First Gravedigger (6 page)

“I got a lot to complain about, Earl! You don't live my life—you don't know what it's like. You're making good money, you're going places. But me—I'm never gonna get nowhere.”

“Charlie, stop babbling.”

“And they went and raised my rent. I can't even afford the rent I been paying! Everbody's got a hand out. And the inflation—y'know the cop in my neighborhood wants twenty dollars a week to let me park my car in the street now? Twenty dollars! I remember when you could park in that street for
three
dollars a week. Eighty bucks a month just to park that junk heap. Shit, Earl, the car ain't worth eighty bucks. Everything's out of hand. I dunno where I am anymore, I dunno where I'm going. It's just not worth the effort. Nothing matters no more.”

Well, it went on like that all night. Charlie talked and talked and talked, as if he couldn't stop. I listened, and dozed, and thought about throwing him out, and didn't. The reason I didn't throw him out was that I was gradually coming to understand something. This time, I thought, this time it just might be different. This time I thought he really might go through with it—and the damn fool would do it right there in my apartment if I let him! I had my own problems, and here was this self-destructive slob sprawled out on my sofa complicating my life even further. But still I didn't throw him out.

Toward dawn I at last let in an idea that had been teasing at my mind all night. I thought about it and thought about it, while Charlie went on wallowing in self-pity. By the time the sun had come up, I'd decided to take a chance.

“Nothing matters no more,” Charlie was saying for the ten-thousandth time.

I reached over and shook his shoulder. “Listen, Charlie, and listen good. I believe you. If you're sure this is what you want, I won't try to stop you. I won't get in your way.”

“I'm sure. Will you help me? Can you get me a gun?”

I nodded. “I know where I can get one.” From the right-hand drawer of Amos Speer's desk at Speer Galleries, that's where I could get one.

Charlie was so grateful he was disgusting. “Thanks, Earl, I knew I could count on you, you're the only real friend I ever had, I knew you wouldn't let me down—”

Yeah, yeah. “Charlie, how long have we been friends?”

“Since school. Uh, more'n twenty years.”

“Twenty years is a long time. Charlie, all night you've been saying nothing matters any more. Do you mean that?”

“Course I mean it. God knows I mean it.”

“Nothing at all matters?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even life?”

“Not my life.”

“What about somebody else's life?”

“What?”

“I said what about somebody else's life? Does that matter?”

“Whacha talking about?”

I spoke slowly, to make sure he understood. “You say nothing matters. I hope you mean that. Because if you're determined to go through with it, I'm asking you to take somebody else with you. It won't matter to you, and it'll make
my
life a hell of a lot easier. Kill yourself if you must. But before you do—kill somebody for me.”

Charlie stared at me horrified, his mouth hanging open. He had to swallow a couple of times before he could whisper, “What kind of animal are you?”

“That kind,” I answered evenly.

“You can't be serious!”

“I can. I am.”

“I won't do it! I, I can't! Earl, how can you ask me?”

“Nothing matters, remember?”

“But, but you want me to
murder
somebody!”

“Are you afraid? Is that it? What'll they do to you? How can they punish you if you're already dead?”

Charlie looked as if he wanted to throw up. “I can't commit murder, Earl.”

“Sure you can. Anybody who can kill himself can kill another person,” I said harshly, sure that Charlie would never stop to examine the logic of
that
. “And Charlie, it'll be so easy you'll be amazed. He's an old man and he won't give you any trouble at all.”

In spite of himself Charlie was curious. “Who is it?”

“His name is Amos Speer. He lives in Fox Chapel.”

“Speer, Speer.” Trying to place the name. “The guy you work for?”

“That's the one. He's out to get me, and the only way I can survive is to get him first. It's him or me, Charlie.”

Charlie shook his head. “Uh, Fox Chapel.”

I knew what was bothering him. Pittsburgh had a lot of big expensive houses squeezed right up against one another, but the people who lived in the Fox Chapel area of town could afford to surround themselves with land. Amos Speer lived on an estate. But Charlie was thinking about the problem, and that was a good sign.

