The Truth of the Matter
Read The Truth of the Matter Online
Authors: John Lutz
Tags: #Fiction, #Retail, #Suspense, #Thrillers
John Lutz
Part One
1
L
OU ROEBUCK SAT
poised on the edge of the bed. He could hear the whir of truck tires on the warming pavement outside the Jolly Rest Motel, early rising drivers who had someplace to go in a hurry. He stood quietly and slipped into his pants. It was barely past sunrise, and the tiny room was still dim and inviting more sleep. But Roebuck didn’t have time for sleep.
After putting on his socks and polished Western boots, he went to the door and opened it a crack. The morning was empty. The broad highway lay gleaming dully in the sunlight a hundred feet or so from the motel room door, a quiet river of concrete. Roebuck stepped outside and walked across the graveled parking area to the station wagon, listening to the loud crunching of his footsteps in the brittle morning.
Within a few minutes he was back inside the motel room with a can of coffee, a cheap aluminum coffeepot and the bag of donuts they’d bought the evening before. Going in someplace for breakfast was a risk they’d decided they didn’t have to take.
Roebuck lit the burner of the tiny stove in the room and sat down again on the bed. He spooned some coffee into the pot, replaced the lid and set the pot on the burner without even having to rise. Then he lay back with his hands behind his head.
He should be out of Missouri by morning. He wondered if they knew he was heading for the West Coast. They might know everything, they might know more than he ever dreamed they could know, or they might know less. The uncertainty was the hardest part of running. And if they did catch him, what could he do? They wouldn’t understand about the murder (if you could call it that, if Ingrahm really was dead). Reporting Ingrahm dead might very well be a plot, Roebuck thought, a plot to get him to turn himself in. But he’d never give up. By God, he’d go out shooting like a goddamn John Dillinger!
The coffee began to percolate.
Outside, a bird began a persistent chirp, and Roebuck wished it would shut up.
He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the sound of the bird, concentrating instead on the perking coffee.
The inane phrase entered Roebuck’s mind and stuck there:
Perk, perk, perk, the flavor buds at work
. It repeated itself.
Ridiculous
, Roebuck thought,
but it might sell coffee
. As it stuck in his mind it would stick in the mind of someone hearing it on radio or television. Now, if there were just some way to tie it in with the product, work in the brand…
Roebuck reminded himself that he didn’t have to think about those things anymore. Now he wished he didn’t have to listen to the perking coffee. It reminded him of Mr. Havers, and he didn’t want to think of that man at all. He didn’t want to think of Mr. Havers, so he wouldn’t.
Roebuck got up and went into the bathroom, but he couldn’t escape the gurgling cadence of the coffeepot.
“I’m sorry, Louis,” Mr. Havers said, “but we’re a small company. We don’t have the money for that sort of thing.”
Roebuck shrugged, settling his six feet two into the chair opposite Havers’ desk. “What the hell, a little lie on an expense account…”
“Little lie!” Havers’ normally pale face was flushed, his pencil-thin white moustache arced downward along the line of his bloodless lips. “You call three hundred dollars in one month a little lie? I’m surprised you even thought you could get by with it.”
“You might not have noticed.”
“You must be out of your mind.” Havers leaned back in his padded desk chair and lit a cigarette. The impressiveness and security of his office was giving him confidence in a situation about which he’d been initially nervous. “I must say, Louis, even now you don’t seem to be very concerned about it.”
“Am I supposed to beg for my job?”
“Don’t you care about your job?”
“I don’t take anything off any son of a bitch,” Roebuck said. “I don’t care about my job
that
much.”
Havers shifted the cigarette to the corner of his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke. “Just this once, Louis, spare me the corny B movie dialogue. Everybody in the office is sick of it. We put up with you for one reason only—we thought you could write advertising.”
Roebuck purposely narrowed his eyes and stared at Havers. “Thought?”
Havers nodded. “I’ve done some checking, Louis, and it seems you lied to us when you applied for this job. You never were with Schnelling, Schnelling and King, you never had any magazine articles published, in short you really have little or no experience in advertising. And your war record …”
“What about my war record?”
“This about it, Louis. It doesn’t correspond with the government’s record. According to them you got a medical discharge, and the only decoration you received was rifle qualification.”
“I can outshoot any son of a bitch.”
“But that’s not what it takes to write advertising. You’re a pretender, Louis. You put in an impressive appearance. You look like John Wayne and you talk like you know what you’re saying, but it’s all a facade.”
Roebuck was suddenly on his feet. “Listen, you hot air blimp…!”
“I’m done listening, Louis. Get out. Your money will be mailed to you.”
“I have certain connections with the Mafia,” Roebuck said, “and you better know that one word from me can bury you.”
Havers was staring at his gleaming desk top.
“You ever hear of Johnny Palermo?” Roebuck asked in a cool voice.
“No, and neither have you, I’d wager.”
“Well, he’s gonna hear of you, Havers. He’s a guy who doesn’t take anything off of anybody, and he won’t take kindly to one of his friends being treated like this!”
