Night Gallery 1 (15 page)

"Why not?" she asked, disappointed.

Lane shrugged. "The syndrome of the twenty-five year man who didn't get his gold watch. He's too full of himself and too sorry for himself, and he makes lousy company." Then he smiled. "Another time, maybe?"

"Sure," Miss Alcott said.

"Miss Alcott," Lane called to her as she turned.

She looked back at him.

"You're a helluva good lady. I mean that."

Jane Alcott felt something rise inside of her. It was female and mixed up and impossible to isolate and understand. She'd been feeling it more and more with Randy Lane for the better part of six months. It was affection, sympathy, compassion, and something far more physical than she wanted to admit. "I guess," she said, "it's because I work for a helluva good guy. And
I
mean that."

She turned and left him sitting there.

The top three floors of the four-story building had already been knocked down, and only Tim Riley's bar remained standing—faded and ancient brick, broken and boarded windows with a sign hanging askew. "Tim Riley's Bar" was spelled out in weathered, barely legible printing.

Randy Lane sat on a fire hydrant, staring up at the sign—thinking how dejected and forlorn it looked and how the wood slats coveting the big window looked like a giant eyepatch. He very carefully got up from the hydrant and took an unsteady walk over to the front door. This too, was crisscrossed with wooden boards, and there was just about six inches of space that he could peer through into the interior. All he could make out was the dark outline of the full-length bar and nothing else. He heard footsteps on the sidewalk and turned to see the bulky blue-coated figure of McDonough, the cop—the genial County Mayo face much more wrinkled than he remembered.

"They're closed," McDonough said.

Lane nodded and again peered through the wood slats. "Don't I know it."

The policeman studied Lane, then looked up past the sign to the empty sky where there had once been a building. "I know how you feel," he said gently. "First arrest I ever made was inside Tim Riley's. Two guys fighting over whether Carl Hubbell could throw harder'n Lefty Gomez—and if that don't date me, Randy, I'll join Tim Riley under the sod."

Lane felt memories of his own welling up. "First date I ever had," he said, "was right here with my wife. When her father heard about it, he almost had a stroke."

McDonough smiled. "Katie," he said softly. "Katie Donovant. As if I didn't remember her. She was a lovely, lovely lady, Randy."

He felt the ache again. The air pocket. "That she was," he said. Then he grinned as other recollections took over. "And when I came back from the service—they had a surprise party for me in there. My God, McDonough—you were there. My train was late, remember? By the time I got here, my old man was sound asleep in the corner."

McDonough laughed. "And don't I remember that. But I'll say this for him: he could drink a keg of that stuff. And many's the night I sat with him while he did it. And while
I
did it."

The two men both laughed and then stared toward the darkened interior.

McDonough studied Lane's profile and couldn't help but notice the seedy look to his clothes and the way his shoulders slumped. "Things going well for you, Randy?" he asked.

Lane nodded. "I'm forty-six years old. I'm six years younger than my father was when he died."

McDonough put a hand on his shoulder. "When I first saw you in here, Randy, I had a spring in my step, arches in my feet, and my ambition in life was to capture Al Capone. Then one morning I woke up . . . and I knew I'd run out of vinegar. All I wanted was Epsom salt. So I just walk a little slower and I pray for quiet nights. And I just keep reminding myself that I'm flat-footed and slow as molasses—but I'm still a whole helluva lot faster'n Al Capone is." He winked and grinned. "Look after yourself, Randy."

He turned and with his flat-footed policeman gait continued down the sidewalk, swinging his club in the manner of policemen fifty years before.

Randy Lane watched him walk off and disappear around the corner. Then once again he looked up at the Tim Riley sign. It occurred to him he could go to the next block and the cocktail lounge that stayed open until four. But a younger crowd usually gathered there. They played rock music on the juke, and it was so damned noisy. But he had no choice except perhaps to go home. Home. The empty apartment. The late show on television. The TV dinner. But what the hell. Tim Riley's wasn't serving that night. So he turned and was about to walk away when he heard it. Faintly, as if from far off, the singing voices of "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow"—indistinct, but growing louder. He retraced his steps over to the door and once again peered into the interior of the darkened bar.

