The Walkaway Read online

  “It’s not and I am. You think you goddamn know everything.”

  “Don’t you usually work in pairs?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t suppose it has anything to do with the guy with the shiner in the houndstooth jacket, came in right before you did?”

  “Which guy?”

  “The guy you’re watching out the corner of your eye. He came in last night about forty-five minutes before closing time, asked a bunch of questions about Collins.”

  “Is that so.”

  “According to Bill Ketcham, he was asking what the situation was. He just got out of the army, he’s looking for a job, wanted to know if there was any action out there. Like specifically if there were still a lot of good-looking women on the line. How loose were they.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Shit, he all but asked point-blank if there was a pussy raffle going on. Made Bill real nervous, he didn’t say anything, but that doesn’t mean somebody else didn’t. What Bill figures is, he’s some kind of state cop, or maybe a fed.”

  “That could be.”

  “Well, for fuck’s sake, Ed, give me a little something back.”

  “I just came in for a drink.”

  “Come on. Give me something. You know I wouldn’t do anything to fuck up Sally’s operation, but if the state’s going to do it anyway I want to get there first.”

  I shook my head. “I have nothing to say about it.”

  And I didn’t either, not until I saw one of Ogden’s companions urgently waving somebody over. It was Amos Culligan, and Elting saw him, too.

  “Now that’s interesting, Ed. I bet you old Amos is going to tell that fellow there everything he wants to know and some more on top of it. Now you can’t go over there, seeing as Culligan knows you’re a cop. I could, though, if I knew who that guy was and what he was doing.”

  “He’s Sally’s husband,” I allowed.

  Elting rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought she was a widow. Or at least divorced.”

  “She’s still married. Master Sergeant Wayne Ogden, U.S. Army Quartermaster Corps.”

  “What’s he doing back here, you figure?”

  “Spending money. He’s got a room at the Bellingham, paid for a week in advance. Bought a car day before yesterday, and I’m betting it was a cash transaction.”

  “So he’s crooked. Where’s he stationed?”

  “Japan, since forty-six.”

  Elting nodded. “Dressed like a pimp. Think he’s through with the army? Things are changing fast over there, with the Occupation finished.”

  “His story is he’s on a three-month furlough, re-upped for three years and he’s taking it all at once. But his papers are in a phony name.”

  “Sounds to me like a man who ain’t going back,” Elting said.

  I nodded. It sounded that way to me, too, though he had a lot to lose by deserting. He had to have extremely pressing reasons if that was the case.

  “Sally know he’s back?”

  “I don’t know. Gunther does, but he doesn’t seem inclined to do anything about it.”

  “You’re here as a private citizen, then.”

  “That’s right.” Elting was strictly looking out for his own interests here, but in this case I thought his and mine coincided as much as they were ever likely to. “I don’t think anything’s going to come out of this that’s going to be suitable for newspaper publication. Even in the Beacon.”

  He shrugged. “You never know, do you? I just like to keep things stirred up.”

  I went back to my car, delighted to be leaving the Comanche. It was a clear night, and despite the weatherman’s prediction it hadn’t rained that day.

  At home I looked in on Jeff, sleeping peacefully. In our room I undressed and got into bed next to Daisy, who stirred but didn’t wake, and I went right to sleep and started dreaming about my navy days. I was in the engine room talking to a recruiting officer trying to get some leave that was due me. We were yelling back and forth over the sounds of a battle, the ship’s guns going off repeatedly, their echo deafening in the hot, damp engine room, and then we took a hit and the big turbine started burning, with thick greasy smoke roiling out of it, filling the air and making it hard to breathe, and the bastard still wouldn’t let me have the shore leave. I was about to go for his throat when I woke up with the feeling that the house was on fire. When I’d managed to reassure myself that it wasn’t, I looked at the clock. It was two thirty-five; I’d been asleep less than an hour.

  9

  Loretta arrived at the office at ten-thirty and made an appointment for an early afternoon showing, then spent most of the morning on paperwork on a pending sale. At eleven-thirty Steve Blasik stepped into her office.

