The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction (106 page)

His desk is on a dais, sort of, and he’s looking down at you, even if you’re standing, which you usually are, in his office. I was standing now. It was very quiet in the room. He had the
Courier
spread out on his huge desk.

He’s a distinguished-looking gent, tall and beautifully tailored, and not quite fifty. He was looking more than a little troubled at the moment.

he looked down at me gravely. “Mr Shea, you . .. ah . . . appear to know this June Drexel rather well.”

“I knew her in high school,” I told him. “I haven’s seen her much since.”

“Much? How much, Mr Shea?”

I was still nervous, but the Shea temper was climbing, too. I could feel my neck get warm. I said, “I’ve seen her around from time to time, and said hello. In public places, you understand. It’s nothing like the
Courier
tried to suggest.”

His face was still very grave. That’s why I couldn’t understand his smile, just then. It was a small, cold smile. “And that’s all?”

“That’s all.”

He seemed to be trying to read my mind. He stared at me quietly for a moment. Then, “Do you think she’s Peckham’s girl?”

“I don’t know,” I told him. “She isn’t working, and she isn’t married. She must be somebody’s girl.”

He ignored that. He said, “I’ve a complaint from the district attorney, on you, too. I got it at lunch, at the club.”

I said nothing.

“He seems to think you know more about this than you’re telling, too.”

I shook my head. “I don’t.”

He had a letter opened in his hands which he kept sliding back and forth from one hand to the other. “You know, of course, that the
Star
put Gargan in office?”

Gargan was the DA. I nodded.

“You know that we are working with him and for him, all the time?”

I nodded again.

“Yet, you create a minor riot in his office. You lose your temper and strike a fellow worker. You embarrass not only this paper, but the district attorney.” He seemed to be working himself into a temper. “I hope you realize the gravity of all this. Mr Shea.”

“I lost my temper,” I said. “I wasn’t in my right mind. That Drexel dame brings out the worst in me.”

“Oh,” he said, and was silent a moment. “You haven’t seen her since high school, but she brings out the worst in you. Would you mind telling me, Mr Shea, just how long ago you went to high school?”

“Ten years ago,” I replied.

“I see.” He put the letter opener down on his desk. He was fumbling with a tiny jet elephant he wears on his watch chain, now. “Ten years ago.” He studied me. “You’re an extremely competent employee, Mr Shea, but still subject to discipline. Do you think a month’s leave of absence would be adequate punishment?”

I stared at him. Finally, I said, “I didn’t expect any punishment. I didn’t figure I had it coming.”

He smiled. “That would be for me to decide.”

I was trembling now. I said, “Whether I work here, or for some other paper would be for me to decide. I wouldn’t work for a paper that doesn’t back up its reporters.” I turned, and walked out.

I expected him to call me back, but he didn’t. Some of my anger held, but not enough to prevent me from realizing I’d been a fool for the second time that day.

Tom Alexander was still working on his column when I went back to clean up my desk. He watched me quietly for a full minute, then asked, “Leave of absence, huh? The Cavanaugh curse.”

“I quit,” I told him.

“Sure,” he said. “Of course. I’ll see you in a month. That’s what I bet it would be. Did I win?”

“That’s what he tried to nail me with,” I admitted. “But I wouldn’t take it. I tell you I quit.”

He swiveled around in his chair. “Johnny, don’t be a sap. There isn’t another paper in town’ll hire you. Cavanaugh’ll see to that.”

“Not even the
Courier
?”

“You wouldn’t work for them, Johnny. Nobody with any self-respect would work for them.”

I didn’t answer him. I went over to see if Sammy Berg was still in the office, but he wasn’t. I left, without saying anything to Foley, the city editor. He’d find out, soon enough.

I didn’t go home. I didn’t want Norah to find out I’d lost my job, not yet. I still had hopes. Foley would go to bat for me; the whole city room would go to bat for me. I hoped.

I went over to Mac’s and had a drink. A couple of the boys were in there, and we gabbed for a while, and then they had to go to work. Mac’s is a hell of a place when there aren’t any customers around. I went to a movie.

It was a lousy show. They’d spent a couple of million on it, and it was full of names, and it had been promoted right up to the budget limit. It was still a lousy show. I could produce a better one myself.