A car drove by, and briefly its headlights shone over Lane's shoulder to illuminate the inside. Then the car pulled around the corner, taking its lights with it, and once again the cobwebbed musty interior was dark.

Or was it?

For a while Randy Lane stood there peering through the slats. He suddenly made out the outlines of people. They looked fuzzy, as if seen through gauze. But they were there. People holding up mugs of beer. They looked like slow-motion characters of an ancient film. But there was Tim himself behind the bar. And there was his father in the corner, blinking his eyes.

Lane stepped back and sent his foot in a swinging arc to smash against the wooden slats. One of them cracked. Another flew off one of its nails. He yanked at it furiously, pulled it aside, kicked again at the one remaining, and then smashed the full weight of his body against sagging door and entered Tim Riley's bar.

Just for a moment . . . just for a single moment . . . he saw a banner stretched across the room which read, "Welcome Home, Randy." And in that moment the voices were loud and the faces recognizable. His father. Tim Riley. Even McDonough was there—a very young cop. And something surged inside Randy Lane. A joy . . . an excitement . . . a sense of satisfaction, being where he belonged. But as he turned toward his father, the room went dark and empty. Cobwebs and wires from dismantled fixtures and a cracked mirror were all he could make out in the darkness. He sturnbled over a broken, overturned chair as he turned and moved back toward the front door. Before leaving he turned once again to survey the room. His loneliness had been a dull, formless thing, and he'd learned to carry it with him. But now he felt the sudden sharp, jabbing pain of something beyond loneliness; some overwhelming anguish almost impossible to bear. He suddenly felt lost and bewildered, as if something . . . something important and integral—had just eluded him.

He walked very slowly out of Tim Riley's bar, hesitated for a moment, then headed for the cocktail lounge down the street on the next block. He'd sit at the bar, trying to ignore the nuzzling kids and the blaring rock and the late-night bimbos who would inventory him then move away to a richer pasture. A richer-looking guy and a younger one. And he'd drink just enough to dull the pain and forget the air pocket. And maybe . . . just maybe . . . by the dawn's early light he could forget Tim Riley's bar and all the love that went with it.

Shortly after 9:00 A.M. the following day, Miss Alcott stood in front of Mr. Blodgett, personnel director of Pritikin's Plastic Products.

He was a short, fastidious, fussy little man who seemed always to be behind time and rushing to catch up.

He looked up as she arrived at his desk, briefly checked her, then sorted out some papers on his desk. "You have a change in assignment," he announced.

Miss Alcott caught her breath. "A change in assignment?''

"Correct. We're moving you."

"From where to where?" she asked.

Blodgett managed a smile. "Relax, Miss Alcott. We're not sending you to a frontier outpost. Just about eight feet to your left. You'll join Mr. Doane as of next Monday morning."

He reshuffled the papers, looked at her briefly, gave her a nod of dismissal, then started to jot down notes on a pad. He tried to ignore the fact that she remained there. He looked up again. "Something else?" Then he frowned. She looked white-faced, ill. "Are you all right, Miss Alcott?"

"Did you say Doane?" she asked.

Blodgett nodded. "His secretary—Miss Trevor—has turned in her notice. She's getting married, I believe. Anyway, she'll be leaving us. So you'll assume her duties." Why, he thought, did the woman just stand there? She was supposed to be such a good secretary—didn't she understand this altogether simple and quite irrevocable move? He looked up at her impatiently. "Was there something else, Miss Alcott?"

"Mr. Blodgett," Jane Alcott said, "what about Mr. Lane?"

Blodgett looked at her blankly. "Mr. Lane?"

She nodded. "I've been with him for over a year."

Blodgett put the pencil in his mouth. "I'm not sure what the arrangement will be. You'll have a replacement, of course, but for the moment I'm told that Mr. Doane will need you as of Monday morning. Requested you personally, as a matter of fact."

"What if I don't want to work for Mr. Doane?"

Blodgett blinked, surprised. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It's supposed to mean that he does everything but wear track shoes. He's got five sets of hands. He pinches fannies, and he doesn't happen to be fit to shine Mr. Lane's shoes!"

