Intimate Victims (5 page)

He was dressed in a seedy tweed suit, a blue shirt, and a loud blue and red tie. Brown shoes. A worn felt hat in his hands, with weather stains on the band.

“It’s Bud!” he grinned, pounding Robert’s shoulder.

“Hello!”

“Hel-lo? Holy Christ, is
that
all?”

Then had come the embarrassment of trying to explain to Wilde that he was due on twenty immediately. There was Wilde’s disbelief: immediately meant immediately, not two minutes, not five. Robert was perspiring, beads of it dotted his forehead and he could feel his shirt sticking to his ribs. Wilde sensed the seriousness of Robert’s situation slowly, perhaps not until Robert was walking away — perhaps not until the elevator doors had sealed off Robert from view, leaving Wilde there with his bewilderment. They had arranged for a drink at the Roosevelt at five-thirty. All the way up to twenty, Robert Bowser thought of Wilde’s last words in the corridor, “Why, Stuffy, you’re about to pee in your pants — like some kid on his way to the principal’s office!”

When they met later in the Rough Rider Room, Bud told Robert he had been doing some test-piloting, some stunt-flying at state fairs in old World War I crates, and some freight piloting between the States and Brazil. Robert had just been told of his appointment as treasurer. In the back of his mind, Robert Bowser knew what the new position meant to him: a chance at the coup. He could not frame it right out, but he knew that as he listened to Bud and his talk of wild schemes for the future, he felt vaguely resentful and impatient with Bud. Things took time; things had to be thought out — timing was everything —
everything.
It was almost as though he feared some of Wilde’s reckless impulsiveness would rub off on him, if he were to listen to Wilde any longer. There was just enough of Wilde in Robert Bowser to make Bowser recoil.

“São Paulo’s the place, Stuffy,” Wilde was enthusing. “It’s going to be the Chicago of Brazil. There’s big money there, and a sweet life, and I’m going to get my share of it! No rat-race mind you. No bootlicking! Just
easy
… just go in and take what you want!”

“Get rich quick, hmm, Bud?”

“What’s wrong with it? And even if I don’t get rich, there’ll be some excitement! Hell, Stuffy, you ought to get yourself a little of that commodity before it’s too late. Live!”

For just the most infinitesimal amount of time, with the movement of time in reality suspended for that inch of unreality, Robert had a quite clear picture of his fist connecting with Bud Wilde’s jaw — for no reason, just one of those fleeting mental pictures that come as quickly as they go. Then there was silence between them. Their eyes met across the table. Robert knew they were both thinking of the same thing — of the meeting in the corridor earlier that day. Wilde seemed momentarily embarrassed. He played with his swizzle stick and mumbled something about Robert not being able to help what had happened — about being stupid to have wanted to surprise Robert that way. And it was then that Robert should have let go, blurted out so many things: his plans, his past successes at Brown and Forbes, his chance at Something Big, and his caution (even with debts mounting now, and large ones) in waiting for the right moment.

Instead, Robert heard himself making an elaborate defense of the protocol at King & Clary, of the necessity for it, and of the genius of a Wilfred Clary. He raved on and on about his fascination with the intricate workings of King & Clary, of the challenge and excitement, and of the satisfaction he received in his work. There was no clue in his tone, nor in his bearing, that his house in New Hope was at that moment mortgaged for every cent — that nightly he was visited by the tyrannical incubus of his debts — and that now, at last, Robert Bowser was moving in for the Real Kill that would end it all, and was the reason for all of it. The coup was in his sights. He should have told him that.

“So you see,” he had concluded, “São Paulo has nothing to offer me.”

• • •

Just before the turn-off to Lambertville, New Jersey, Robert pulled in at a gas station. Margaret really was asleep now. She was slouched over to the side of the Lincoln, away from Robert, leaning against the window. Her mouth had dropped open slightly, a wisp of her blond hair was bothering her left eye; one hand clutched the Jay Thorpe necklace. Robert stared at her. Part of it, anyway, had been for Margaret, hadn’t it? Was it possible that the game had been in control of Robert Bowser, and not Robert in control of the game at all — that Margaret had never been in the least a part of the gambles?

