Songs in the Key of Death (9 page)

“Seems I didn’t,” he said.

In the next hour, the light in the room diminished slowly as afternoon became evening. Casey lay at ease with Anna tucked close against his side. The occasional things she said buzzed against his ear. He was falling asleep. The trip had solved nothing. All it proved was that he and Anna could still get it on, but that had never been in doubt. They could not live together, and she would never, clearly, release him to marry Carmen.

“No divorce?”

“No divorce.”

“You’re a bitch,” he said.

“I’m the best friend you ever had.”

They ate something at nine o’clock. By then, he was outside unlocking the car, making his escape from boredom, the nagging that was beginning to emerge—not all hers, he was dishing out his share. The car smelled strange inside, but he cranked down the window, switched on, and began to roll. Then Alvin Hopkins got up off the floor behind the driver’s seat and put a knife against his neck.

“Hey!” The car swerved before Casey got control and stepped on the brake, easing to a stop fifty yards from Anna’s house.

“Keep driving.”

“How the hell did you get in here?”

“You shouldn’t have given Carmen your spare key. She doesn’t even have a license.”

“She told me she does.”

“She tells you lots of things. Like I was going to Montreal for a friend’s wedding.”

“She made that up?’

“That’s right. My sister is crazy, don’t you know that? After Pete crashed his truck and died, she went out of the house one night and put her head on the mainline track, waiting for the Toronto express. I think she knew I’d find her and bring her back but I’m not sure.”

“So the whole story about she’d be alone in the house for a couple of days was to get me found there by you.”

“She likes excitement.”

They drove slowly in silence, down empty streets. At last Dolan said, “Where are we going?”

“I’m going back to Baytown. By bus, the way I came.”

Dolan felt, at last, the cold tide of fear. It filled his gut, loosened his muscles, his foot relaxed on the accelerator.

“Don’t do anything crazy.”

“Keep driving. Turn left at the corner.”

They drove into an area with trees and shrubs on either side of the road. Streetlamps cast pools of brilliance which only emphasized the black distances beyond.

“Slow down. Pull off over there, between the lights. Here.”

Dolan switched off and sat, trembling, sweating ice-water. “If you want me to stay away from Carmen, you’ve got it. I was just with my wife—we’re planning on getting back together.”

“It’s Carmen staying away from you. She’ll never do it, no matter what I tell her. She’s a bad little girl. It’s vital that I prevent her having her own way. The kid is spoiled rotten.” Alvin leaned forward. “Now look at this. I want you to see something.” He held the knife blade in front of Dolan’s face. The thick fist, the muscular wrist formed an unbreakable grip that trembled slightly. The blade itself gleamed—at least seven inches long, a streak of oil on the honed edge. “If you yell. If you run. If you do anything but as I say, this goes into your gut and I turn it.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Dolan whimpered.”Jesus.”

“Get out of the car. Slowly.”

Hopkins was out and waiting for him on the pavement, took his arm as he slammed the door and led the old ballplayer away from the light and down a pathway smelling of ripe earth. Furtive movement occurred at intervals in the shadows. “This is where the Gays hang out,” Alvin said. “We’re not alone.”

They came to a silent clearing. Dolan could make out the surroundings, could see the shape of Alvin Hopkins as he was forced around to face him. “You’ll be robbed and stabbed a lot. They have these crazy killings here all the time. But you’ve behaved, so I’m not going to hurt you. This blade is razor-sharp. I’ll cut your throat—you won’t even feel it. Then I’ll do the rest. Believe me, it won’t hurt.”

Casey Dolan found the desperate courage to raise his voice “Not going to hurt me?” he screamed. “Bloody hell, you’re killing me!”

Alvin moved swiftly, turned Dolan, lifted his chin, and swung the knife. And he was right about that important thing—Dolan didn’t even feel it.

Six months passed, during which Carmen Hopkins stayed late every night at the radio station. She told her brother she was writing a novel. He didn’t believe her, he thought she was messing around with Dolan’s replacement. But try as he would, however often he popped in unexpectedly, he always found her at the old typewriter, knocking hell out of the keys.