Blodgett threw the pencil down on his desk. "Regrettably,'' he said, "in my capacity as personnel director I've neither the time nor the inclination to listen to your personal assessments of the executives of this organization. I'll have to put it to you bluntly, Miss Alcott. You'll either report for work with Mr. Doane on Monday morning—or you'll report to the cashier this afternoon to pick up your severance pay. Now, which will it be, please? I'm very busy."

She looked at that moment no longer angry, and incredibly young. "Does . . . Mr. Lane know?" she half-whispered.

"I'm sure someone has seen fit to tell him," Blodgett said, again turning to the papers on his desk. And when he looked up moments later, Miss Alcott had left.

She got on the elevator and went back to her floor. As she moved down the corridor of desks, she saw a group of giggling girls surrounding Doane's secretary. There were gift wrappings thrown about and "oohs" and "aahs" of delight as silver things shown on her desk. One or two of the girls looked at Jane Alcott sideways as she moved past, and there was some whispering.

Miss Alcott went past her desk and into Lane's office.

He was in his usual position, his chair swiveled around, facing the window. Without looking at her, he held up his hand and wiggled his fingers. "Close the door," he said.

She did so after taking a step into the room.

Still he didn't turn. "If it makes it go down any easier, Jane I feel a whole lot worse about this than you do."

She felt a catch in her throat. "I seriously doubt that," she said.

Lane very slowly turned around in the chair. "Look," he said, "you've got no choice." There was no self-pity in the voice just a kind of resigned awareness. "You tie yourself to a rocket or to a groundhog. There's so much handwriting on the walls around here, the whole Goddamned place looks like a gigantic men's room."

"I don't want to work for Doane. It's as simple as that."

Lane studied her. "So give it a shot. If there's anybody on this earth who can put him down and keep him in line—it's you."

She waited for a moment, hoping there would be something else said. When he remained silent, she knew that this was it. "Is that it?" she asked.

Lane smiled at her. "Oh, there's a great deal more

to say. A couple of items having to do with how gratefull I am for all you've done for me. But unfortunately, I'm cold stone sober now and not given to loquaciousness." Then his smile faded, and his voice sounded

intense. "But you know that, don't you, Jane? You know how grateful I am to you."

They looked at one another and they both smiled—the kind of smile friends exchange when one is on the train leaving and the other stands on the platform waving good bye.

Jane Alcott turned and left the office, wondering why the decent guys—the nice guys—the sensitive, gentle, caring guys—were either married or inaccessible. When she got to her desk she started to clear away the drawers. One thing was certain—she'd never work for Harvey Doane.

From the opposite end of the corridor she was vaguely conscious of the secretaries breaking up with parting congratulations to the bride-to-be, Miss Trevor.

One of the girls was humming "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," and as she passed Jane Alcott's desk, her voice carried through to the interior of Lane's office.

He was sitting at his desk and looked up, listening to the passing melody. It reminded him of the previous night. And he sat there pondering. He was not an imaginative man—at least not one given to fantasies around the clock. And it was very odd, he thought—those hallucinations. And it was odder yet that he had felt no fear at all. He supposed that it was
because

they were hallucinations. Not phantoms. Hallucinations made up of wishful thinking and probably his gin-and-vermouth ration. He smiled a little wanly, listening to the tune as it floated by, and when he turned around to face his desk, the hallucinations had returned. It was the old war-surplus roller-top that Pritikin had given him the first week he'd worked there. And the room was bare, and much smaller. And the sound of singing was louder now and came from many voices from outside.

Like a captivated kid moving after the Pied Piper, he rose, crossed the room, and opened the door. What he saw was Pritikin's Plastic Products of twenty-five years ago. There were just two desks outside, and two secretaries, both older women in long skirts. One doubled as a switchboard operator. He remembered her. Harris or Harrison or something like that. He blinked at her, then turned to see Mr. Pritikin come out of his office. Pritikin's hair was black, and he wore a moustache.

He walked directly over to Lane, smiled, patted him on the arm. "Well, sir, what's the first day been like, Randy?" Pritikin asked him.