Build My Gallows High (4 page)

At noon, Jimmy Caldwell, the game warden, left his office and walked briskly up the street toward the Miller Realty Company. It was a fine clear day, warm without being hot, the sort of a day that made you forget Bridgeport didn’t have the finest climate in the world, that there were weeks on end when snow blanketed the great meadow. In front of the hardware store Caldwell stopped for a minute to look at the display of fishing poles. Automatically his right hand moved in the gesture of a fly fisherman and that brought Ellis Gore, the owner, out.

‘Hello, Jim,’ Ellis said. ‘When did you get back?’

‘Last night.’

‘How was L.A.?’

‘Same as ever.’

‘Hear you bought the Carlisle place. That right?’

Caldwell nodded. ‘Yep.’

‘Nice place. Going to move out there?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Caldwell said.

Ellis winked at him. ‘Depends on things, huh?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Caldwell said.

‘Red Bailey’s out of town,’ Ellis spoke casually, not looking at the bulky figure in the green uniform.

‘I heard that.’ Caldwell moved on up the street. Ellis looked after him, grinned and went back inside.

The game warden glanced at his wrist watch, started moving faster. Some men on the hotel steps called to him. He returned their greeting but didn’t stop. He knew well enough they wanted him to so they could tell him Bailey was out of town. The thought filled him with anger. That red-headed son of a bitch! That ugly, worn-out bastard! Someday he was going to kick the guy’s teeth in. If he kept on hanging around Ann, by God, he certainly would kick his teeth in. He transferred his anger momentarily to Ann Miller. She should have better sense. Running after the guy like a high school kid—chasing him all over the goddamned place. And him old enough to be her father, almost.

He throttled his emotions because he was in front of the white, one-story building that housed the Miller Realty Company and he could see Ann through the open door. She sat at her desk, banging away at a typewriter, her dark head bent a little. Jesus, she’s pretty, Caldwell thought. The love he had for her almost choked him. He felt his face getting red.

Trying to be casual he sauntered in and stood there flicking dust off one coat sleeve. Ann looked up, gave him a small smile, went on with her work.

‘You’re looking pretty sharp,’ Caldwell said.

‘Am I?’ She typed another line, pulled the paper from the machine, ran her gaze over the typed script.

‘Little thin.’ Caldwell picked the paper knife off her desk and pretended he was a knife thrower. ‘Looks like you could use some nourishment. Maybe some lunch.’

‘Be with you in a minute,’Ann said. She left her desk and went into her father’s office. Caldwell followed, grinned at the paunchy gray man with a pencil behind one ear. Canby Miller, forgetting his stomach was bothering him, said cordially, ‘The boy himself. Hi there, Jimmy. Why ain’t you out there rousting campers around?’

‘Nobody’s going to break the law for quite a while—unless they use dynamite.’ Caldwell leaned against the door frame and some of his self-confidence came back. Anyway, Canby liked him a lot. That gave him at least one strike on Bailey because Ann thought much of her father and mother and did just about what they told her. Like working here in Bridgeport when what she had wanted was to go to Reno or L.A. or New York.

Miller scrawled his name at the bottom of the letter Ann had given him, then started reading it through.

‘Come on,’ Caldwell said. ‘Hurry it up, you old slave driver. Let the girl get her lunch.’

‘Didn’t you want to see me?’ Miller spread fake disappointment over the words.

‘What for? Why, all you do is try to sell a man insurance he don’t need or some broken-down piece of land an Okie wouldn’t want.’

‘And what do you do?’ Miller sneered genially. ‘Pick up poor unfortunates who haven’t got two bucks for a fishing license. Look at that badge. You haven’t polished it for a month.’

‘That’s so it won’t scare people.’ Caldwell felt better now. Yes, sir, Candy liked him, wanted him for a son-in-law. That was swell. Canby was one swell guy.

‘When you going to start working,’ Miller asked, ’and stop running around playing fly cop?’

‘When you stop robbing widows.’

Miller patted his stomach, grew serious. ‘Well, we put it over.’

‘We sure did.’

‘A real steal,’ Miller said proudly. ‘That fool didn’t take the trouble to find out what land was worth around here. When you going to move out?’

‘Couple of weeks.’

‘You sure got a real buy. You can thank Canby Miller for that, son. Maybe Canby isn’t the best operator around California but he’ll do until a better one comes along.’

‘Someday you’re going to break your right arm patting your own back that way. Come on, Ann, I’m hungry.’ Caldwell stood aside for her, his round, pale blue eyes trying to tell her how much he loved her. She was sure pretty, and every day she got prettier. Desire for her came up into his throat and choked him. He took a deep breath and followed her out. On the sidewalk he took her arm possessively, straightened his shoulders and guided her across the street toward the Acme Home Cafe. She was his and no ugly, red-haired bastard was going to mess things up.

