Shivers (23 page)

The Mayfair was a nice enough place—if you liked dumps—but had obviously seen better days. There was a semicircular bar and a small dining area in an adjoining room. A barmaid, young, pretty and half-asleep, came over to serve them as they slid onto two bar stools.

“Two beers, please,” Valerie said. A few minutes later the barmaid came back with two bottles.

“Could we have glasses, please?” Valerie asked.

“Oh, sure, just a minute.” The woman went away again and came back with two sopping-wet glasses. Then she filled them both up with beer from the same bottle.

“Kinda sleepy, isn’t she?” Dave said.

Val smiled. “Is it coming back to you at all? What George said—about where his parents lived?”

“Give it a few minutes. Let me wet my whistle and I’ll let you know.”

Val watched him as he drained half the glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and turned about in his seat to study the place.

“Haven’t changed the inside much,” he said. “Still pretty much the same. I can remember that we were sitting down there at the end of the bar when he said that he was in a hurry, had to leave soon so he could make it to his folks’ place on time for dinner. Right down there.” He scrunched up his face and tried to remember George Forrance’s exact words. He put his hand on his forehead again and tried to reconstruct the event; now and then he would mutter phrases which were hard for Valerie to make out, as if bits and pieces of the conversation were coming slowly back to mind.

“How’s it coming?” she asked.

“I remember I asked him where they lived, and he told me the subway stop. What the hell was it. Wish I could remember.” The darling was really trying, Val thought with some amusement.

“Dave, what are the subway lines that run through this area, or near it?” She’d taken a cab from Manhattan herself. Her firm’s cars were all in use.

“Let’s see. We got the IND lines and the BMT. The B train runs by a block away. He had to take that first, I remember. Wait a minute. He said he had to backtrack if he took the subway. He had to take the B going towards Manhattan, and then transfer to . . . to the F. That’s it. The F to Macdonald Avenue. Funny I should remember that now. He said his folks lived on Macdonald Avenue near Church.”

“Near a church, you said?”

“No. Church
Avenue.
It cuts across Macdonald. It’s a stop on the F train. Macdonald and Church Avenues.”

“And that’s where he was heading that night? To his parents on Macdonald Avenue?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Why couldn’t he just drive over in his cab?”

“You kiddin’? We don’t own these things. And he didn’t have no car of his own. Say, now 1 know why he talked so much about the subway and the long ride he’d have to take—he was hopin’ I’d save him the trouble and drive him over myself. Fat chance.”

“Well, Dave, thank you very much.” She took an extra five-dollar bill out of her wallet and handed it to him. “This is for your trouble.”

“Keep it,” he said. “Your company was all I needed.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “Though if you wanted to give me your phone number I wouldn’t complain.”

Valerie smiled and handed him her card. “Give me a ring,” she said. “Any time.” Her mother had always called her a brassy girl.

Dave looked like a little boy who’d just been told he was getting a pony for Christmas. “Uh, don’t you want me to drive you over there? It’ll take less time. My treat, babe.”

“Thanks, but I have other matters to attend to before I continue my investigation.” Actually Val was afraid if she spent another minute with the guy she’d talk him into spending the afternoon with her. And she had
work
to do.

“Okay. Thanks for the beer.” He put her card in his shirt pocket. “And for this. You’ll be hearing from me, babe.”

“I hope so, ‘babe,’ “ She winked. “Goodbye, Dave.”

She got up, put on her coat, and walked briskly out of the bar.

Ernest Hendon was sound asleep in his office when his secretary knocked on his door and accidentally woke him up.

“I’m sorry, sir. I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Quite all right, Joan. How would it look if someone else walked in and saw the head of the department snoozing in his office during work hours.”

“You must be exhausted. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“No, Joan. No. I’m going home early today. I always hated working on Saturdays. I just have to accept the fact that I’m not going to get anything done. You have those reports typed up for me yet?”

“Yes, here they are.” The middle-aged woman bent down and placed the papers on his desk.

“Thank you very much, Joan. I’ll take these home with me.”

