1977 - My Laugh Comes Last (6 page)

He got out of the car and walked around the high-growing sand shrubs.

Joe stopped playing his harmonica. He and Benny got out of the car. I sat still and waited. After a few minutes, Harry returned.

'It's okay. Let's go, Mr. Lucas. We have some digging to do.'

Joe opened the trunk of my car and produced two trenching tools. Leaving Benny by the car, Harry, Joe and I walked into the jungle of shrubs.

In sight of the deserted beach and the sea, Harry stopped, 'How about here, Mr. Lucas? We'll put him in deep.'

I surveyed the place, looked around, and then down at | the bare patch of sand, surrounded by shrubs. ‘Yes,' I heard myself say.

Joe began to dig. It was heavy work. The sand kept falling back into the hole he was making. The sun, by now, was hot I stood there in my nightmare, waiting.

When Joe had made a seven-foot trench of about a foot deep, Harry, using his trenching tool, began to clear the sand Joe was throwing up. The work moved faster.

The two men were sweating. I watched Joe's muscles rippling, and the sweat dripping from Harry's beard. The whole scene was so unreal, I could have been doing a moonwalk.

When the trench was some five feet deep, Harry said, 'Okay, Joe. Hold it.'

Joe grinned, wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand and climbed out of the trench.

Harry turned and looked at me.

'Well now, Mr. Lucas, this is your funeral, isn't it? We want another foot deeper.' He offered me his trenching tool.

'Do some digging!' The sudden vicious snap in his voice told me I had no alternative. I took off my jacket, took the trenching tool and stepped down into the trench.

Harry and Joe moved back.

Still in this nightmare, I began to dig. I had only dug for two or three minutes, when Harry said, 'Fine, Mr. Lucas. Joe'll finish it. He digs digging,' and he laughed. He reached down, caught hold of my wrist and pulled me out of the trench. Joe took my place, and in a few minutes, the trench was some six feet deep.

'Do you think that's okay, Mr. Lucas?' Harry asked. 'I can't see any child or dog digging down that far. Once he's in there, he's in for good. What do you say?'

I draped my jacket over my shoulders, sweat streaming down my aching face.

‘Yes.'

Harry looked at Joe.

'Go get him.'

The Negro ran off towards the car.

I waited.

Harry, holding the trenching tool by its blade, stared at the beach and the sea.

'A nice spot,' he said. 'I wouldn't mind being buried here. Better than those crummy cemeteries with their crosses and flowers.'

I didn't say anything.

Joe and Benny appeared, carrying the body of the squat man. I turned away, feeling sick. I heard a thump as they dropped the body by the open grave.

'Mr. Lucas, just take a look. Make sure, huh?' Harry said.

I turned.

Joe and Benny moved back. There was the squat man, bloody, and in death, lying on the sand.

Harry gave me a sudden hard shove, and I staggered forward so I was right on top of the body. I looked down in horror. His face had been smashed in. I could see the white of his brains on his broken forehead.

'Okay, Mr. Lucas,' Harry said, coming forward and taking hold of my arm. 'Let's get back to the car. Benny and Joe will fix him. You happy? I want you to be happy about this.'

I jerked away from him and walked unsteadily back to my car. He kept by my side. When we reached the car, his hand again took hold of my arm and he steered me firmly to the back of the car. He opened the trunk.

'Here's a mess, Mr. Lucas, but don't worry your brains. We'll fix it for you.'

I looked at the blood-soaked rubber lining of the trunk and turned away.

'Get in the car and relax, Mr. Lucas. You don't have a thing now to worry about.'

I opened the car door and sat in the passenger's seat.

Marsh's smashed, bloody face swam in my dazed mind. I sat there until Joe and Benny returned. They got in the car, Harry slid under the driving wheel.

'I'll drop you off at your place, Mr. Lucas,' he said, 'then Joe'll fix the car. I'll have it put back in your garage this afternoon. You don't have a goddamn thing to worry about.'

Not a thing, I thought, until Edwin Klaus comes around to pick up the price tag.

I spent the rest of this Sunday in my apartment, holding an ice bag to my face and considering my position.

I was sure Klaus intended to blackmail me. But how strong was his position? The body had been buried. No one saw Glenda nor myself at Ferris Point. At least, I saw no one on the drive down and on the beach. Suppose I told Klaus to go to hell when he came to pick up the price tag?

