Ross Macdonald - 1960 - The Ferguson Affair (10 page)

 
          
“Her
husband is the only one you shot,” Padilla said. “Was she the little bird?”

 
          
Granada
said in a very gentle tone: “Mother told me there would be nights like this. I
go out of my way to take a killer, and what happens? The Lieutenant eats me
out. People come in off the street to tell me off.”

 
          
Padilla
said: “I’ll bring you a crying towel.”

 
          
Granada
called him a bad name and lifted his hand. A woman scurried and moaned in the
hallway. Then she shrieked in the doorway. Granada looked at the lockers along
the wall as though he was considering hiding in one.

 
          
“Who
let her in, for Christ sake?”

 
          
Secundina
Donato ran at him, stumbling and sobbing. One of her stockings was down around
her ankles.

 
          
“Murderer!
I knew you would kill him. I warned him. I warn
you now. Look out for me.”

 
          
Granada
was. He kept the desk between them.

 
          
“Calm
down, now, Sexy. You threaten an
officer,
I got to
lock you up.”

 
          
“Lock
me up! Kill me! Put me in the morgue with Gus!”

 
          
She
went on in Spanish, pouring a torrent of words at Granada. She tore her dress
at the neck and scratched her breast with chipped carmine fingernails.

 
          
“Don’t
do that,” Granada said helplessly. “You’ll hurt yourself. You don’t want to
hurt yourself.”

 
          
He
moved around the desk and caught her by the wrists. She sank her teeth in his
hand. Granada shook her loose. She backed up to the row of lockers and sat down
against them with a crash.

 
          
Granada
looked at his bitten hand. It was his gun hand, and the trigger finger was
dripping blood. Nursing it in his other hand, he went into the washroom.

 
          
Padilla
stood over the woman. “Get up, Secundina. I’ll take you home before you get
into worse trouble.”

 
          
She
covered her head with her skirt.

 
          
“At
least she isn’t Granada’s little bird.”

 
          
“I’m
not so sure, Mr. Gunnarson. Women can do one thing and mean something else.”

 
          
“Not
this time. Don’t let that psychology kick get the best of you, Tony. What did
she say to Granada in Spanish?”

 
          
He
regarded me coldly. “I don’t remember my Spanish so good. We always talk
American at home. Besides, she was talking
bracero
.
Her old man was a wetback.”

 
          
“Come
on, Tony, don’t play dumb.”

 
          
He
was embarrassed by her presence. He waved me to the far side of the room and
said with the air of a schoolboy reciting a lesson: “She said that Gus was very
good-looking, better-looking than Granada even when—even now that he’s dead.
She said she would rather have Gus dead than Granada alive. She said that Gus
didn’t kill Broadman, and he didn’t steal from him, either. The stuff he took
from Broadman belonged to Gus, and the Holy Mother would see to it Gus got his
rights in Heaven. She said she was looking forward to the day when Gus and
her
would be looking down from Heaven and see Granada
burning in Hell, so they could take turns spitting.”

 
          
Padilla’s
embarrassment had become acute. “That’s the way they talk when they get roused
up.”

 
          
Granada
came out of the washroom. He groaned when he saw the woman sitting on the floor
with head hidden and thighs glaring. He pointed his band-aided forefinger at
her. “Get her out of here before I book her.”

 
          
She
wouldn’t move for me. I was a lawyer, subtler than policemen, as treacherous as
doctors. Padilla brushed me aside politely. He lifted and wheedled her up to
her feet, coaxed and propelled her into the corridor and along its gauntlet of
official doors.

 
          
“What
happened?” the desk sergeant asked me.

 
          
“She
bit Granada.”

 
          
“Did
she, now?”

 
          
THE
DOOR OF OUR APARTMENT opened directly into the living room. Sally was curled up
asleep in the corner of the chesterfield. She had on the quilted bathrobe which
I had given her for her twenty-third birthday. Her brushed hair shone like gold
in the dim light of the turned-down lamp.

 
          
I
stood and looked at her. She stirred in her sleep, and made a small quiet
noise. It reminded me of an infant’s gurgle. Except for the
pearlike
curve of her body, and the swelling breasts that threatened to burst her robe,
she looked about twelve. I was kind of glad she wasn’t.