“You poor thing,” she clucked sympathetically. “I feel awful about Henry too. Such a young man.”

“Yes, he was. And it was awful—is awful. I just can’t understand it. Maybe I feel partly responsible. I left him alone because I was too tired to go on. Maybe if I’d stayed . . .”

“There’s no use going on like that,” she gently chided. “Who expected such a young man to get a heart attack? It could have happened at any time, I’m sure.”

“I know that, but it doesn’t help.” He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the desk blotter in that way of his. “That’ll be all, Joan,” he said. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. No more calls, okay?”

“All right, Mr. Hendon. Good night.” She left the room.

At least someone else had notified Henry’s parents, Ernest thought. He had met them once. An elderly couple. Very sweet people. A small, friendly mother who was so proud of her son’s new position. His father, also tiny, beaming as he looked around the important place where his Henry worked. What was left for them now?

Ernest couldn’t help but think—insanely— that something Henry had seen, learned, last night while working on the stuff from Room 919 had given him his “heart attack.” That look of horror still frozen on his face . . . nothing could have erased it. The boy had died of
fright.

What had happened last night? What had Henry learned? There was nothing in his notes . . .

Ernest got up, left his office and walked into the refrigeration room next to Laboratory A. He opened the door of the third metal locker and looked inside at the small mound of reddish material that someone had scraped off the wall of the Berkley Arms Hotel earlier in the week.

He couldn’t take his eyes off it.

What, if anything, did it mean?

Telly’s Tavern was pretty crowded for a Saturday afternoon. An old-style Irish pub, Telly’s was frequented by lively middle-aged regulars, some of whom seemed to spend every waking hour within its confines. Lina Hobler sat at a table in the corner, half-blitzed, at a point where all the events of the preceding days had faded away into fantasy. She thought little, if at all, about Steven or George. Instead she sat and thought and thought about dear, departed Brock. Departed from her bed and board, that is. She would never allow herself to think that he was dead, at least not while she was drunk and had money in her pocket for another scotch and soda. So much better than beer, she always said. Besides, Telly’s beer was nothing but “piss-water.”

Lina was still musing about Brock, minding her own business, when
they
came in, two of the neighborhood children—”brats,” she called them. Actually the young man and the woman with him were both in their early twenties.

Lina had never been fond of young people. Even in her days of fame and triumph, her fans had always been grownups, serious,
learned
adults who could appreciate great art. She sneered at the two “brats” and went back to dreaming about Brock.

Booze and sex, Lina thought in her archaic manner, booze and sex made a woman bad. She raised her glass in a silent toast.
Let’s hear it for booze and sex.

Lina looked up and saw that the young couple was kissing, just smooching away at the bar, oblivious to the others around them. How Lina hated that girl. So young, so free, able to enjoy her private lusts in public without shame. What shame it had been for Lina when she was that age; what “shame” it still was. How dare that young brat have such fun!

The young man went over to the jukebox and put on some music. Telly, in an attempt to draw in a younger crowd, had put some of those new “punk rock” songs on the old nickelodeon. Lina hated them and grimaced as one of them started to play. The boy leaned against the bar and cheered the young woman on while she danced. She was dressed in tight pants and one of those blouses that ended at the navel and tied in front, barely covering her generous bosom.
What an outfit for winter!
Lina thought. Thrusting out her chest, wiggling her behind and twirling in small semicircles, the woman frolicked merrily to the music, innocent of the effect she was having on some of the patrons, though some of the leering male faces made obvious what they were thinking.

Lina watched. And waited.

Finally the song ended. The woman went back over to her boyfriend and gave him a quick kiss. During this pause Lina suddenly shouted at the top of her lungs: “We don’t want to hear no more of that lousy boogie music in this bar, girlie!”

A few people looked up from their drinks or conversation. The young lady said nothing. Her boyfriend spoke as the second song started. It was a slower number.

“You talkin’ to her?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m talking to the brat with her stupid punk music. We don’t like it in this bar, girlie!”

“Shut up, you old gorilla!” the young woman hollered.

“She’s drunk. Forget her,” the boy said.

