The Cypress House (33 page)

    "Talk
about what?" he said, leaning back in his chair.

    "Where
we're going. What comes next."

    He
frowned. "Going? I don't need to go anywhere. Hell, I just got home."

    "This
isn't home," she said. "There's nothing in this place for you except
trouble. The same trouble you got into last time."

    He
gave her a grin and a dismissive wave. "Aw, I'm fine."

    "No,
Owen. You're not fine. And this isn't home."

    "The
hell it isn't," he said, dropping the chair legs back to the floor and
looking at her with a hard stare. "I'm not going to Savannah."

    "Not
Savannah, just . . . somewhere else. There's no money here, Owen. No one ever
comes except the people Solomon Wade sends. You can imagine what sort of people
those are."

    Owen
flicked his eyes over to Arlen, frowned, and said, "We don't need to be
saying harsh words about Judge Wade."

    Rebecca
stared at him. There was a tremor in her jaw. "I'll say what I feel, and
that man is a plague. He's evil."

    "He's
the only man who kept Daddy and me afloat in hard times."

    Now
it was Rebecca's turn to look at Arlen. She had a desperate quality in her
eyes, and Owen followed the look.

    "What's
he doing down here anyhow?" he said. "Talk like this is family talk.
We don't need your hired man involved."

    "He's
more than a hired man. He's a friend, and I trust him. He'll stay."

    Arlen
was expecting resistance to that, but Owen just gave him a dark, knowing look.

    "We'll
discuss this another time," he said. "But I've got no desire to
leave. There's money to be made here, you just don't see it."

    "Money
to be made in the same way you were making it last time?" she snapped.
"The same way you ended up at Raiford? Yes, I'm sure there is. Trust me,
I'm well aware of the money. I've been asked to keep count of it while you were
gone! That's what
Judge
Wade has provided in your absence."

    "Well,
thank Providence that he did," Owen answered curtly. "Otherwise,
you'd have been busted. Ever think about that?"

    Rebecca's
mouth worked, and a wet shine took over her eyes.

    She
laid one hand on the table as if to steady herself even though she was seated,
and then she stood abruptly and walked to the steps and left them. Arlen rose,
but Owen Cady waved him down.

    "Let
the women bed down early while the men stay up and drink, that's what I've
always said."

    
That's
what you've always said?
Arlen thought
.
What are you, twenty
years old now? Yeah, I bet you've been saying that for a mighty long time
.

    But
he sat down. It was her story to tell, and he would respect that. If anyone in
this world understood such a burden, it was Arlen Wagner. He accepted the
bottle. Owen had switched from beer to whiskey an hour or so earlier, and the
change was showing, his eyes unfocused and his cheeks flushed.

    "Damn,
that tastes good," he said when Arlen poured a drink and passed it back.
"Been a long time, let me tell you. Sure, we had hooch, but it ain't the
same as real whiskey, I can promise you that. You ever been in prison?"

    "No."

    "Jail?"

    "Yes."

    Owen
nodded sagely. "I knew it. You got a look about you."

    "Do
I?"

    "Sure.
You know, one that says you've seen some things. You been around, same as
me."

    
Same
as you?
Arlen thought
.
You took a six-month fall for running
dope. You haven't seen shit, boy
.

    "I
didn' t like jail," Arlen said. "I don't intend to return."

    Owen
threw his head back and laughed as if that had been a joke, but when he dropped
his face again, his eyes had narrowed, gone cold.

    "You
sleeping with my sister?"

    Arlen
took a drink. "Seems to me she's sleeping alone right now. Unless she's
got somebody else hid up there."

    The
kid stared at him, then said, "If you are, fine. Doesn't have a thing to
do with me. But something you best understand — I'm the one runs the show at
this place. Not her, and sure as shit not you. My father left this place to
me."

    He
tapped his chest with an index finger, in case Arlen had any confusion.

    "Fair
enough," Arlen said. "I just swing a hammer."

    "Better
remember that."

    "I've
not forgotten it yet."

    For a
moment Owen stared at him as if those had been fighting words, but then he
burst into another of his too-loud laughs.

    "I
like you," he said, lifting the whiskey bottle and drinking straight from
it. An unnecessary flourish considering his glass was still full.

    "Glad
to hear it."

    Owen
dropped the bottle and leaned across the table. "You want to make some
money? Some
real
money? "

    "Depends
how it's made."

    Owen
grinned. "Shit, don't matter how it's made, matters that it
is
made. I'll tell you something you probably don't know, old- timer — that judge
who brought me down here from Raiford? He as good as runs this state. And I'm
in solid with that boy. You want a piece of it, I could get it for you."

    "Don't
know that you could," Arlen said. "Solomon Wade isn't as sweet on me
as he is on you."

    "Nah,
I could get you in on some cash deals, no problem." Owen leaned back,
confident of his position in the hierarchy of Wade's outfit.

    "Thanks,"
Arlen said, "but that isn't for me. I'll stick to carpentry."

    "Stick
to being broke, you mean."

