The coffee was taking too long. John was suddenly worried about Joanie’s current well-being, and, regardless of Richie, left the room. This must be fake guilt, since he was supposedly, for Richie’s benefit, thinking of killing her. If that was fake, then the guilt had to be as well. Nevertheless, he felt awful, and when he reached the kitchen and saw her standing intact at the counter, fiddling with the coffee maker, it was as if some great menace had been removed—an irrational feeling, for Richie was still alive.
“Is that thing acting up again?”
She tossed her head. “What
does
function around here?”
“You.”
She turned around and said tenderly, “You do, too. I didn’t mean that.”
John wanted to embrace her but could not permit himself to do so at this point: he might not find the strength to let go. “It’s probably a loose connection. I’ll take a look later. He can’t stay for coffee anyway.”
“Randy? Really? Oh, too bad.”
But her disappointment seemed tepid. Was she no longer enchanted by the man? Perhaps she was finally beginning to have her doubts.
She went on to prove otherwise. “But we’ll be seeing a lot more of him when he moves out here. I guess we don’t want
to wear him out the first time.” Before John could restrain her, she breezed out to the dining room, where, when he reached them, she was urging Richie to call on her for any help he might need with his forthcoming move.
Richie meanwhile was frowning ominously at John.
John said quickly, “I said you had to leave now.” He turned to Joan. “What I didn’t say, though, was that I’ve got to go, too. I made a mess of the Agreement to Buy and don’t have another form here at home. We’re going to stop by the office.” To which he kept a key for just such after-hour uses, which were common enough. The story was plausible.
But Joanie was not quite finished with their guest even yet. “Not that I’m going to play matchmaker! But if you’d
like
to meet somebody—”
John too was dogged. “Leave everything till I get back. I’ll clean up.”
For the first time all day Richie, and not he, was the one off-balance, asking, “
Where
are we going?”
“I told you,” said John. “The office of Tesmir Realty. The bosses are surely gone by this hour, but if not, you must meet them. They are women, two nice women.”
He led Richie to the door, Joan following. Before going out, John said only, “See you soon.” There was not a moment to spare now, and nothing further to say that would not be distracting.
Joan persisted. “If you’re taking Randy’s car, then he can stop in for a nightcap on the way back.”
She was persisting to the end in being the perfect mate. Had Richie been a legitimate buyer of property, her performance would have been flawless. The pity was that John had never had such a desirable client as Richie seemed. He had never brought another home. There was a lack of moral balance in his profession. Clients might live all their lives in a
house he had sold them, and be succeeded by future generations of their own blood, but never see, or even know, where the agent lived. Or care. Why should they? They were not Richies.
Richie continued to be passive when they reached the car and John returned the ignition key to him. But once behind the wheel, he asked, “You mind telling me what this is all about?”
The interior of the car received some dim illumination from the little carriage lamp at the front door of the house (which Joanie had helpfully switched on) and, through the glass hatchback, from the streetlight at the curb, but before John’s eyes were habituated, Richie remained a silhouette.
“I had to have some excuse for getting out of there.”
Richie was shaking his head. “I’m sorry to have to say this, John, but you don’t seem to have anything in order.”
“That’s true.”
“You’re boasting about it?”
“I’m admitting it. That’s different.”
“Where’s your pride, man?”
“Start the car,” John said. “Let’s get going.”
Richie complied reluctantly. As he backed out of the driveway, he said, “You’re leaving loose ends.”
“You mean I should kill them all?” John wondered at the ease with which he heard himself ask the question.
“It’s not for me to say, is it?”
“Why are you so mealymouthed? If you’re capable of doing something like that—and you are—why can’t you talk about it?”
“Come on, John,” Richie complained. “There isn’t any connection.” Using only one wrist, he swung the car effortlessly around when it reached the street and headed in the
direction opposite to that he had taken in the morning. “There are things you do and things you say, and they’re not the same; everybody knows that. I’m surprised at you. I thought you were the one who always made sense.”