What would he do? It seemed to me that by arranging to bury the body, his blackmail teeth were drawn. Suppose he called the Sheriff and told him where to find the body and implicate me? What proof had he I had murdered Marsh?

I had only to keep my nerve and deny everything to be, in what seemed to me at the moment, a strong position.

I realized that my story to Brannigan of a car accident to account for my bruised face was dangerous. Every car accident, no matter how trivial, had to be reported to the Sharnville police. They were very strict about this. I would have to think of a better story than a car accident, and finally, after some thought, I came up with a better story.

My mind then shifted to Glenda. Was she involved in this?

Loving her as I did, I tried hard not to think she had been the bait on the hook. There was one way to find out. Although it was Sunday, I felt sure The Investor worked around the clock. I reached for the telephone and asked the operator to connect me with New York. I said I wanted to talk to The Investor's office. After a delay, I got through. I asked to speak to the acting editor. There was more delay, then a brisk voice said, 'Harrison. Who is this?'

'I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Harrison,' I said, 'but it is a matter of urgency that I contact Mrs. Glenda Marsh who I understand freelances for you.'

He repeated the name, then said, "You are in error. We don't know anyone of that name, and we don't employ freelances.'

'Thank you,' I said, and hung up.

I got up and walked into the kitchen and wrung out the towel, then I wrapped more ice cubes and returned to my armchair. I had an empty void inside me. So Glenda had been the bait on the hook. Was she still in Sharnville? I doubted it. Surely this put me in a stronger position to tell Klaus to go to hell. If he now tried to involve me, I could not only involve him, but also Glenda, and maybe, once the Sheriff began to question her, she would tell the truth. I found it hard to believe that she didn't love me.

By 16.00, the swelling in my face had gone down. I now only had a black bruise on my cheek. My head ceased to throb. I was feeling jaded but more confident that I could deal with Klaus if and when he tried to put on the screws.

Remembering my car, I went down to the garage.

My car stood in the bay. It had been washed and polished.

After a moment's hesitation, I opened the trunk. It was immaculate with a new rubber mat: no blood, no sand, no body.

As I was closing the trunk, Fred Jebson, who lived below me, drove in.

Jebson, an accountant, was one of those hearty, garrulous men who always liked to chat up anyone in sight.

'Hi there, Larry,' he said, getting out of his car. ‘Didn't see you at the club.' Then he stared at me. 'For Pete's sake, did he catch you with his wife?' And he gave a bellow of laughter.

I felt my insides shrink, but I forced a smile.

'I had an argument with a golf ball,' I said. 'I took a No. 5 down to the beach. The ball ricocheted off a tree and caught me before I could duck.'

'Jesus!' He looked concerned as he stared at me. ‘You could have lost an eye.'

'I guess I was lucky.'

‘You can say that again. I've got some great stuff for a bruise like that. Come on up, Larry. I'll give it to you. My kid's taken up boxing, and comes back with a shiner from time to time.'

I went with him, and he took me into his apartment. His wife and kid were out which was fortunate as she was more garrulous than he. He found a tube of ointment.

‘Rub this in every two hours. I bet you won't know you have had a bruise in a couple of days.'

I thanked him, said I had work to do, shook his hand and returned to my apartment. I rubbed in the ointment, then realizing it was getting on for 17.00, and I hadn't eaten all day, I opened a can of soup and heated it.

I spent a long, restless night, wondering and worrying.

The following morning, I found the bruise was turning yellow, but my head was still sore, I had a heavy day ahead of me, and I reached the office just after 08.30. Once at my desk, I had no time to think of Klaus, Glenda or Marsh. I had a lunch date with a client and sold him five expensive calculators. After lunch, satisfied with my sale, I drove back to my office block. As I was getting out of the car, Sheriff Thomson materialized.

'Hi, citizen!'

'Hey, Joe!'

He regarded me with his cop eyes, ‘You had an accident?'

'Golf ball,' I said shortly. 'I forgot to duck. How's life, Joe?'

'Fair.' He wiped the end of his nose with the back of his hand. ‘You seen Mrs. Marsh?'

I kept my face expressionless.

'No. I've been nursing this bruise over the weekend.'

'She had a date with me to photograph the jail. She didn't show up.'