I left, in the middle of it. I walked along Fourth Street, dreaming about that, about the big names Norah and I would be entertaining in our beach home. Norah was just giving me hell, because she’d caught me kissing one of moviedom’s biggest stars, when I heard her voice.

I came back to this world, and there she stood. My Norah, my lovely, red-headed parcel of honey and fire. She stood there, on the sidewalk, with a copy of the
Courier
under her arm.

“John Badlwin Shea,” she said.

I looked at the
Courier
, and into her blue eyes. “You don’t believe any of that do you, honey?”

“Is it true, Johnny?”

I shook my head.

“Then I don’t believe it.”

I kissed her, right there on Fourth Street.

She said, “You’re so impulsive. Did you have to hit that reporter?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “As soon as I saw this paper, while I was out shopping, I went down to the
Star
. Tommy Alexander told me you’d quit. You didn’t have to quit, Johnny.”

“I guess I didn’t,” I admitted.

“And now you’re going back to see Mr Cavanaugh, aren’t you? You’re going to apologize for losing your temper.”

“Like hell,” I said.

“You’ve got seniority there, Johnny, and they pay better than the other papers. You’re not going to forget all that.”

“Honey,” I said, “you let me worry about that.”

Her lips set primly, and she said no more about it. “Well, we’d better be getting home. Mrs Orlow is with Junior, but I told her I’d be back in two hours. Let’s go home and talk this over.”

“There’s nothing to talk over,” I told her.

Neither of us said anything more as we walked to where the coupé was parked. Norah was beginning to get
that look
.

Silence, on the drive home. Silence, as we walked up the flagstones to the door, while Mrs Orlow explained that Junior had been just fine, and slept like a little lamb, and wasn’t he just that, a little lamb, though? While she looked at me curiously, probably wondering how much of the
Courier
account was true.

Things the public reads in the
Courier
, they forget the next day. But things your friends might read about you in the
Courier
they never forget. They might not believe them, but neither will they forget them.

When Mrs Orlow had gone, Norah said, “I’ve never known you to be this stubborn, Johnny.” She paused. “But I guess there are quite a few things about you I didn’t know.”

“If you’re talking about June Drexel,” I said, “that’s ten years old.”

“But you went with her then, didn’t you? And yet, you’ve never once mentioned her name.”

“I’ve gone with lots of girls,” I answered. “I’ve forgotten most of them. I don’t know all the boys you went with.”

“You’ve forgotten most of them,” she repeated. “But you didn’t forget her.”

“She’s about as easy to forget as a toothache,” I explained. “She’s a very unusual girl.”

“I’m sure she is.” She hesitated, about to say more. But at that moment, Junior awoke, and started to cry. She hurried into his room.

This, I thought, would be a good time to take the screens down. This would be a good time to get out of the house. I changed my clothes quickly, and went outside.

I was trying to pry the too-tight screen off the sun-room window when Norah came out with Junior. She put him in the carriage, and told me, “I have to finish my shopping. We’ll be back in a half-hour.”

That last sentence was just by way of letting me know that our discussion wasn’t over. “I’ll be waiting,” I said. “I’m not going any place.”

She sniffed.

She and Junior were just turning the corner, when this Caddy pulled up behind my car at the curb. It was a black sedan, long and low. I went around to the side of the house, to get the kitchen screens.

I could still see the Caddy, and I could see the smallish, thin gent who got out of it. He didn’t look like a banker to me. He came up the walk, and I came around to the front of the house, to wait for him.

He was wearing an expensive topcoat, and a fine hat. He was wearing a dead expression on his thin face. His eyes were brown stones.

“You John Shea?” he asked.

I admitted it with a nod.

“I’m from the
Courier
,” he said. “I’ve got some questions for you.”

“I haven’t got any answers,” I told him. “Does the
Courier
furnish all their reporters with Cadillacs?”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’m no reporter. But if you think the
Courier
isn’t backing me, you could call ’em.”

I took a shot in the dark. “You’re from Peckham, aren’t you? He owns a piece of the
Courier
, huh?”

He studied me. I looked out to the Caddy, and saw there was another man there, behind the wheel. I looked back at him.

