“I did,” Diana said.
“It’s like that scene at the end, when they take the guy and put the cage of rats over his head. At that point you’ll do anything, betray anyone, if they’ll just go away and leave you alone. Oh, this bitch eventually stepped over the line. They usually do, people like that. She leaned on the wrong man’s little girl, and she was fired, but I was too damned relieved to feel anything close to satisfaction. She put a fear into me that lasted for years. Would you believe me if I told you I was twenty-one before I let a man touch me?”
“Why shouldn’t we believe you?” Walker said.
She wriggled into her clothes. When she came into the room, some of the fear had gone from her eyes. “If you ever wanted to walk away from here, that was your chance. You must want that story real bad, Mr. Walker.”
“Let’s say I’m curious.”
“Fine. Let’s say that.” She motioned toward the bathroom. “Your turn.”
Diana closed the door, and was gone a long time. Joanne Sayers sat on the bed across from Walker, the half-open cloth bag within easy reach. He could see the gun, nestled there in its bed of money. Fifties and hundreds.
She was brushing out her hair, grimacing as she looked in the mirror. “This’ll be stiff as hell, but maybe I’ll live now. Your girlfriend got any hairpins?”
Walker said he didn’t know. After a while, he said, “Tell me about your little girl, Joanne?”
She looked at him, sad and angry all at once. “What for? So you’ll have another piece of your goddamn story?”
“Just so I’ll know.”
“I didn’t like it much, the way you wrote that.”
“I thought I played that part of it your way.”
“What would you know about my way? It’s time somebody started stacking the facts on my side.”
“Come on, you know better than that.”
“Oh, yes, you reporters. Must be objective, what a laugh. Mr. Walker, whenever people play it straight with me, I’m the one who comes out wrong. Maybe I am wrong. I helped George and Michelle rob a bank and it’s been all wrong ever since. It’s like one act colors your life a certain way, and nothing you do from then on has any real value. What am I, some animal without any feelings? I’m not supposed to have a child and love her the way other people do, right? And what did that kid have to do with any of that? To her, George and Michelle were Aunty and Uncle. Then she dies in a freak accident, and you come along, and damn it, you just won’t let it rest. Just mentioning her in the same article with all that stuff about me—well, it had a dirt on it that I couldn’t get rid of.”
“Then why come looking me up?”
“Because, in spite of all that, it had a kind of honesty to it. Jesus, it hurts me to admit that. Even more than the honesty, it had a compassion behind it. Maybe I thought you’d help me put it right.”
“Maybe I will.”
The brush hung suspended over her head. “What do you want to know?”
“We’re just talking. Just rapping back and forth. You can tell me whatever you want to. Don’t tell me what you don’t want to.”
“I suppose you want to know about her father?”
“If you feel like it.”
“It could have been any of half a dozen men. How’ll that look in your newspaper?”
“We’ll never know.”
“All right.” She went on with her brushing, “
I
know who the father was. I wouldn’t be able to prove it, and you’re not gonna believe it, but I know the exact moment she was conceived. It could have been a lot of guys, but it wasn’t. It was this one, and now his name doesn’t matter because he’s long gone and he’ll never come back. And I wouldn’t give him the time of day if he did. Feelings do change, Mr. Walker. Nothing’s eternal, no matter what the love songs say. So her father isn’t important. His role was almost accidental. I’d call it casual, though it sure didn’t seem like that then. He was just there.”
“You must have had second thoughts about keeping her.”
“Mr. Walker, I had second thoughts about
having
her. George made an appointment with an abortionist, but I wouldn’t be bullied on something like that. I told him it was my decision, not his, and I’d do it if and when I was good and goddamned ready. That was one part of my life he couldn’t run. She was my little girl, and I just told George to fuck off if he tried to take too much. What we had was between us, nobody else. And then she wasn’t a baby any more. She was a real little girl. A kid, with a personality and her own way of doing things. And that brought out my terror all over again. What if I got busted then? What would happen to my kid? It bothered me all the time, damn near ruined my health worrying about that kid, I had dreams of being killed, shot down in front of her, real bad stuff like that. Whoever would have thought that she’d die first? Some freak accident. Who would have thought that?”
Diana came out in a swirl of steam, patting her head dry. She didn’t say a word, just went back into the rear bedroom, leaving them alone. But Joanne Sayers had said her piece for the night. She tied her hair back in a frizzy ponytail and put out the light.
