?

Oh? Wait until Tobano checks it out ... and he will, you know. Just wait. Crazy cops, I thought. Dedicated, honest, determined. What the hell did they ever know about people like me?

No ballistics man has a copy of my gun barrel. The dead guy back there in the city is only a corpse and when they process his prints the feds will close the book on an overseas brownshoes, a high priority shooter who didn't quite make the grade.

But there was another one still left.

The really big one.

Arnold Bell.

He was the hit man and I was his hit.

Shit.

 

Then suddenly the sun was up and shining with the rain only a faint misty gray away far to the north and a fat, sooty-looking sea gull was squatting on the porch roof outside my window and I damned near said hello to him. A few miles in the background a triple tendril of smoke began to vomit from the chimneys of the Barrin plant and I had that foolish feeling that all was well with the world.

And I had the chance to be Robinson Crusoe again for three whole days like I had always wanted and it felt good until it got dark at the end of the last day and I was looking up at the stars and they formed numbers so that the stalk sprouting out of the seed had another branch and the blossom was ready to unfold.

The .45 was back on the bed, snug in its holster, a dirty, biting serpent but no good at all unless somebody was there to pinch its tail. I heard the rustle of the sand weeds and felt the slip of the sand and when I had my hands on his neck he was five seconds away from dying and all Marvin Gates was aggravated about was that I had made him spill his drink.

“You and Harvey,” I said.

“There's no reason for knocking me down like that.”

“Don't ever sneak up on me.”

“I thought I was whistling.”

“You were drinking.”

“Sorry, old man.”

“Speak,” I said.

“Can't we go refill my glass?”

“All I got is beer in the house.”

“Plebeian, but it might do. I haven't slummed for a long time.”

I had to grin at the idiot. He had missed his big pitch but was still swinging. “So slum,” I informed him.

The driftwood sputtered and burned with a dull glow and pop onto the bare floor, sipping a cold Blue Ribbon beer without bothering to talk. An hour squeezed by and the fire died to a ruby glow of ashes along the logs and I said, “How'd you find me, kiddo?”

He tore the top off a beer without looking at me and answered, “You had no place else to go.”

“I own the joint.”

“That's what I figured.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Somebody bought it,” he told me. “I didn't buy the Canadian story after I saw you, so all I did was put the pieces together.”

“Maybe I'll rap you right in the mouth.”

“What for? Who wants a born loser anyway?”

“Pam seems to have held onto you.”

“She's a slob.” He took a real long pull of the Pabst, put the can down and flashed a smile at me. “I wish I could win,” he said. “It's hell living in the garbage can.”

“What do you want, Marv?”

“Is it all that obvious?”

“Kill the shit, kid. What do you want?”

Something happened to his face. The mouth was tight and his eyes had a funny color to them. “Maybe I want my balls back.”

“You're a fucking swindler, Marv,” I said.

“Not really.” He got up, walked to the ice chest and pulled out another can of beer. This time he popped the top and didn't bother pouring it into a glass. “I'm a stupid, Mr. Kelly. Is that bad English?”

“Pretty bad.”

“I have the unfortunate attribute of loving my wife even after I was trapped in a terrible affair that totally deballed me.”

“You deballed yourself, buddy,” I told him.

“The story is rather old now, isn't it?”

“Sure, for deballing.” I topped off my beer and got me another one. “Let's speak, Marv.”

“What makes you think ...”

“Cut the shit and speak, Marv. You didn't come here to slop up my brew.”

“Alfred and Dennison are both homosexual.”

“So what else is new,” I said.

“You know?”

I gave a little shrug.

“But how do you know about it?”

“I have, er ... some oddball associates who are rather astute at recognizing their own kind. They pointed the finger at both of them. Oh, nothing definite, nothing provable, but I respect their judgment. Since your first night here I have made a few inquiries, but if those two have been indulging, they've been quite shrewd about it. The ones they call friends are all very proper and very straight, but there have been many times when they've been gone a day here, a few days there, on somewhat mysterious so-called business trips that required rather tedious explanations in detail when they returned home. At least on Dennison's part. Alfred isn't given to loose talk unless he's pressed for it.”