  “You got Bill Dearden’s number handy?”

  “I have it, hold on . . .” She opened her Rolodex, wrote the number down, handed it to him, and went back to her paperwork. At the clearing of a throat she looked up and found Steve still in her doorway.

  “Are you free for lunch? Around twelve-fifteen?”

  “Sure,” she said, and again she returned her attention to her work.

  Ten minutes later the receptionist buzzed her. “Loretta? There’s a guy here, says he’s your husband.” She sounded dubious, and before Loretta could answer she heard the receptionist yelling. “Stop, goddamn you! Loretta, he’s heading your way. You want me to call the cops?”

  Standing in the doorway was Eric, looking worse than she’d seen in a long time, his hair dusty and matted into a wedge on top, his clothes half-soaked with perspiration. “That’s okay, Anita, it’s him after all.”

  “That bitch actually wanted me to pull out my driver’s license.”

  “So? Why didn’t you?”

  “I left it somewhere. Look, I need to take the Caddy.”

  “What for?” she asked, although she knew it didn’t matter; she was already thinking about the quickest way for her to rent something nice enough to show her afternoon listing in.

  “Because I can’t get to my car until tonight.”

  “And why is that?” she said flatly, feeling a little throb of defiance; she was mad at herself even though the part where she gave in hadn’t arrived yet.

  “It’s in a parking garage that doesn’t open until six P.M.”

  “That’s a funny way for a parking garage to operate. How’d you get all that dust in your hair?”

  He touched his hand to his dirt-stiffened hair and looked surprised. “I don’t know, I was cutting across an open lot and the wind kicked up. Look, are you going to give me the keys or not?”

  “I need my car for my job, Eric, I can’t just hand it over every time you get so drunk you can’t remember where you parked yours.” She said it with such force and speed she hiccupped slightly and had to take in a deep breath afterward.

  “Look, I have places to be and you’re wasting both our time arguing about it. So how’s about you hand over the fucking keys?”

  “It’s my car. Would you give me yours if I showed up at your office looking like shit and just demanded it?”

  “I have a very important meeting about funding the Trade Mart, and I’d like to get home and get cleaned the fuck up before I have to walk into a roomful of bankers to ask them for money, you think that might be a good idea?”

  His voice was rising again, and Steve Blasik appeared in the doorway.

  “This guy bothering you, Loretta?”

  “No,” she said, almost feeling sorry for Eric. She could see skin on his side where his shirt wasn’t all the way tucked in, and there was a small patch of dried, crusted blood on his knuckle, the blood obscured by more dust. “Steve, have you met my husband?”

  “Do you mind?” Eric said quietly, and Steve moved along. “Look, I’m sorry I yelled. Just give me the keys, all right?”

  “I need my car this afternoon.” The words caught her by surprise even as she spoke them. “Why don’t you get a cab?”

  “A cab?
”

  “Or you can walk. Suit yourself.”

  “It’s almost noon. Take me home on your lunch hour.”

  “Can’t. I’m having lunch with a colleague.”

  He looked away. “I’ll take it,” he said quietly.

  “Take what?”

  “I’ll take the goddamn cabfare. Make it ten.”

  She opened her purse and pulled out a twenty. “I’ll call the cab company.”

  He grabbed the twenty out of her hands and left without looking at her. She felt a little mean as she watched him walk away through the office, a tight grip on the twenty, but mostly what she felt was exhilaration.

  Ed parked next to the front door and stepped out, ignoring the PASSENGER LOADING ONLY—FIVE MINUTES sign. The hot, heavy air outside burned his exposed skin, even in the shade of the carport, and stepping into Lake Vista’s overcooled lobby was a relief. It was full of plants and bright with sunlight, designed to give a happy first impression of the home to prospective residents and, more important, their decision-making family members. A thin, crabby-looking woman seated behind an enormous low-slung desk looked up from a fast-food taco as though she thought he might snatch it from her hand.

