Dover Beach (15 page)

"That's great. So your client is gonna go over there and track him down?"

I nodded. I ate another mouthful. The time had come. "It looks like I'm gonna go with him," I said.

Silence. "How?" Stretch asked finally.

"My client has sources of wealth I'm not at liberty to reveal."

"Why is he taking you?" Linc asked.

I shrugged. "I guess he likes my work."

"Gee, that's terrific," Stretch said. "England. Imagine that. The stories you'll be able to tell us." He paused and stared at me, suddenly unsure of himself. "Walter, you're coming back, right?"

I looked into Stretch's guileless eyes, and I realized I could no more tell him the truth than I could keep myself from going to England. "I'm a private eye, Stretch," I said, "and this is my case. When this case is over, I come back and get another case. That's the way the job works." I looked down at my stew and spooned some down my throat. I had never been more interested in stew.

Gwen stood up. "Congratulations, Walter. This is very exciting. I wonder if you'd excuse me, though? I'm not feeling well, and I think I'd like to go up to bed."

"Oh, sure, sure. I'll be up—"

"Take your time, Walter. Good night all."

She left the room. No one said anything. I stared at my stew. "Finish it," Linc said finally. "It's good for you."

I set the bowl down. "So who wants to help me straighten this Christmas tree?" I asked.

* * *

We decorated for a while, but the mood wasn't right without Gwen, and eventually Stretch drifted off to bed too. That left Linc and me in the chilly parlor. He set the string of cranberries and popcorn down and leaned back on the couch, pulling his blanket around his shoulders. "Waste of food," he muttered. "I don't know how Stretch talks me into it every year."

"Beneath that crusty exterior, Linc—"

"Get fucked." He thought for a moment, and then smiled. "England, huh?"

I nodded. "England."

"Congratulations." He thought for another moment. "So which is it, Walter: are you a liar, or a fool?"

I should have known it would come. "Um, perhaps you could be a tad more specific."

"Oh, that's not necessary, is it? You don't have to answer, Walter. But listen: I hope you're a liar and not a fool. I hope you're not thinking: I'll come back, be with my friends, help Stretch rebuild the country."

"Why?" I managed to ask.

He lifted himself up on an elbow and stared at me. His eyes were on fire. "Walter, maybe you don't even know yourself which you are. You try to act so sure of yourself, but you're not, you're improvising, like all of us. Walter, listen to me. You've only got one life. Don't waste it if you don't have to. Mine's been wasted, but I like to think it was due to circumstances beyond my control. I know I'm dying, but you're dying, too, everyone is dying. All that matters is what you do before you take that last breath. You've got some control now. Don't screw it up. Get out of here and do something exciting, do something important. Enjoy yourself. Live well. Understand, Walter?"

He fell back, exhausted. His pale skin was beaded with sweat, despite the chill of the room. His eyes still stared at me, but the fire was gone.

After a while, you can almost smell the approach of death—the cells one by one giving up the battle, surrendering to chaos and nullity. You never quite get used to it.

"Okay, Linc," I murmured. "Can I help you up to bed?"

He flopped a hand in assent. I went over and lifted him from the couch. He put his arm around my shoulders and we walked slowly upstairs together. He let go when we reached the door to his bedroom. "Get out," he whispered, and then he disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

Gwen was still awake. I got into bed next to her, and she wordlessly moved into the crook of my shoulder. We lay like that for a long time, both awake, both silent.

"What are you thinking?" I asked after a while. I never asked her that.

Gwen shifted in my arms. "I'm thinking: maybe in England you'll be able to sleep."

"Fat chance."

She kissed my cheek. "Someday sleep will come easy," she murmured.

She waited.

"And dreams will come true," I managed to say.

"Someday."

She turned over then, and soon she was snoring softly.

Chapter 15

And then the dream started marching resolutely toward reality.

Bobby's business partner arrived promptly the next day, accompanied by two thugs and a third, somewhat less thuglike individual. I recognized the thugs. One had a yellowing bruise on his chin from where I had clubbed him; the other's face was covered with cuts from the windshield I had shot out. They didn't look happy to see me.

"Mr. O'Malley, meet Dr. Winfield and Mr. Sands," Bobby said.

O'Malley was tall and sandy-haired and missing a couple of teeth. He was wearing a cashmere topcoat, starched white shirt, and a silk tie. I thought he looked a bit silly, but Winfield seemed impressed. O'Malley glared at me. "Get rid of the punk," he growled.

Bobby nodded to me. "Mr. Sands, would you and Mr. O'Malley's associates like to step outside?"

"Wait a minute," O'Malley said. "This one here stays." He grabbed the arm of the less thuglike one. "He's a chemist. Gonna test the stuff. Think I'm stupid, Gallagher?"

Bobby smiled. "What a great idea. I wish I'd thought of it. Of course he stays."

"Wait a minute", Winfield protested in turn. "Sands is my bodyguard. I need some protection here."

"Mr. Sands will be right outside the door," Bobby said. "And believe me, he can handle everyone in this room. He's the toughest private eye in the city."

Winfield didn't look happy, but he let me go. Bobby shut the door behind me and the thugs.

The two of them kept their hands in their pockets, fingering their guns. I smiled at them. "Terrible weather we've been having lately, don't you agree?"