“I don’t care if she’s drunk. She doesn’t have to talk to me that way, Eddie.”

People turned away, disinterested. They’d seen enough arguments in Telly’s already. The best fights—and the funniest—were between two drunks. Then a good battle between two sober guys belting each other all over the bar. But a fight between a drunk and somebody sober was nothing but a bore. The sober participant was too inhibited to start anything, making allowances for the other party’s condition, and the drunk was too woozy to do much more than repeat the same obnoxious things indefinitely until someone took a swing at him. Generally, it ended with the drunk passing out or the sober one leaving the bar in disgust.

“Sally,” the boyfriend said, “don’t worry about it. Just dance.”

“I don’t want to see Sally dance,” Lina bellowed. “This is
my
bar. I don’t have to sit here and listen to that crap and watch your ugly girlfriend dance.”

Sally, though not ugly, didn’t like it even being implied that she was. She stepped up close to the table where Lina was. “Look you fat old whore, why don’t you just keep your fuckin’ mouth shut!”

Lina sat up straight in her chair. No little girl was going to talk to her that way. “Don’t flap your tits in front of me you stupid little bitch,” she hollered. “I’ll hit you so hard you’ll remember it when you’re eighty.”

“Is that how old
you
are?”

The next moment Lina picked up a half-full bottle of beer and chucked it in the woman’s direction. It bounced painfully off of Sally’s forehead, its contents spattering onto Eddie’s white shirt. Two birds with one stone, Lina thought triumphantly.

When the bottle hit the floor, it shattered into pieces, alerting the patrons that a fight was indeed in progress. There was always that exception to the rule, after all. Telly, who had been switching channels on the TV set, turned around and screamed, “Hey!
Heyah!
Watch it down there!”

Enraged, Sally grabbed Lina by the hair and started pulling her out from behind the table. Wincing with pain, Lina flapped her arms above her head, trying to connect. She managed to land a solid blow on the young woman’s neck. Holding onto her hair more tightly, Sally pummeled the older woman until Lina slumped down onto the floor in a heap.

Telly was both manager and owner and he disliked bar fights, if only because of the damage they caused. But in some cases, when everyone was enjoying a brawl, watching some creep get his comeuppance, he didn’t step in unless it was absolutely necessary. He might have gone to Lina’s aid had she not made the mistake of resisting his advances a few months before. As far as he was concerned, she could fend for herself. Besides, he was having a good time watching this one. So was everyone else.

Lina could feel the throbbing pain in her head even through the natural anesthetic of alcohol. She reached up and felt her scalp, wondering if the girl had torn any of the hair out by the routes. She looked up and saw that the bitch and her boyfriend were back at the bar, laughing uproariously at her plight. She picked herself up and pretended that she was going to head for the john. Instead, she quickly stepped over to the bar, lifted her right hand above her shoulder, and swung it viciously across Sally’s face.

The sound of the slap was heard above the laughter, the talking, the music, and whoever it was who was puking in the bathroom.

The silence that followed served as vivid counterpoint. The music had stopped. Eddie acted first and thrust out his arm, shoving Lina backward, but she recovered her balance before she could topple to the floor again. Sally picked up her glass and threw its contents into Lina’s face. Grabbing Eddie’s empty beer bottle, she pounded Lina’s body with it.

Lina twisted around, latched onto Sally’s wrist, and shook it violently until the bottle crashed to the floor. This was only a delaying action. Lina was simply too giddy to adequately defend herself. Spurred on by the crowd, Sally bent Lina’s arm behind her back, and pushed her toward the door. Eddie held it open for them.

Outside, Sally threw Lina down on the sidewalk and gave her a few kicks in the stomach. Eddie spit in Lina’s face. “C’mon, let’s get outa here,” he said. Sally took his hand and they ran down the street, giggling and skipping like a couple of nine-year-olds.

Temporarily concerned, Telly came out just to see how Lina was. From her vantage point, Lina saw this big, upside-down, mustachioed Teddy Bear hovering above her in the doorway. “Who is it?” she asked.

“Why don’t you go home to Brock?” Telly said.