Night-Bloom (39 page)

Watford picked up his newspaper again and resumed reading the editorial. “The plain unpleasant truth is,” the editorialist of
The Times
continued, “that nothing lies between the innocent citizen and wanton violence but a constabulary, undermanned, underfinanced, riddled with inefficiency at the highest levels and badly demoralized by loss of confidence in their capacity to cope. The era of creative violence—that is, violence as an art form, where the act of imagination is every bit as important as the consequence of the act itself—appears to have entered its golden age.”

Watford spent a restless evening. He waited out the long reaches of the night on his back, gazing at the ceiling. He thought about himself and Quintius. Or was it Boyd? Sometimes he called him Quintius and sometimes Boyd. In his mind he saw the young honeymoon couple amid crowds surging out of a brightly lit theater into the glare and festive tumult of the street. There were restaurants and bars and horse-mounted police urging traffic through the narrow clogged byways. Crowds laughed and pushed through the gaudy night. Suddenly there was a shattering sound. Something from up above had plummeted into the street. A gasp and screams, people shouting. Then a slowly widening aperture with something lying at the bottom of it, huddled and broken at its center.

Toward dawn it finally occurred to Watford that he was going to die. He had always known that people died. Hadn’t his mother and father and a slew of uncles and cousins all done so? He understood that, but like most people never seriously entertained the notion of its happening to him.

Ramsay, he knew now, had been urging him to prepare himself. Doubtless that was the reason for all those questions about his family. And then there were the legal matters regarding insurance and next of kin that the hospital would have to contend with afterward.

Watford had never been a particularly religious person. His father, when questioned on the matter, described himself in typically airy fashion as something called a Universalist. Pressed for a definition, the elder Watford would fall back on vague, lofty generalities such as brotherhood, mutual respect, behaving with civility and common decency to one’s fellow man.

Mrs. Watford had no strong opinions on the matter, either. Whatever Cyril said, she would sweetly concur. What she might have felt privately, however, she kept to herself. So Charles Watford, at the age of thirty-six, never having to confront the sticky business of tidying up one’s mortal affairs, had at last to face the dismal prospect of his final days.

Somewhere in the still gray hours before dawn, Watford tried to pray. He clasped his hands as he’d seen others do and recited the well-known nursery invocation his mother had tried halfheartedly to teach him as a child. “Now I lay me down to sleep …” He knew no other way of approaching his Maker—if indeed there were such a thing. The gist of his prayer was that he be saved. He knew that he had sinned, committed crimes, told lies. But if he were saved just this one time, he vowed he would change his ways. Defeat his addiction. Work steadily at a job. Marry. Possibly even have children.

Failing that, he prayed that if indeed he must die, there be no fear. He feared fear even more than he feared extinction.

As he prayed he tried to imagine the God to whom he was appealing. The Being that he imagined was not anthropomorphic, but more one of those fanciful creatures comprised of the parts of various creatures drawn from an ancient bestiary. Watford’s deity had a great deal of bear and reptile in it, with several other ambiguous appendages thrown in for good measure. In that feeble, fumbling and ill-conceived image, he had created something he could accept, something having powers greater than his own. Thus, he could appeal to it for both strength as well as mercy.

As the sun rose that morning above the great stirring engine of the city, Watford at last drifted off to sleep. The obelisk he had imagined in his prayer recurred throughout his fitful dreams. It appeared as a large statuesque creature seemingly carved of stone implanted in a vast arid disk of plain stretching outward to an azure infinity. It stared toward the distant horizon as if in a state of impenetrable meditation and from somewhere deep within it a low unvarying hum pulsated outward for miles and miles.

There was no content or narrative to Watford’s dream. Nor was he any part of it. He was merely a spectator outside of the frame of reference. It was as if he were watching a slide show that consisted of a single view, unchanging, hour after hour. But, most oddly, throughout the duration of the dream, he continued to hear the voice of his mother.

“Charles, Charles,” it said in that chiding, faintly sniveling way that was nonetheless so replete with endearment. “You mustn’t go on like this. You know how your father counts on your getting ahead in school, getting a proper education so you can come into the business with him someday. But that will never happen if you go on like this. Your father hates a slacker. And worse even than a slacker, he loathes a liar. Make us proud, Charles. Do the right thing by us and everything will come right for you in the end.”

Late in the morning, when at last he awoke, he had scarcely any recollection of his dream. Seemingly unfazed, he took his breakfast, read his paper, watched the morning news in the hospital day room with a number of convalescents.

Later the nurses came and took him downstairs for his radiation treatment. Like a small child, eager to please, he submitted uncomplainingly to the medication and procedure he knew would shortly make him deathly ill.

The nurses and doctors attending him noted no significant change in their patient. Nor was Watford himself aware of the subtle seachange that had begun to stir within him. He was rather startled himself later that afternoon when he picked up the phone, dialed Francis Mooney’s office and left a message asking him to stop by the next day. He had something he wanted to tell him.

“You see, I did live with her. And I did sort of say I would marry her. Well, I mean, I didn’t actually say it. … I just sort of suggested that it could happen. But I was never involved in that bank robbery. I swear. You can check that out with T.Y. yourself.” Mooney blinked doubtfully at the man sitting on the edge of the bed before him. “T.Y.?”

