Intimate Victims (8 page)

“If you were to turn the letter over to the police, do you think they’d believe you? I could say I’d never written it.”

“Why do you still fight me, sir? In the first place, I’d probably take the letter to someone like Hayden Cutler — explain the jacket mix-up and all, and let him act. He’d carry more authority, wouldn’t you say? Of course, before I did that, I’d probably read it to your wife over the phone. She already knows about the jacket mix-up. I wonder what she’d say to the letter, hmmm? Ah, but, sir, let’s get on with our plan.”

“And do you keep the letter?”

“Of course not, sir. I’m a very fair person. I thought we’d mail it to your wife Sunday night, before we get our plane to Missouri. That way, I can make sure you don’t change your mind. From now, until the time Mrs. Bowser receives the letter, it’ll be our special secret. It’s interesting, isn’t it, that 24 hours ago we’d never even heard of one another — and now, our lives have been Changed completely around by each other. Driving here tonight, I tried to think what really caused this. I thought — for my own part — it’s almost a gift from the gods. It’s almost as though they looked down and saw me being humiliated again, and they said to themselves, all right — okay, let’s throw a break that fellow’s way. Let’s see what he can do with one decent break. It might have been a gift from the gods in your case too, sir, though it’d never occur to you. We never know. But I believe there’s a reason that it was you, in particular, and me, in particular — us, in particular, sir. I believe that.”

“Why $10,000, Plangman? Why did you decide on that amount?”

“I think you have about $50,000, sir. I don’t know why I think that, and I probably underestimate it — but there you are. And I’m not greedy. And I like you, sir. I honestly like you. You could be my father, you know.”

“Suppose I told you I had only $12,000 to my name. You wouldn’t believe that, I gather?”

“I might. I’d still need ten.”

“What would you expect me to live on?”

“On the rent from 702, sir, just as I would have. It comes to $200 a month. If you want to do the superintendent work as well, there’ll be a little extra from Mother.”

“You have it all worked out, hmm?”

“Yes. It all began to fall together like pieces in a puzzle — like pieces simply assembling themselves. I hardly heard a word Lois said tonight, sir. I just kept trying your number … shouldn’t we go now, sir?”

“Wait … wait … I have to think.”

“Yes … you see, sir, anything that’s defective in my plans, you must call to my attention As I say, it all fell together like a puzzle being solved, but there could be mistakes. It’s time for you to do some thinking now. Does your wife know my name, for example?”

“I don’t know. The police will question you, if Margaret does remember your name. They may question you anyway — someone could have seen us together tonight.”

“Well, sir, when I have dinner at the Cutlers, I’ll mention that our wallets became crossed — that we picked up each other’s coat by mistake. If the police do question me eventually, they’ll corroborate my story.”

“No, don’t do that.”

“No?”

“No, because I’m not sure Margaret knows your name.

I can’t remember her saying it at any point. I didn’t even mention that you were from Columbia, Missouri. I think I simply said Missouri. It’s better to stay uninvolved, unless you can’t help it.”

“All right, I won’t mention it. I haven’t mentioned a thing to Lois. That was lucky.”

“Yes … I do have to do something about my glasses.” As Robert Bowser talked, he felt the beginnings of a slight euphoria; it was good to be able to talk about it, a relief. “There’s a place with three hour service on lower Broadway, I think.”

“I’m glad you see things my way, sir. I mean it when I say that I like you. I wish you liked me … never mind … I wouldn’t want to turn you in sir, honestly.”

“The haircut. Maybe at the airport, just before we leave.”

“On Sunday night, sir? They won’t be open. We’ll stay over in St. Louis when we arrive. You can get the haircut there, Monday morning. That way you’ll go to Columbia looking like the new Robert Bowser. Yes, and you’ll have to think of a new name, sir. I envy you! Harvey Plangman! I’d give anything to change my name.”

“I’ll keep the same initials … some of my things are monogrammed. My luggage is … A handkerchief or two … shirts.”

“Mr. Bowser, I wouldn’t pack a large bag, sir. You’ll want to dress differently. I’ll give you pointers, sir. Maybe some of my old things will suit you. The professors around Missouri are rather seedy, on the whole. You know, sir — tweed jackets with leather elbow patches, corduroy jackets, charcoal slacks — a cap might be just right too.”

“Don’t come to the house. You can park down the road, with your lights out. I’ll meet you there.”

“Sir?”

“What?”