Then it was finished and she began coming home after work, eating whatever he put in front of her, then watching television until signoff. It was agreeable in a way, a nice routine which Alvin appreciated. But she was putting on weight and had stopped doing anything with her hair, which gave him an uneasy feeling. In fact, by the end of the year she was looking more like a fat sloven than his sexy little sister.

“You should take a look at yourself in the mirror,” he said to her one evening.

“You should burn in hell,” was her calm response.

The letter from Toronto came one Saturday morning while Carmen was still in bed. She received little mail, but whatever arrived with her name on it, Alvin opened and read. This one was first-class, typewritten envelope, a company name in the corner—Tandem Publishing Ltd. The letter was brief. It said:

“Dear Miss Hopkins:

Thank you for letting us see your novel, Hey, Don’t You Remember? It needs a bit of tightening but it is a powerful work and we would like to publish it. Is it autobiographical? The character of the psychopathic brother, Al, is particularly well drawn, while the doomed love affair between the young girl and the broadcaster is poignant, to say the least.

Can you come to Toronto and talk to us? I’ll look forward to an early reply—”

Holding letter and envelope in one hand, Alvin shuffled across the room in his broken slippers, drew back the curtain, and went through into the musty cave where Carmen lay asleep on her cot. She was breathing slowly, a hand resting below her chin, wrinkled thumb not far from her open mouth. When it used to be his job to watch her as a child, Alvin had repeatedly dragged the wet thumb free, trying to break her of the habit. Another failure.

Now he had a new problem. His little sister was going to become a published author. She would be rich and famous and a guest on TV chat shows, where she would discuss the background of her book. Or not. It was up to him and he would have to make up his mind soon.

Counting her shallow breaths, eyeing the pillow on the floor beside the cot, Alvin smiled with deep affection. “Carmen, Carmen,” he said softly, “What in the world am I going to do with you?”

Silently, in the
Dead
of Night

Originally published in
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine,
January 1984.

THE TELEPHONE RANG ON THE BEDSIDE TABLE AND JARRED Birtles awake. He picked it up and listened.

“Norman?”

“What time is it?” The dryness in his mouth was not unpleasant. He had taken just the right amount of whisky but not enough sleep.

“Almost eight. I thought you’d be up.”

“I don’t go in till one. Charlie opens the place today.” He stared at the window and the grey autumn light. “It’s as if I’m still delivering the mail.”

“I’m sorry.” But she didn’t sound sorry. She sounded as bright as her lacquered hair. Birtles could imagine Anitra Colahan dressed and groomed as for a tango competition, earrings sparkling, short skirt flaring over several crinolines. “I missed you last night,” she said. “I thought you were coming over.”

“We had trouble balancing the cash after we closed. And then Charlie offered me a lift home.” Only partly a lie. The cash had been a problem but he ended up taking a cab from the rank outside Wimbledon Station.

“I would have driven you home.”

“I don’t want you on the roads at that time of night.” What Birtles really didn’t want was to be stuck in the death seat speeding along London streets after midnight. Anitra had taken the driving test three times before passing. Her style at the wheel was risky and spectacular, much like her performance on the dance floor.

“Can you come by the studio tonight?” she asked. “I have something to tell you. Something nice.”

“O.K. I finish at six.”

“Lovely. We can go to the Taj. It’s good news, Norman.”

Birtles checked the bathroom window-ledge but found no note. When Barbie wanted to be called in the morning, she would leave a page from her notebook pinned under the talcum-powder tin and the breezy words, the erratic left-handed scrawl always gave Birtles a lift. The absence of a note probably meant his daughter would be sleeping till noon. Which meant he wouldn’t see her before he went to the poolroom. One more day gone from the diminishing week before she took off for Canada.

Birtles went downstairs and along the hall toward the kitchen, passing Barbie’s bedroom on the way. The door was open. What he saw stopped him cold. The room was empty, the backpack gone, her makeup, brush, and comb vanished from the dresser. The bed was in disarray but that was normal—he couldn’t tell if she had slept here last night.

Perhaps she’d left a note somewhere in the room. Birtles looked around but found no message among the clutter of pop-music magazines, soft-drink tins, overloaded ashtrays, and the accumulation of discarded clothing.

There was a coffee mug on the bedside table. Birtles picked it up carefully—sometimes they were half full of murky liquid. This one was dry but there was a crumpled envelope tucked inside it.

