Memory (Hard Case Crime) (11 page)

Captain Cartwright managed to smile and frown at the same time. “The Village? What would that be?”

“Greenwich Village.”

“Ah!
Greenwich
Village! Is
that
where you lived? Very exciting, I’m told.”

“I guess so.” Cole was wondering who was Blake and who was O’Hare. He thought the thin man was probably Blake and the chunky man O’Hare.

Captain Cartwright was finished with the driver’s license now, and had found his Army discharge. “Well, well! You were in the Army, eh? Serial number US12451995. Honorable Discharge, very good. Did you like the Army?”

“It was all right.”

“Of course. But civilian life’s better, eh? Particularly in a place like Greenwich Village. Whatever made you decide to leave a place like Greenwich Village and come to our little town?”

“Well...I didn’t have any money, I had to get a job, and...” It petered out there, not even the outline of an explanation.

Captain Cartwright frown-smiled again, saying, “No jobs in Greenwich Village? You had to come all the way out here to find a job? Why, it must be a thousand miles.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir? Oh! Oh, you mean yes sir a thousand miles,
I
see!” Captain Cartwright laughed as though someone had just told a good joke. His laughter subsided to his usual smile, and he said, “You don’t have any relatives here, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Nowhere around here?” Captain Cartwright, still smiling, now expressed sympathy. “All back East, eh? Well, well. Curiouser and curiouser, as the fella says. Who
did
say that, Paul, do you remember?”

“Alice, I think. Alice in Wonderland.”

“Ah, yes! Alice in Wonderland, of course. Curiouser and curiouser. I like that, don’t you? And Greenwich Village, now
that’s
supposed to be almost a Wonderland, isn’t it? All this free love philosophy, and marijuana parties, and all. I suppose that’s exaggerated, though, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“Yes, I suppose it must be. Still, a kind of Wonderland, really. Now, why would you leave Wonderland, I wonder?
Wonderland I wonder!
Listen to me!” Captain Cartwright chortled. Then all at once he turned serious. His eyes still twinkled, there was still a chuckle trembling at the corners of his mouth, but it was clear he intended his expression now to be serious. He said, “You weren’t in any trouble, Paul, were you? Trouble with a girl, trouble with the police, nothing like that?”

Cole shook his head. “No, sir.” But his attention was distracted for a second, as he remembered the easy way he’d answered Captain Cartwright about the quote from Alice. There hadn’t been any hesitation, any fumbling awkward search through a foggy memory, nothing at all, just the answer.

“Never any trouble with the police, Paul?”

“No, sir.”

Captain Cartwright let his expression relax into a sunny smile. “That’s good, Paul!” he said. “I’m glad to hear that. But I still don’t quite understand why it is you—tell me now?”

“What?” Cole blinked and looked up, not knowing what had happened. In the middle of Captain Cartwright’s question, he’d turned the Captain’s voice off completely, not intentionally but effectively, because he’d been thinking about his answer to the question about
curiouser and curi-ouser
. He’d been asked the question, and the answer had popped right into his mind. Was that the way it worked? If his memory was asked a direct question, out would come answer? But he
did
ask his memory direct questions all the time, and more often than not no answer at all came out. It was just that his memory was erratic; it retained a few odd bits of disconnected and useless information, and Captain Cartwright had happened to touch one of the few remaining buttons that worked.

But in thinking about this, he’d lost the thread of the Captain’s question. He said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“Didn’t
hear
me?” Captain Cartwright smile-frowned, and looked at Blake and O’Hare. “He didn’t
hear
me,” he said.

The thin one—Blake?—looked at Cole and said, “
I
heard the Captain.”

“I’m sorry. I’m tired, I just got off work. My mind was wandering.”

Captain Cartwright shrugged and spread his hands. “That’s possible, boys,” he said, pleasantly, judiciously. “He’s answering right along, bright and cheerful, and when we get to the sixty-four thousand dollar question it just happens that his mind starts wandering. Nothing impossible about that, boys.” Captain Cartwright smiled broadly, and came a step closer, and leaned forward. He said to Cole, “Would you like me to ask it again?”

“Yes, please.”