“I have to leave the car I’m driving in New York tomorrow. As you know I’m having dinner at the Cutlers tomorrow night. I thought you’d give me some advice. Maybe when I’m in New York I’ll buy something special for the Cutlers’ dinner, like a Garbieri Canterbury belt. What would you say to that?”

“What?”

“Sir, if I make mistakes — if I say things that seem outlandish to you, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t wince like that.”

“What’s a Garbieri Canterbury belt?”

“I’m just surprised you don’t know, sir. It’s a very expensive belt. I don’t see anything odd about wanting one. I’m just surprised you don’t know of it, sir.”

“We’d better get the check.”

“Yes … he sees us … he’ll bring it. Another thing, sir. When you pack … if you have any ties … good ones … you know? You won’t have much use for them, and I — I could use them.”

“Are you having dinner at the Cutlers tomorrow night?”

“Sir, I’ve been telling you that all along.”

“Not in that shirt, I hope — nor in those trousers. You look just — oh well,” Bowser sighed, frowning.

“What would you suggest, Mr. Bowser?” Harvey Plangman smiled, leaning forward.

September

Raymond Battle ripped the letter to shreds and dropped it down the toilet. He blinked tears away, tears that came whenever he had to look at anything closely — then wiped under his eyes with a piece of Kleenex, being careful not to disturb the lenses. He looked in the mirror. His eyes no longer became bloodshot when he wore the lenses, but there was a certain glassiness to his expression, very much as though he were slightly dazed or gone a little soft in the head. Nevertheless, his appearance was remarkably changed. His hair was cropped very close to his head, and he had grown a small Hitlerish mustache. He had taken up pipe-smoking, and he had taken to wearing a cap about, both indoors and out — a sort of baseball cap. His usual costume was a pair of comfortable khaki pants, a checkered sports shirt, ankle-high dirty white sneaks with heavy cotton socks — and on cool evenings, a black cotton coat sweater. He was no surprise to anyone at 702 Wentwroth, who called on him to fix a fuse or let water out of a radiator. He had rejected Harvey’s idea to pose as a professor working on his thesis, out of a fear that he might accidentally be pulled into academic circles. Instead, Raymond Battle was simply a former high school teacher, who had lost his wife suddenly. It was this story which Harvey told his mother — that Raymond Battle, suffering an immense bereavement, needed to escape memories of his wife — that he needed to get a hold on himself — perhaps to write a novel he had been planning.

In apartment 3 at 702, was a young widow. She was a redhead in her twenties, with two children. Mrs. Plangman had told her Raymond Battle’s sad story, and she had come down for a look at Raymond, almost the same day she had settled in. There was no threat of involvement from that source; she had glanced up and down at Raymond, while rattling on about the hall light and a stopper for their bathtub, and her round blue eyes had very noticeably not widened, nor had she wasted any smiles on Raymond Battle. She was studying dramatics at the University and her mother lived with her. The mother had been in vaudeville at one time; she wore tapered slacks and tight sweaters, with high heels and lots of bracelets clanking on her wrist. Her hair was bleached platinum, and afternoons while her daughter went to classes, Raymond could hear Mrs. Hill coaching her grandchildren in songs like “Bye, Bye Blackbird” and “Toot-Toot-Tootsie.”

Apartment 2 housed Professor Bullard, a Shakespeare scholar, who kept very much to himself, except when there was no hot water. Then he would slap down the stairs in his bedroom slippers to complain.

Raymond Battle did feel safe there. There was more to it than that; he liked it there. He liked fixing things. It amazed him whenever he could repair something, make something work again. He found he had a knack for it, and it gave him a peculiar sensation of delight which was way out of proportion to the simple accomplishment. Everything he did had its exaggerated sense of pleasure. He developed little rituals and routines, like a very old man who has lived alone for a long, long time. In the early morning when he rose, he timed his tea to be ready at the exact moment he finished buttering a piece of toast, and there was a particular table he set out his teacup on, a special chair he pulled up to it — and always when he brought his breakfast into the room where he ate it, he remembered to place his paper napkin under the plate of toast he carried. He never had to make more than one trip from the kitchen.

