All The Bells on Earth (44 page)

Argyle snatched it out of his hand and tucked it away in his own pocket. “Thank you,” he said. “In fact, I no longer need your services. The situation has changed dramatically since I last spoke to you.”

“That’s true,” Bentley said. “It’s gotten a hell of a lot worse, hasn’t it?”

“For you, maybe. You should have been quicker on the draw with that check.”

“Take a look at this, if you can stand it.” Bentley removed a photograph from his coat now—Father Mahoney’s Polaroid photo—and showed it to Argyle, who immediately shuddered at the sight of his own idiot face.

“So what is this?” he croaked. “Some sort of extortion? The whole world’s playing that game, eh? Even the Church wants in. Re
pent
ance you call it!” He took the check back out of his pocket and handed it to Bentley, who looked at it for a moment in astonishment, and then tore it to fragments, dropping them on the porch.

“You’re a hard man to satisfy,” Argyle said.

“Not really,” Bentley said. “I want your soul.”

“It’s not for sale.”

“It was once.”

“You’ve got delusions of grandeur, haven’t you?” “I don’t have any delusions anymore. And you didn’t either when you called me the other day. You’re in trouble. Take a hard look at this snapshot. That’s the face of a man with one foot in Hell.” He held the photo up again, then abruptly tore it to shreds, too, and threw the pieces onto the porch with the torn-up check. “
There’s
your extortion for you,” he shouted, losing his temper now. “Keep your money. I’m here to right a wrong. It’s not too late for either one of us.”

“You’re right about that. It’s a brand-new day for me.” Argyle smiled at him now. “Anything else up your sleeve?” “A new day! How? Because of that damned …
thing
you’ve got in the coffin in the back room? If
that’s
your plan—trying to fool the Devil with a golem—then you’re a sorry damned fool. And I mean damned, too.”

“
What
a perceptive man you are,” Argyle said, a look of mock astonishment on his face now. “So you’re the one who’s been peering through my windows! Well, you certainly are tenacious. I
like
that in a man.”

There was an immense crash now, like a drawer full of silverware hitting a linoleum floor. This was followed by the grunting of a human, or nearly human, voice.

“Destroy it,” Bentley said.

“Would you like to meet him?” Argyle’s voice was full of enthusiasm. “He’s rather crude by some standards, but with a little help he’ll do the trick. And I suppose it’s true that if it weren’t for you he wouldn’t have any … life at all. I guess you’d call it life.”

“
I
wouldn’t call it that, and I utterly deny having
any
thing to …”

“Well, come on in then and say hello.” Argyle opened the door, stepped back, and gestured Bentley into the house.

Even though he was prepared, Bentley was struck dumb by what he saw. The thing that sat in an overstuffed chair next to the fireplace was very nearly Argyle’s twin, dressed again in identical clothing. But there was something coarse about it, something blocky and unfinished. It had a vague, lobotomized look on its face, and its flesh, if it
was
flesh, was waxy and discolored. The fact that its eyes moved and its mouth twitched made it all the more horrible.

“What do you think?” Argyle asked. He looked as if he relished the sight of Bentley’s face.

“Destroy it now,” Bentley said. “I’ll help you do it. Lord knows how, but we’ll do it. Destroy it or go to Hell.”

“Don’t pass Go, eh? Don’t collect two hundred dollars. Don’t you think it’s an astonishing likeness?”

Bentley breathed slowly and steadily, trying to compose himself. “It looks like I imagine you’d look after lying dead in a ditch. Can I ask where you got it?” He glanced around the room, looking for something heavy. What would it take to kill a creature that wasn’t alive?

“China. The Chinese are masters of replication. Do you know that they have carpet factories that will replicate any kind of picture onto a wool carpet?—your mother, a Picasso painting, a jet airplane, anything you want. This is the same sort of thing, after a fashion. A little more mysticism, perhaps. There’s a grand, Kabbalistic tradition to it—several thousand years of mystical mumbo jumbo….”

“Spare me the details. I’m not an idiot.”

