The Wounded and the Slain Page 15

  Well? he asked himself. So what?

  So isn’t this what you wanted? Sure, it’s a sloppy way to go out, but let’s not get fussy and start finding fault with the method. The thing of it is, you’re getting what you’ve been headed for, what you’ve been asking for, so there’s no cause for complaint. But what the hell are you doing now? Why are you treading water?

  It’s a contradiction, that’s what it is: You shouldn’t be treading water. You should be standing here in the mud and letting the water go up past your eyes and the top of your head, with your mouth opened wide to take it into your lungs, doing it that way, the quick way. To get it over with so there’ll be no more agony, no more anguish, no more singing the deep-down blues they’ve never composed because they can’t find the lyrics to tell what it’s like when you’re a man but you’re really not a man because you’ve lost it somewhere along the way and there’s nothing you can do for her. Except let her go. Well, you did that, at least. You let her go. Very noble of you, really admirable. It’s so admirable it deserves a plaque. Maybe they’d hang it on the wall at the Yale Club, telling new members to read it and remember that fine gentleman who stepped aside for the better man.

  Then why are you trying to stay afloat?

  It wasn’t easy to tread water. His shoes felt awfully heavy and the weight of his clothes was a drag on his arms. Once he started to go down, he even tried to stay down, but in the next moment he made a feverish effort that lifted his head above the surface, his mouth opened wide, greedy for air.

  How come? he asked himself. What are you trying to do?

  Well, sure, you’re trying to stay alive. But what for? Say, that’s an interesting question. It takes you back to the Inspector, who failed to inspect deeply enough. But let’s not criticize the Inspector. After all, he had nothing to work with. You remember the way he said it, he said he hadn’t bothered to make notes because you didn’t give him anything he could use. You went in there and gave him something out of Hans Christian Andersen, your slap-happy, rum-happy brain expecting him to believe it, your spineless point of view hoping fervently for the gallows to lift you and drop you and get it over with in a jiffy.

  Hey now. What is this? A showdown?

  I guess so. I guess this is the time for it. They claim there’s always a time for it, the moment when a lamp lights up inside and you can see it the way it is. Not the way you thought it was, or what you thought you thought it was, certainly not the booby-hatch thinking that had you believing you merited the noose. This picture you see now is the true picture. It’s right side up and it shows you what actually happened in the alley outside Winnie’s Place, the man coming at you with the blackjack, and then when you used the broken bottle it was solely for the purpose of protecting yourself. So here and now we get rid of the billboard that tells of the destroyer who went out to spill some blood. Here and now we cancel that, and we replace it with what we hope will be some logic and common sense and normal thinking.

  Oh, Christ, he thought. It’s too late.

  Because now there was the sound and the shock of his head bumping up against the underside of the wooden planks, the muddy water now rising to the twelve-foot limit so that there was no more air. There was only the water and the feeling of sinking, with the lungs aching for air, the brain throbbing with the water-clogged pattern that was somehow disconnected from himself because he wasn’t thinking of himself as he began to battle the water, his body now horizontal and swimming several feet below the surface, going against the current that tried to keep him trapped under the wooden planks. He was thinking of someone he’d never seen, someone he’d never talked to, a man with whom he’d never communicated in any way, but who now cried out to him, Only you can save me.

  He was thinking of Winnie’s brother, Eustace.

  I’m trying, he said to the Jamaican. I’m really trying now. And just then he came up, hoping there’d be no wooden planks, but his head hit the planks and he went down again, his lungs lanced with flame that climbed to blaze in his throat. He had his mouth clamped so tightly that his teeth cut into the inner walls, the blood lapping over and under his tongue. What he wanted to do was to open his mouth, to let the water in, so there’d be no more of the agony that was just too much for a living creature to take. But he heard Winnie’s brother saying, Don’t—don’t— So he kept his mouth closed, choking on the fire he couldn’t take but had to take while he gathered everything he had for another try.