Robert got out and went to the Men’s, to splash cold water on his face, to swallow an aspirin for his headache … São Paulo … He smiled. He imagined the look of utter shock in Bud Wilde’s eyes … the incredulity in his voice: “$100,000, Stuffy!”

“W
HEN YOU
get to Lambertville,” Lois Cutler said, “you just cross over the bridge to New Hope. Turn left and you’ll come to the Logan Inn. I’ll meet you there.”

“In about an hour and a half?”

“Yes, about … Can you hear that, Harvey?”

“What?”

“It’s Daddy singing ‘Boola-Boola!’”

“I don’t hear it.”

“I’ll hold the phone out … Did you hear him?” “Sort of,” said Harvey. “The Logan Inn in about an hour and a half.”

“Yes … Where are you staying, Harvey? With your friends in Princeton?”

“Uh … Yes, with my friends.”

“I’m glad you’re visiting so near. It’ll be good to — honestly, now,
my father!
Can you hear him, Harvey?” “Sort of.”

“Oh, God, he’s off-key,” she giggled. “What a scream!” “The Logan Inn in about an hour,” said Harvey. “I’ll be seeing you, Lois.”

“Toodle-loo!”

“Toodle … Bye!”

It was exactly six when Harvey came out of the phone booth. He looked around for Lake Budde, then walked to the terrace and sat at a table. From his pocket he took his silver cigarette case and a pack of matches from the English Grill in Wilmington, Delaware. The last time he had sent to the P.O. box in New Orleans for matches, he had received three from the English Grill, and two from the Brown Derby in Hollywood. The advertisement had promised that all thirty matchbooks would be different. Harvey had written a severe letter of protest, circling certain words in the advertisement to emphasize their slipshod treatment of him. As yet, there had been no acknowledgment of his letter.

He placed the matchbook from the English Grill face-up, on top his silver cigarette case. When the waiter approached the table, Harvey ordered an Old Smuggler and soda. He had recently taken J&B off his List of Things. It was the KP’s favorite brand of Scotch, which was how it had come to be on Harvey’s list, but now he wanted a brand that was his. He had looked through copies of
Playboy, Esquire,
and
The New Yorker,
until he had settled on Old Smuggler. He liked the sound of it; in the advertisements for the whisky there was a man in evening clothes, sitting in front of a table of blue glasses numbered 1, 2, 3. Harvey was pleased with the notion he had made “the blue-glass test,” that judiciously he had picked a particular Scotch.

From the side pocket of his white jacket, Harvey took out Lois Cutler’s most recent letter, and re-read it.

“Hello there, Plangman,” a voice behind Harvey called out. Harvey stood up and put his hand out to Lake Budde.

“What are we — off to the races?” said Budde. He reached across and turned down the collar of Harvey’s white jacket.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Sit down, sit down. Don’t stand up for me,” Budde said, sitting down. “Isn’t that Tucker Wolfe’s MG out front?”

“Yes. He broke his arm.”

“And you drove it East for him, hmm?”

“He asked me to. I’m doing it as a favor to him.”

“All right! All right! Did I say anything?”

“It isn’t that you said anything, exactly; it’s an attitude you have.”

“Sit down, Plangman. Don’t get so excited. How’s Mom P.?”

Harvey sat down. “She’s fine.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Old Smuggler and soda.”

“Umm hmm. I’ll have Scotch and soda too.”

“What’s so funny, Lake?”

“Funny? Nothing. How long did the drive take you?” “Three days … Old Smuggler is a very fine whisky. It took me a long time to decide on it finally.”

Lake signaled the waiter and ordered a Scotch and soda. He said, “Wasn’t Wilmington a little out of your way?” “Wilmington where?”

Lake threw his head back and laughed. He said, “The Wilmington where the English Grill is, old man. Jolly fine place, I’m told. Good show and all that, what?”

Harvey picked up the matchbook and put it in his pocket.

“Why, Plangman, old man, you’re blushing, by Jove!”

“I’m glad I amuse you, Lake. I always did amuse you, didn’t I?”

