Young Mr. Keefe (39 page)

“What makes you think—?”

“Look, sweetie, if you were trying to cover up, you did a pretty lousy job. Leaving that parking ticket in the desk—Jimmy's licence number on it—the time—two-fifteen a.m.—parked over here on Hyde the night I was in L.A.—”

Claire let out a short gasp.

“Neither of us are angels. You've probably seen a lot of him these past few weeks. So why not? Why not continue to see him—on this basis?” He came close to her and looked at her intently. “I'm not kidding. I think it might be—well, kind of fun. All three of us would have what we wanted—”

“
Quiet!
” Claire buried her face in her hands.

“I'm willing,” Blazer said. His voice, which had been casual and even, all at once became intense, almost pleading. He knelt on the floor beside her. “Listen to me! I need you, you're right. I'll do anything you say to keep you here. You can call Jimmy right now and tell him it's all right with me, Claire. Because I don't mind, sweetie, I really don't. I just want us to be happy, sweetie, that's really all …”

“Please … stop talking …”

“It's because I love you!”

“Love!”

“Doesn't it prove I love you if I'm willing to go along with this?”

“Quiet, quiet …”

He reached out and touched her hair. “Claire!”

She spun sharply and struck him across the mouth with her hand. The fine edge of her diamond ring caught his lip, and a dark trickle of blood appeared from the corner of his mouth, glistened against his tanned cheek.

He dropped his hand quickly and stood up. For a long time, he looked down at her. His eyes flashed with storms of anger and grief. He seemed to tremble, as though his whole body wrestled with some inner force, terrible and deep. Finally, he shrugged, bent, and picked up Harry Masterson's letter from the coffee table. “Well, think it over,” he said. “If you won't—well, maybe you've served your purpose. I've got the job.” He turned and walked into the bedroom.

Claire said nothing. After all, there was nothing to say.

After all, there is nothing to say
, she told herself, again and again.
There is nothing to say
.

She sat there, in the glass room, the white
pikaki lei
around her throat. She studied the view, as though she had never seen it before. She heard Blazer flop into bed. The bedroom light went out. And, after a moment or two, that curious rhythmic tap-tapping, that childish habit that refused to go, sounded from the bedroom.

Claire continued to study the view beyond her shadowy reflection in the black glass.

25

Jimmy had promised to play bridge with Mike and the two Williams girls, Cathy and Margaret, on Saturday. He got an early start from Sacramento and arrived at Mike's apartment on Laguna Street a little before noon. He felt lighthearted. The day was cool, but balmy, rather like a New England spring. He whistled happily as he ran up the steps to Mike's door and rang the bell.

Mike met him with rolled-up shirt-sleeves and a kitchen towel tied around his waist, apron fashion, over his tan trousers. “Hi,” Mike said. “I'm just fixing myself some lunch. Come on in and join me.”

“Ah, I can smell it,” Jimmy said. “Broiled fillet of beef with mushroom gravy, French fries, and fresh peas!”

“That's right.” Jimmy followed Mike into the little kitchen, where two hamburgers spat and sizzled in a frying-pan. Deftly, Mike shaped two more patties from the mound of ground beef, dropped them in the pan, and jumped back as the hot fat sputtered angrily. He went to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of cream soda from the clutter of bottles on the bottom shelf.

“Hamburgers and cream soda,” Jimmy laughed. “Your menu never changes, does it?”

Mike grinned. “Yeah, I guess I'm in a rut.”

When the hamburgers were done, Mike produced buns and a catsup bottle, and they carried their lunch back into the living-room.

“You know,” Jimmy said, “I think you should marry Cathy Williams. At least she'd make you eat balanced meals.”

“Maybe,” Mike said between mouthfuls, “but that'll have to wait.” And he added, “She'd feed me soufflés with truffle sauce. That girl needs a millionaire.”

“What time are they coming?”

“Around two o'clock.”

After a minute or two, Jimmy said, “I got a letter from Helen.”

Mike smiled broadly. “Say, that's great,” he said, “that really is!”

Jimmy's face flushed. “Yes,” he said, “I think so.”