  His arms hacked at the water and he kicked at it and had the feeling he wasn’t getting anywhere. Then there was no feeling at all and he told himself he was going down. But his arms and legs kept moving, taking him straight forward and then up. He heard the Jamaican saying, Come on, come on. And it was as though the dark-skinned hands were reaching for his white-skinned wrists, taking hold and pulling him up and away from the chamber of nothingness.

  His head came up above the surface of the water less than two feet away from the wooden planks. As the air rushed into his gasping mouth, he hit the mud wall, grabbed at the top of it and held on and climbed over the side of the water-filled ditch. He rolled over a few times, still trying to get away from the water that wasn’t there, still seeking the air he’d already found. And then, resting on his back with his arms and legs spread wide, he drifted out of it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was past three in the morning when Winnie heard knuckles rapping on the alley door. Without sound she said, Go away, mon. Dis place not open for business tonight. She pressed her face deeper into the pillow, wishing she could get some sleep. For hours she’d been trying to fall asleep, but there were too many thoughts and all of them were worries. With her eyes shut tightly she’d tried to pull away from it, but somehow it had the feel of a rope tied firmly around her chest, the other end of it out there in the darkness where it waited for her brother’s neck.

  The knocking came again, and then again. Winnie lifted her head from the pillow, emitting a groan mixed with an oath. She climbed out of the narrow bed that needed new springs and certainly needed a better mattress. She rubbed her hand against the small of her back, arching her spine to lessen the stiffness. The tattered nightgown flapped around her bare legs as she shuffled out of the room, going toward the alley door.

  She reached for the doorknob, then decided against it. Whoever it was out there, he didn’t deserve to be let in. He was very rude to come knocking on the door at this hour, when all the lights were out, and he ought to realize she wasn’t selling drinks tonight. She turned away from the door and started back toward the tiny room that was a combination bedroom-parlor-kitchen. But then he hit the door again and called her name and she recognized the voice.

  Dat tourist, she thought. Dat clean-face American from de high-class hotel. Coming here for more rum. Coming here to seek de amusement, to look at comical native woman and listen to comical way she talk. I give him amusement, all right. Maybe I amuse him wid broomstick alongside de head.

  But instead of reaching for a broomstick, she opened the door and started to say something unpleasant and couldn’t say anything because the sight of him was unreal. He looked like something hauled out of a swamp.

  From head to toe he was covered with wet mud. He stood there smiling dimly and it was like a cadaver smiling. Winnie stepped back with her hand covering her mouth. He murmured, “May I come in?” and she nodded dazedly. He entered, saying, “Thank you,” but his politeness made it all the more unreal and Winnie was trembling as she closed the door behind him.

  She hurriedly switched on the light, and in the glow from the ceiling bulbs she saw it was not an apparition, just a mud-drenched man whose messy appearance somehow blended with the battered condition of the room. It was a kind of harmony, the bedraggled man and the shambles of the room with its littered floor and broken chairs and tables, the splintered bar and smashed-in walls. Winnie told herself it was an altogether satisfactory picture. He not clean-face now, she thought. Not wearing fine clothes now. And de less
on of it is, when dey leave de fine hotel and come down to play in de mud, dey get muddy.

  Then she wanted him to know what she was thinking. She folded her arms and leaned her head back and laughed at him.

  He went on smiling dimly. He didn’t say anything.

  She laughed more loudly. “What happened, mon? How you get all dirtied up like dat?”

  “I fell in a ditch.”

  Now she was laughing very loudly and holding her sides.

  “It got filled up with water,” he said.

  “What a pity.” She held her sides tightly and choked on the laughter. “I should have been dere to see it.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It was really something. It was strictly Buster Keaton.”

  “Buster Keaton?”

  “A famous clown.” He wasn’t smiling now. “Very famous in the silent-picture days.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Later,” he said. “Right now I want—”

  “I know what you want,” she broke in. She’d stopped laughing, and the look on her face was stonily resentful. “You want more rum.”

  He shook his head very slowly.

  “Of course you want more rum,” Winnie said. “You want rum and amusement and much fun.”

