Huckleberry Fiend (22 page)

“I’m getting a little mixed up. You fell for her because you thought she had a minor interest in Mark Twain?”

I winced. Knowing more about male fantasies than Sardis did, I couldn’t have brought myself to ask anything so cruel. We might have a lot of dumb reasons for being attracted to women, but I, at any rate, don’t like to have them thrown back at me.

But Tom smiled, for the first time. An ironic smile. “Yeah. When I think about it now, I realize that’s all it was. That and the name. I think it was mostly the name. I’d gotten— I don’t know, a little nuts, that’s all. I wanted a woman so bad I thought about it all the time. But she had to be the right woman— she just had to walk in and I’d know it. So the name, you see, made me superstitious.”

“You took it as a sign?”

He smiled again. “Straight from heaven. In which I’d never believed until that moment.”

“So you asked her to go out.”

“Repeatedly. Sent her flowers, everything. She wanted nothing to do with me. But first, I did an incredibly stupid thing— something worthy of my namesake.”

Sardis looked almost unbelievably innocent. “And what was that?”

“I tried to impress her. Remember how Tom used to show off in front of Becky’s house? Do handsprings and things? I did something like that.”

“I don’t understand.” Neither did I— had he sprained his back or something?

“I showed her something I shouldn’t have— something I’d never shown to another living soul.”

“I see.” Sardis thought for a moment. She turned around, as if to look out the window, but there wasn’t one behind her. “Would you like to tell us what it was?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think we know. It was Huck Finn, wasn’t it? The original manuscript.”

He looked excited, even hopeful. “They found it! When she died, it must have been in her house.”

“Don’t you know? You were there, weren’t you?”

“Why… no.” Both face and voice conveyed bewilderment. And then he put two and two together. “You think I killed her, don’t you? For stealing my manuscript.”

“Now, take it easy, Tom. We’re just trying to find out what did happen. Did Rebecca really steal your manuscript?”

He stood up and began to pace, balling up a fist and beating his other palm with it. “I’ve thought and thought about it— and I just can’t see any other explanation. See, I started drinking heavily after the thing with her. I’d go to the Bucket of Blood every morning, just like I guess you already know. One day I came back and it was gone.”

“You don’t have an alarm system?”

“Somehow I never thought of it up here. I kept everything locked up, sure, but you could get in if you broke a window.” He paused. “Which she did. The manuscript— well, it was under Jim’s bed in a locked box. She just took the box.” He looked shamefaced. “See, there was no reason to look for it there. The collection is in
here
. And no one knew I had it, except for her. She knew exactly where it was.”

For the first time in the interview, I spoke up: “So you went to San Francisco and confronted her.”

“No! I mean, yes, I went to San Francisco. But she was dead already. I didn’t kill her, damn it!”

Sardis said, very softly, “What about Edwin Lemon?”

He was standing with his back towards us, and now he swung around. “Edwin… who’s that?” But his face said he knew.

“Tom,” said Sardis, “you’ll feel a lot better if you tell us about it.”

He sat back down and stared at us, his face as long as a horse’s, all the fight gone out of him. A tear rolled out of each eye and began to make its unhindered way down his craggy face. And then he doubled over sobbing. We sat in silence until he spoke again.

“I guess I knew I’d tell you as soon as I saw you this morning. I can’t live like this any more. There’s no point in it. All I do is drink until I don’t feel so miserable any more, and then I sober up and I feel miserable again. But I’ve got to know who I’m talking to. Who are you two, anyway?”

“We’re trying to find the manuscript and return it to its rightful owner.”

“Did Lemon steal it? He said he found it, but I never did believe him.”

“He stole it. We’re pretty sure he did, anyhow. What was your connection with him?”

“Met him at library conventions. Didn’t know him too well, but he seemed interested in Mark Twain. Not that he knew too much about him, but he liked to talk about him. So we kept in touch a little bit, and last time I saw him I told him I was moving out here. I mean next-to-last time. He just turned up one day, very excited, with that manuscript. Said he was taking it to Cal, but wanted me to see it. Frankly, I think he was so damned excited he just wanted to show it to somebody. But he said he thought I might like to buy it. Said he was going to get it authenticated, then sell it at auction. Wanted me to know about it. I would have given my right leg to get that thing. I don’t think you could possibly have any idea how much I wanted it. I couldn’t stand the idea of him leaving with it, even though he promised I’d be invited to bid.