“It had to happen, didn't it? Didn't I predict it? Didn't I see it in my crystal ball?”

“You and your damned crystal ball!” Jimmy laughed.

“I knew it would. But remember—don't rush things. Don't get hot under the collar and try to rush things too much. Take it in easy stages. Play it like—like a seven-no-trump bid.”

“All right, teacher—”

“I mean it. You've got to make a slam this time.”

“I'll hold on to my high cards—”

They both laughed. Mike sat back and wiped his sticky fingers on the towel that still hung around his middle. “Well,” he said, “now that you've told me your good news, I'll tell you my bad.”

“What's happened?”

“Oh, it's not really bad, I guess. I was expecting it. Uncle Sam.”

“You mean—‘Greetings—'?”

“Yep.” Mike pushed his empty plate forward on the coffee table and stood up, clicking his heels together. “Ten-shun! Recruit Gorman reporting, sir!” He raised his arm and delivered an exaggerated salute.

“When do you have to go?”

“Three weeks. I'll be home for Christmas. My folks will like that, I guess. Then I'll see the New Year in at Fort Devens …” He walked to the window and stood there, looking out, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. “Just as I was beginning to like this city, too,” he said. “Even the gasworks.”

“Gee, that's tough, Mike,” Jimmy said.

Mike turned and grinned. “Well, I'm philosophical,” he said. “That's my philosophy of life, you know—be philosophical.”

“They'll be calling me one of these days, too, I guess,” Jimmy said thoughtfully.

“That's why Cathy—and all that—will have to wait.”

“Have you told her yet?”

“No—I will, though.”

“Well, that's too bad,” Jimmy said.

“No, it's not, not really. I'll put in my two years, then I'll come back, get married, settle down, have a baby—like you.”

“You mean, come back here?”

“It's funny,” Mike said, “but I've really got to like this town. I never thought I would—but I have.”

He walked across the room and clapped Jimmy on the shoulder. “Hey, cheer up!” he said. “It's not that bad.” He picked up the plates and carried them into the kitchen. He returned and stood in the doorway. He ran his hand through his stiff orange-yellow hair. “Look,” he said, “I've got to get a haircut before Cathy comes. I promised her. Will you guard the place from prowlers?” He unwound the dish-towel from around his waist, wadded it up, and tossed it to Jimmy. “And you can even do the dishes. O.K.?”

Jimmy caught the towel. He smiled. “Sure, Mike,” he said.

In the apartment on Russian Hill, Blazer was trying to locate Claire. He had come home Friday night and found her gone. She had taken the car, and, as far as he could figure out, only her blue overnight case. Most of her dresses still hung in the closet, along with her mink jacket and most of her shoes. So he knew she must be planning to come back. He sat with the telephone cradled in his lap, calling one hotel after another, first asking for her under her married name, and then—in case she was in one of her melodrama-heroine moods—under her maiden name. He tried the Fairmont, the Mark Hopkins, the St. Francis, and the Palace with no luck. In between he tried to reach Jimmy at his apartment in Sacramento, where there was no answer.

It was possible, of course, that they had gone somewhere together. And yet he was fairly sure they hadn't. He couldn't believe they would be quite so obvious. Jimmy, he was sure, would be smarter than that. At eleven o'clock, he gave up and fixed himself a short, stiff drink. At eleven-thirty, he went back to the telephone, this time going through the list of hotels in the classified directory. He started alphabetically, skipping only the ones south of Market Street where Claire, even in her social-working days, had refused to venture. When he got to the Clift Hotel, he found her. Mrs. Stuart B. Gates had registered yesterday afternoon, but her room did not answer. No, he said, there was no message.

He had another drink and tried the Sacramento number again. There was still no answer. For a while he sat in the empty room, sipping his drink, staring into space.

Then he remembered Jimmy's friend—the fellow with red hair—whom Jimmy had brought to the party. Mike somebody. Mike Gorman. It occurred to Blazer then that Mike Gorman, perhaps, was the only person who could give him the complete story. He found a Michael Gorman listed in the book, on Laguna Street. He started to dial the number, then stopped. This was a situation that called for a face-to-face talk—he was a good enough salesman to recognize that. So he made a note of the address, stood up, and went to the bar and made another drink. He stood there, drinking it. On the exterior, Blazer seemed calm, but he was far from being so within.