“Mr. Walker?”
“Yeah, Joanne?”
“You could stay out here tonight. If you want to.”
“That wouldn’t be too smart, Joanne. But thanks.”
“Sure.” She laughed. “Anytime.”
T
HE CAR SLIPPED THROUGH
the quiet Philadelphia streets. The glare of the early morning sun bothered Armstrong. He was a night person. He hated harsh sunlight, but on this Wednesday morning he was full of hope. They had had a phenomenal break, the kind you dream about but never get. The bills from the Sayers-Lewis bank robbery had turned up, one big chunk, three thousand dollars’ worth. That had been one of their hole cards for years, the fact that the bills had been new and that the serial numbers were all consecutive. But the money had trickled in, a few bills at a time, and from various parts of the country. George Lewis had been too smart for a trap like that. Then, late yesterday, a sharp-eyed clerk in a Philadelphia bank had spotted the wad, big enough to choke a horse. Armstrong left Donovan and another agent to baby-sit the phones, and he and Kevin Lord took off for Philly.
It had been a simple matter after that, tracing the money from the bank to the car lot, where the nervous manager had taken it in trade the day before. The man chain-smoked and chewed Certs nonstop. He had been uneasy with that much cash lying around; he couldn’t wait to get it on deposit. He bubbled with useless chatter and information before Armstrong got the purchaser’s name as Mrs. Joan Brox. The car had been bought for Mrs. Brox by a Bill Neal, who owned a bookstore on the south side. Bill Neal had used Walker’s car as a trade.
The sign in Bill Neal’s window said OPEN 10 A.M., CLOSE 5 P.M. It was after ten, but there was no sign of life inside. “You go around back,” Armstrong said. “Just in case this turkey gives us some trouble,” Lord pulled to the curb and they got out. Armstrong walked to the front door and peered in. He rapped on the glass but no one came. The pounding became harder, more insistent, until he actually rattled the glass in the storefront. At last the door above the circular staircase opened and a man came down.
Bill Neal was one of those yippie types that Armstrong detested so much. One of those bearded nonconformists who were really the biggest conformists in the world. They all conformed to their idea of what the rest of the world loathed. They hadn’t had an original thought in twenty-five years, since the beginning of that beatnik crap in San Francisco of the early 1950s. They all looked alike, smelled alike, wore the same beads and faded jeans; same long hair, same beards. They smoked the same cheap dope. It was their way of saying screw the world, because they couldn’t handle it. Bill Neal was just like all his brothers. Sit him down in a classroom, tell him to work out something logical, and he’s lost in five minutes. He drifts through life like all the others, bumming from parents, stealing, playing poker with food stamps. Sucking the blood from people who worked for a living. Bill Neal’s bookstore, what a laugh. Armstrong would bet Bill Neal hadn’t sold a book in two months, if that was even the cat’s real name.
Bill Neal, or whatever his name was, came forward slowly. They had seen each other from a distance, and if Bill Neal could have his way the distance would get nothing but wider. Just as Armstrong had known Bill Neal, so had Bill Neal recognized Armstrong. An enemy by blood, a creature of another world. Fuzz. A pig. Oh, yes, Bill Neal had had his run-ins with the pigs, Armstrong had no doubt of that. Right now his heart would be pounding away in fear and loathing, wondering what they would make him on, perhaps knowing, and wondering if there was any escape. No, Bill Neal. There is no escape, you have made one mistake too many, and the grim reaper is here to collect.
Bill Neal stopped about five feet short of the glass. “What do you want?”
Armstrong held up his watch. “It’s after ten. Sign says open ten ayem. You run a business here or not?”
“I’m closed today,” Bill Neal said. “I’m sick.”
Not as sick as you’re gonna be, Armstrong thought.
Bill Neal turned away and started back toward the steps. Armstrong pounded on the glass. “Open up, buddy. We’ve got some things to talk about.”
This time Neal came closer, and peered through the glass. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Open the door and I’ll tell you,” Armstrong said sweetly.
“If you’re a cop, let me see your badge.”
Armstrong fished out his wallet and held it close to the door. Still, Bill Neal hesitated, as if by stalling a few more seconds, something might happen to save him. Armstrong waited patiently, and patience was not one of his virtues. He could almost see the wheels turning in Bill Neal’s head. When they had all turned, he would open the door, because there was nothing left for him to do.