  “You a spouse?” she asked through a mouthful of partially chewed taco.

  “Wait ’til you swallow. Nobody wants to look at that.”

  She looked hurt, chewed fast, and gulped. Her curled-too-tight platinum blond permanent looked wet and gave off a powerful chemical odor, and her attempt at a smile suggested that she’d never seen one, only heard them described. “Yes sir. How can I help you? Would you like some information about Lake Vista?” Her voice had a practiced, sunshiny quality that her face gave lie to, and she tried to hand him a brochure, which he ignored.

  “I want to talk to whoever’s in charge. Who would that be?”

  “That’d be Dr. Mercer. Was he expecting you?”

  “Where is he?”

  “He and his wife are out looking at houses.”

  “When’s he coming back in?”

  “Probably before five-thirty. His office hours are ’til six and he likes to be around at the end of the day in case any of the residents need his attention personally.”

  “I bet he does,” he said, bewildered at the lack of concern. Probably their liability insurance covered whatever Dot might care to sue them for. Come five-thirty he’d set this Mercer straight. Househunting, for Christ’s sake. “I’ll come back. Where’s Rory Blaine?”

  She consulted a piece of paper, squinting. “Mister Blaine is in 513.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know anything about him one way or the other except his ID number.”

  “Can I go back and see him?”

  “That’s the memory-impaired ward, so you’ll need to check in with security.”

  “Where’s that?”

  She pointed to a desk where a bored-looking guard with a crew cut and a dark green windbreaker sat looking sullen and disappointed. Normally he didn’t like the phrase rent-a-cop, since lots of private security guards were off-duty or retired officers, but this one really did look like he’d rather be home drinking beer and jacking off to the Sears catalog.

  “Here to see Rory Blaine.”

  The guard roused himself with some difficulty and hauled a clipboard out of a desk drawer. “Fill this out. Also I’ll need to see a driver’s license or other form of state-issued picture ID, no credit cards or Social Security cards or school IDs accepted.”

  As he filled in his name and address he handed the guard his Texas driver’s license.

  “Well, there, Mr. Dee-treel, looks like you’re about ready to check in yourself.”

  With some effort he managed to look into the man’s eyes without changing his expression as he handed the clipboard back to him.

  “Be real careful coming in and out the doors. They may be space cases in there but some of ’em’s pretty crafty when it comes to breaking out.”

  “That’s what I hear,” he said, the remark partially drowned out as the lock on the door buzzed then clicked open. The corridor he entered was white and brightly lit with greenish fluorescents, and the first person he ran into was a tiny, shriveled woman doing a little dance of exultation at the sight of him. She grabbed his arm, grinned salaciously, and started walking alongside him, leaning into his side, feeling as weightless as a hospital gown full of goose down.

  “So who do I have to blow to get out of this dump, old man?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You heard me,” she said, her voice wispy and dry. “I’ll do pretty much anything you want if you’ll take me out of here.”

  “Afraid I won’t be much help on that score, ma’am.” She might have been a hundred.

  “Anything. Fucking, sucking.” She put the back of her hand beside her mouth and looked at him sideways. “Even up the back stairs, if that’s what you go for. I don’t mind, I had a beau who was a merchant marine up in Seattle.”

  An attendant appeared at the end of the hall. “Mrs. Halliburton, I hope you’re not making them nasty suggestions to our visitor.” The attendant was a large woman in a white uniform, and she smiled indulgently at Mrs. Halliburton, whose sunny demeanor had instantly switched to poker-faced nonchalance.

  “I was just asking him for a light.”

  “Sure you were,” she said, leading Mrs. Halliburton off with a firm hand on the shoulder.

  At the end of the corridor in a small room without windows he found Rory sitting up in his bed, watching television. At the sight of Ed he jumped out of the bed and pointed at him, standing easily on one foot.

  “You! Ed!”

  Rory hopped over and crushed him in a bony bear hug. Though he hadn’t retained much of his former bulk he was still stronger than he knew, and thoughts of broken ribs filled Ed’s mind as the hug got fiercer.