At night, when he undressed for bed, he hung his khaki’s over the chair, and placed his sneakers under it. Then he put his shirt around the chair’s shoulders — and there was the chair, more or less containing him, and it was all so simple. He slept naked. He had never done that before, either. He had never even walked around naked before, and somehow he enjoyed doing it — it was a part of his new freedom. There were times when he ate spaghetti cold from the can; it was his first taste of canned spaghetti, or canned beans, or canned chili. It tasted good to him. He became pleased at the fact his food bills per week were very low, and he was eating well — getting plenty down. Working around 702 gave him a different sort of appetite — a sudden, overwhelming hunger that never would have waited out before-dinner cocktails, or polite napkin straightening. He gulped his food down, sometimes standing up in the kitchen — sometimes setting himself a place at the card table he set up there. But always, he gulped his big meal of the day — and afterwards he knew he had eaten. He felt the gratification of his body as it received the food and put it to use — another feeling that had never been there.

For diversion, Raymond Battle went to the movies sometimes. He found himself dividing his time between movies and television. He would notice what pictures were coming to the theaters in town, and how long they were playing — and then he would decide which night would be the best to see the pictures, without giving up something good on television. He particularly liked audience participation shows, or shows that re-enacted someone’s real life. He would choke up a bit when some brother from Cork County, Ireland, was reunited with a sister from Jersey City, after twenty-five years. Or when a poor fellow whose house had burned to the ground was marched up from the audience and presented with a full year’s rent in a new house, and a freezer filled with frozen dinners for his family of six. He kept the sound low and the windows closed when he watched those shows, and he watched all he could, often taking an hour off here and there during the day, when many of them were on. Sundays when he got the papers, he often looked at the television page immediately, and planned his week’s watching, going through the Monday — Saturday listings with a warm sense of anticipation. Occasionally he took a pencil and circled out his week’s TV watching.

One of the things he liked best was marketing at the A&P in town. He worked it so that he would only have one large paper bag to carry on the bus, but he spent hours inside the store, wandering from display to display, picking out new products, and selecting or rejecting products he had seen advertised on television. He was meticulous about that, punishing those manufacturers whose commercials were bad, and rewarding those whose commercials were good. When he came upon products whose companies he knew well, such as Baker Oats, he was faithful to them too. Sometimes, after one of these expeditions to town, while he rode the bus home, he would momentarily start dwelling on the food bills Robert Bowser had paid. He was not even sure of the amounts. Margaret had handled that. But he had a rough idea — a sure knowledge that they had been preposterously large. Instead of anger, he felt only a terrible confusion, as though all of it had nothing to do with him any more, and yet there you were — it had everything to do with him. Immediately following that thought was the thought that now he was simply going through the motions of living, waiting for a real thing to happen — marking time — this wasn’t real. A fearful loneliness overtook him then. He wanted to talk to somebody, anybody. Not about himself — just to talk, and listen, and talk — with somebody. Usually he would write Harvey Plangman on those nights after he got home. Sometimes he would write very elaborate letters telling everything he had done, what he had seen at the movies or on TV, and say what he thought about it all. But he always ripped them up, and sent, instead, a very terse note answering Harvey’s latest questions.

There were times when he talked to himself aloud. Never very loud. He was a little embarrassed when he did it, and always aware he was doing it. Usually he ended with a silly little chuckle, as though he knew he were foolish — as though he knew, and anyone listening would know he knew. But of course there was no one listening. He never would have chanced it, if there were that possibility.

• • •

That morning, after he ripped up Harvey’s newest letter and flushed it down the toilet, he said to himself, “The little crown and the C.M.! The little crown and the C.M.!” His chuckle was sarcastic, superior. Then he jumped. He heard a voice from the next room.

He called, “Hello, who is it?”

“Mrs. Hill, Mr. Battle. I’ve been knocking on your door. I didn’t know if you were in or out, so I just tried the handle.”

“I’ll be right out.”

“I’m sorry if you were in the bathroom.”

Mrs. Hill was wearing tight violet pedal-pushers and a tight lemon-colored sweater. On her feet were over-sized white furry slippers, and she was carrying a long cigarette holder, with a cigarette burned down nearly to the end. She gave Raymond Battle one of her quick, prefatory smiles and launched in. “You’re such a nice man, Mr. Battle. I couldn’t come to many men with this sort of problem. But you’re such a nice man! My daughter and I often mention that fact. I’d trust you with anything I had, though the good Lord knows that isn’t much these days. I hope I didn’t get you out of the bathroom … the thing is, Mr. Battle, I’m supposed to go into St. Louis tonight and stay over, and my daughter’s trying out for The Corn Is Green, over at the University. The thing is, Mr. Battle, we called three sitters and they’re all booked.” “Baby-sitters, Mrs. Hill?”