Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter [107]
They stopped in front of a large white house on Pacific Street, with a red tiled roof and wrought-iron balconies from the third-floor windows, and Jack and the gray-haired man helped Charles into the house. A Negro woman dressed in black opened the heavy paneled door, and said “Oh, dear,” and helped them get Charles up the stairs and into the largest bedroom Jack had ever seen in his life. The whole bedroom was done in crimson and soft white, and while they undressed Charles his wife came in and pulled back the drapes, and Jack saw the whole marina below them, the yachts, the brilliant blue bay, and beyond, looking so close, Alcatraz. On their way back to the car, Jack said, “Does he own this place?”
“Yes.”
“He must be pretty rich.”
The gray-haired man laughed. They made other stops. They unloaded John, who was awake and sullen but not speaking, in front of an apartment house on Washington; and the gray-haired man took his wife, the other woman in back, to their home, another Pacific Heights mansion, but not as large as the first one. Then he drove Sally to her apartment on the east side of Telegraph Hill. Before she got out of the car she kissed Jack on the mouth and said, “I’m really sorry I got you fired. Come and see me if you need a job or anything.” She got a card out of her pocketbook and handed it to Jack. Then the two men drove off.
“Where to?”
Jack gave him the address.
“It was really as much your fault as anyone’s,” the man said. “We all take the blame and pass it around, but it was your fault. All you had to do was recognize the situation.”
“Fuck the situation,” Jack said. “I’m sleepy and hung over and pissed off. Did you drive me just so’s you could tell me it was all my fault?”
“No, I thought maybe you’d have a drink with me, and we could talk. I imagine jobs aren’t very easy for you to find.”
“I’m not supposed to drink,” Jack said. “But screw it. I’m not supposed to lose my job, either. You know, if your friend decides to push it, he can get me thrown back in. I committed a battery on him.”
“He won’t. He was humiliated; that’s about all he wants.”
They drove down Columbus to Broadway and parked the car. After they had gone into a small bar and sat down the man introduced himself as Myron Bronson and they shook hands formally. The waiter came over and Bronson ordered Irish whisky with water back for both of them.
“There was a party last night,” he said. “If these things go on too long, they always end badly. You have to understand that these are very nice people most of the time. This morning they were all in a mood to hate each other, and you got fired. By tonight they’ll have forgotten all about it, or remember it in context of a hangover, as a way of inducing guilt.”
“What about you? You’re not drunk. What are you doing with them?”
Bronson smiled. “I learned to drink a long time ago, when there were some rules. But you’d be surprised about John. He’s really a very nice fellow. He’s the one you hit. He’s a lawyer, and a very good one.”
“What about you? What do you do?” Jack was thinking about the Rolls parked outside.
Bronson said, “I have some money. I don’t really do anything. I have an office with a desk in it that cost more than most people make in a year, but I don’t use it very much.” He raised two fingers for more whisky.
“You’re a rich man,” Jack said.
“I suppose you could say that. Yes. Of course.”
“Did you earn it, or did somebody give it to you?”
Bronson looked amused. “Why are you asking me all these questions? Are you trying to get even? It doesn’t make any real difference where the money comes from, as long as I have it. It’s impossible to earn the kind of money I have, so you’d have to say it was given to me; but I’m not like Morgan; I don’t think God gave it to me. But I’m glad I have it. Let’s not talk about money.”
“Very boring,” Jack said. He finished his second shot. “Now let me buy you a drink.” He waved his hand at the waiter.
“Hangover gone?” Bronson