“It'll be easy,” I said confidently. “Saturdays Speer likes to work in his garden. His wife plays tennis every Saturday, regular as clockwork. No servants to worry about—some cleaning women and a couple of gardeners come in during the week, but on weekends only the Speers are there. The house has a security system—Speer keeps his collection of porcelains there. It's an alarm system that rings at police headquarters if there's an attempt to break in, and a guard patrols the grounds at night. But Speer won't be in the house, and you won't be there at night. You see? All you have to do is avoid the house. Go around to the back—Speer will be in the garden.”

“What if he ain't?”

“He will be,” I said with a confidence I wasn't really feeling. “Charlie, it'll be a piece of cake. One shot. That's all it'll take.” I hoped I was keeping the desperation out of my voice.

Charlie was shaking his head. “I can't do it, Earl. I don't think you oughta—you shouldn't take advantage of me. Not now. It ain't right, Earl.”

But I wasn't finished. “If nothing really matters to you, why should you balk at the idea of killing?”

“But, but this is different!”

“How is it different, Charlie? You did say
nothing
matters, didn't you? Didn't you?”

“Yeah, but hell—”

“Or were you just playing games?”

“Earl!”

“Trying to get your old buddy to feel sorry for you? Was that it? Was that it, Charlie?”

“No, no, I meant it. I—”

“Then prove it! Do this for me.”

“Ah, Earl, don't put it like that!”

“Then think of it as a deal. I'll get a gun for you if you'll get Speer for me. That's fair, isn't it? Speer means nothing to you—you don't even know the man. But you know me—I'm your friend. At least, I thought I was your friend. Am I your friend, Charlie?”

“Sure you are, Earl. You know that.”

“I've been your friend for over twenty years. Doesn't that matter either?”

Charlie looked ready to be carried out with the garbage.

“Doesn't that matter either, Charlie?” I persisted. “It does to me. Where else could you have gone last night? Do you know
anybody else in the world
who would have let you in?” He started crying again. “Even when you told me the mob was after you—did I kick you out? Did I?”

He ran his sleeve under his nose and shook his head.

“Charlie, did it even occur to you that you might be putting me in danger by coming here? Of course not. But it occurred to me—damn right it occurred to me.
But I still didn't kick you out
. You're here right now. Who else would do that for you? Who, Charlie?”

He lifted his awe-stricken face. “Nobody, Earl. You're the only one.”

Once he understood that, I was halfway home. I kept hammering at him and hammering at him, and by the time the clock said 8
A
.
M
., he had agreed to kill Amos Speer.

Charlie Bates was my long-distance weapon, my bomb. I'd primed him and put him on automatic timer. When the time came he'd self-destruct, and I'd be free of both Charlie and Amos Speer forever.

I drove Charlie to Highland Park and told him to go look at the yaks in the zoo. I'd meet him there as soon as I got the gun.

Good old Charlie Bates. All the time I kept telling myself I was crazy trying to get Charlie the loser to solve my problems for me. But an opportunity like this didn't come along every day. And I was running out of time.

The plan was simple. Charlie would take a cab to Speer's home, go around back to the garden, shoot Speer, and then shoot himself. Victim, murderer, murder weapon, all right there together in one neat little package. The cops would find out the murder weapon belonged to the victim and wonder how Charlie got hold of it. And there wouldn't be any clear motive for the killing, of course. But so many motiveless crimes are committed these days I was counting on the cops' thinking Charlie was just one more crazy in a world of crazies. I didn't let myself think of what would happen if Amos Speer decided he didn't want to get his hands dirty digging in the ground today. But whatever happened, I'd better establish an alibi for myself.

I drove to Speer Galleries and checked in with the guard at the door. The galleries used a combination of men, dogs, and computer-controlled electronics that made a break-in impossible, we'd been assured. (The insurance companies were satisfied.) I stood chatting with the guard for a minute so he'd remember me; I didn't want to depend on his written records alone.

