The Third Figure (16 page)

“He’s probably trying to forget it. You see, when I first got to town I used to follow Faith, at a distance. I didn’t care about her; I was looking for Johnny. I discovered, after several weeks, that he came home every second or third weekend. Gradually, I learned his habits. He’d often go to a movie on Sunday afternoons, and when I could afford it I’d go to the same movie and sit where I could see him. I used to save my money, so I could go to the movies.”

I didn’t reply. There was nothing I could say.

“Then, one day,” he continued, “he saw me. I was sitting five or six rows behind him. He was going to the lobby for some popcorn, and he saw me.”

“Wh—” I swallowed. “What happened, when he saw you?”

“He just stood in the aisle, staring at me. Finally the usher asked him to move, and he went out into the lobby. I—I followed him. It was all I could do. We—we went outside, to a park. We sat and talked for a few minutes—just a few minutes. And then …” He began to slowly shake his head. I saw that tears were streaking his grimy face. “And then, suddenly, Johnny was running away. He—he just got up from the bench and started to run. And—and—” He couldn’t finish it. Still shaking his head, he began numbly to leave the garish red plastic booth. I gripped his arm.

“Have you ever been to the beach cabin, where Vennezio was murdered?” I asked. “Did you ever follow your wife there?”

He stared down at my hand on his arm and then slowly raised his gaze.

“Yes,” he answered, “I followed her. once. Just once. A long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Too long, for your purposes, Mr. Drake. It wasn’t me who killed him. I would have done it. I thought about killing him every day of my life, for two years, now. When I heard he’d been murdered, I felt as if my last excuse for living had been taken from me. I—I used to dream about killing him. I used to have hallucinations. It was always the same. There’d always be the three of us—Vennezio, Faith and me. She’d always be watching me when I killed him. And sometimes, when I’d have enough to drink, I was sure I could do it. But then, the next drink, I’d realize that I couldn’t. I—I used to cry about it. I used to cry myself to sleep. Because, you see, it was all I had left—the last, pitiful illusion that somewhere, somehow, I could kill him.”

Weakly, he tugged his arm until I released him.

I watched him shuffling out of the bar. From the back, he looked like any other drunk, wandering off into oblivion, alone.

It was always the same
, he’d said.
There’d always be the three of us
.

Was it possible? Had his delusion somehow communicated itself to me? Could he have been nearby, last Sunday night?

Pulling into my motel parking space, I locked the car and walked to my room. It was almost 11
P.M.
, and I felt tired and depressed. I couldn’t escape the gathering conviction that, somehow, John Hanson’s delusion of murder had found its way into my own consciousness. Mental telepathy, after all, was virtually a recognized fact, as the Duke University experiments had proven, at least statistically.

I was fitting my key into the door when I heard a soft footstep behind me. Startled, I straightened and turned. Jimmy Montez stood in the darkness. He seemed to be smiling, standing graceful and relaxed—immaculate in sports jacket and slacks.

“H—hello,” I said, retreating a step.

“Hi.” In the single, softly spoken monosyllable I sensed a tension—and danger. The dim light of the parking lot revealed his eyes, watchful and darkly opaque—in hard, purposeful contrast to the lips still twisted in a small, mocking smile. He came forward. “We been waiting for you.”

We stood perhaps three feet apart. Behind me was a flower bed; the calves of my legs were pressed against the low concrete wall surrounding the flowers.

“Waiting?” I looked around me. Across the parking lot, a man and a woman were walking away from their car chatting and laughing. I realized that my knees were beginning to tremble. Should I run? Shout for help? Should I try to …

“Mr. Russo wants to talk to you.”

“Talk to me? But I …”

Montez raised his right hand, pointing. Following his gesture I saw the Buick. Dimly in the back seat I could see the figure of a man.

“Over there,” he said.

“But …” Involuntarily, I was moving along the low concrete wall, away from him.

Now his left hand went to his jacket pocket. It was a slow, leisurely movement. Then, just as leisurely, the hand came out. I heard a small, sharp click. Looking down, I saw the bright sliver of a knife blade gleaming in the darkness.

“Over there,” he repeated. “Walk.”

“But”.

“Walk.” With his right hand he gripped my left elbow, turning me toward the waiting car. He placed the knife blade flat against my left arm. I was walking with him, powerless to resist. Dimly I wondered whether my legs would fail. I found myself thinking of Larson, shaking his head, calling me a fool—predicting that I’d find myself lying face down in the back seat of Russo’s car, going for a ride.