“Not me,” said John, and he was not being disingenuous. “I proved that today. You caught me off balance. I never knew what I was doing, and that’s a nightmare for a guy like me. I’d rather die than go through that again. I lost all faith in myself for a while.”
“And you blame
me?
“
Richie’s question had little moral weight, but John responded as if it had. “‘Blame’ may not be the right word. You might say you gave me an opportunity. What I did with it was up to me, in which case you deserve neither credit nor blame.”
“I don’t understand that at all,” Richie said. “You seem to be bothering yourself about things that don’t matter. I thought you really cared about your family and your home, but I guess you don’t really. What you care about is yourself, how
you
feel at all times, whether you’re living up to some idea of yourself, whether you’re getting your own way. If that’s really what kind of man you are, then you might not be any better than me, and I’m nothing.”
Earlier on John would have been devastated to hear this, but he was not at all disconcerted now. “You’re right, and you’re also wrong. What you’re right about is me. But maybe I can still make something of myself. You’re wrong about yourself: it isn’t true that you are nothing. You’ve brought great harm! You’re no nonentity. You’ve proved you exist.”
Richie whistled. “Is this what you got me out here for, John? I could have told you that. We don’t need to bring God into it.”
“God? Who mentioned God?”
“You know what I mean. When you talk that way, what you’re really getting around to is religion, aren’t you?”
“Do you believe in God?”
Richie snorted. “I sure as hell didn’t make myself. That’s basic. You can take it from there.”
“You mean, you can’t be held responsible for what you do.” This was not a question. Neither was it a matter of concern.
They were approaching the streets of the DeForest Park area, where the affluent lived. Probably the cop in the unmarked car had been called off the stakeout: there was no sign of him. That was all to the good. An explanation would have taken too long to make. No more time was available.
Richie nodded at what he saw through the windshield. “Nice neighborhood. You bring me here to sell me one of these places?”
“Yeah,” said John, relieved by a moment of irony. “How about that one?” He pointed at a stately white mansion to which the term “colonial,” much abused by realtors (who used it for almost anything that could not be called “contemporary”), could legitimately be applied. As a professional, he knew who owned each of these houses, though when Tesmir sold a listing up here, one of the partners handled it and the six-figure commission. It had not taken John long to understand that if he was ever to make a big score, he must have his own agency. But that seemed less likely to happen as the months, and now years, went by. Yet neither was he ever prepared to take a job with a regular routine and a fixed salary. It had become almost enjoyable to tell himself he might be hopeless, like a man confessing he was too fat while smugly patting a potbelly. That had to change.
Richie pulled the car in against the curb and stopped. “What’s something like that go for?”
“They’d probably try to get a million four, maybe five. That’s five acres, and there’s a three-bedroom guest cottage in back, big pool of course, gardens. Not exorbitant here, but in the present market maybe it would go for a mil two or even less. But that’s theoretical, of course. It’s not for sale. That’s J. William Osgood’s house. He’s CEO of—”
“Think he’s home?” Richie revved the engine and, before John could respond, added, “Now, that’s the kind of house you should have, John.”
“I’d settle for the commission on its sale.”
“Why should
he
have it and you not?” Richie asked. “All you need is some kind of break, and you’d get back your faith in yourself. I can see that. You’re all ready, just waiting for the opportunity to show your stuff.”
“Sure,” John said. “You’ve got that right. Maybe I’ll even win the lottery.”
Richie responded soberly. “Don’t look for that to happen, because it won’t. It’s too impersonal; that’s not your game.”
John was suddenly nervous about sitting there at the curb. Not only did the municipal police furnish extra protection to the area, but the DeForest Park Association employed its own private security force. Anyone afoot on the pavement after dark or an unidentified parked car at any hour would soon encounter one patrol or another. Richie could be expected to fire without warning.
“Let’s get going.”
Richie chuckled. “Let’s go in there and nail him.”