“You’re just such a goddam incorrigible phony, Plangman.

The English Grill of Wilmington, Delaware! Where’d you get it?”

“I was there, for your information. Do you want me to describe it to you, Lake? I can describe it to you.” “Never mind, old chap.”

“I don’t know why you think I couldn’t have been there.” “All things are possible, Plangman.” “Except taking me seriously.”

“Except taking you seriously,” said Lake, laughing again.

“Another thing,” Harvey said, “à propos de rien, just what …” but Lake Budde’s laughter grew louder, and now he was holding his stomach with one hand, and the table’s side with the other, rocking back and forth as he laughed. “A prop-puss dee ry-en,” he giggled between bursts of laughter. “A prop-puss de ry-en! I never knew you spoke French, Plangman. I don’t think most French people would realize it.
A prop-puss!”

The waiter served Budde his Scotch then. Budde held his glass up in the gesture of a toast. “Long may you waver, Plangman,” he said.

Lake Budde had been last year’s Kappa Pi president. Besides Case Bolton, Harvey had envied and admired Budde even more than the others. Budde had a well-bred, wholesome appearance characteristic of certain rich boys — a look that was more Harvard yard than Jesse steps at Missouri — a face that was boyishly handsome, tanned and shiny, with brown hair worn in a sort of wind-blown Prince Charlie style, and bright blue eyes. His grades from boarding school had not been good enough for an Ivy League college; like a lot of Easterners who attended Missouri University because of disqualifying grades, Lake used the excuse that he was interested in journalism. The University of Missouri had one of the best journalism schools in the country. At Missouri, Lake drove a British Sprite convertible, the color of his eyes. He played piano and dated a raven-haired Pi Phi who had been last year’s Homecoming Queen, and whenever Harvey had been invited to any of the Kappa Pi functions, it was always Lake who extended the invitation. When Boy Ames’ father was killed in an air crash last February, it was Lake who put an arm around his shoulder, led him into the sanctuary of the President’s Suite at Kappa Pi, and broke the news to Boy. The other Kappa Pi’s had stood around wondering how to approach Boy, but Lake knew how — just as Case Bolton would have known how. Harvey used to watch Lake; it seemed to Harvey that Lake had lived one hundred years longer than most Kappa Pi’s, all of whom had seemed to live a good ninety years longer than Harvey. Harvey wondered if sometime during Lake’s youth his father, or his mother or someone, had simply instructed him in such a way that nothing could come up he could not handle. He imagined some distinguished-looking gentleman seated in a grand living room of a fine manor house saying calmly to Lake, “Now in the case of a boy losing his father in a disaster, Lake — one simply puts his arm around his shoulder and …” How else did boys like Lake know so much, if someone had not told them?

After a swallow of his drink, Lake Budde said, “Well, what was the other thing, Harvey?”

“What did you mean when you asked if I was off to the races?”

“Why should I pick on you, ah? Forget it.” “Why
do
you pick on me? It seems to give you pleasure?” “You ask for it sometimes, Plangman. How’s Tub doing with geology?”

“I don’t know. Tub Oakley’s not my favorite person.” “Who is, Plangman?”

“Who?” Harvey shrugged. “No one you know … Oh, you probably know them, or know of them. I’m invited there for the weekend.”

“Who are they?”

“The Cutlers. The Hayden Cutlers.”

“Nope, I don’t.”

“Your family probably does. They’re from New Hope, Pennsylvania.”

“Why would my family know them?”

“Well, they’re well-off and all. Her maternal grandparents were Bea and William Kemper. Her uncle’s a Boocock. We all call him “Boo.”

“Go on.”

“What do you mean ‘go on’? That’s all. Her maternal grandparents were descended from John Alden and Henry Adams.” “Oh! That’s fantastic!” “Well, it is!”

“I’m agreeing with you, Plangman. What else?”

“I don’t know why we can’t have a simple conversation, Lake. I looked you up as a favor to my mother. Now why can’t we just have a simple conversation?”

“Isn’t that what we’re having?”

“You have this funny attitude.”