 
          
I
tiptoed into the kitchen, turned on the fluorescent light over the stove, and
peered into the oven. It was still warm, though the gas had been turned off. My
dinner was there, in a
pyrex
dish with a cover. I ate it off the
sinkboard
,
standing up. The china clock looked down at me from the wall, pointing its
hands accusingly at twelve midnight.

 
          
I
heard Sally’s
slippered
feet cross the living room.

 
          
“So
you finally decided to come home,” she said from the doorway.

 
          
“Wait.
The condemned man has the right to a last meal. It’s not precisely a legal
right, perhaps, but it’s recognized by long tradition.” I put another piece of
lamb in my mouth and smiled at her, munching.

 
          
She
didn’t smile back. “I hope it chokes you.”

 
          
“On
the contrary, it’s delicious.”

 
          
“You
are a liar, Bill Gunnarson. It’s dry as a bone. I can actually hear it
crunching. And after all the trouble I went to with that dinner. Honestly, if I
wasn’t so mad, I could cry.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry. It really is delicious, though. Have a slice.”

 
          
“I
couldn’t possibly eat anything,” she said distantly. “Don’t worry. I’ve had my
dinner. I waited until after nine o’clock, and then I broke down and ate by
myself.
While you were out rampaging.”

 
          
“Rampaging
isn’t exactly the word.”

 
          
“Give
me a better one.”

 
          
“Moiling
and toiling.
Chasing the buck.
Seeking
the bubble reputation.”

 
          
“Please
don’t try to be amusing. You’re about as funny as a crutch.”

 
          
This
stung me to retort that she could carry on for both of us in the wit
department, what with her brilliant similes like the one about the crutch. I
requested her permission to quote it to friends.

 
          
She
gave me a glazed and shiny look which reminded me of the china clock on the
wall. “Maybe I can’t compete with movie actresses. I’m getting big and fat and
physically repugnant. It’s no wonder you go off rampaging and leave me in the
lurch.”

 
          
“You’re
not fat and repugnant. I wasn’t rampaging. I’ve never met a movie actress in my
life. I didn’t leave you in the lurch.”

 
          
“It
felt like the lurch to me. You didn’t even telephone.”

 
          
“I
know. I tried, but things kept getting in the way.”

 
          
“What
sort of things?”

 
          
“Things
and people,” I said vaguely.

 
          
“What
people? Who were you with?”

 
          
“Wait
a minute, Sally. We don’t ask that question, remember?”

 
          
“I
always tell you where I go, and who with, and everything.”

 
          
“If
I told you, I’d be a lousy lawyer.”

 
          
“You
can’t use your profession to cover up every time.”

 
          
“Cover
up what?”

 
          
“Your
failure as a husband,” she said
shinily
. “When a man
deliberately avoids his own home the way you do, it’s easy enough to understand
what it means. You’re essentially unmarried—a perennial bachelor. You don’t want
the responsibility of a wife and family. No wonder you get fixated on your
clients. It’s a safe relationship, an ego-feeding activity, which makes no
demands on your essential self.”

 
          
“That’s
quite a mouthful,” I said. “What have you been reading?”

 
          
“I
am perfectly capable of observing the state of my own marriage and drawing the
necessary conclusions. This marriage is in grave danger, Bill.”

 
          
“Are
you serious?”

 
          
“I
have never been more serious in my life. Do you know what you are, Bill
Gunnarson? You’re nothing but a profession that walks like a man. When I tried
to tell you on the phone about my good report from Dr. Trench, you weren’t even
interested. You don’t even care about Bill Gunnarson, Jr.”

 
          
“I
care about him very much.”

 
          
“You
may think you do, but you don’t. You spend days and weeks of your good time
trying to save criminals from going to jail where they belong. But when I tell
you that Bill Gunnarson, Jr., is going to have to have a room of his own, you
fob me off with empty promises.”

 
          
“My
promises are not empty. I told you we’re going to find a bigger place, and
we’re going to.”

 
          
“When?
After all the burglars and murderers are taken care
of? When Bill Gunnarson, Jr., is an old man with a long gray beard?”

 
          
“For
God’s sake, Sally, he isn’t even born yet.”

 
          
“How
dare you swear at me?”