“So I talked him into sticking around a couple days. This was before I’d built the museum, and I had room for a guest. All I had in mind, I swear to God, was having that thing in my house for a day or two. Well, I took him all around, to Reno and everything— you know the Washoe County Library? Not exactly a tourist attraction, but it ought to be; looks like an indoor garden. He liked that, of course. And we went to Tahoe and all. Then one night when we were drunk and driving back here, I pulled over at a vista point and we got out to look, and he made a pass at me. So I hit him. Well, like I said, we were drunk, and he hit back. Started screaming something about if I wasn’t interested, why was I teasing him? I didn’t even know he was gay, or I never would have. But I wasn’t thinking that then. All I was thinking was this guy had a hell of a nerve accepting my hospitality and then trying to make me, and then yelling at me. He was a little guy, a lot smaller than me. I guess I hit him too hard; I don’t know. His head came down on the pavement— and he died.”

For a moment, the remorse was gone, and he tried out on Sardis and me the argument he’d undoubtedly used on himself for the last decade: “I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident.” He looked so clear-eyed and hopeful when he said it, you could almost imagine he believed it.

I hoped he would stay in this strange, detached state— it was probably shock— for a little while longer. “What,” I said, “did you do with the body?”

“I came home, got a shovel, drove out to the middle of nowhere and buried him that night. Burned all his clothes and papers, but kept the manuscript.”

“And his car,” said Sardis. “Why’d you keep that?” The lemon-yellow Datsun! That’s what the old wreck outside was. I’d never even noticed, and all this time I’d been putting Sardis’s brilliant deductions down to intuition.

“The car?” said Tom. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t know what else to do with it. Seemed safer to keep it than let it be found somewhere.”

And it certainly had been— for ten years, at any rate.

“I think we ought to go and talk to the sheriff or whatever you have here— do you feel up to it?”

“May as well— can’t very well light out for the Territory.” He tried to smile as he said it, but it didn’t really work.

It was all going to come out now. With Tom Sawyer arrested, there’d be no way to keep a lid on it any longer. Sardis and I would be questioned and we had to keep Booker’s name out of it. Fortunately, I’d already laid the groundwork— albeit unwittingly. I hoped Tom wouldn’t take it too hard.

“Listen,” I said. “We’re not exactly working for the owner of the manuscript. Sardis, to tell you the truth, is here as a friend of mine. And I’m working for the San Francisco
Chronicle
. The owner called us and it sounded like a good story, so we started looking into it.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

“No, I’m glad about it. See, I don’t know if you believe me or not, but I really didn’t kill Rebecca. Oh, God, that’s the last thing I would have done!”

“I know you didn’t, Tom.” Actually, I was telling the truth. He could have killed Lemon in a way that would let him pretend it was just another boyish adventure— I couldn’t believe he didn’t know the man was gay and hadn’t provoked the pass— but I couldn’t see him shooting Rebecca Thaxton over and over again. Call me naive, but I just didn’t think he’d done it.

“I want to tell my story to you. I mean, for publication. Everybody’s going to think I killed her. I want to make a public declaration that I didn’t.”

“I don’t think your lawyer would allow it.”

“I don’t have a lawyer.”

“You’re going to.”

“Look, do me a favor. I’ve already told you the story. You write it up and read it back to me, and if I like it, you can run it. Lawyer be damned.”

“I’ll think about it.”

It was a hell of a dilemma. It wasn’t a newspaper’s job to protect an accused murderer if he wanted to give an interview against his lawyer’s advice. On the other hand, I wasn’t really a reporter any more and frankly didn’t want to do anything that would hurt this man. But since I had to pretend to be a reporter to protect Booker, I couldn’t see a way out.

“Let’s do it now,” I said, “before we go.”