“All right. Let’s just say that this is another case of the Chinese doing it more cheaply, that’s all. Moderately cheap, anyway—at least the production end of things. Attendant expenses can creep up on you. All they need is a photo, some odds and ends of memorabilia. In my case, a ring, baby shoes, a couple of articles of clothing. It comes to you fully clothed, by the way. When it arrives it’s not so … finely wrought, I guess you’d say, as our friend is now, but its general appearance improves as long as it’s in close association with its master, shares its master’s habits. It even brushes its own teeth.”

“It’s a filthy abomination,” Bentley said, suddenly wanting to shut him up.

“Probably it is. I’ll be glad to get it out of here, actually.” The golem shifted in its chair, the expression on its face undergoing sudden changes as if to mimic Argyle’s own phony high spirits. “Of course it’s deficient intellectually,” Argyle said. “I tried to teach it to play Scrabble, but it was no use. I wish I could say it cheated, but it was simply stupid. All in all it’s been a tiresome houseguest: drops food out of its mouth, pisses on the toilet seat—thank heavens it doesn’t smoke, eh?” He chuckled and shook his head almost fondly. “Ah well, I suppose there’s no use complaining, since it’s just about to leave us. It’s bound for a warmer climate, and I suppose it’ll serve in Hell as well as the next man.”

“Serve?”
Argyle spat the word out. “This soulless thing? The Devil wouldn’t want it.”

“Now, don’t insult my houseguest!” Argyle said. He waggled a finger at Bentley. “And you know absolutely
nothing
about its soul, such as it is. It has one, actually. It’s lying around here somewhere, locked in a jar.”

“If you’re talking about Walt Stebbins’s demon,” Bentley told him, “then I think I can assure you that you’ll never get hold of it. It’s beyond your grasp now.”

“
What
a dirty shame,” Argyle said, putting his hand to his mouth and widening his eyes. “So you’ve come all the way over here, full of passion, to tell me that I’ve failed?”

“Worse than failed,” Bentley said.

“And what would you have me do? Follow George Nelson and Murray LeRoy into that damned alley myself?”

“Repent!” Bentley shouted at him, suddenly losing his temper.

The golem abruptly stood up and took a couple of halting steps forward, and Argyle reached over and pushed it solidly on the chest, propelling it backward into its chair again. “You crawling little hypocrite!” he said to Bentley. “You Johnny-come-lately. Your kind is all the same, pointing the self-righteous finger at everyone else while you go around doing what you damned well choose. By God,
listen
for once! I don’t
need
your help.
I
am all the help I need!” He jabbed himself in the chest now. “
You
can damned well go to Hell, because I’ve got better things to do. Now get out of here.” He pointed toward the door.

“All right,” Bentley said evenly. “Self-righteous, is it? What about poor Simms? Was he self-righteous too? Is that why you murdered him?”

“Get out,” Argyle said evenly. “You understand
nothing
. Simms was an accident. I compensated his widow. If she needs something more …”

“Compensated!”
Bentley shouted. “I’ll show you compensation!” He dropped his Bible onto a tabletop, then bent over and picked up the fireplace poker, slapping it once against his palm. He took a step forward, threw his arm back, and swung the poker hard at Argyle’s head.

H
ENRY LOOKED INTO THE
motor home, through the closed screen door. Jinx worked at the little counter inside, putting together a couple of sandwiches. There was a jar of mayonnaise out, lettuce, sliced ham…. She caught sight of him, stared for a moment, then leaned toward the door and said, “Don’t stand out in the drizzle, for heaven’s sake. Come on in. I’m making lunch.”

Henry nodded, pulling open the screen and climbing the steps. Jinx had a space heater going inside, and so keeping the door open was a waste of energy, except that both of them liked the rain, especially the sound and the smell of it. A long time ago they had come to the mutual decision to waste the damned energy when they felt like it. How many rainy days did they have left, after all?

He sat down at the table and watched the street. He was speechless, thinking about this, about how he and Jinx had come to share this attitude about the rain. They’d driven just about every highway in the western United States in their day—slept in parking lots, eaten in diners; Jinx had a thimble collection from everywhere, hundreds of thimbles, porcelain and copper and pewter. Every one of them contained a memory, too, like a little cup—that’s what Jinx said; those were her own words. And now she’d been to see Goldfarb.

