Box Nine (30 page)

“To be honest, I'm going to be doing a great deal of traveling in the near future. A lot of time on planes. Trains. I'm looking for some tides that will keep my interest. But at the same time I don't want to load myself down.”

The man squints his eyes a little and makes a noise, sucking air through his clenched teeth. His manner suggests he's weighing a difficult decision. Finally, he shrugs and says, “I think you're going to want to go with paperbacks.”

“Paperbacks,” Cortez repeats.

The man nods. “I know, I know. It's like you can feel the decay in your hands as you're reading the first line. But you've got limited luggage capacity, correct? And if you're going to be on the road for any length of time … Let's just say you stuff a first-edition Chesterton down into the Samsonite before you turn it over to the airline people. Come the end of your trip, I don't want to look. I mean, it's a question of respect.”

Cortez decides this is the kind of man who could wander off into endless oblique stories with no apparent meaning. He says, “Do you have any Hammett?”

The man takes a breath and smiles indulgently, as if to say,
please, think about your questions before you ask them.

“Okay, how about the obvious choice?”

“That's not so obvious to me.”

Cortez nods. “Sorry.
Maltese Falcon.
Any paperback edition.”

“I've got one by Vintage. Two ninety-five, plus tax. Good-sized print.”

“Sold.”

Mr. Beck smiles and starts to move for a wall of paperbacks toward the rear of the store. He throws his voice back over his shoulder as Cortez follows. “Now we're moving. What else can we get? You said it would be a long trip.”

“Yes, but now that I think about it, that one tide should do it. There'll be some books waiting for me at my first stop.”

The clerk stops at a shelf, runs a finger parallel to the books' spines without touching them, stops, and pulls down a black-covered book with green lettering and a picture of the famous bird sitting like an Egyptian sphinx.

He turns back toward Cortez and presents it. “First published in '30. Still tremendously popular today.”

“I've read it before.”

“I would think so,” the man says, and then seems to regret it.

Cortez lets him off the hook and says, “There's a part of this book that gets to me. One particular scene. A small bit. You know what I'm talking about?”

The man smiles as if they'd just become conspirators. As if they'd sealed some kind of mutually beneficial agreement.

“You know the scene? With Spade and Bridget O'Shaughnessy? At Spade's place?”

“The story of Flitcraft,” the man says.

“Exactly,” Cortez says. “I knew you'd know.”

The man's head slopes to the side a little. His lips stay together.

“I've always wondered what other people thought about that.”

When the man realizes that Cortez is waiting for a response, he says simply, “Of course.”

“Why do you think that scene is in there?”

The man lets his head roll slightly. His tongue slides out of his mouth and wets his lips. “It's a great story,” he says.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, then Cortez reaches into his pocket and pulls out a roll of bills. Without looking, he fans them slightly, lets his fingers run through the fan, in decreasing denomination, until he stops and yanks loose a five. He hands it to Beck and says, “Keep the change.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

I
ke has left the clock radio on and now, as he sleeps, the talk-show host warns the public about the dangerous epidemic of skinheads, racist teenage males who shave their scalps and engage in hideous violence in our urban cesspools. These skinheads, according to the talk-show host, are one of the greatest dangers facing our society today, a horrible blight on the landscape of freedom and truth, a perversion of all the values that America has fought and died for in bloody wars on foreign shores. They are monsters, beasts, scum of the earth, and must be dealt with as such.

HOST: Thank you for waiting, you're on WQSG, tell the city what's on your mind.

CALLER: Ray? Hello? Ray?

HOST: Yes, ma'am, you're on the air.

CALLER: Hello? I don't … Hello?

HOST: Go ahead, dear, we don't have all night. You're on the air.

CALLER: Oh yes, thank you, love the show, listen all the time.

HOST: Thank you. Your question, please.

CALLER: Yes, well, I was wondering, this skinhead problem, this problem you've been discussing, I was wondering, is this an inherited problem, what you would call a genetic problem, because my husband's brother—oh, I was going to say his name, but never mind, he has no hair, he lost all his hair, all at once, just gone, not even any left around the ears, like, you see. Now, they called that, the doctor he went to called that alopecia, and his hair never came back, but he was always the same man we've known, wonderful man, nothing like these people you've described, he had none of these side effects …

HOST: Okay, one of those nights. All right, dear, now listen to me closely. These young men shave their heads, they don't lose their hair, they shave their heads. Voluntarily. You understand? They do it to themselves. It has nothing to do with any disease. It's a way to identify themselves as part of a hate group. And I'll take a moment to say that I wish people would listen just a little more carefully before they call in. Next caller.