 
          
She
looked around her kitchen as if for the last time. Her glance went over my
head, parting my hair like a stainless steel comb. She turned grandly and went
out. Her hip bumped the door frame.

 
          
I
didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I wolfed the rest of my dinner,
masticating it thoroughly. It was a good excuse for grinding my teeth.

 
          
Ten
minutes later, after a hot shower not followed by a cold one, I climbed into
bed behind her. Sally lay with her face to the wall. I put my hand in the soft
fold of her waist. She pretended to be dead.

 
          
I
pushed my hand farther around her. Her skin was as smooth as milk. “I’m sorry,
I should have phoned you. I got carried away by the case.”

 
          
“It
must be some case,” she answered after a while. “I was worried about you. The
murder was in the paper. So I thought I’d calm myself down by reading that book
on Successful Marriage—the one that Mother sent me. There’s a chapter in it
that was very upsetting.”

 
          
“About perennial bachelors?”

 
          
She
snorted slightly. “You’re not a perennial bachelor, are you, Bill? You want to
be married to me and everything?”

 
          
“And
everything.”

 
          
She
turned toward me, but not all the way around. “I know
,
there hasn’t been much everything lately.”

 
          
“I
can wait for everything.”

 
          
“And
you don’t mind? The book says this is a bad time for men, because they’re so
passionate. Is it a bad time for you?”

 
          
“It’s
a wonderful time.” I slid my hand down her belly. She was radiant even in
darkness.

 
          
“Ouch,”
she said.

 
          
“Ouch what?”

 
          
“Feel.”

 
          
She
moved my hand, and I could feel him kicking. He might turn out to be
a
her
, of course, but the kicks
felt like masculine kicks to me.

 
          
Sally’s
breathing slowed down into sleep. I turned over to go to sleep myself. The
telephone rang like an alarm set off by my movement. I levitated, dropped to
the floor running on tiptoe, and got to the damn thing before it could ring
again.

 
          
A
muffled voice said: “Is that Gunnarson? William Gunnarson the lawyer?”

 
          
“This
is Gunnarson, and I’m an attorney.”

 
          
“You
want to go on being one?”

 
          
“I
don’t understand you.”

 
          
But
I understood. There was a threat in the words, underlined by soft menace in the
voice. I thought it was the same man who had called Ferguson, but I couldn’t be
sure. The voice was blurred, as though the man at the other end of the line was
talking through a mask. “You want to go on living, don’t you, Gunnarson?”

 
          
“Who
is this?”

 
          
“Just a well-wisher.”
He snickered. “If you do want to go on
living, you better drop the case you’re on, and I mean any part of it.”

 
          
“Go
to hell.”

 
          
“You
better give that some thought. You have a wife, I hear, and I hear she’s
pregnant. You wouldn’t want her to take a bad fall or anything. So forget about
Holly May and her little friends. You got that, Mr. Gunnarson?”

 
          
I
didn’t answer. The anger in my head was like scalding ice. I slammed the
receiver down. The fraction of a second later I regretted the action, and
picked it up again. There was nothing to be heard but the dial tone, the voice
of idiot space. I laid the receiver down for the second time, more gently.

 
          
But
the bedroom light was on, and Sally was standing at the bedroom door.

 
          
“What
on earth was that, Bill?”

 
          
I
tried to recall the exact words I had spoken. I’d said too much to pretend that
it was a wrong number.

 
          
“Some drunk.
He seems to have a grudge against someone.”

 
          
“Against you?”

 
          
“No.
Not against me.
Against everybody.”

 
          
“You
told him to go to hell.”

 
          
“You
would have, too, if you’d heard him.”

 
          
“He
upset you, didn’t he, William?”

 
          
“I
don’t like my sleep to be interrupted by maniacs.”

 
          
“What
did he say?”

 
          
“Nothing repeatable.
Gibberish.”

 
          
She
accepted my explanation, at least for the present. We went back to bed, and she
dropped off again like a lamb. I lay awake for a long time
beside
her quiet breathing.

 
          
We
had been married for nearly three years; tonight for the first time I was fully
aware of her preciousness to me. But I was more determined than ever to stick
with the case and do my duty in it. The problem was to know where my duty lay.