The Getaway (Read a Great Movie) (16 page)
"He is a good friend, eh? You owe him much." The
carabinero
was sympathy personified. "I can understand. In this one, I would say, there is an inner fineness. He is a man of beliefs, principles-distorted and twisted perhaps, but…"
Doc abruptly broke free of Gangloni. He backed away on the cobblestones; grimacing, mumbling apologetically.
"I-I'll have to come back later. I-you know. Make some arrangements first. T-talk with my wife. Sure it'll be all right, b-but-but you know. How women are, I mean. I-I-
Pat! Don 't look at me like that! Don 't
…"
He turned and began to run.
On the suddenly chill breeze the
carabinero's
voice followed him.
"
Hasta la vista, senor
. Until we meet again."
You tell yourself it is a bad dream. You tell yourself you have died-you, not the others-and have waked up in hell. But you know better. You know better. There is an end to dreams, and there is no end to this. And when people die they are dead-as who should know better than you?
El Rey does only what he has to. His criminal sanctuary is a big improvement over most. He does not kill you for your loot. He gives you value for your money. He runs a first-class place, and he could not do so if you were allowed to be miserly. Nor can he permit you to linger on when your money is gone. There would be no room for newcomers if he did; and allowed to accumulate, you and your kind would soon take over. You would be in his place, and he would be in yours up on that cobblestoned street with its sparkling whitewashed buildings. And he knows this. He and his native subjects know it. It explains their delight in irony, in symbolism; in constantly holding a mirror up to you so that you must see yourself as you are, and as they see you.
No, it is impossible to deceive yourself. The kingdom is there, maps and officialdom to the contrary. It is there, call it what you like. All things considered, it is probably the best place of its kind. And its bad features, such as they are, derive not from El Rey but his guests.
He will not cheat you. He will not kill you. He cannot and will not provide for you, but he will not put an end to your life, no matter how long you live. And in that strangely salubrious climate, you seem to live an eternity.
In El Rey's dominion there is one night of the year- the night of the annual grand ball-when there are no "suicides" or fatal "accidents." Everyone is politely but thoroughly searched before entering the
Palacio del Rey
, where the fete is held. Everyone is advised that any misfortune to a guest will be regarded with great displeasure. It has been many years since any such misfortune occurred, and the victim's plunge from a fourth-floor window actually was accidental. But everyone present was fined heavily, and the supposed instigator of the accident-the woman's husband-suffered total confiscation of his bank account. So today, not only does no one make an untoward move, but everyone shows the greatest concern for the welfare of everyone else. Raise your voice slightly, and you are immediately the target of a hundred anxious eyes. Reach suddenly for a handkerchief or cigarette, and a dozen people move toward you.
Very distinguished in white tie and tails, Doc McCoy stood on the promenade border of the great ballroom; beaming out over the swirling assemblage of dancers, bowing to this couple, smiling at that one, courteously inclining his head toward another. Perfectly groomed, his temples touched with gray, he was the very picture of a gentleman at ease, of well-bred charm. But he had seldom been less at ease, or more thoroughly miserable.
His physical discomfort-his numbed feet and aching back-was largely attributed to the wives of El Rey's two chief justices. Neither of the ladies was over five feet tall, yet their combined weight was considerably more than a quarter of a ton. And they were as near to being inexhaustible as anyone Doc had ever met. He had danced with them by turns, murmuring exquisite apologies as they walked giggling on his feet, whispering compliments as his back screamed at the constant bending. Oh, he had buttered up the ladies, but good; for they were known to be ogres in private, and virtually the masters of their henpecked husbands. Then, while he was silently congratulating himself, he had seen Carol dance by in the arms of the chief of police. And he knew that his agonized efforts had been wasted. The chief of police against the chief justices; if there was any advantage, it was on Carol's side. She might suffer for it, perhaps, if he became one of the dominion's suicides or accident victims. But that would do him no good whatsoever.
It was now more than an hour since he had seen either her or the chief of police, and his anxiety was growing. He would have to think very fast, or this might well be the last grand ball he would ever attend.
He made a final survey of the ballroom. Then turning, apparently unseeing as a fat feminine hand waved to him across the throng; he strolled slowly down the palm-bordered promenade. And for some reason his mind went back to that long-ago day in Kansas; to the picnic grounds where he and Carol had gone after leaving the train.
"…
need to get acquainted again, Doc. Wejustabout have to!
"
Doc smiled wryly to himself. Get acquainted? Oh no, they didn't need to. What had actually troubled them was that they knew each other too well. They lived by taking what they wanted. By getting rid of anyone who got in their way or ceased to be useful to them. It was a fixed pattern with them; it
was
them. And in the event of a showdown, they would show no more mercy toward each other than they had toward so many others…
Wrapped in thought, Doc sauntered down the promenade, absently glancing through the doorways of the innumerable parlors, drawing rooms and bars. From one of them, fat Ike Moss called a muffled greeting to him; gestured, his mouth stuffed, to a long delicacy- laden table. But Doc smilingly shook his head, and passed on. Ike Moss, he thought distastefully. How gross, how completely lacking in a sense of propriety could the man be? Only last week his wife had drowned in her bath, yet here he was dressed to the nines, and gobbling down everything in sight.
Probably raided the icebox after he finished her off, Doc thought. And he chuckled silently at the picture that came into his mind.