'Maybe she forgot.'

'Seems she's pulled out.' Thomson gave me his cop stare.

'I went along to her apartment, right opposite yours, and the janitor tells me she left at seven yesterday morning with luggage.'

'Is that right?' I tried to meet his stare, but failed. I looked down the street for something better to look at. 'That's surprising. Maybe she had an urgent call or something.'

‘Yeah. Well, you've got business. I've got business. See you,' and nodding, he walked on.

For a long moment, I stared after him, then hurried up to my office. I had a feeling of fear, but there was nothing I could do except wait for Klaus's move.

I waited for five long, uneasy days. It was when I had finished work and had returned to the loneliness of my apartment that the pressure was on. I found I was pacing the floor, my heart beating sluggishly, my mind darting like a mouse trying to avoid a cat. How I longed for Glenda during these hours.

On the fifth evening, an express delivery arrived as I was unlocking my apartment door. The envelope was bulky, and as I signed for it, I knew the wait was over.

I shut and locked my apartment door. Then going over to my armchair, I sat down and ripped open the envelope. It contained eight coloured photographs, needle sharp, and obviously taken with a powerful telescopic lens.

Shot 1 showed Glenda in her bikini on the beach and I approaching her.

Shot 2 showed Glenda on her back, naked, and I too naked, kneeling over her.

Shot 3 showed me covering her, and Marsh, his face a snarling mask, coming from behind the sand shrubs.

Shots 4, 5, 6 showed Marsh and me fighting like savages.

Shot 7 showed me standing over Marsh, horror on my face, and blood on his.

Shot 8 showed me standing in the trench, digging.

As I looked at the photographs, a Siberian wind seemed to be blowing over me. The deadly trap had been carefully sprung, I had walked into it, and the teeth had snapped shut.

I now realized why Harry had shoved me close to the body, to let the hidden photographer get his shot, and why Harry had given me the trenching tool so I dug for a few minutes before Joe took over.

My hopes of outwitting Edwin Klaus and telling him to go to hell abruptly evaporated.

As I was staring at the photographs, I heard a sound that made me stiffen and drop the photographs in an incriminating puddle at my feet: the sad, forlorn tune of a Negro spiritual, played on a harmonica. The player was outside my front door.

Getting unsteadily to my feet, my mind in a dazed panic, I threw open the door. Joe, looking enormous, still wearing the white singlet and black slacks, was propping up the opposite wall. He gave me his wide, dazzling smile and slipped the harmonica into his short pocket.

'Evening, Mr. Lucas. The boss wants to chat you up. Let's go.'

Leaving the door open, I went back and picked up the photographs, stuffed them into the envelope and locked the envelope in my desk drawer.

It didn't cross my mind to refuse to go with this Negro. I was trapped, and I knew it.

We rode down in the elevator. Parked outside the apartment block was a dusty, beaten-up Chevy.

Joe was humming to himself. He unlocked the car door, reached across and flicked up the lock button of the passenger's seat. I went around the car and got in.

He set the car in motion. At this time in the evening the streets were almost deserted. He drove carefully, still humming to himself, then he said suddenly, 'You happy about your car, Mr. Lucas? I sure worked on it. Plenty of wax.'

I sat motionless, my clenched fists between my knees. I couldn't bring myself to speak to him.

He glanced at me.

‘You know something, Mr. Lucas? I was just another nigger before Mr. Klaus picked me up. Now, it's all different. I've got a pad of my own. I get regular money. I've got a girl. I've got time to play my harmonica. You go along with Mr. Klaus. That's the smart thing to do. He's a real power man.' He chuckled. 'Power means money, Mr. Lucas. That's what I like - real money. Not piddly dimes, but fat dollars.'

Still, I said nothing.

He leaned forward and pressed down on a cassette and the car was filled with strident beat music.

We drove for some fifteen minutes, then he turned off the highway and headed into the country. When the cassette finished, he again looked at me.

'Mr. Lucas, sir, I know you're in a spot of trouble. Take my tip, Mr. Lucas, and go along. Don't dig your own grave. You do what the boss tells you, and you'll be happy.'

'Screw you,' I said, in no mood to take his advice.

He giggled.

'That's it, Mr. Lucas. That's what they all say to me, but this nigger boy knows what he's talking about. Just don't dig your own grave.'