CALLER: Hello, Ray. It's Johnny Z calling.

HOST: Johnny, haven't heard from you in quite a while.

CALLER: You're a popular man these days. Tough getting through those lines.

HOST: And what does my friend Johnny have to say about tonight's topic?

CALLER: Clean and simple, Ray. Long as we're castrated by the liberal courts in this state it's up to each man to protect his family in whatever way necessary.

HOST: Amen, brother. Amen to that.

CALLER: These faggots are one more reason we got to protect our constitutional right to bear arms. I've got a beautiful double-pump Winchester I keep right on the back of the bedroom door, loaded and ready to go. I say, come on in, skinheads. Come on and visit. I'm all ready and waiting. Wouldn't think twice.

HOST: I hear you, Johnny.

CALLER: Just wanted to say it.

HOST: Thanks for calling. Next caller, you're on the air.

CALLER: Yes, Ray, just wondered if you people down at the station would like the real truth about all this?

HOST: About all what, caller?

CALLER: About how these skinheads are just one branch in Mayor Welby's secret army and as we speak they're mapping out the final details in their plan to round up all the blacks and Jews and—

HOST: Next caller, you're on the air.

CALLER: Yeah, Ray, this is Vin from down San Remo. I thought this was going to be UFO night? What happened to UFO night?

HOST: Next Wednesday, Vin. Next caller, you're on
City Soapbox.

CALLER: Raymond, what's gotten into you? You sound as bad as these skinhead people you're complaining about. “Throw them in a pit and bulldoze the earth right over them.”

HOST: This is Mrs. G, isn't it?

CALLER: You know my voice, Raymond.

HOST: Poor Mrs. G, we're never going to see eye-to-eye. But let me tell you, dear lady, when you're out there, day after day, the way I am, and you see this constant erosion of everything that was once good and pure in our town, well, I'm sorry, you start to think that maybe drastic measures are called for before it's just too late and we wake up one day and the whole thing has been taken away from us. History tells a sad story, Mrs. G, believe me, it's happened before. And we'll be back in a short minute after this word from your friend and guide in your darkest hour, Loftus Funeral Home over on Patterson Ave.

Ike is dreaming an awful vision of his mother and father in the kitchen of the old family house. He's standing in the center of the room, ashamed of something unclear. And his parents are walking in circles around him, equidistant from each other. They're furious with him, berating him for this unstated failure or transgression. He's sobbing, begging forgiveness, promising repentance, but it's useless. Whatever he's done is so heinous, they won't even listen to his sorrow. Ike's body trembles in his bed, the dream is so clear and real.

Outside the green duplex, Eva looks at both entrances and finds Ike's—91B. She moves first to his doormat, squats down, and lifts it, but there's nothing underneath. She stands back up, steps to his mailbox, opens the lid, and looks inside to find it empty. Then she runs her hand along the underside of the box and pulls a key out of a small metal lip. She lets herself into the apartment and stands silent inside, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness.

She moves through rooms, steering herself with her fingertips on the edge of furniture, walking in tiny, comical steps to avoid tripping. She finds her way to the back bedroom and stands in the doorway for a few minutes watching Ike's body quake. It's a horrible sight, like looking on a helpless child in the midst of a dangerous fever.

Before she can rethink her actions, Eva walks into the bedroom, sits on the edge of the bed, and begins to stroke Ike's forehead softly and whisper, “It's okay, now, I'm here, it's all right, Ike,” as if she were his dead mother come to life out of his nightmare, but bearing a radical change of heart.

Ike's eyelids flutter, flip open, and his whole body bolts backward on the bed as he lets out a scream of
Ma, Ma, Jesus
, loud enough to be heard three houses away.

Eva jumps up into a crouched position on her feet, her hands and arms balanced on the mattress. She's yelling back at him, “It's Eva, it's Eva, stop it, it's me.”

Ike knocks a glass off the nightstand, then manages to turn on a lamp.

“For God sake,” he chokes, hand on his chest, then up over his mouth.

“I'm sorry,” Eva says, backing up. “Are you all right? I'm sorry.”

Ike takes a second to breathe and look around the room. “How'd you get in here?”

“I looked until I found a key. There's usually a key.”