Ann sensed what he was thinking. She threw a sober, fleeting glance up at his round, tanned face. Poor Jimmy, she thought. Poor, good, dependable Jimmy. Such a nice, solid, unimaginative boy. But that was the trouble. He was too solid, too nice.

A couple waved at them from a pick-up rattling down the street. They waved back. Caldwell smiled down at her.

‘What a day!’ He pulled the thin, cool air into his lungs, ‘boy! How’s about taking a run out to my new joint after lunch?’

She started to refuse but changed her mind. ’All right.’

‘It’s a pip,’ Caldwell said.’Wait till I tell you what I’m going to do with it.’

The old Carlisle place had been there since 1880, but the man who built it had known what he was doing. In this neck of the woods you built for keeps, using redwood and heavy timbers, pitching your roofs so the snow would slide off, planting rows of trees to break the force of the icy winds that swept across the level plateau all winter long. The house was a big one badly in need of paint, but not a shingle was loose, not a board out of place. The porch was just as solid as it had been sixty years ago, the floors as sound. Caldwell stopped on the top step and stared proudly around him. Five hundred level acres, crisscrossed by little creeks. A great warm barn. He saw it not as it was—shabby, paintless, the fences down in places, the corrals broken, the fields empty of cattle and sheep—but as it would be a year hence. White-faced cattle sleeping in the sun. Great balls of white wool that were fat sheep nibbling the thick meadow grass. The two-story house white and shining on the hill. The barn bulging with hay. He’d put a silo over there—a cement one. Green lawn would slope down to the road. Over there by the cottonwoods, maybe a swimming pool. A pool with a couple of dressing rooms near the edge and maybe a paved court and a barbecue pit. A really swell layout. He looked down at Ann on the step below him. A good, strong, slim girl in a white linen dress—just the sort of wife a man needed.

‘Boy!’ Caldwell said. Ann threw a smile up at him. He found a key in a pocket, went to the front door and opened it, stood aside with a courtly bow. ‘Enter, madame.’ Ann brushed past him.

The house smelled of mold and dust. The air was cold and dead for the doors and windows hadn’t been opened since old Mrs. Carlisle died a year ago. Nothing had been touched. The sitting room was just as she had left it—the furniture standing around stiffly in the dim, high-ceilinged room, the flowered carpet almost as bright as the day it was bought. And why not? No one had used the sitting room. This was the first rime Jim Caldwell had been in it. The only room he had seen was the kitchen. That was a long time ago when he was a kid and used to bring Mrs. Carlisle’s groceries up from town.

‘We’ll open her up,’ Caldwell said. ’Put a big window there so you can look out over the valley. Tear that little bitty fireplace out and put one in a man can get warm by.’

‘That will be fine,’ Ann said, her voice impersonal.

We? Not me, she thought, and then she was very sorry for him. Poor old Jimmy!

They went into the big kitchen where the huge wood stove took up almost one wall. Caldwell explained how they were going to put in a sink and electric lights and a big window over the sink so you could see what was going on in the world when you washed dishes.

‘A fireplace too,’ Caldwell said. ‘I’ve always wanted me a fireplace in the kitchen ever since I was a kid.’

Despite herself Ann began entering into the spirit of the thing. They discussed curtains. They discussed light fixtures. They went upstairs and figured out where the bathrooms should be. No need to touch the bedrooms. They were swell great big rooms with plenty of windows and you wouldn’t have to get new furniture. Just new mattresses and pillows and curtains and stuff like that because the bird’s-eye maple fitted the rooms. Maybe some bright pictures like they had in early American houses in the
American Home magazine.

A porch ran across the side of the house upstairs.

‘We’ll screen her.’ Caldwell said. ’A swell place for kids to sleep in the summer. Screen her and fix some good heavy shutters to put up in the winter. Boy, I’ll bet you could sleep out here all year, once you got used to it!’ He looked down into the yard. ‘Over there a swimming pool,’ he pointed. ‘Won’t that be something! String lights up and have parties at night. We’ll get us a Delco system, or maybe dam up the crick and put a wheel in. Can’t do it all at once though.’ He slid one arm around her. ‘Jeez, Ann!’ he said in a choked voice. ‘Jeez, I love you!’

She was going to tell him she didn’t love him. She was going to say, ‘Jimmy, I love him so very much I can’t live without him. I lie awake most of the night thinking how much I love him.’ But she said nothing. She stood there on the upstairs porch of the old Carlisle place that was now the Caldwell ranch and looked across the great meadow at the towering Sierras. A quail whistled m the meadow. A hawk slid down the sky.

‘I must go back,’ she said, not looking at his eager, loving eyes.

Caldwell sighed. ‘That’s right.’