“Not many people would pick Alfie for a queer,” I said.

“He has the sadistic streak for it. He'd be one of the mean ones.”

“At least Dennie has an excuse.”

Marvin looked at me questioningly. “He picked up a dose of clap from a whore when he was a kid and it probably scared him away from all women after that,” I said.

“Understandable.” He had another swallow of his beer and nodded. “That could explain a lot of things. I'm surprised that you knew.”

“I didn't. It's just something that's been on my mind like a dirty joke you can't quite remember.”

“Well, this isn't exactly a confirmation, simply an educated guess. I got to mulling it around in my mind and thought it might be an interesting point to pursue in your, er, morals clause combat.”

“You sure have a bad taste for those guys, Gates.”

He turned the can around in his fingers, studying the label. “The venture into the field of swindling wasn't all my own idea. It's taken a long time to resurrect the details, but they set me up for it.”

“You didn't have to take the bait.”

“Ah, but I did. It isn't very pleasant to live off the bounty of a demanding woman. One sometimes stretches too far for independence. I was outclassed, outmaneuvered and out on my ear before I realized what happened. Life has been pretty miserable ever since. I presume you know all the details?”

I nodded.

Gates put the can down and got up. “Well, good hunting. Didn't mean to waste your time. Thanks for the drinks.”

“Any time,” I told him.

When he had gone I finished the last of the groceries I had in the house, cleaned up and dressed, then drove back toward Linton and took the road that led out to Stanley Cramer's house.

All the lights were on downstairs and through the open curtained windows I could see three old men grouped around a table playing cards, each wearing a plastic eyeshade like an old-time faro dealer, hands held close to their vests.

From out of the night a little dog came up and yapped happily at me and before I reached the porch Cramer had the door open and was waiting for me. “Come on in, son. We'll finish the hand, then we can talk.”

The bald-headed guy was Juke, the other one was Stoney and they had all worked together for my grandfather back in the old days until age had put them on the shelf. Their weekly card game was a ritual they never interrupted, but I was an oddity and part of the past they kept so close to them and an hour went by in small talk about Barrin Industries before Stanley Cramer finally got to the point.

“You know,” he told me, “ I got to thinking after you left. About that explosion and all.”

I lit a cigarette, sat back and waited.

“Went over to see one of the old chemical engineers who was there at the time and he said for the life of him, he couldn't figure what made the place blow like that. When they were investigating he never spoke up because he kind of figured somebody might of messed around with those acids, left something open and it spilled ... and since nobody was bad hurt and the damage was minor, he just passed it off. But it just beats all how that safe got blown outa the wall the way it did.”

“You said there was nothing in it.”

“Only petty cash and old papers and plenty of the cash was still laying around, so it couldn't have been robbery.”

“Remember any of the papers stored there?”

Cramer looked at the bold guy and nodded. “Tell him, Juke.”

“Old company formulas for metal alloys. Secret stuff at one time. By the time of the blast it was out of date, so nobody could have wanted them. They was scattered around too. I had a pound can of good tobacco in there too. The other stuff was all put in the new vault.”

I tried to pick the meat out of what he had said but couldn't, so I waited some more. These old guys had their own way of doing things.

“Anyhow,” he went on, “I never gave this next thing a thought until Stan brought it up the other day, but about a week later they needed something out of the new vault and when they went to get it open the dial was jammed and they had to call in a guy from the safe company. He said somebody had tried to pry it off or something. I forget. Now, that there Alfred, he said the forklift they had in there the day before when they was moving in some office machines probably banged the safe and damaged it.”

“Possible?” I asked.

“The kid who ran the forklift was too damn careful for that. He sure would have reported it right away if he did. He said it never happened, but that Alfred gave him a chewing out anyway and the kid quit. Well, when they got the safe opened, the two of them, Al and Dennie, they spent half the day in the vault going through the stuff and when they came out they looked meaner'n snakes trying to swaller an iron egg.”

“Tell me something, didn't they have the combination to that vault?”