“You’re quiet this afternoon,” she said. She wasn’t giving anything away. He couldn’t read her face.

“Yes,” he said, “I guess I am.”

“What’s wrong? Are you eating that bran cereal that I bought?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, waving away any thought to the contrary.

“Well, here’s a sandwich. Did you want sprouts on it, or lettuce?”

“I don’t guess I want any sprouts.”

She put the sandwich on a plate along with a couple of lettuce leaves and slid it in front of him, then sat down opposite him with her own sandwich. He took a bite and chewed on it without any interest, and then shoved the plate away.

“All right,” she said, “what’s eating you? You look like a lost soul.”

“I saw the mail,” he said. “You’ve been to see Goldfarb.”

“Yes, I certainly have.” She looked at him curiously.

He shook his head at her, trying to find the right words. “Whatever she … whatever they told you, it was a lie.”

“Was it?” she asked, putting her own sandwich down. “How much of it was a lie?”

“All of it. I didn’t
touch
that woman. You can ask Walt or Bentley; either one of them will tell you. She’s a damned extortionist. She’ll say anything at all, anything. I wish to God I’d never …”

“Who
is
she, exactly? Not one of the lunchwagon women again?”

“No, she’s not one of the lunchwagon women. You know her, actually. Maggie Biggs. She used to run the Eastern Paradise restaurant out on King Street in Honolulu back when we were in the Kahala bungalow.”

Jinx squinted at him. “Who?”

“Short woman? Hair …” Henry gestured with his hands to illustrate Maggie Biggs’s hair.

“Hair?” Jinx said, nodding her head and pursing her lips. “That too …” Then suddenly she broke into a smile. “What
are
you talking about?” she asked.

“Don’t
mock
me,” Henry said, shaking his head at her. “For God’s sake, don’t play dumb. You’ve seen Goldfarb. We both know that. I’m trying to clear the air. What I’m telling you is that there was no reason for you to talk to Goldfarb. Not
any
reason. I … I love you like … like …” He realized that she was gaping at him. “Like I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I’m a damned fool.” He got up and turned toward the door, taking his hat off the peg and reaching for his coat.

“Now where are you going?” she asked. Her voice didn’t have any amusement in it any more.

“Walk,” he said.

“Now? In the rain?”

He shrugged. “I guess I just don’t know.”

“Henry, I called Mr. Goldfarb about the children.”

“Which children?” he asked, not grasping this.

“Why, Nora and Eddie. What other children are there?”

“You called Goldfarb about Nora and Eddie? Why? What did they do?”

“They didn’t
do
anything. Sit back down, for goodness sake, and I’ll tell you about it. Walt and Ivy are in a dead panic about that damned Jack, and so I took it upon myself to find out what’s what. That’s why I called Mr. Goldfarb. So I don’t know anything about any woman with hair like you’ve described. You’ve quit seeing her, then?”

“I never
was
seeing her. That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“Good. I never much liked her anyway. She was too brash. I remember she used to sit on a stool at the end of the counter and order the little Filipino waitresses around. So I’m glad you haven’t been seeing her. Who else haven’t you been seeing?” She narrowed her eyes.

“Why, I haven’t been seeing anybody else,” he said, puzzled.

“That’s good,” she said. “Neither have I. I don’t want to; do you know why?”

He looked at her for a moment, trying to puzzle her out. She was apparently serious.

“Because I love you too,” she said. “Just like you love me.”

He nodded at her. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. And I do love you, too.”

“I know you do,” she said. “Now sit down and eat your sandwich.”

A
RGYLE THREW HIS HANDS
up and stumbled backward, grunting as the poker whistled past his face. Bentley whirled around and lunged at the golem, slashing at the thing’s neck. The heavy iron head of the poker sank into its flesh as if into wet clay. Bentley wrenched it free and threw the weapon back for another blow, but just then Argyle slammed into his back, wrapping his arms around Bentley’s shoulders and grabbing the shaft of the poker, wrenching it hard.