They went downstairs and out. He locked the door, followed her across the yard, stopping once to look proudly at his house. He must be careful when they painted not to hurt the rosebush. That was one thing he wouldn’t change, that rosebush climbing up the porch. He wanted to yell, he was so happy. Like a young stallion he ran after Ann, opened the door for her and lifted her in, then ran around and jumped under the wheel of his station wagon. As he drove away he whistled. But he stopped whistling when they hit the outskirts of town. Red Bailey’s service station crouched by the highway and Ann asked him to stop for a minute. The Kid came over to the car, grinning.

‘Hello, Kid. Is he back?’

The Kid shook his head, took a pencil and note pad from his shirt pocket and scribbled on the pad:

‘Got a letter. He won’t be back for two weeks. He’s in New York.’

Seeing the hurt in her eyes as she read the note the Kid took the pad back and wrote: ’He wrote you too, he said.’

Ann read what he had written. ‘Thanks, Kid.’ With nervous fingers she found her cigarettes, gave him one, lighted one for herself. She put one hand on his arm, squeezed it.

‘So he ran out on you,’ Caldwell said angrily.

‘Shut up!’ Ann said in a cold little voice. ‘Shut up, you stupid—’ She let the sentence trail off.

Caldwell drove, staring at the road, not seeing the people in front of the stores, not seeing anything, thinking. Oh that dirty, big bastard! That stinking, ugly, red son of a bitch! Will I fix him!

In front of the realty office, he jammed on the brakes and opened the door for her. Ann turned to him.

‘I’m sorry, Jim,’Ann said.

‘Okay,’ Caldwell said. ‘You’re sorry. Okay, okay.’

He slammed the door and drove away.

Some kids on roller skates were playing hockey in the street. They skated back and forth, whanging a chunk of asphalt with sticks whittled out of pieces of old lumber. If a car came along to break up the game momentarily, they told the driver what they thought of him. It was a dreary neighborhood. There were a couple of halfway decent apartment houses in the block but the rest were dirty brick structures, jammed close together. People sat on the fire escapes or on the stoops, trying to get cool. The East River was two blocks away but that didn’t help any because there wasn’t any breeze. Nobody paid any attention to the hockey players, even when they slammed each other across the shins.

When Red’s cab appeared, crawling through the hot dusk, two boys were trying to murder each other in the middle of the street. The cab driver put his hand on the horn button and headed straight for them, so the boys stopped fighting and gave him their attention. They jumped on the running board and stuck their heads through the windows.

‘You bastid.’ one of the kids said.’You dirty bastid! Who do you think you’re running down?’

‘Go on,’ the driver said, giving the kid a shove. Something banged into the rear of the cab. The driver put on the brakes and opened the door. He grabbed the nearest kid, took his stick away from him and let him have one across the backside. ‘Who done that?’ he demanded.

Red sat forward, grinning. New York, he decided, hadn’t changed much. It was just as dirty and just as hot. The kids were as tough as ever and the cab drivers had the same curious disinterest in staying alive or letting anyone else stay alive.

‘I done it,’ a thin voice yelled. A piece of asphalt rocketed past the cab driver’s head. The driver hurled the stick at his assailant, got in the car and started moving. Red looked back. The kids yelled curses after them, then went on with their game.

‘Nice kids,’ the driver said.

‘It’s the heat,’ Red said. ‘Makes them irritable. They don’t get their afternoon naps.’

‘You ain’t kiddin’,’ the driver said. ’Naps.’ He made a sound that might have been laughter and pulled the cab over to the curb in front of a remodeled tenement. Red gave him a dollar and got out.

‘Want me to wait?’

Red shook his head. There was a garbage can at the right of the entrance and someone had kicked it over. The sight of it made him wonder why anyone lived in New York. He found Meta Carson’s name on the directory by the door and put a finger on the bell. He turned to watch the cab pull away. Down the street the kids were yelling as they played. It occurred to him that the sound wasn’t at all sad. In other places when you heard children’s voices in the dusk it filled you with loneliness, but not in New York. The lock gave off a buzz like an angry rattlesnake. He opened the door and went in.

The hallway was dark and fairly cool. He went along to the back and heard a voice say, ‘Come in.’ He found himself in a big room that opened out on a small courtyard. A high brick wall surrounded the yard and at the back was what looked like a church.

The occupant of the apartment was a tall blonde girl of twenty-eight. She wore slacks and a blue silk blouse. Apparently there was nothing under the blouse but Meta Carson. She said, ‘Sit down and I’ll get you a drink. I hope you like gin and tonic’

A picture of a Negro woman nursing a baby hung on the wall back of the couch. Red didn’t like it. He sat down and watched the blonde. She opened a couple of doors at the other end of the room, revealing an icebox, a stove and a sink. ‘This your first trip to New York?’ she asked, mixing the drinks without the aid of a jigger.