“I’m sorry, Plangman. I don’t happen to know the Cutlers, that’s all. How long are you visiting them?” “I may marry Lois.” “Congratulations.” “You see what I mean?”

“I said, congratulations. What was I supposed to say?”

“She went to Stephens College. Do you know how I met her? Your fraternity brother — Tub Oakley — got so drunk one night, he couldn’t take her home. I had to do it.”

“That was a lucky break for you.”

“I don’t need a lucky break to meet people. Is that what you think?”

“I think you’ve got a chip on your shoulder, Plangman. I think I’ll swallow this and be on my way.”

“It’s just as well,” said Harvey. “I’m due there almost immediately.”

“Here’s to the groom!”

“It’s not all settled, by any means.”

“Here’s luck anyway, Plangman. I’ll buy you this drink. Tell Mom hello for me.” “Thank you.”

They stood up. Harvey Plangman said, “Lois is a debutante, you know. I’m not much for this society business, but one gets carried along with it.”

Lake Budde was placing two dollar bills on top the check. “Umm hmmm. I suppose so.”

Lake wore a smart gray-and-white checked poplin jacket, with dark brown linen trousers. As they walked from the terrace through the Inn, Harvey said, “By the by, that’s a handsome coat you’ve got there, Budde.”

“Thanks, old boy. Glad you like it.”

“As you can see, I’m carrying the white jacket fad East.” “The what?”

“You know,” Harvey laughed and touched the lapels of his jacket. “The white jacket fad.” “I noticed.”

“Why do you say it that way?” “Oh, Plangman, forget it.”

“I never copied the Kappa Pi’s, but I noticed most of them have jackets just like this.”

“Umm hmm. I’m parked next to Tucker’s car.”

“Did you mean my jacket when you said I was off to the races?”

“Will you let anything drop, Plangman?” Harvey noticed the girl at the desk smiled and nodded to Lake.

Harvey called out, “I’ll get that magazine in the city.” The girl nodded, but the smile she gave Harvey was less enthusiastic, more one of curiosity. “What magazine?” said Lake.

“Fortune,”
Harvey said. “Earlier while I was waiting for you, she happened to remark that she was sorry they didn’t carry
Fortune
or something I might glance at while I was waiting.”

“Oh Jesus!” said Budde under his breath.

“She did! I don’t know what put it into her head, but …”

“She was probably impressed by that goddam white waiter’s jacket you’ve got on, Plangman. She probably figured you were some giant of industry!”

They were at the entranceway now, walking toward the parking lot. Harvey could see the light blue Sprite beside Tucker Wolfe’s MG. Harvey said, “Then the jacket’s wrong, is that it?”

“Not wrong, just silly.”

“But I’ve seen the Kappa Pi’s wear …”

“On campus. On
campus,
Plangman!”

“I see.”

Lake Budde sighed. “It isn’t the end of the world, for Christ’s sake. Why don’t you just chuck the jacket? And while you’re at it, Plangman, chuck that thing sticking in your tie.”

“The tie pin?”

“Is that what it is?”

“Maybe I ought to just commit suicide?”

“Harvey,” Lake said, standing in front of his Sprite, “I’m not picking on you or anything. Since you asked, I’d chuck the tie pin and the jacket. Jesus, I don’t know why you always get me into this sort of situation. You always do. It’s like the time you bought the bottle of creme de menthe for our Hink Drink-and-Cook-Out party. I wasn’t going to say anything that night either.”

“But you did. I remember it very clearly, Lake. You said it wasn’t your idea of booze to bring along on a bottle party. You were right, I know that. But it was the way you said it. I’ve been telling you all along it is this attitude of yours. It’s your superior attitude.”

“Do you remember vourself at that party, Plangman? You were going around telling everyone you’d brought the most expensive bottle there! Do you remember that?” “Still and all … still and all.”

“Yes, Plangman … still and all … well, it’s been real fine!” “How do I get to Lambertville from here?” said Harvey. “Go all the way down to the end of this street. You’ll see a sign pointing that way.” “Goodbye then, Lake.” “Ta, ta, old chap!”