John had no emotion left for such matters, horrifying as they would have been at an earlier time. “Do you think you can just walk in the door on somebody like that? Surveillance
cameras, alarms, maybe a big dog, and the neighborhood even has its own private cops.”
“Hell,” Richie said, “we could try. All we need’s an idea. I could cut my arm, see, and bloody up my shirt, ring the bell and ask them to call an ambulance, talking through the system, you know, not even trying to get inside. Then sit down on the steps, bleeding. Laying down would be too much. You want to hold back some to be believed. You should even decline at first if they ask you to come in.”
“You’d have no time at all,” John pointed out. “Ambulances come right away out here. It’s not like the city.”
This information embittered Richie further. “He’s got the whole world where he wants it. But he doesn’t impress me.”
“J. W. Osgood? Do you know him?”
“No,” Richie said. “But I’d like to meet him. Just once.”
“Why?”
“I hate him. I hate his name. I hate his house. I hate this street. Let’s get out of here.” He kicked the accelerator, and they were jerked into motion. “Where now?”
Good question. Someplace where no innocent strangers were likely to be afflicted, but that might mean another planet. “Take a left there.”
After a while Richie said, “We’re leaving the good parts.”
“You can settle down now.”
Richie laughed. “I’m not worked up, John. You should see me when I’m upset.”
“Like this afternoon?”
“When?”
“You’ve already forgotten, haven’t you? Do you remember my family?”
“Are you kidding? We just left them.” Richie cleared his throat. “Believe me, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you could do better there, too.”
“Don’t say any more about them.”
“You’re right,” Richie said. “I apologize. I’m out of order.”
They were approaching a main thoroughfare. “Take a right here,” said John, indicating the lesser street that came before. “What about the doctors at Barnes? I can’t believe they’re incompetent.”
“John, you must understand what kind of person becomes a doctor. It’s somebody who does so for one reason alone: to have power over people they say are sick.” He nodded solemnly. “And they’ve got the right to call anybody sick they want to, like cops can arrest anybody at all. Just think of it. What they say they want to do is
help
you. But who asked them? They force it on you.”
They were now traveling along the secondary road, more or less parallel with the highway but at a slightly lower elevation. It was a place of commercial garages and warehouses, now mostly dark. Here and there was a night security light, but streetlamps were rare. John’s vision was used to the dark by now, and in the illumination from the dashboard Richie seemed as visible as if it were daytime.
“Doesn’t the medication do any good?”
“Ha!” Richie cried. “It makes you impotent. That’s all it is supposed to do.” He squinted out the window. “Why are we driving along here? It’s depressing.”
“You’re a wanted man. You might be recognized out there on the main road.”
Richie spoke tenderly. “You’re always looking out for me. You’re the one person I know who doesn’t try to get the hook in somebody. We’re friends for life. I want you to know that.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“We argue sometimes, but brothers are like that.”
“That’s right,” John said. “That’s really more what we
are than just friends: brothers.” He was not being entirely hypocritical. By now he and Richie did have a genuine connection. It could not be denied that they were close, like a jailer and his prisoner, though in this case it was difficult to say which was which, who was the greater criminal to the other. Perhaps each played both parts simultaneously, which would indeed be brotherly. John was aware that he could never settle with the man without an act of fratricide.
“I wouldn’t have turned out this way if I had had a brother like you years ago,” Richie said. “You would have looked after me.”
“I would have kicked your ass,” John said, not unkindly.
Richie chortled. “Damn right you would have!”
“I’m an only child,” John said. “That’s why I wanted another kid right after the first.” He had just remembered that. “Joan was right in saying that all we’ve done has been
my
idea, and she’s always gone along, postponing a career of her own. She came from quite a big family. I don’t have anybody. My dad died four years ago, and my mother married again and moved out West. That hit me hard. I was closer to her than to my father. I never really got along with him. She’s never yet seen either of my children.” John was saying these things for his own sake, so as to try to feel human for a moment.