  “Not now.” He spoke quietly. “All I want now is information.”

  Winnie blinked a few times.

  “I’m looking for someone,” he said. “I’m looking for a man named Nathan Joyner.” She blinked again.

  “Nathan Joyner,” he repeated. “You know him? You know where I can find him?”

  She didn’t reply. Now her eyes were wary and defensive and she took a backward step.

  “Please tell me,” he said. “It’s important. It concerns your brother.”

  She became rigid. Her hand came up slowly and her fingers pressed hard against the side of her face.

  His tone was matter-of-fact as he started to tell her. He described what had happened in the alley the night before, and how it had become distorted in his mind, his thoughts veering away from logic and common sense and normal thinking, so that he’d visualized himself as a demon slayer rather than as a victim who had hit back. His voice quivered slightly as he went through that part of it, but then the quivering stopped and again he spoke matter-of-factly as he related the incident in the dining room of the Laurel Rock, where fifteen hundred dollars had changed hands. His tone remained level through all that and all the rest of it, all the way to the payoff at police headquarters, where the Inspector had said no sale. Then the only sound was Winnie’s footsteps as she moved slowly across the room. She made her way past the broken chairs and tables, seated herself on the toolbox, and absently reached for the screwdriver on the floor. She played it from one hand to the other, then looked at it and saw what it was, the tool she’d tossed away earlier when she’d given up trying to make repairs. Her fingers tightened on the handle as she said, “Now dere is some hope. At least dere is a chance.”

  “Yes,” he said. “But it’s a thin one. And there’s a time element.”

  “Time?” She looked at him. “How you mean?”

  “Joyner,” he said. “I’ve got to find him before he skips.”

  She frowned, not understanding.

  And he said, “The man has fifteen hundred dollars. It isn’t legitimate money. It’s the kind of money that makes them jittery and they’re always anxious to get out of town.”

  She shook her head slowly. She still didn’t understand.

  “I’m hoping he hasn’t done it already,” Bevan said, talking more to himself than to Winnie. “If he’s still in town, and if I can find him—”

  “But why you need Joyner? Why you not go to de Inspector and make de explanation?”

  “The Inspector wouldn’t believe it. He has me listed as Section Eight.”

  “Dat means what?”

  “Goofy.” He tapped the side of his head. “Sick up here.”

  “But if you tell de truth—”

  “It wouldn’t be enough, coming from me.”

  “Den I go wid you. I tell he—”

  “That’s out, Winnie. He’d show us the door. He’d think it was some silly stunt you’d cooked up to save your brother.”

  “If you would insist—”

  “But he wouldn’t listen. There’s only one way I can get him to listen. I’ve got to show him the proof. That’s where Joyner comes in.”

  “Wid a statement?”

  “With more than a statement. Joyner has his hands on the concrete evidence. He has the blackjack and the bottle.”

  So then she caught the drift of it. She nodded slowly. But now her frown was deepened and her eyes were dulled with doubt and worry. She said, “It discouraging, dis situation. It very discouraging. I sorry to say it, but I tink you face impossible task. It hopeless to expect dat Joyner will—” and she couldn’t find the word.

  “Cooperate?”

  “Yes. Cooperate.” She shook her head dismally. “You go to Joyner wid de request and he will laugh at you.” “But if I can—”

  “Dere nothing you can do wid Joyner. I know dat mon. I know what he is. He is trickster, a rascal who hide de tricks under friendly smile and quiet polite talk. You know dere is no way you can appeal to he heart.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Bevan said. “I know it needs something more practical.”

  “Money?”

  “No,” he said. “Money wouldn’t do it. He’s got a bankroll now. He can afford to be independent.” “Den how you manage it?”

  He was smiling thinly, giving her the answer with his eyes.

  It caused her to wince slightly. She said, “Mon, I not recommend dat method.”

  “Neither do I,” he murmured. “But the fact is, it appears to be the only way.”

  “It might lead you to grief, mon. You attempt to use force, you take serious risk.”

  He shrugged again. He didn’t say anything.