“Bidwell. T. Y. Bidwell—the guy who actually was involved in the … You don’t believe me,” Watford moaned bitterly. “I can tell you don’t.”

“I believe you. I’m just trying to follow all this as you relate it. Now you’re telling me that you ran out on some lady named Myrtle, and at the same time there was a bank robbery in Kansas City. Have I got you right so far?”

“Right. That’s it.”

“And your closest buddy was involved in the robbery and he tried to incriminate you. But you weren’t involved.”

“That’s right. I wasn’t.”

“But the Kansas City police are after you. Right?”

“Right. I mean, at least, I think so.”

Mooney’s eyes narrowed. Inside, he was berating himself for being idiot enough to have come. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“You’re the police, aren’t you?”

Mooney sighed and sank back into the armchair beside the bed. “This is why you called me?”

“Well, sure. Like I told you. What the doctor said and all that. I mean, about my white blood cell count and my chances and all that. I just wanted to square the books.”

“I see.” Mooney fumed quietly. He’d rushed up directly from the station the moment he’d been informed of Watford’s call. He’d been chasing up a homicide all day. I should’ve known better, he thought, eyeing the pallid figure sitting upright before him. “Well,” he said, starting to rise, “I’ll be glad to make some inquiries of the Kansas City police, if you’d like me to.”

Watford appeared uncertain. “If you’re sure it’s okay.”

“Sure, it’s okay.” Mooney set his hat back on his head. “Thanks for calling. I always like to hear from old clients.”

“Where are you going?” Watford’s voice bore a note of alarm.

“I’m going back to the station.”

“You don’t have to leave just yet, do you?” Mooney’s bewilderment deepened. “I’ve got a lot of paperwork waiting for me, Mr. Watford. I promise to get back to you as soon as I’ve spoken to Kansas City.” He made a move toward the door.

“I also broke into a pharmacy in Kew Gardens the other night.” Watford shouted it defiantly at the detective’s back. Mooney turned and stared at the man sitting rigid and erect at the edge of the bed.

“I’ve got this addiction to Demerol.”

“Demerol?”

“When I need it, I really need it. That’s how come t,he pharmacy. I told you what the doctor said about my health and all, didn’t I?”

“A couple of times now.”

“They don’t give you the full sentence if you’re … like dying, do they? I mean, the judge can show leniency in cases like that. Right?”

“Sure. Sure. Now what’s all this about a pharmacy?”

“I broke into one. Two weeks ago Thursday. I needed a prescription. It was late. Everything was closed. I couldn’t help myself. I fully intend to pay them back.”

“What pharmacy was this?”

“The Cardinal Pharmacy. Round the corner from me on Austin Street. Didn’t you hear about it?”

“No,” Mooney growled. He’d begun to show signs of irritation. “I missed that one.”

“Well, I did it,” Watford announced with almost touching pride. “It was me. I confess. But I didn’t take anything but my medication, I swear it.”

“Medication?” Mooney’s ears pricked.

“Demerol. I told you I have this addiction, didn’t I?”

“Did you notify the police?”

“You’re the police, aren’t you? I’m notifying you.” Mooney crossed back to the bed and sat down gloomily in the chair. He was suddenly very tired. “Queens is not my jurisdiction, but if you’d like I’d be glad to check on it for you with your local precinct.”

Mooney’s temper had been growing gradually shorter. It had the effect of making Watford contrite. “You see … I called you because …”

“You’re dying and you wanted to square the books. I know, you told me.”

“You don’t believe me, do you? You don’t believe a word I’ve said.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I just wish you could have picked a more convenient time for all these confessions. Well, if that’s it …” Once again Mooney lumbered to his feet and extended his hand.

Watford took it and held on tight. “You don’t have to go now, do you? We could play some cards. I just got a new deck.”

“I’d like to but I can’t. I really have a lot of work.” Mooney had to pry his hand loose, leaving Watford looking spurned and a bit bereft.

“Don’t go,” he called out again. “Stay a bit longer. Just talk is all.”

By that time Mooney had reached the door and was crossing the threshold.

“His name was Peter Quintius,” Watford suddenly cried out.

It was the sound of it more than the name that brought Mooney around.

Watford seemed suddenly frightened, as if he regretted the words just uttered and wanted to take them back.

“What did you say?” Mooney took a step forward, then paused again.

“Peter Quintius. His name was Peter Quintius.”

“Whose name?”

“The man. The man you’re looking for. The one in the bed next to me at the hospital,” Watford rattled on with large frightened eyes. “You called him Boyd, but his real name was—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t quite …”

“Quintius,” Watford nearly shouted. “Peter Quintius was his name.”

There was no sound in the room save for the detective’s high, wheezing breath. On his face was that look of impatient disbelief. “How come you remembered today and couldn’t remember two days ago?”

“Because of the TV.”

“The TV?”

“It was on TV. The other night. Didn’t you see it? On the news. The guy who broke into his father’s shop or gallery or something like that. You mean, you haven’t heard about that either?”

As a matter of fact, Mooney had heard something. But only remotely. A snatch of conversation overheard in the locker rooms above the din and horseplay of fellow officers. Besides, it was an uptown job. Distinctly off his beat.

“Let me get this straight, now,” said Mooney, more perplexed than ever. “You’re telling me that you saw something on the TV news the other night …”