    Arlen
shrugged.

    "Have
it your way," Owen said.

    Arlen
took a drink. "You know, your sister doesn't want Wade anywhere near
here."

    "I
give a shit? Tell you this —Rebecca ought to be back in Savannah. This place
isn't for her. I don't know what in the hell she thinks she's doing."

    Arlen
looked at him and then away. "Might be she came here for you."

    "Me?"

    "And
your father. To help you."

    "Well,
Daddy's dead, and I don't need any help."

    Arlen
didn't answer.

    "Listen,"
Owen said, "I'm not intending to spend my life cut- tin' boards or haulin'
feed sacks or pickin' oranges or whatever it is you think I ought to do. I'm
going to make a mark, old-timer, and I know the right folks to help me do
it."

    "Solomon
Wade."

    "Among
others." He nodded. "I know plenty of men."

    "Gangsters.
Hoods."

    Owen
grinned. "Call us what you like."

    
Us.
It took all Arlen had just to listen to this chucklehead. He tossed the rest of
the drink back and stood.

    "Rebecca
wants out of this place," he said. "She's done some suffering,
waiting on you."

    Owen
gave another drunken wave of his hand, and Arlen felt his fingers start to curl
up into fists at his sides. He looked at the kid for a moment, his jaw working,
thinking of all the things that should be said. Wasn't his place to say them,
though.

    "Welcome
back," he said, and then he turned and walked up the steps and went to his
bedroom alone.

    They'd
slept in the same bed since Paul left, but that night they did not, and she
didn't come down to his room in the darkness the way she once had. He tried not
to let her brother's presence rankle him, but it was hard not to. Her idea was
that they were all going to run off to Maine together like some happy damn
family? Arlen couldn't see it.

    He
also couldn't see leaving her, though. Ever.

    When
he awoke it was to the sound of loud, angry voices. He got out of bed and
pulled on some clothes and went downstairs, feeling a vague, hungover sort of
angry, as he often did in the mornings after sleepless nights. By the time he
reached the bottom of the stairs, another voice had joined Rebecca and Owen's
chorus, though, and this one pushed away the mental fog. It was Solomon Wade.

    "I
told you to leave him alone," Rebecca was saying. "I mean it, too.
You stay away from this place!"

    "I'm
trying to help the lad get back on his feet," Wade said in that drawl of
his, a voice carefully designed to show no reaction, to create a constant sense
of control. "I shouldn't think you'd object to that."

    "You
stay away from him."

    "Rebecca,
quit hollering," Owen said as Arlen stepped into the room. "The man's
trying to help, he comes here to give us a —"

    "We
don't need gifts from him."

    "It's
not a
gift,
it's a loaner," Owen said. "Something to drive, is
all."

    Arlen
looked out the window and saw that there were two cars beside Rebecca's old
truck: Solomon Wade's gray Ford coupe and a blue convertible with whitewall
tires.

    "To
drive for
what?
" Rebecca said.

    "I've
found the boy some work," Wade said.

    "No."
She shook her head. "No, he will not work for you."

    "Now,
Rebecca. Times are hard, and I've found Owen an opportunity. Him fresh out of
prison? I'd think you'd be more appreciative. Why, you've done some work for me
yourself, have you not?"

    She
didn't speak.

    Solomon
Wade said, "I'll leave y'all to sort this out. Owen, you be in touch,
hear? I need you, and there's dollars in it. Stacks of them."

    He
walked through the door and out to his car. Tate McGrath was waiting in the
passenger seat; evidently he'd driven the convertible down.

    "I
don't understand you," Owen said to Rebecca. "I don't understand you
a bit."

    "Owen,
you're not to work for him. I won't allow it."

    "You
won't?" He had a challenge to his voice, his eyebrows raised.

    "That's
right. That man is —"

    "Is
the only person in this county who sees anybody gets paid,"

    Owen
said. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but there's a Depression on, Rebecca.
And Judge Wade sees that people get paid. What's he ever done to you?"

    "What's
he done?" she echoed. "What's he done?"

    "That's
what I asked."

    Her
whole body was trembling. "He's a criminal. He hurts people and he steals
from them and —"

    "No
worse than most of the world."

    "And
he kills them. He's a murderer."

    Owen
laughed. "Oh boy. You been hearing some tall ones. Who's telling them?
This guy?" He pointed at Arlen.

    Rebecca
stood there and stared at her brother, who gave a mocking smile in response,
and she didn't say a word.

    "I'm
going for a drive," Owen said. He walked past Arlen and through the door,
and a minute later the convertible was roaring away.

    "Why
won't you tell him?" Arlen said. "Damn it, he needs to know."

    She
wouldn't look at him. "I will. It's just . . .not the right time."

    "Well,
it better be the right time soon," Arlen said. "Because I'll tell you
something — that brother of yours isn't some confused kid who got himself into
trouble. He thinks he's going to be a gangster, and he likes the idea."

    "That's
not true!"

    "No?"
Arlen said, and they exchanged an unpleasant stare.