He came to a small billiard room; started on past it. Then he paused abruptly, straightened his shoulders, and went through the doorway.
Dr. Max Vonderscheid was at the one pool table. His dwarfed hunchbacked body was dressed in rusty black, the tails of the ill-fitting suit almost touching the floor. And his gray leonine head rose only a few inches above the table. But still he appeared austerely handsome and dignified; and he sent the pool balls caroming about the green with almost magical accuracy.
He pocketed the last two with a difficult double bank shot. Doc applauded lightly, and Vonderscheid set the cue on the floor butt down, and leaned on it looking at him. "Yes, Herr McCoy? I may be of service to you?"
His speech was almost unaccented; Doc had observed that it almost always was except when he was around El Rey. He and El Rey were seemingly on very good terms, the latter making extraordinary concessions to the doctor with regard to rent and other expenses. Still, Vonderscheid had to have some kind of income, and he couldn't have much of a practice here.
"Yes?" There was a peculiar gleam in the hunchback's eyes. "You cannot, perhaps, make up your mind?"
"Sorry," Doc said hastily. "I was so absorbed in watching your game that-but, yes, I believe you can be of help to me. I, uh-the truth is I'm very worried about my wife. I don't think she's at all well."
"I see. So?"
"Well-" Doc lowered his voice. "It's of a highly confidential nature, Doctor. I'd want to discuss it in absolute privacy."
Vonderscheid turned and glanced around the room, his gaze lingering for the merest moment on a palm-sheltered corner nook. Brows raised, he turned back to Doc again. "This would seem to be private enough," he said. "Yes, this should do perfectly. So what is it about your wife, and why do you bring the matter to me?"
Doc began a cautious explanation. He had not nearly finished when Vonderscheid interrupted with an impatient gesture. "If you please, Herr McCoy! So much talk for so commonplace a deed! You want me to examine your wife, yes? To suggest that she would do well to have one, with no mention that it is your suggestion. And then you wish me to tell her that she is in need of an operation. To convince her of it. And during the course of the operation, I am to…"
"No point in spelling it out," Doc said quickly. "After all, a great many people die in surgery. Now if you'd, uh, care to give me an estimate of your fee…"
"If I did it, there would be none. To remove either you or your wife from society would be both pleasure and privilege. Unfortunately I cannot do it. My name is Vonderscheid, not Katzenjammer. I am a doctor, not an assassin."
"Now just a moment," Doc frowned. "I'm afraid you misunderstood me, Doctor. You surely don't think that I…"
"If you please!" Vonderscheid cut him off with a bang of a cue. "Do not ask me what I think of you or your wife, of what you have done with your good bodies, your strong minds, your unlimited opportunities. If only half so much I had had, or poor Rudy Torrento…"
"So that's it," Doc said, angrily sardonic. "You and Rudy were friends, so naturally…"
He broke off. Vonderscheid had moved back a step, stood gripping the cue with both hands. He wagged it with an ominous movement, and Doc discovered he had nothing more to say.
"You are quite through, McCoy?" The doctor grinned at him furiously. "Then I will finish. Rudy was my friend, yes. He was insane; he had been brutalized almost from birth; he had been made into what he was and he could not have been anything else. He had never had a friend, so I became one to him. I did not regard him as a criminal. No more, merely because I have broken laws, do I consider myself one. So! So that is all, Herr McCoy, except for two things. Your wife approached me only a few minutes ago with a proposition similar to your own. In fact, she should still be here," he pointed to the cluster of potted palms. "So in case you should wish to condole with one another…"
He laughed wickedly, tossed his billiard cue onto the table and walked out.
Doc bit his lip. He remained where he was for a moment, and then, with a kind of dreary nonchalance, he walked around the table and skirted the palms.
Carol had a portable bar drawn up in front of her. Silently he sat down at her side, and silently she fixed him a drink, her eyes warmly sympathetic. "He was pretty rough on you, Doc. I'm sorry."
"Oh, well," Doc sighed. "I hope he wasn't equally nasty with you, my dear."
"I don't care about myself. I've been told off by experts. But someone like you, someone that everyone has always liked…"
She gave his hand a soothing pat, and Doc turned to her with thoughtful wonderment. "Do you know," he said, "I believe you really love me."
"Love you?" she frowned. "Why, of course I do. Don't you love me?"
"Yes," Doc nodded slowly. "Yes, Carol, strangely enough I love you very much. I always have and I always will, and I could never love anyone else."
"And I couldn't either. I-oh, Doc.
Doc!
"
"And it doesn't make any difference, does it, Carol? Or does it?"
"Does it?" She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "T-tell me it does, Doc, and I'll tell you it does. And what the hell difference will it make?"
Doc nodded vaguely. He refilled their glasses. In the palace tower a great bell began to toll the hour of twelve. And in the ballroom the band struck up the strains of
Home Sweet Home
.
"Well," Carol said. "I guess it's just about over, Doc."
"Yes," Doc said. "Just about over, Carol."
"You!" she said, and her voice was suddenly angry, frightened, tortured. "I'll drink a toast to you, Doc darling!"
"Why, how kind of you," Doc said, and he touched his glass to hers. "What will it be!"
"To you! To you and our successful getaway!"
"And to you, my dear," Doc said. "And another such victory."
This file was created with BookDesigner program
20/10/2007
LRS to LRF parser v.0.9; Mikhail Sharonov, 2006; msh-tools.com/ebook/