“All right,” he said, “I’m from Peckham. He’s wondering about you and Miss Drexel. The boss isn’t one to wonder long.”

A silence. I didn’t know what other instructions the little man had received from his boss, but I was sure he’d carry them out, no matter what they were. I said carefully, “I knew Miss Drexel when I was seventeen years old. I took her out, then. I haven’t taken her out at all, in the past ten years, and have seen her only a few times since, always in public places. You can tell your boss he needn’t worry about me.”

The little man considered me thoughtfully. “He’s not worried about you. But he’ll want to talk to you. He’ll make it worth your while.”

“I haven’t anything to tell him,” I said. “I haven’t anything he’d buy.”

“He’ll decide that,” the man said. “Let’s let him decide that.”

“OK,” I said, “but I can’t go now.”

“Sure. We’ll pick you up tonight. About eight all right?”

“Eight’s all right,” I agreed. “But don’t come here. My wife would worry. I’ll meet you somewhere.”

“You name it.”

“The filling station, two blocks down, the Gargoyle station on Burnham and Diversey. I’ll drive down there and park the car.”

He nodded. “At eight. We’ll be there.” He turned and went back to the Caddy and the car pulled away.

There wasn’t anything I’d be able to tell Peckham, but I wanted to make that clear. If I’d been single, I’d have told them all to go to hell. If it weren’t for Norah and Junior, the cops would be meeting the little man this evening in front of the Gargoyle station.

I still considered calling them into it, but decided against it. Peckham, I’d heard, was a reasonable man. Unless opposed.

When Norah came back, I told her, “Foley wants to see me at his house tonight. He just phoned. Maybe I’ll be going back to work for the
Star
.”

She looked relieved. “Be sensible, now, Johnny. Don’t let your temper get the best of you.”

“I won’t,” I promised, quickly.

Junior looked at me, and sadly shook his head.

“Nuts to you,” I said.

“Blaa-a,” he said, and made a face.

“Two of a kind,” Norah said. “He certainly gets his disposition from your side of the family.” She came over to kiss me.

There was a faint breeze, a chill breeze, coming in from the north. Most of the trees lining Diversey were bare; what few leaves were left were dry and gray. This was the pause between fall and winter, when you can expect anything in the way of weather.

I drove slowly along Diversey, planning my words for Roger Peckham, wondering if I hadn’t made a mistake. At the corner of Diversey and Burnham, the Caddy was waiting.

There was a man behind the wheel, and the small man sitting next to him. I walked over, as the smaller man got out. He stood on the curb, waiting for me. He said, “We can’t take you. We’ve got other business. But here’s the address.” He handed me a card. “He’s waiting there.”

I took the card, and went back to the coupe. The Caddy pulled away, making time through the gears, gunning.

The card read: Kensington Towers – Tower Apartment A.

Kensington Towers was a tall, showy place overlooking the bay. Tower Apartment A meant he had one of the roof apartments, complete with open porch and a view.

The clerk told me Mr Peckham was expecting me, and indicated one of the elevators.

I went up, and up and up, the floors going by too swiftly to count, the numbers seeming to merge, almost. At the top floor, we came gently to rest.

“To your right, sir,” the operator said. “Tower Apartment A.”

This looked more like an entrance hall than a corridor. I turned to the right, toward A.

The door was open when I got there, and a tall, broad man in dinner clothes stood framed in the doorway. He had gray eyes, and black hair sprinkled with gray. He must have been well past forty, but he had a vigorous, alert air about him.

“John Shea?” he asked. He was smiling.

“And you’re Roger Peckham.”

We shook hands, and he gestured me in. “My man is out tonight,” he said. “But I guess I can still mix a drink.”

I guessed he could, too. He’d started out as a bartender. This land of opportunity—

It was a beautifully designed apartment, and any person with taste could have done a lot with it. All he’d done was spend too much money for heavy, carved tables and chairs, dismal drapes, and some Oriental rugs that didn’t fit at all.

He mixed a pair of drinks, and handed me one. He indicated a huge leather chair, and I sat in that.

He sat down, and said nothing.

I said, “Your torpedo seems to think I can tell you something about June Drexel.”