He opened the door.
Inside, the place smelled like stale grass. There had been a helluva pot party there last night, a tidbit that Armstrong might want to use later. He would bet that upstairs, hidden away somewhere—but not so carefully that he couldn’t find it—was a dope stash. Maybe grass, maybe something harder, something he could really use to sweat Neal. Never mind that he didn’t have a warrant, never mind that he couldn’t make Bill Neal on any drug bust without one. What he needed was a lever, to pry Neal loose from information on the Sayers girl. A dope stash would do as well as the next thing.
“What do you want?” Neal said. “I haven’t done anything.”
“You’ve done plenty.” Armstrong walked along the rows of books, as a browser might. They were all cheap discards, throwaways, books you buy in a garage sale for a dime apiece. “Nice front you’ve got here,” Armstrong said.
“Man, what the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re no more book dealer than I am. What’s your real business?”
Bill Neal didn’t say anything.
“What’s your name?” Armstrong said.
“Bill Neal.”
“What’s your real name?”
“That is my real name.”
“You got a birth certificate?”
“Hey, man, what is this? You can’t just walk in here like this and start asking me questions. I got a right to a lawyer.”
“What do you need a lawyer for, Bill? If you haven’t done anything, what do you need a lawyer for?”
“I don’t like being hassled. You…”
“Me what? Me pigs? Us pigs? That what you were gonna say, Bill?”
“No, I wasn’t gonna say that. Say, what is this?”
“Just a friendly little talk between you and me. That’s all it has to be, Bill. You interested in keeping it like that?”
A light of hope had come into Bill Neal’s eyes. “Sure I am. I got nothing to hide. What do you want?”
“You’re willing to cooperate?”
“Sure. I got nothing to hide.”
“Do you know Joanne Sayers?”
“Who?”
“Let’s cut the shit, Bill. I thought you were gonna help me.”
“I am, man, I am if I can. Ask me something I know about.”
“You trying to tell me you don’t know Joanne Sayers?”
“Never heard of the lady.”
Armstrong waited a moment. It stretched into several minutes. He browsed among the bookshelves, looking at the titles, letting Bill Neal’s tension mount. Letting it get tight, like a drum covering, before he punctured it with his next question.
“You didn’t let Joanne Sayers stay here two nights ago?”
“No, man, nobody stays here.”
“You didn’t go down to Arnie Blake’s car lot and buy her a blue Plymouth wagon, serial number 45327-J?”
“Jesus, you got one helluvan imagination.”
“Bill, you’re in big, big trouble.”
The hope had disappeared from Bill Neal’s eyes. In its place had come the despair of the cornered.
“Let me tell you what you’re in for. Joanne Sayers, as you well know, is a fugitive. She’s been wanted almost ten years now by the federal government. The man with her was a reporter. We have reason to believe she kidnapped him and forced him to accompany her. She stole his car, forced him to sign it over to her, and you, Bill-boy, sold it for her. You hid her out. You helped her keep this man prisoner here against his will. You bought her a blue Plymouth wagon and then you helped her get away. You’re an accessory to bank robbery, kidnapping and murder, Bill, and you’re going to prison for a long, long time.”
He looked in Bill Neal’s eyes. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. In this case, it had driven Neal deeper into his shell.
“I don’t know about any of that,” Neal said.
“Okay,” Armstrong said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“What for?” Now Bill Neal’s face registered open alarm.
“I’ve been called a pig so many times, I’d like to see how real pigs live. You lead, Bill.”
The upstairs, as he knew it would be, was a shambles. Old food lay molding in the sink, and dishes were piled up from days ago. Papers were everywhere, and the dirt on the windowsill was a quarter of an inch thick. He didn’t see any dope; Bill Neal wasn’t that dumb. But there were some rolling papers on the coffee table, such as it was, and next to that was an open package of condoms.
Armstrong walked through the place. He went into the back room, where the bed was still mussed from Monday night. “This is where the reporter slept, right, Bill? And maybe the Sayers girl too. She wouldn’t want him too far out of sight, would she?” He came back slowly. “Oh, she’s a smart one, that Sayers girl. She’s got a grand plan in all of this. I can see her mind working on it now. Do you know what she’s doing, Bill?”