After a while, he went downstairs and flagged a taxi. As the taxi entered the thirty-five-hundred block on Laguna, Blazer saw Jimmy's green convertible parked, and knew that he was on the right track.

When the door-bell rang, Jimmy was just finishing up the dishes. He wiped his hands hastily on the towel and went to the door.

“Hi, Keefe-o,” Blazer said, smiling.

“Blazer!” Jimmy said. “My God, what are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure—come on in, Blaze.” Jimmy stepped aside.

“It was an off-chance,” Blazer said. “I thought I might find you here. How've you been?”

“Fine. Fine, Blaze. And you?”

“Just fine.” Blazer strolled about the room, looking at photographs on the walls, at the random collection of athletic equipment that lay about. “Where's your friend Mike?” he asked.

“He went out to get a haircut. Sit down, Blaze.”

Blazer kicked a lacrosse stick lightly with the toe of his shoe. “What is this guy? Jack Armstrong or somebody?” He plunked himself down on the sofa, stretching his legs in front of him. “Well,” he said lightly, “it's been a long time, Keefe-o.”

“Yes,” Jimmy said, “it has.”

Blazer looked around the room. “Christ, what a dump!” he said suddenly.

“Look, Blaze—” Jimmy began.

“I'm sorry,” Blazer said quickly. “I didn't mean that.” He sat up. His eyes searched Jimmy's for a moment earnestly. “Look, Keefe-o,” he said, “we're still friends, aren't we?”

“Sure,” Jimmy said. He fished for a cigarette in his pocket, found one and lighted it. Then he sat down opposite Blazer. “Sure,” he repeated.

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

“We've been trying to get in touch with you, you know—Claire and I.”

“Yes,” Jimmy said slowly. “Yes, I got a letter from Claire.”

“I asked her to write.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you cut us off like that?” Blazer asked.

“I didn't mean to—to cut you off, really,” Jimmy said. “But—well, a lot of things came up. My father died, for one thing—”

“Yes,” Blazer said. “Claire's mother wrote us. I'm sorry.”

“Thanks, Blazer.”

“We really felt pretty bad about it. Especially since you'd cut us off your list, so to speak.”

“Hell, it wasn't that, Blaze—”

“I know why it was, and that's one reason I wanted to see you. I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For what Claire said—you know, that night you clobbered Erickson. She didn't mean it. She was tight, like the rest of us.”

“I know she didn't mean it.”

Blazer was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I don't want to make you feel badly or anything, but did you hear what happened to old Stan—and Tweetums?”

“Yes,” Jimmy said quietly, “it was in the paper.”

“It happened in our car. Did you know that? Tweetums borrowed it.” Blazer shook his head slowly back and forth. “You know,” he said, “it's kind of queer …”

“What is?”

“Stan and Tweetums. In our car. That was how my folks died, you know. In an accident in a sports car.”

“Yes, I know,” Jimmy said gently.

“History repeats itself!” Blazer laughed bitterly. Then he shrugged. “Well, that's life, I guess.”

“Yes …”

“So—are we forgiven, Keefe-o?”

“Really, Blaze, there's nothing to forgive.”

“Will you come back and see us, then? You know—like you used to? Hell, we used to have great times, didn't we? Like that time on the mountain, remember? That was a great time, wasn't it? The three of us—camping out? We can have more great times like that, can't we?”

“Well,” Jimmy said slowly, “sure. But right now—well, to tell you the truth, Blaze, I'm in the process of—what do they call it?—‘effecting a reconciliation'—with Helen.”

Blazer stared at him. “You're kidding!” he said.

“No.”

“You mean—you're going back to her?”

“It's more like getting her to come back to me.”

“What the hell do you want her back for?”

“Well,” Jimmy said quietly, “she's the girl I married.”

“You're a damn' fool! I mean, after the lousy way she treated you!”

“We both made mistakes …”

“Aw, you're a damn' fool, Keefe-o!”