I was just opening my office door when I heard a nasal voice say, “What's this? Another long-distance runner on the Speer treadmill?”

“Hello, Wightman.”

“You surprise me, dear boy, you really do. Working on a Saturday. Even though Alice Ballard no longer sits upon your narrow shoulders. Such selfless devotion to labor is not a trait I'd have expected to find in your so-called character. Especially when the boss isn't here.”

I didn't let myself rise to the bait. “Just a few odds and ends I want to get cleared up before Monday. But what about you? I thought weekends were your time to howl.”

“And they are, O keen-eyed one, they are! Except that this weekend my fellow howler decided she really must go home to visit her sick mother—a story so patently flimsy I've already forgotten the poor girl's phone number. Now she'll never know what she's missed. I weep for her.”

“Well, better luck next time.”

“Never fear. Resilience is my middle name. Some of us are born to survive, don't you know.”

“Yes, I know. Well, I'd better get at it if I want to get finished today.”

“Ta-ta. Don't strain yourself, dear boy.”

That was a stroke of luck, running into Wightman—much better than depending on the guard's records alone. Wightman was the perfect alibi. No one would ever suspect
him
of lying to protect me.

I waited until Wightman was in his own office, right down the hall from mine. Then I moved cautiously toward Speer's office, some distance away—peering around corners to make sure no guard or dog was patrolling nearby. I went through June Murray's office into the inner sanctum and headed straight for Speer's desk.

I put on gloves before I got to work. I had to break the lock to get the drawer open, but I was able to do it without marring the wood. The gun was in a chamois bag, a .38 automatic with a full clip. I would have preferred a revolver. If the automatic jammed, Charlie Bates was fully capable of blurting out that his old buddy Earl had foisted a bad gun off on him.

I slipped the automatic into my pocket and left Speer's office. I made a point of making noise as I passed Wightman's closed door. He was quick to investigate.

And gloat. “Leaving? You must have been here all of fifteen minutes. Sure you aren't overdoing it?”

The man had all the subtlety of a boa constrictor. “Pull in your fangs,” I said. “Forgot something. I'll be back shortly.”

“Of cooouuurrrse you will,” he crooned, and shut his door.

I told the guard the same story when I checked out, and then drove back to Highland Park. I found a place to leave the car and walked through the zoo, only half believing Charlie would still be waiting at the yak pens. But there he was, locked in eye contact with a great shaggy beast that was finding Charlie Bates an interesting specimen indeed. I had to slap Charlie on the shoulder to get his attention.

Instantly the yak was forgotten. “You got it?”

“I've got it. Let's go.”

In the car I made Charlie repeat Amos Speer's address to make sure he still remembered it. Then I handed him the automatic.

But Charlie had had too much time alone with the yaks: he was having second thoughts. “Earl, I don't know about this.”

“You know, in a way I envy you,” I said quickly. “You're taking decisive action to end an intolerable situation. Not many people have the guts to do that.”

“Yeah, well—”

“But at the same time—look, Charlie, why don't you take a week to think it over? You might change your mind.”

“Uh.”

“In a week you might think of another way to solve your problems. Who knows? You might find a way to pay off your debts. You might even score big. Maybe your wife will come back to you. Anything's possible.”

“None of that'll happen.”

“Miracles have happened before—”

“Not to me, they haven't.”

“But maybe your luck's due to change. You might even win a new car on a quiz show—”

“Ha! Fat chance.”

“You don't know, Charlie, you might—”

“Earl. You promised you wouldn't try'n stop me.”

I let a long pause develop as I pretended to think about it. “Yes, I did say that, didn't I? All right, Charlie, I'll keep my word. I won't try to talk you out of it. Tell me Speer's address again.”

He repeated it obediently. By now his death and Speer's were so linked in his mind that one presupposed the other. I drove him to a taxi stand on Bellefonte Street and handed him enough cash to pay the driver. He closed the car door and then stuck his head through the window.