Jailbird (27 page)

“Where there’s life there’s hope,” I said, and I prepared to run upstairs.

“Don’t you dare leave me alone again!” she said.

“I’m going to save your life!” I said.

“You’ve got to hear what I have to say first!” she said. “I’ve been sitting here thinking, ‘My God—after all I’ve gone through, after all I’ve worked for, there isn’t going to be anybody to hear the last things I have to say.’ You get an ambulance, and there won’t be anybody who understands English on that thing.”

“Can I make you more comfortable?” I said.

“I am comfortable,” she said. There was something to that claim. Her layers and layers of clothing were keeping her warm. Her little head was supported in a corner of the stall and cushioned against the metal by a pillow of rags.

There was meanwhile an occasional grumbling in the living rock around us. Something else was dying upstairs, which was the railroad system of the United States. Half-broken locomotives were dragging completely broken passenger cars in and out of the station.

“I know your secret,” I said.

“Which one?” she said. “There are so many now.”

I expected it to be a moment of high drama when I told her that I knew she was the majority stockholder in RAMJAC. It was a fizzle, of course. She had told me that already, and I had failed to hear.

“Are you going deaf, Walter?” she said.

“I hear you all right, now,” I said.

“On top of everything else,” she said, “am I going to have to yell my last words?”

“No,” I said. “But I don’t want to listen to any more talk about last words. You’re so rich, Mary Kathleen! You
can take over a whole hospital, if you want to—and make them make you well again!”

“I hate this life,” she said. “I’ve done everything I can to make it better for everybody, but there probably isn’t that much that anybody can do. I’ve had enough of trying. I want to go to sleep now.”

“But you don’t have to live this way!” I said. “That’s what I came here to tell you. I’ll protect you, Mary Kathleen. We’ll hire people we can trust absolutely. Howard Hughes hired Mormons—because they have such high moral standards. We’ll hire Mormons, too.”

“Oh Lord, Walter,” she said, “you think I haven’t tried Mormons?”

“You have?” I said.

“I was up to my ears in Mormons one time,” she said, and she told me as gruesome a tale as I ever expect to hear.

It happened when she was still living expensively, still trying to find ways to enjoy her great wealth at least a little bit. She was a freak that many people would have liked to photograph or capture or torment in some way—or kill. People would have liked to kill her for her hands or her money, but also for revenge. RAMJAC had stolen or ruined many other businesses and had even had a hand in the toppling of governments in countries that were small and weak.

So she dared not reveal her true identity to anyone but her faithful Mormons, and she had to keep moving all the time. And so it came to pass that she was staying on the top floor of a RAMJAC hotel in Managua, Nicaragua. There were twenty luxury suites on the floor, and she hired them all.
The two stairways from the floor below were blocked with brutal masonry, like the archway in the lobby of the Arapahoe. The controls on the elevators were set so that only one could reach the top, and that one was manned by a Mormon.

Not even the manager of the hotel, supposedly, knew who she really was. But everyone in Managua, surely, must have suspected who she really was.

Be that as it may: She rashly resolved to go out into the city alone one day, to taste however briefly what she had not tasted for years—what it was like to be just another human being in the world. So out she went in a wig and dark glasses.

She befriended a middle-aged American woman whom she found weeping on a bench in a park. The woman was from St. Louis. Her husband was a brewmaster in the Anheuser-Busch Division of RAMJAC. They had come to Nicaragua for a second honeymoon on the advice of a travel agent. The husband had died that morning of amoebic dysentery.

So Mary Kathleen took her back to the hotel and put her into one of the many unused suites she had, and told some of her Mormons to arrange to have the body and the widow flown to St. Louis on a RAMJAC plane.

When Mary Kathleen went to tell her about the arrangements, she found the woman strangled with a cord from the draperies. This was the really horrible part, though: Whoever had done it had obviously believed the woman was Mary Kathleen. Her hands were cut off. They were never found.

Mary Kathleen went to New York City soon after that. She began to watch shopping-bag ladies through field glasses from her suite in the Waldorf Towers. General of the Armies Douglas MacArthur lived on the floor above her, incidentally.