I was standing beside the car now—the Buick. Larsen had called it a Cadillac. He’d been wrong, then. Wildly now, yet helplessly, my incoherent thoughts became entangled in the single, nonsensical refrain: he’d been wrong about the car, he could be wrong about the rest. He’d been wrong—wrong about the car. And maybe about the rest.

My knees were shaking violently.

Montez opened the door with his left hand. I wondered what he’d done with the knife.

“Get in.”

I was sitting in the back seat, twisted to face Frank Russo. He was dressed in a dark business suit and wore a dark hat. He motioned for Montez to move away from the car.

“I’ll make it short and sweet, Drake.”

“But I—you—”

“I told you,” he cut in, “that you weren’t supposed to get any ideas of your own, about talking to the cops.”

“But I—you’re wrong. I—he—”

“You been talking to the CIIB.” He paused. Then, quietly, he said, “Right?”

“Yes, but it—it wasn’t my idea. I told him to go away. I—I—”

“That’s not the point, Drake. The point is, you was supposed to tell me, whenever you talked to a cop. Right?”

“Yes, but I—I was afraid that—”

“You was afraid I wouldn’t like it. Is that it?”

“Yes. I—”

“You forgot that I’d like it even less, you talking to the cops, and not telling me.”

“Yes. I see. I’m—I’m sorry. It—”

“It won’t happen again. Is that what you was going to say?”

“Yes. I told him, the first time I talked to him, that he should—”

“All right, Drake.” His voice sounded almost bored. “Let’s forget about that cop. He could be back in Sacramento, for all I know.”

“Well, yes he could. I know that he checked—”

“What else’ve you found out?”

“Wh—what else?”

Burlesquing an elaborate patience, he nodded. “Right. What else. Anything you found out, you were supposed to let me know. Remember?”

“Well, yes. But I—I haven’t—”

“What did you do Monday, for instance? Who’d you talk to?”

“Well, I—I went to Charlene Vennezio’s, first. And I—I talked to her, for a while.”

“What about?”

I decided to tell him the whole interview in detail, hopefully to wear down his patience. Instead, he became intently interested, and, too late, I realized that if he were really Faith Hanson’s secret lover, Charlene’s speculations about Faith’s mysterious role in the murder would be an actual threat to Russo. I was becoming hopelessly confused—unable to think fast enough to keep ahead of my story. And surely my confusion and fear must be perfectly plain to Russo, now watching me so closely.

I’ll break both your legs
, Larry Sabella had said. The threat echoed and reechoed with a desperate, hysterical clarity. Yet, still, I heard myself talking.

When I’d finished, Russo sat for a moment without speaking. Then he said, “What happened then—after you talked to Charlene?” He was watching me very carefully.

The moment had come. If I admitted talking to Sabella, I’d have to tell Russo everything. If I didn’t admit talking to Sabella and Russo knew …

“What happened then, Drake?” His voice had become very quiet. And in that moment, looking at him, I decided I had no choice—no choice, and only one chance: that Russo hadn’t yet learned of my conversation with Johnny Hanson. If I weren’t questioned about that conversation, I could yet escape admitting to Russo that Sabella had named him as the same man Johnny Hanson had accused of murder.

“Well,” I began, licking my lips, “after I talked to Charlene, I—I talked to Larry Sabella. He just happened to come by, I think. And we—he and I—we talked. He wanted to know what I’d found out, and—” I stopped talking. Too late.

“And you told him.” I couldn’t see his eyes; I couldn’t assess his expression. But the cold, suppressed fury in the voice was unmistakable.

“But there wasn’t anything to tell him. I—I hadn’t found out anything, really. Nothing that’s important. I still haven’t. I just …”

“I’m going to ask you this just once, Drake. I’m going to ask you to tell me every word you told Sabella. Every single word. I’m not going to threaten you, like Sabella probably did. That’s for punks—punks like Sabella. I’m just asking you—for your own good.”