“You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I'm sorry, Ike. I thought it was a good idea at the time.”

“You always go breaking into people's homes?”

“Really sorry. It was a stupid thing to do—”

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you, Ike.”

“I've got nothing to say. I don't want to talk to anyone. Just dock me for today. Whole day.”

Eva comes forward again and sits back down on the edge of the bed.

“Why did you run out today, Ike? What happened?”

“I just wasn't feeling well. I think I'm getting the flu. I'm probably contagious right now.”

“Did something happen while you were sorting, Ike?”

“My God, I'm having chest pains, I'm having actual chest pains.”

“Now, take it easy. Calm down.”

“Calm down. Calm down. This is it. I'm having chest pains.”

“What kind of pains? Should I call an ambulance?”

“I don't believe this. I'm thirty years old. This is unbelievable.”

“Oh, Ike, what have I done? Should I get on the phone? Should I call?”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Hold on.”

Ike sits up in the bed, leans forward, tilts his head to the side. His cheeks balloon out a couple of times. He makes a fist with his right hand and very lightly thumps his mid-chest. It's possible that he belches, though Eva hears nothing. Then he comes upright and takes a breath and says, a little sheepishly, “I think it's okay now,” as if he were speaking about something other than himself, “I think it's all right.”

Eva sighs her relief and shakes her head. “Please forgive me, Ike. I didn't mean to scare you like that.”

“It's just, you wake up, someone's standing in your room.”

“I don't know what I was thinking.”

“I just had no idea who it was. It could have been anyone. I had no idea.”

“It's just that things feel like they're on the verge of getting out of control.”

“Listen, Eva—”

“And I don't feel like I can trust anyone else.”

“I'm not sure I want to talk about this anymore.”

“I know that something happened today.”

“I'm starting to think that maybe you should go home.”

“I think you should tell me what happened at the station, Ike. You were sorting and then something happened.”

“I don't want any problems here, Eva.”

“At the bookstore you were all for going to the authorities. What happened, Ike? What changed your mind?”

“Forget the bookstore, Eva.”

“I thought we were going to talk to your sister.”

“Forget my sister. Forget everything.”

“What did you find in the mail, Ike?”

“Would you please get out?”

“Where did you put it, whatever it was?”

They stare at each other. The room fills up with the sound of the talk-show host lecturing:

HOST: All right now, I've had enough of the stupidity. I've had enough of the inarticulate talk. Very simply, I'm asking you to frame your questions before you dial the number. There is no need for this. But what it does display for me, in crystal clarity, is the depths that this once-great country has descended to. By allowing Marxism in our schoolrooms, by allowing unchecked immigration across our borders, by allowing a blatant, flagrant abuse of a welfare state designed to propagate lives of drug dependency and casual sexuality, by allowing, allowing,
allowing
would be the key word here, my friends. Where has discipline gone? Where has consistency escaped to? In what dark bowels does respect for law and order and our unique system of democracy now reside? Let me mention a phrase here, people, a phrase that blazed a fire in the minds of men like Washington, like Jefferson. That phrase is
new world
, my people. A world that once, long ago, was untouched by the decadence of the Continent, of a Europe so in love with itself that it fell, as long-told prophecy said it would. This very land, the soil, the physical earth that stretched in a rich and wild run from Atlantic to Pacific, was once the last bastion, the refuge, the last possible paradise on an orb gone sick. It was a pure and final chance to forget the past and try again, start anew, build a civilization based on a consensus of values and good
family
morals. And what did we do in this damnable century of blinding technological advancement? We spit on it. We balled it up and tossed it down like a piece of festering garbage. We said
NO! We shall not be pure! We shall not fulfill the dream!
We handed the promises of this green land over to a satanic horror with many names: Liberal Humanism. Moral Relativity. Leftist Ideology. Castrating Feminism. Darwinistic Thought. Socialistic Atheism. New Age Heathenism. I could go on. Believe me, I could continue all night and into tomorrow. But I need no further proof of the futility of my cries than your phone calls. The pathetic ramblings of my audience tell me to throw in the towel, abandon the good fight. How much further can our intelligence be eroded? Will we move back into the caves of our forebears, draw on the walls, live with the wild dogs, eat with our fingers? [
There's a small breath of dead air, and then
:] While you ponder the answer to those questions, I'll take a short break for a word from tonight's sponsor, the Loftus Funeral Home, specialists in your prepaid burial needs. Remember, there's no need to burden those left with your final duty.