Tom produced a typewriter and I wrote a story, a sidebar to what would be the main one about Tom’s arrest— someone else could do that one. I wrote about Tom Sawyer’s life, his passion for Mark Twain, his museum, his chance meeting with Rebecca Thaxton, and my two visits with him. I told how he’d shown Rebecca the manuscript, and how he’d not felt his life was worth living after it was stolen. I omitted any reference to his romantic pursuit of Rebecca.

It wasn’t the story he wanted told, but I couldn’t help it— I didn’t mind writing a yarn that was more or less neutral in tone, but I was damned if I were going to help him lead with his jaw. Finally, he agreed to it. I told him 1 was going to tip the
Chronicle
about his arrest as soon as Sardis and I had been questioned, but I’d hold the sidebar until Tom talked to his lawyer. I’d get the
Chron
to send a Reno stringer over in a day or two to make sure he still wanted us to run it.

“I’ll want to,” he said. “It kind of makes me sound like a character, doesn’t it?”

“Joey? You know that manuscript story? It’s breaking.”

“Yeah?”

“They just arrested a guy named Tom Sawyer.”

“Mcdonald, remember what a deadline is? I got no time for practical jokes.”

“If anybody asks, I’m working for you, okay?”

“I thought I already said okay.”

“Well, just in case— here’s what happened. I went to see this guy and he confessed to a ten-year-old murder. That’s when he got the manuscript. Kind of made himself the heir. So naturally I heard his confession, I had to turn him in. But I needed an excuse for being there in the first place, so I just said I was working for you.”

“Feel free, pal. Any old time. Especially if you get caught robbing a bank or something— just say Joey sent you.”

“Listen, I’m telling you— this is a monster. We’re talking the original manuscript of
Huckleberry Finn
.”

“So you said before. Did it turn up yet? Then we got a story.”

“Joey, will you listen? This guy killed another guy for it and hid it for ten years. It was stolen from him shortly after he showed it to the one person besides him who ever saw it.”

“Who was that?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Jeez, Mcdonald, don’t tell me it was you. There’s a limit to how much I can cover for you.”

“Not me. Rebecca Thaxton.”

“Suddenly I get the impression this is actually a news tip.”

“You’ll want to call up to Virginia City. That’s in Storey County, Nevada. And don’t say I never did you any favors.”

“Hey, wait, Mcdonald— you want to write it?”

“Hell, no— I’m out of that slimy business.”

“How about a sidebar?”

“How much?”

“Two hundred.”

“Come on. I get upwards of that for one of my novels.”

“I’ll get back to you, okay? Let me assess this thing.”

“Okay. Just remember— the whole thing started with a
Chronicle
investigation. When Clarence Jones called.”

“Oh, yeah, the Mississippi guy. The only thing is, he’ll deny it— due to the fact that he
didn’t
call.”

“So what? He can’t get hurt. And I can.”

“Don’t tempt me, Mcdonald.”

“You know you love me.”

“I hate to ask this, but are you involved in something shady?”

“Of course not— merely protecting my sources.”

“I thought you were out of this slimy business.”

“Technically, yes, but I’ve got ink in my veins.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Fortunately, I knew someone at Rebecca Thaxton’s station— Susanna Flores, producer of a show called “Bay Currents.” She hadn’t worked directly with Rebecca, but I thought she could help me get what I needed.

Susanna’s office was several floors up, and the Embarcadero Freeway was just outside her window— maybe forty feet away at eye level. It always made me slightly dizzy just to visit her, but she was one of my favorite women in San Francisco— short, round, very soft, as smart as six or eight people combined, and a fan of mine from my reporting days. She gave me a nice kiss, sat me down, and asked what she could do for me.

“Did you know Rebecca Thaxton?”

“A little bit. Since we weren’t on the same show our paths didn’t cross much. But I thought she was lovely.”

“Me too. I think her murder had something to do with a thing I’m working on.”

“Working on how?” Susanna might look soft, but she was still a journalist. She had a way of getting right down to things.

“Unfortunately, that’s the dicey part. I’m sort of working for the
Chronicle
.”

“Oh.”

“But not really. Someone hired me to find something. But I needed a cover story so I said I was working for the
Chronicle
. And then I sort of got roped into doing a freelance piece that I haven’t decided whether to sell them or not. But I probably will, so it will look to everyone as if I really am working for them.”