  Winnie said, “I tell you, mon, it perilous thing. Dis Joyner, he slick one, and if it come to violence, he not easily subdued. I have seen what he can do wid knife.”

  “He carries a knife?”

  “Always.”

  “And he’s an expert?” “Like a snake wid fangs.” “That’s interesting.”

  “And you?” she asked. “Can you use knife?” “Only to cut bread. Or cheese.” “Please, mon. It not funny.” “You’re telling me?” “Perhaps if you had pistol—”

  “No,” he said. “I might be forced to use it. I wouldn’t want that to happen. I’m not looking to hurt him. I just want to bring him around to my point of view.”

  “How you do dat? It need more dan talk.”

  He nodded slowly. Then he looked at his hands. He clenched his right hand and hit it lightly against the palm of his left.

  “Dat way?” Winnie asked.

  “It’s worth a try,” he said.

  “But how you expect to—”

  “Maybe I’ll have luck,” he said. And then, aloud to himself, “If I can get in close, get him before he’s ready for it, just to put him in the right mood, sort of dizzy but not too dizzy, I mean just dizzy enough to see things my way…”

  Winnie shook her head again. She sighed heavily.

  He grinned, as if he wanted to cheer her up a little. He said, “That’s all it needs, Winnie. Just a little luck.”

  Winnie said, “You cannot do it alone. You need some men to help you.”

  “What men?”

  “I could wake up several of my neighbors. Dey would be glad to—”

  “But that would ruin it,” he said. “Too many cooks, et cetera. If Joyner saw me coming in with other men, he’d know right away it was strong-arm stuff. If he’s fast and tricky, as you say he is, he’d know how to handle that. So what it needs here is some cute maneuvering. I’ve got to catch him off guard, and then move in and try to tag him.”

  “Wid what? Wid dose?” And she gestured almost angrily at his two hands, which were now unclenched and dan
gled from mud-covered arms attached to wearily slumping shoulders. She was looking him up and down, and she was seeing a sad excuse for a would-be combatant. “What chance you got?”

  “A chance to try.”

  There was something in his tone that caused her to focus on his eyes. Then very slowly she lifted herself from the toolbox. She stood very close to him and spoke in a whisper. “Why you do dis? Why take dis terrible risk?”

  “It—” But whatever it was, he couldn’t put it into words.

  “Dere is possibility you will lose your life. You realize dat?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Den why you make dis attempt dat might put you in de grave? Why you not go back to hotel, where you—”

  “Where I belong?”

  “Yes,” she said. Then something caused her to talk faster and louder, the words shooting out like pellets. “Dat is your place, mon. Dat is your category. I make de sensible suggestion you go back dere.”

  “What’s Joyner’s address?”

  “In morning you wake up and it is all forgotten. You sit down and have delicious breakfast in de elegant dining room.”

  “Tell me where I can find him.”

  “You put on de fine clothes and show de clean face to all de other clean-face tourist.”

  “Tell me.” He grabbed her arm.

  She shook her head. She locked her lips tightly.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered, and his hand tightened on her arm. “Come on, spill it,” he said, but she let out a groan, she would not speak. So then he let go of her and turned away slowly, moving toward the alley door. At the door he turned again and said, “Please—give me a break.”

  It was as though his eyes were reaching into her and pulling it from her lips, the house number and the name of the street. Her voice was toneless as she told him how to find the street.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

  He walked out. Winnie stood there looking at the alley door. For some moments her face was expressionless. But then she felt something in her hand, and she gazed downward and saw it there, the screwdriver gripped firmly at her side. Dis tool, she thought, dis tool dat is made to repair what needs to be repaired. Then she was lifting the screwdriver and holding it high, like a torch. The ceiling light glinted on the metal shaft, and the glow bounced off and poured into her eyes. In that instant her eyes were lit, her face was radiant, and she knew why she’d given him the address of the man he wanted to find. Without sound she said, He is one of us. His skin is white, but dat is no matter. He is trying to make repairs and he is one of us.