I opened my mouth, but couldn’t speak. Suddenly I seemed to see myself from a point outside—moving my mouth soundlessly, too terrified to from a single word. I realized that, irrationally, I was reliving the exact moment last Saturday when I’d decided to return Mrs. Vennezio’s check. I couldn’t seem to think of anything but that single moment. I’d been in my apartment. In San Francisco. And I’d …

Russo was turning his head toward Montez, standing in the nearby shadows. Montez was lounging against the trunk of a huge palm tree, watching us.

Slowly, Russo was raising his hand, beginning a gesture to the waiting Montez.

I hardly realized that I was speaking. I remember that I was forced to gulp often for breath—deep, desperate gasps.

I’ll break your legs, if you tell Russo
.
I’ll break both your legs
.

How had they threatened John Hanson? I’d never asked. He’d been drunk. Weak. I’d watched him shuffle off, pitying him for his weakness. Yet now I couldn’t get my breath fast enough to keep up with the terrified rush of my own desperate confession.

I’d finished speaking. I realized that Russo was silent. I blinked, then turned toward him. His face was obscured in shadows.

“I made a mistake,” he said finally. “Two mistakes. First, I should’ve sent you back to San Francisco. I figured, though, that one man, working alone, couldn’t find out anything. I was right, too. You haven’t found out anything—not about the murder. But …” His voice trailed off. Then, in a more thoughtful cadence, he said, “My second mistake was Faith Hanson. What the hell I was thinking about, I’ll never figure out. I still can’t figure it out. But I know how Sabella is figuring—him and some back East.” He paused, then shook his head, incredulous at his own thoughts—disgusted with himself.

“I told you, Drake,” he said, “that you weren’t cut out for this kind of thing. You just aren’t tough enough. I was right—I always knew I was right. But I figured it’d be your problem, not mine.”

“It—it is my problem, though. Sabella said—”

“I know what Sabella said,” he snapped. “But if you’d’ve had any brains, you’d’ve walked out of that apartment and called me. I told you the first hour you were in town what to do. And I figured you got it. I figured you were smart. Not tough, maybe. But at least smart.”

“But it—it wasn’t a matter of brains. It—it’s just that I was frightened. Scared.”

Suddenly he snorted, then actually laughed. He took off his hat, tapped it on the seat front before him, then threw it irritably at the steering wheel. He shook his head.

“You’re something, Drake. You’re really something else. That I gotta admit.” He drew a hand across his balding pate and again shook his head. “The funny thing is, I still like you.” He turned to look at me fully. “And I guess that I can thank you, in a way. At least now I know what Sabella is up to. That’s something.”

I couldn’t think of a reply. I could only think that now he wouldn’t kill me. I knew it. Hesitantly, then, I began telling him about the attack on me, Monday night. I knew now that Russo hadn’t ordered the attack. Therefore, if he felt that Syndicate discipline had been violated, Russo might protect me from another attempt.

When I’d finished, he sat silently for a moment, thoughtfully frowning. Finally he said, “How come you didn’t tell me this before?”

“Well, I guess I—I was afraid to talk to you after everything Sabella said. I guess I just …” I shrugged.

“Sabella.” He pronounced it as if the name were an obscenity. Then slowly he asked, “Do you figure that I killed Vennezio?” He was watching me closely.

I shook my head.

“Why don’t you?”

“Because it—it—wouldn’t’ve been—smart.”

He smiled, now a little wearily. “That’s right. That’s the right answer, Drake. It wouldn’t’ve been smart. You’ve got it just right. I was stupid once, falling for Faith. I—I never thought anything like that could happen to me, as old as I am. When I was twenty, yes. But now—” He shook his head.

“Have you—are you deeply involved with her? Still?”

“Not now,” he said. “Not since Dom died. I just—just couldn’t afford to see her. And the funny thing is, I only talked to her four or five times, before Dom got knocked off. That’s all, just four or five times. And we just talked, nothing else. It’s …” Baffled, he bunched a fist, lightly pounding his knee. “It’s the craziest thing—I never heard of anything so crazy—let alone thinking it could happen to me. It all started when I first got out here. Dom was already in hot water because of her. And those damn letters of Aidia’s, they might’ve been trouble for everyone. So I went to see Faith, to tell her to get out of town—or at least to break it off with Dom. I’d already talked to Dom, but he was stubborn. He said that Faith was all that meant anything to him. He was in love.” Russo snorted, spreading his hands. “I laughed at him. Then, before I knew what’d happened, I found myself seeing her again—to talk things over with her. And then—” He shrugged.