“For God’s sake, Louis, leave!”
Roebuck strode to the door. “You’ll be hearing from me,” he said as he went out.
Downstairs in the street he took a deep breath. He hoped Mary, Havers’ secretary, hadn’t heard anything of what went on in the office. Roebuck had had his eye on Mary ever since that day she’d winked at him. He used to dream about her a lot, even at home lying next to his wife Alicia.
The buildings towered gray above him, into a gray sky, as Roebuck walked toward the Chase Hotel cocktail lounge. Then, tired of walking, he waved down a cab.
“Take me to the Chase right away,” he said. “I’m late for a very important high level meeting.”
“Right,” the cabbie said, infected by the urgency. He pulled out into the traffic. “What kind of meeting is it, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind,” Roebuck said stiffly, “but I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t spread the information around.”
The cab eased into the left hand turn lane and picked up speed to make the traffic light.
Perk…! Perk…!
Roebuck leaned with both hands on the wash basin and studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Crow’s feet were beginning to appear around his blue eyes, and his hairline was starting to recede. What the hell, though, he was forty-five years old. That wasn’t old and it wasn’t young, but it was sure time for a man’s hairline to start to recede. The wrinkles, the bags under his eyes, were from the running, from not sleeping enough. He turned his head and looked at his face three quarters, his features automatically set as he would like to see them. His was a noble face, sharp-featured, with a small, manfully hawkish nose and an aggressive, jutting chin. Roebuck smiled and turned back full face.
We never see ourselves in the mirror as others see us,
he thought,
because we know we are going to look
. He stopped smiling and spat onto the mirror, watching the spittle bead and run down. Then he turned and went back into the motel room. He wished he hadn’t had to recall that conversation with Havers.
No cups, damn it!
Roebuck turned off the flame under the coffeepot and went back into the bathroom and got the paper cup from the toothbrush holder. It would have to do. The woman could use it when he was finished. As he poured the coffee he glanced over at her.
Still asleep, a shapeless mound under the white sheets, tangled wisps of blonde hair. He listened closely to the slow rhythm of her breathing, letting it calm him, steady him. Then he opened the bag of donuts.
They would have to be moving soon, he thought. The car he’d picked up in St. Louis would be safe for another day or two, no more. Then the police might be on to it. He’d get another car, maybe in Denver, maybe a convertible this time. Who’d ever think of looking for him in a convertible, behind sunglasses? Maybe he’d even grow a beard. But no, he looked better without a beard.
Roebuck sipped the bitter coffee, black, as he liked it, a man’s drink. It helped him forget that he’d had the dream last night, even after he’d had the woman.
The dream wasn’t about Ingrahm’s murder (if indeed Ingrahm was dead and if you could call it murder). It was instead the dream of smoke, of flickering light and the hand, heavy on his shoulder. Why should he still dream about it after all these years? He knew the truth. He had convinced himself of the truth.
Outside a truck passed shrilly on the snaking highway.
The woman moaned in her sleep.
When Roebuck arrived home from the Chase Hotel cocktail lounge he was drunk. He was not completely drunk, he knew, not sick drunk. But he was drunk enough that he couldn’t hide it from Alicia.
He closed the door behind him and looked around, as one might look about oneself in a dream just before waking. Everything spoke of wealth, though not pretentious wealth. Royal blue carpeting flowed over the floor and up the three low steps to the second level. The light fixtures were crystal, the stereo and television built unobtrusively into the paneled east wall. In one corner stood a muted gold sling chair, very modern, like the one that sat in Mr. Havers’—Fred’s—living room. The shelf of leather-bound books, the surrealistic oils, the marble inlaid tables, all were the possessions of someone who had arrived at his particular plateau on the way to his somewhere. Seeing it all sway slightly before him, Roebuck stepped forward and slumped onto the long sofa.
Yet another possession of the successful advertising man came out of the kitchen with a martini in her hand. Alicia.
She was quite pretty, as she should be, but not too pretty, as she shouldn’t be. Like the furnishings of the apartment, which she had paid for, she was expensive but tastefully subdued. Roebuck had acquired her five months ago.
Alicia saw that he had had too many, and she casually sipped the martini as if it were hers, though Roebuck knew she had made it for him. Sometimes, through her almost total lack of imagination shone a certain cunning.
“You’re late,” she said, smiling. “Working?”
He looked at her without expression. She was at the peak of beauty in a woman, the ripeness, otherwise she wouldn’t have been very attractive at all. The lines in her face were still easily softened by makeup, though nothing could soften the disillusioned eyes. Her figure was slender, lithe, like a tennis player’s, and she possessed a tennis player’s golden tan, for she spent most of her time sunning on the private balcony. She was thirty-five and alone when Roebuck had met her, and he knew that she was soon to be thirty-six and alone.
“Not going to answer, huh?” she said.
He continued to stare at her, knowing he was about to give her up, or, as he preferred to think of it, throw her back. She was now as unreal as the formless collector’s items that hung on his walls, oil and canvas.