He unfolded the envelope, found it unaddressed. Some greenish-brown grains of leaf fell into the palm of his hand. They looked like something from one of his spice jars. Printed in the corner of the envelope was: Hotel Candide, Inverness Avenue, London W2.

Carrying his discovery into the kitchen, Birtles put the kettle on, made toast, made coffee, ate and drank standing while he tried to handle his feelings. The sight of Barbie’s room deserted had shaken him. He was not looking forward to her going away. When his wife died six years ago, he had kept going, for Barbie’s sake. Part of him had wanted to convert what little he had into cash and head off to some hot country where his main duty would have been to keep himself drunk.

Instead, he had become a meal-maker and housekeeper. Well, it was an achievement, something to be proud of, and Barbie’s confident character was the result. His example had taught her how to soldier on. Now, apparently, she had packed up her possessions in her old kit bag and hit the long, long trail. Without even saying goodbye.

No, that wasn’t possible. Barbie with her curly head and the sweet baby face and her silent understanding of what he was going through in losing her would never do a moonlight flit. Fear hit Birtles in the stomach like a draught of acid. Something had happened to her. She was in trouble.

It was early to ring Jeremy but Birtles couldn’t wait. The boy came on the phone coughing like a veteran. “Sorry to disturb you but I was wondering if you saw Barbie last night.”

“We didn’t, Mr. Birtles. The band was playing at the Ploughman. If she’d been in, I’d have known about it.”

“O.K. Sorry to wake you.”

“Barbie hasn’t come around much the last few months. She’s saving her money.”

“I know. I’ve had to put up with her almost every night. Like an old married couple.” Birtles kept two trays handy and produced supper regularly in front of the TV. They watched everything, not reacting much, in comforting balance there side by side in the upholstered chairs drawn round to face the screen.

“If you see her, ask her to call home.”

At the poolroom, only three of the nineteen tables were in use. It was too nice a day for people to be inside shooting snooker. Charlie was behind the counter serving the occasional beer or Coke, answering the phone, reading a tabloid of few words and many pictures. It was pointless for two of them to be on duty on such a quiet afternoon, so Birtles suggested Charlie take off.

“I’ll go in a minute.” Charlie went on reading. Birtles strode back and forth, his rangy figure looming large over the counter. When he had been employed by the Post Office, before the economy cuts made him redundant, more than one customer told him they always knew when the mail was on the way, he was so easy to spot coming up the street. Now he mopped clean a spotless surface, snapped his fingers, opened and closed the refrigerator cabinet.

“You’re giving me the creeps, Norman. Settle down.”

Suddenly, at the end of the room where the card table was situated, a chair was kicked back, players were on their feet, arms extended across the table grabbing shirtfronts. Without a word, Birtles reached for the light panel and snapped the switch controlling the lamp over the table. He raised the counter gate and strode to the scene, head on one side, arms loose, the picture of a man with his patience exhausted. He recognized the troublemaker and faced him.

“You! Out!” Said while pointing at the door.

“This geezer’s won all the money and now he wants to quit.”

“I said when I sat down I’d have to leave—”

Birtles cut through the argument. “Walk to the door. If I have to say it again, you won’t touch many steps on the way down.”

Back behind the counter, his hands trembled as he tried to open a box of pool chalk. The cubes went all over the counter, some on the floor. Charlie watched him. “Are you all right?”

“A little nervous.”

“You were awfully rough for a first offense.”

“A little nervous today.”

Charlie folded his paper and took the afternoon off. When he reported back at six, Birtles washed up and then walked on down the Broadway to the dance salon. He climbed more stairs and emerged in the ballroom. Anitra was on the floor with her client, taking him through the basic movements of the cha-cha. As they vamped across acres of polished hardwood, their images were reflected in a series of mirrors.

Birtles took a chair against the wall. The client had the grace of a piano mover but Anitra managed to make him look competent. She glistened in her freshly done peach hair, her swirling skirt, those shiny tapered legs ending in blue sequined high-heeled pumps. “One and two, cha-cha-cha,” she commanded while the recording of a brassy Latin band played “Tea For Two.” She spotted Birtles and blew him a kiss.