361 - Donald E. Westlake [18]
Nobody was really upset. He was eighty-two years old. They’d all been hanging around waiting anyway. After a while, I asked Dr. Heatherton if there was any reason for Bill and me to stay there any longer. He said no.
As we went out the private road, a gray Cadillac hearse purred by us, going in.
It wasn’t yet three. But it was Friday afternoon, so there was quite a bit of traffic headed toward the city, most of it in late-model cars.
We rode in silence for a while, and then I lit a cigarette and handed it out to Bill and he said, “No, thanks,” without looking away from the road.
I stuck the cigarette back between my lips and said, “Don’t be stupid. I didn’t want to kill him.”
“You said you were going to.” He glowered grimly at the road. “You told him you would and you did. I don’t know you any more, the Air Force did something to you. Or Germany.”
“Or being in the car with Dad.”
“All right, maybe that. Whatever caused it, I don’t like it. You can have the money in the bank. I’ll need the car, I’m going back to Binghamton.”
“You don’t care any more.”
“I’ll stop off and talk to that state cop, Kirk.”
“And tell him what?”
“I won’t tell him anything. Don’t worry, I’m not going to inform on you.”
“I’m not worried.”
“I’m going to ask him how they’re doing.”
“They aren’t doing. Tuesday it’ll be two months. They don’t have a lead, a clue, a chance, or a hope. If they did, it wouldn’t take two months. It’s us or nobody.”
“I can’t stay with you. I can’t be around you, with you pulling things like that.”
“I told you, that was a mistake. I didn’t mean for him to die.”
“Sure.”
“You’re a cluck, Bill. You’re three years older than me, but you’re a cluck. He knew who chased Dad out of town. Did you hear what he said?”
“I heard him.”
“He knew. Do you think I wanted him dead?”
He frowned at the wheel, thinking it over. After a while he glanced at me. I looked innocent. He glowered out at the highway again. “Then what the hell did you do it for?”
“I was trying to scare him. I didn’t know it would hit him that big. It must look pretty bad.”
In some out-of-the-way corner he found a grin. He took it out, dusted it off, put it on his face. It looked good there. “You don’t know how bad, Ray,” he said. “I about had a heart attack myself. You looked like something out of hell.” He glanced at me again, back at the traffic. “A little worse than usual,” he said.
“You want a cigarette?”
“I need one,” he said.
We went back to the hotel and sat around. We went out for dinner and bought some more Old Mr. Boston. We drank and smoked and talked and played gin a penny a point. He won.
After a while, we finished the booze and went to bed and turned the lights off. But I saw McArdle’s face, bluish red, the eyes bulging bigger and bigger. I got up and told Bill I was going out. He was asleep already, and he just grunted.
I went out and it was one o’clock in the morning. No liquor stores open. I found a bar, but the only thing he’d sell me to go was beer. I had five fast Fleischmann doubles on the rocks, and then I bought two quarts of Rheingold beer and brought them back to the room. I knew they’d make me throw up and they did, but after that I could go to sleep.
Ten
Johnson was around in the morning again. He wanted to talk. I had a split head, I told him to wait. He sat smoking in a chair while Bill and I hulked around and washed our faces and got dressed. Then the three of us went out for coffee.
We went up Broadway to a Bickford’s, and filled our trays. Johnson just had coffee. Bill and I had eggs.
At the table, Johnson stuck a spoon in his coffee and stirred for five minutes without paying any attention, while he talked. “I want to give you a little background on me,” he said. “I run a one-man agency. Maybe one or two jobs a month, enough to stay even with the bills. Last year I made thirty-seven hundred dollars. I hate the job, I don’t know