‘I was born here,’ Red said.

‘How did they happen to ring you in on this?’

‘I was handy. And you?’

‘I was handy too.’ She put the glasses on the coffee table and sat down. Her legs were inordinately long, her feet bare. ‘Parker said you worked for Eels.’

‘I’m his secretary’

‘That’s cozy,’ Red said and sipped his drink. It was very cold. ‘Where do you fit in this mess?’

‘Here and there.’ She didn’t look at him. ‘What did Parker tell you?’

‘To phone you. I did and here I am.’

A package of Kools was on the table. She put one in a holder and Red lit a match. His hand was not too steady and she caught his wrist in her fingers and held the flame to the cigarette. Her fingers were cold. ‘Tomorrow night you meet Eels. I’m going up there for a moment before dinner. You go along and look around.’

‘And then?’

‘He’ll take some stuff home with him in a few days. When he does I’ll tell you and get you in. He won’t be there. He’ll be with me.’

‘As simple as that,’ Red said dryly. ‘They haul a man across a continent to play burglar.’

She watched him through the smoke, her head tilted a little. He didn’t like the expression in her eyes. He was puzzled and not a little wary. The whole business smelled. You couldn’t put things together—Parker and Eels and Meta Carson. But what could you do about it but string along and hope to Christ you weren’t being handed a hot one?

’You’ve nothing to worry about,’ Meta said.

‘I’m glad of that.’

‘Another drink?’

‘I’ll buy you one if you don’t mind walking. My favorite bar is up the street a bit.’

‘You’ll have to wait while I change.’

‘Put on shoes,’ Red said. ‘Otherwise you’re fine.’

‘You don’t wear slacks to bars, Mr. Bailey.’ She rose and disappeared through a door in the hall.

There were some bits of ice at the bottom of his glass, and he filled his mouth with them. He wondered if Meta was as cold as she seemed. Women with figures as good as she had weren’t usually. Maybe she was repressed. Maybe she had something on her mind. He got up presently and went through the screen doors into the small court that had enough potted plants standing around to be called a garden. In the apartment above, a woman with a thin, hard voice was telling somebody off. Higher up a radio was giving forth with bad music. It was dark now and he managed to find a few stars in the murky patch of sky.

Meta’s voice made him turn. She was standing just inside the door. She wore a rust-colored gabardine suit and an oddly shaped hat that was probably very smart. ‘Did you find the sky?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘But of course. You’re a detective.’

Walking through the hot night, he changed his mind about Meta Carson. She moved along close to him, one shoulder touching his arm now and then, her voice bright and warm. She had fire in her, all right. Or maybe she was trying to keep his mind occupied, maybe she didn’t want him to figure things out. The hockey players had departed, but Forty-Eighth Street wasn’t quiet. Women yelled at each other across the narrow way or screamed for their offspring. The offspring paid little heed. Two girls traded witticisms with a man in a delivery truck. A crap game was in progress on the sidewalk in front of a small grocery. The woman who ran the place stood in the door watching the boys roll the cubes against a brick wall.

‘I’m not hungry yet,’ Meta said. ‘Let’s look at the river.’

They crossed First Avenue, went past a row of garages and under the new East River Drive. A barge loaded with pilings was tied at a pier and the air had the good, sharp smell of fresh creosote. Some kids played on the barge.

The path went along the bank and widened. A few little trees struggled against the fence. On the benches people sat staring at the dark water, waiting patiently for a breeze that refused to accommodate them. Most of the people were silent. Ahead was the bridge, a few cars crawling across it. Red and Meta found a vacant bench and sat down.

‘I come here nearly every night,’ Meta said. ‘I love the river.’

Red said he did too. But he wasn’t thinking about the river moving sluggishly along. He was wondering what in hell he was mixed up in. An ex-cop who ran a gambling joint in Reno and a New York attorney. A woman, with class written all over her, who was somehow tied in with Parker and who didn’t hesitate to sell out the man she worked for. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all. He wasn’t coming out of this untouched. That was certain. For the first time in his life he felt helpless. Not afraid—because he couldn’t find anything to be afraid of.

Meta started asking him questions. To keep him from asking himself questions probably. Was it exciting being a detective? Had he ever been shot at? Did he like New York? He found answers of a sort, gave them to her, all the while thinking, what the hell is this about? When are they going to give me the business? When and how and why?

A tug grunted by, pushing a couple of barges loaded with freight cars. Over Brooklyn a searchlight stabbed with its finger at a cloud, found what it was looking for and went out. Red stood up. He was tired of answering questions. He was tired of asking himself questions. What was going to happen would happen and that was that. When you came right down to it, it didn’t matter much. It really didn’t matter at all. Even if he was a worthy citizen full of good deeds and honors, it wouldn’t matter.