The chunky man—O’Hare, maybe—said, “He’s polite, you notice? He says please.”

“Paul’s a good boy,” Captain Cartwright said, as though defending Cole against an unprovoked attack. “He’s tired, that’s all. If you lazy bums worked in the shipping department down at the tannery, you’d be tired, too.” He nodded triumphantly at Blake and O’Hare, then turned his attention back to Cole. “You ready now, Paul? I’m ready to ask it again, you with me now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There you go, Paul. Now here’s what I said, I said, ‘How come a smart young man like yourself should leave an exciting place like Greenwich Village to come live in this little dinky town a thousand miles away where you don’t even know a soul?’ That was more or less what I said, Paul. You get it that time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s fine, Paul. And what’s the answer?”

Cole hesitated, trying to get his thoughts in order. He wanted to answer, but the answer was complicated, more complicated than Captain Cartwright suspected, and he couldn’t for a second or two decide where to start. Then Blake, the thin one, said, “Answer the Captain, boy.”

Cole said, “I lost my job with the show.” Then he shook his head. He’d been flicking his cigarette ashes on the floor, because O’Hare was smoking and that’s what he was doing, but now Cole’s cigarette was too short to smoke anymore and there weren’t any ashtrays in the room. He said, “What can I do with this cigarette?”

“What the hell kind of answer is that?” O’Hare demanded. “You can shove that cigarette up your ass.”

“Now, gently, Jimmy, gently,” said Captain Cartwright. “You know I don’t like that kind of talk. And Paul, you just drop that cigarette on the floor and step on it and forget about it, and then you tell me what in the world you’re talking about. You lost your job with
what
show?”

Cole got rid of the cigarette. He said, “Look in the wallet there, you’ll see my union cards. I’m an actor.”

“An actor, is that right?” Captain Cartwright looked in the wallet some more, and found all three cards. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “So many unions? Now, why do you have to be in so many unions?”

“It’s for the different kinds of jobs. Equity is legitimate theater, and AFTRA is television and radio work, and SAG is for movies.”

“Movies? You’ve been in the movies, Paul?”

Cole hesitated again, because he didn’t know if he’d ever been in any movies or not, but then a phrase—isolated and unexplained, without reference to anything—came into his mind, and he said it: “Industrial films.”

“Industrial films. The sort of movie they show at conventions, eh, Paul?” Captain Cartwright’s smile got roguish, and he said, “Not the
other
kind of movie they show at conventions, though, eh?”

“No. I’m an actor.”

“Then, Paul, I’ll be perfectly honest with you, I’m just more surprised and confused than ever. Here you are, an actor, belong to half a dozen different unions, get work in movies and shows, live in Greenwich Village in the heart of New York City, and all at once here you are in this dinky little town, working in the shipping department over to the tannery. Now, Paul, I’m telling you the Lord’s truth, I just don’t understand that.”

“I was with a show,” Cole said. “A touring show, and I had an accident. I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks, and the show went on without me.”

“Ah, I see! I’m beginning to see the light, Paul. And you just didn’t have the money to get back to New York City, is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s a shame, Paul, that’s a truthful shame.” Captain Cartwright nodded, looking completely solemn for the first time since he’d come in here. He said, “This touring company didn’t carry any insurance or anything, is that it?”

“It wasn’t an accident on the job, it was...it was off the job.”

“Ah, that must be it. And all the money you had went for the hospital, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Cartwright nodded thoughtfully. “That certainly does explain it,” he said, and it looked as though he were about to smile again, but instead he frowned, saying, “But that wasn’t
here
, was it, Paul? I don’t remember any touring shows around this town for years and years.”

“This is as far east as I could get with the money I had left.”

“Ah! Of course! You just came as far as you could, eh? I admire that, Paul, I most certainly do. Now where was this that you were in the hospital?”

“Where?”

“Well, the name of the town, you know.”

Cole shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember? Paul, I should think the name of that town would be emblazoned in your mind, that’s what I should think. That was a terrible thing happened to you there. If it was me,
I
wouldn’t forget that town in a hurry.”

“I didn’t pay much attention to the name of it. We just came in, and then I had my, my accident, and then I was in the hospital for a while, and then I left, that’s all.”