She never went out, never had visitors, never called anyone. No hotel people were allowed in. The Mormons brought the food from downstairs, and made the beds, and did all the cleaning. But one day she received a threatening note, anyway. It was in a pink, scented envelope atop her most intimate lingerie. It said that the author knew who she was and held her responsible for the overthrow of the legitimate government of Guatemala. He was going to blow up the hotel.

Mary Kathleen could take no more. She walked out on her Mormons, who were surely loyal, but unable to protect her. She began to protect herself with layers and layers of clothing she found in garbage cans.

“If your money made you so unhappy,” I said, “why didn’t you give it away?”

“I am!” she said. “After I die, you look in my left shoe, Walter. You will find my will in there. I leave The RAMJAC Corporation to its rightful owners, the American people.” She smiled. It was harrowing to see such cosmic happiness expressed by gums and a rotten tooth or two.

I thought she had died. She had not.

“Mary Kathleen—?” I said.

“I’m not dead yet,” she said.

“I really am going to get help now,” I said.

“If you do, I’ll die,” she said. “I can promise that now. I can die when I want to now. I can pick the time.”

“Nobody can do that,” I said.

“Shopping-bag ladies can,” she said. “It’s our special dispensation. We can’t say when we will start dying. But once we do start, Walter, we can pick the exact time. Would you like me to die right now, at the count of ten?”

“Not now, not ever,” I said.

“Then stay here,” she said.

So I did. What else could I do?

“I want to thank you for hugging me,” she said.

“Any time,” I said.

“Once a day is enough,” she said. “I’ve had my hug today.”

“You were the first woman I ever really made love to,” I said. “Do you remember that?”

“I remember the hugs,” she said. “I remember you said you loved me. No man had ever said that to me before. My mother used to say it to me a lot—before she died.”

I was starting to cry again.

“I know you never meant it,” she said.

“I did, I did,” I protested. “Oh, my God—I did.”

“It’s all right,” she said. “You couldn’t help it that you were born without a heart. At least you tried to believe what the people with hearts believed—so you were a good man just the same.”

She stopped breathing. She stopping blinking. She was dead.

T
HERE WAS MORE
. There is always more.

It was nine o’clock in the evening of my first full day of freedom. I still had three hours to go. I went upstairs and told a policeman that there was a dead shopping-bag lady in the basement.

His duties had made him cynical. He said to me, “So what else is new?”

So I stood by the body of my old friend in the basement until the ambulance attendants came, just as any other faithful animal would have done. It took a while, since it was known that she was dead. She was stiffening up when they got there. They commented on that. I had to ask them what they had just said, since they did not speak in English. It turned out that their first language was Urdu. They were both from Pakistan. Their English was primitive. If Mary Kathleen had died in their presence instead of mine, they would have said, I am sure, that she spoke gibberish at the end.

I inquired of them, in order to calm the sobs that were welling up inside me, to tell me a little about Urdu. They said it had a literature as great as any in the world, but that it
had begun as a spare and ugly artificial language invented in the court of Genghis Khan. Its purpose in the beginning was military. It allowed his captains to give orders that were understood in every part of the Mongol Empire. Poets would later make it beautiful.

Live and learn.

I gave the police Mary Kathleen’s maiden name. I gave them my true name as well. I was not about to be cute with the police. Neither was I ready to have anyone learn yet that Mrs. Jack Graham was dead. The consequences of that announcement would surely be an avalanche of some kind.

I was the only person on the planet who could set it off. I was not ready to set it off yet. This was not cunning on my part, as some people have said. It was my natural awe of an avalanche.

I walked home, a harmless little elf in his magic dancing shoes, to the Hotel Arapahoe. Much straw had been spun into gold that day, and much gold had been spun into straw. And the spinning had just begun.

There was a new night clerk, naturally, since Israel Edel had been summoned to Arpad Leen’s. This new man had been sent over to fill in on short notice. His regular post was behind the desk at the Carlyle, also a RAMJAC hotel. He was exquisitely dressed and groomed. He was mortified, having to deal with whores and people fresh out of jails and lunatic asylums and so on.