  “You retired and moved to Dallas,” Rory said when he finally let go, as if reciting. “Your son lives there.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Gunther got out of here, you know.”

  “I heard. You know anything about that?”

  “He just up and walked away. I got to wear a bracelet now.” He raised his pajama leg to show Ed an electronic bracelet above his slipper, and it was only then that Ed saw that Rory was standing on one foot because the other was gone. “Gunther ought to have been wearing one, too, but he wouldn’t.” Rory laughed at the thought. “Gunther just does as he pleases.”

  “He does at that,” Ed said. “Sorry to interrupt your movie.”

  “That’s okay, I seen it enough times.” It was The African Queen, playing on a VCR. The buttons on the player with their abstract symbols had all been marked with a labelmaker: PUSH ME TO PLAY THE MOVIE, PUSH ME TO GO BACKWARD, PUSH ME TO STOP THE MOVIE.

  “That’s a good one.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What happened to your foot, Rory?”

  “They had to take it off. Diabetes. That was a while ago, right when I got in here.”

  Rory seemed happy, as he usually did. His dementia was due to head trauma, not his advanced age; he’d been hospitalized for decades now, since his mid-thirties, and the scars on his scalp still shone pink and terrible despite the grayness of his skin in general.

  “When’d you move in here, anyway, Rory?”

  “While back. I was in another one in between. My boy pays for it. He sells insurance now, he’s all grown up.”

  “Costs a lot to be in here, huh?”

  “I guess it does.”

  “I don’t guess Gunther’s pension covers the whole nut,” Ed said, not really expecting a response.

  Rory looked blank for a second, then piped up. “Gunther up and walked away from here.”

  What Gunther wanted most right then was a drink of water, and seeing the hospital where Dot used to work he was heartened to realize that he was just four or five city blocks west of Loretta’s street. Then he’d get his water, and maybe something t
o eat, too, though Loretta seemed to be one of these modern career girls, and he was led to believe they didn’t cook much. Probably there’d be something in the freezer, pizza rolls or tater tots, or maybe some ice cream. Glancing over at the hospital he watched an ambulance pull up in front. When he’d met Dot in ’42 it was a single building in the middle of a city block, surrounded by a vast lawn; now the whole block and more was taken up by the hospital, and he wondered if that original building was intact somewhere within the concrete and steel of the new facility.

  Four blocks later he stood at the end of the street and consulted the business card again. Number 249, on the opposite side of the street, a nice big two-story house, bigger even than he’d pictured, built of dark brick and with old trees lining both sides of the property and a couple more in the middle of a nice big front yard. He walked up the driveway and peered into a detached garage under the shade of a big oak. He knocked on the back door and got no response; the doorknob didn’t give, but he knew there’d be a key somewhere around. He looked on the ledge outside the window, under the mat and under a large round rock before he found it above the doorsill. He’d have to lecture her about this, too, he thought as he opened the door and stepped into the cool air of Loretta’s kitchen, though he did replace the key in case someone was counting on its presence. Slamming the door behind him he felt odd about what technically amounted to breaking and entering, but he couldn’t wait outside in the yard without being noticed. Besides, he told himself, I’m doing everybody a favor if I get a shower and wash my clothes. He was acutely aware at that moment that he was less than scrupulously clean; he and his clothes, his shorts in particular, were beginning to ripen, and the passing of the afternoon, even in the air-conditioned splendor of Loretta’s house, could only make it worse.

  He moved to the sink, turned on the tap and stuck his face under it, washing away the heat and grease and dirt with his hands before opening his mouth and drinking the cool water down in big, slurping gulps. He wiped his face on a dish towel next to the sink and looked around. It was a big kitchen, and on one wall hung various family pictures. There were a number of photos of two children at various ages, a boy and a girl, several of them with Loretta, a picture of Loretta getting some kind of award, and finally one that gave him a real jolt: a snapshot of Sally as a young woman.