They fingered their guns.

I tried again. "People say it's worse now than in the old days. What do you think?"

Maybe they didn't think—or couldn't think. I sat down at the top of the stairs and kept quiet. They watched me warily, and didn't take their hands out of their pockets.

It wasn't long before the door opened and O'Malley came out, accompanied by his chemist. O'Malley was carrying a brown paper bag; I could discern the outline of a peanut butter jar inside. "Let's go," he said to the thugs. He headed for the top of the stairs. "Outa my way, punk," he barked at me.

I smiled and got up. "Merry Christmas," I called out as they clomped past me down the stairs. I was sure Brutus would lick their hands.

Bobby was standing in the doorway to his office. I shook my head at him. "First the tax people, now O'Malley. How much lower are you gonna sink, Gallagher?"

He grinned. "Business is business, Wally."

I followed him back inside. Winfield was sitting beneath the crucifix, counting his money. He glanced up at me when he had finished, and he looked almost happy. "What's next?" he asked.

* * *

Stretch had been reluctant to help when I brought it up at supper. "There are procedures to be followed," he explained. "You can't just march in there and throw money around."

"Yes you can, Stretch," I said. "Trust me about this. We just need an introduction."

"Well, I don't know—"

"Stretch, can you do it?" Gwen demanded.

"Well, I suppose. But—"

"Then do it."

Gwen almost never gave orders. When she did, no one disobeyed her.

Next day, Stretch had a word with the people in the Passport Office while Winfield and I waited in the lobby. He came out after a few minutes, his faith in government a little shaken. "They'll do it," he said through clenched teeth. "Ten new dollars for each of you. The only thing you have to do is sign a form saying you're coming back. They don't fool around with that requirement."

"Oh, well, we'll sign any forms they give us," Winfield said cheerfully. "Won't we, Sands?"

"Have you got the money?" I asked.

He had the money.

* * *

Mickey drove us out to get the tickets. "Place used to be crowded," he remarked as we traveled along the deserted road to the airport.

"How did they stand it—traffic jams and all that?" I wondered.

Mickey shrugged. "Guess you get used to it."

"I guess."

No one was at the ticket counter when Winfield and I arrived. I had a brief, awful feeling that I had it all wrong—that the flights to England were just one of those crazy rumors you half believe because it makes life a little more interesting. Somewhere in Colorado there's a race of mutant super-geniuses who are plotting to take over the world. Aliens saw our little smoke signals twenty-two years ago and have landed in Washington. The government is going to reintroduce professional baseball in the spring. Things like that.

Well, I just had to hope my feeling was mistaken. "Hullo," I called out.

There was a shuffling sound in the back room behind the counter, and a gray-haired woman poked her head out. "Yes?" she demanded.

"Two tickets for England, please," I said. "Next flight."

The woman came out, ostentatiously aiming a snub-nosed revolver at us. She was wearing a threadbare red blazer with little wings on the breast pocket. There was a long scar on the side of her neck that a white kerchief didn't quite cover. She had an exophthalmic stare that made her look perpetually surprised and slightly crazy.

"England," she said noncommittally. She didn't put the gun down.

"We understand there's a flight leaving on Thursday."

"Thursday?" She seemed to consider this surprising piece of information. Then an idea came to her. "Passports. Can't go anywhere without passports."

We showed her our passports. She seemed vaguely disappointed. She put the gun down and started shuffling through papers. Finally she seemed to find what she was looking for. "Ah," she said. "Thursday. Booked solid. Sorry." She picked up the gun and turned to leave.

"Excuse me," I said. I nudged Winfield. He put a five-dollar bill on the counter.

The woman turned back. She stared at the bill in astonishment. "Thursday," she repeated. Her vocabulary seemed rather limited. She shuffled some more. "Smoking or nonsmoking?" she inquired.

"Jesus Christ," Winfield exploded. "Why don't you just give us the fucking tickets? I can pay for the damn things, if that's what you're worried about."

The woman simply blinked at Winfield.

"Nonsmoking," I said.

She glanced down at a paper. "Ah," she exclaimed. "I have two cancellations in nonsmoking."

"We'll take them," I said.

She immediately grabbed the five-dollar bill and started filling out the tickets. It took a while; they seemed to be very complicated tickets. Finally, Winfield handed her enormous amounts of money, and she handed him the tickets, and the transaction was complete.

"Thanks a lot," I said.

She smiled a toothless smile. "Have a nice flight," she replied. Then she picked up her revolver and disappeared.

* * *

Good-byes.

Art was selling a nervous teenage boy a yellowed copy of
Alien Sex Vampires
("Blood Wasn't All They Sucked!"). "Excellent choice," Art murmured. The boy hurried out, and I told Art my news.

"England!" he said, and he embraced me. "You'll stay there permanently, of course?"

"Well, I don't know."

He chuckled, and then his eyes brightened. "You know what you should do?" he said. "Write a novel. About us—the people back in Boston. Not right away, of course, but someday. Powerful emotions recollected in tranquility. I'm sure they still publish novels over there."

"Oh, I don't think I can—"

"Of course you can. You've read enough of them. Wouldn't that be something? To be a character in a novel. Do it, Walter. For us. Make us immortal."