He had to tell me that: that he really belonged to the Carlyle, and that he was only filling in. This was not the real him.

When I told him my name, he said that there was a package for me, and a message, too.

The police had returned my shoes and had picked up the clarinet parts from my bureau. The message was from Arpad Leen. It was a holograph, like Mary Kathleen’s will, which I had in the inner pocket of my suitcase—along with my Doctor of Mixology degree. The pockets of my raincoat were stuffed with other materials from Mary Kathleen’s shoes. They bulged like saddlebags.

Leen wrote that the letter was for my eyes only. He said that in the midst of the confusion at his penthouse he had never gotten around to offering a specific job to me. He suggested that I would be happy in his old division, which was Down Home Records. It now included
The New York Times
and Universal Pictures and Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey and Dell Publishing, among other things. There was also a catfood company, he said, which I needn’t worry about. It was about to be transferred to the General Foods Division. It had belonged to the
Times
.

“If this is not your cup of tea,” he wrote, “we’ll find something that is. I am absolutely thrilled to know that we will have an observer for Mrs. Graham among us. Please give her my warmest regards.”

There was a postscript. He said that he had taken the liberty of making an appointment for me at eleven the next morning with someone named Morty Sills. There was an address. I assumed that Sills was a RAMJAC personnel director or something. It turned out that he was a tailor.

Once again a multimillionaire was sending Walter F.
Starbuck to his own tailor, to be made into a convincing counterfeit of a perfect gentleman.

•   •  •

On the following morning I was still numbed by my dread of the avalanche. I was four thousand dollars richer and technically a thief. Mary Kathleen had had four one-thousand-dollar bills as insoles for her basketball shoes.

There was nothing in the papers about the death of Mary Kathleen. Why would there have been? Who cared? There was an obituary for the patient Sarah Clewes had lost—the woman with the bad heart. She left three children behind. Her husband had died in an automobile accident a month before, so the children were orphans now.

As I was being measured for a suit by Morty Sills, I found it unbearable to think of Mary Kathleen’s not being claimed by anyone. Clyde Carter was there, too, fresh off the plane from Atlanta. He, too, was getting a brand-new wardrobe, even before Arpad Leen had seen him.

He was scared.

I told him not to be.

So I went to the morgue after lunch, and I claimed her. It was easily done. Who else would want that tiny body? It had no relatives. I was its only friend.

I had one last look at it. It was nothing. There was nobody there anymore. “Nobody home.”

I found a mortician only one block away. I had him pick up the body and embalm it and put it into a serviceable casket. There was no funeral. I did not even accompany it to
the grave, which was a crypt in a great concrete honeycomb in Morristown, New Jersey. The cemetery had advertised in the
Times
that morning. Each crypt had a tasteful little bronze door on which the tenant’s name was engraved.

Little did I dream that the man who did the engraving of the doors would be arrested for drunken driving about two years later, and would comment on what an unusual name the arresting officer had. He had come across it only once before—at his lugubrious place of work. The name of the officer, a Morris County deputy sheriff, actually, was Francis X. O’Looney.

O’Looney would become curious as to how the woman in the crypt was related to him.

O’Looney, using the sparse documents at the cemetery, would trace Mary Kathleen back to the morgue in New York City. There he would get a set of her fingerprints. On the outside chance that she had been arrested or had spent time in a mental institution, he would send the prints to the F.B.I.

Thus would RAMJAC be brought tumbling down.

•   •  •

There was a bizarre sidelight to the case. O’Looney, before he finally found out who Mary Kathleen really was, fell in love with his dream of her when she was young. He had it all wrong, incidentally. He dreamed that she was tall and buxom and black-haired, whereas she had been short and scrawny and red-haired. He dreamed that she was an
immigrant who had gone to work for an eccentric millionaire in a spooky mansion, and that she had been both attracted and repelled by this man, and that he had abused her to the point of death.