“Well, I guess that’s possible,” said Captain Cartwright. He nodded, and offered a small smile, and looked at the other two men. “That’s certainly possible,” he said. “Jimmy, get that plate, will you? Maybe Paul can identify it.”

The chunky man, possibly O’Hare, said, “Right away,” and went out, closing the door after him.

Captain Cartwright strolled back and forth, his interlaced fingers resting on his paunch, holding Cole’s wallet that way. “Acting,” he said, testing the word. “Acting, acting. All the world’s a stage, eh? That’s one I know. Shakespeare. I’ve done my share of reading. But to be an actor, to live in Greenwich Village, meet all sorts of interesting people, Beatniks and whatnot, that must be something. And now here you are, stuck away in this little hole in the wall. It’s really a shame, Paul. No one you could wire for busfare? No family, friends?”

“No, sir.”

“Parents dead?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. All alone in the world, a thousand miles from home.” Captain Cartwright shook his head solemnly. “I don’t envy you, Paul,” he said. “I’ll be frank with you, I don’t envy you. Oh, I might,” he said, and flashed his sunny smile just briefly. “I might envy your life in New York, I’ll be honest about that, but here and now it’s a different story, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jeffords is a good town,” said Cartwright, as though all it had lacked was this final commendation. “My home town, Paul. Born and raised here. Oh, I’ve been away, in the Army and whatnot, but I’ve always come back home, and I’ve built my career here, built it around this town. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes, sir, I guess so.”

“I would venture to say I know just about every permanent resident of Jeffords,” Captain Cartwright said. “That’s something, eh? Over nine thousand men, women, and children, and I venture to say I know them all. Oh, not the youngsters so much, the grade school children, but I’ll get to know them as they grown up. Take the Malloys, now. I’ve known Matt for years, known him for years. I stop in at the union meetings now and again, and he’s always there. A very militant man, Matt Malloy, very militant. And a lovely wife, good church-going woman. But of course, you know that yourself. And two fine sons. A fine family all the way around. And then I know the Flynns, Black Jack and Little Jack. You work with them, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Artie Bellman, there’s another one, but a horse of a different color. Loans money at illegal rates, you know. Oh, we know about it, never fear. I like to know everything that happens in Jeffords. And I don’t approve of Artie Bellman; he was a wild boy and he’s never lost his wildness, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he came to a bad end, not a bit surprised. He’s been in this very room, you know, in this very room, and more than once. Never anything really serious, just wildness, getting into fights and whatnot. But not one of our leading citizens at all, and never will be. It makes me unhappy to have someone like Artie Bellman here in Jeffords. A bad influence, Paul. If he was a stranger now, like yourself, and carried on the way he does, I’d march him to the town line and boot him across, and don’t think I’d be too kindhearted to do it. I’m far too fond of my hometown, Paul, I’ll tell you the absolute truth. I’d do it in a minute. But what can I do, he’s a local boy, got a family here, as much right to live here as anybody. So all I can do is bring him into this room every now and again, and try to talk to him, try to straighten him out. Not that it ever does any good.” Captain Cartwright stood in front of Cole and shook his head. “Don’t get yourself involved with him, Paul,” he said. “He’s not the sort of company you want to keep. And whatever you do, don’t borrow money from him. I know there are men on that crew of yours today, right today, who pay Artie Bellman a dollar or two in interest every week on some little loan they made a year ago, and they’ve never yet paid a penny of the principal. It’s a vicious sort of thing to get yourself into, Paul. Steer clear of it. Eh? Will you?”

Cole nodded, as solemn as the Captain. “Yes, sir,” he said.

And Captain Cartwright burst out laughing. “Paul, you’re a wonder!” he cried. He appealed to the thin man, who might have been Blake. “Isn’t he something? A first-class actor, I’m willing to bet a week’s pay on it. Tell an out-and-out fib like that, and never turn a hair.” He beamed at Cole as though he’d invented Cole himself, just this minute. “Why, Paul,” he said, “you owe Artie Bellman money right now! You borrowed thirty-two dollars from him, and you’ve paid him thirty-two back and you still owe him ten. Isn’t that so, isn’t that the way it is?”