Tears Are for Angels (12 page)

    "You mean you thought I might make you stay?"

    The brown eyes flashed at me. "Well, didn't you?"

    "I don't think so. You could have left any time. Before or after."

    She laughed, bitterness creeping into the flat sound of it.

    "What I told you about myself. That didn't have a thing to do with it, I guess."

    "I didn't even think of anything like that."

    "I'll bet. You know, it's a funny thing. Every time I need some help from a man, they want to charge the same price you did."

    "I'm sorry. But I told you. I needed you. Maybe for my pride, to make me feel like a man again. Or maybe just because I wanted you so much. What you might have done before didn't enter into it."

    She laughed. "But you knew I'd have to do it," she said. "You knew I needed your help, too. And you knew I was used to paying for what I need."

    "No," I said. "You're all mixed up. I…"

    She stood up, in one quick supple movement, and brushed her wet hand against the slacks.

    "Come on. Let's get some coffee."

    We scoured out my crusted old coffeepot and I fired up the Cadet heater and before long the coffee smell was making my mouth water. She made toast in the skillet and produced a jar of grape jelly from the car and by that time the coffee was done. I never had a better breakfast.

    I pushed back my second cup of coffee and sighed.

    "I didn't know how I missed that stuff."

    She poured herself another cup of coffee.

    "Well," she said, "do you think you're ready to start pulling yourself together? Because you've got to, you know, or it will never work."

    "Then you still mean it? You're still going through with it?"

    "Things look different in the daytime," she said. "I got up this morning and went out there and sat down and started thinking. My God. I thought, here I am planning to kill a man, just because of what he did to another woman. Be logical, I told myself. If you want to kill this Stewart, then you have to kill London too. They were both in it, both of them helped cause it."

    She sipped at the coffee.

    "But then I thought, London's a souse and he's had his arm shot off to boot. In a way he's paid up. But this Stewart. He got off scot free. He hasn't paid a nickel."

    "So we'll make him pay."

    "Yes."

    The viciousness in her voice startled me. For a moment the brown eyes were unholy with hate. The words were flat and calm, the more ominous for being so. I'm glad it's him, I thought, I'm glad it's not me. I spoke slowly:

    "Then I'll tell you how we're going to do it…"

    

    

    She sat there a long time without moving. She had heard me out, silently, no signs of pleasure, agreement, shock on the tanned face. The air in the shack was still and warm and outside the only sound was the monotonous repetition of a mockingbird. I never heard him sing in the daytime before, I thought. It must be a sign.

    She got up and stepped to the door and hooked her thumbs in the slacks.

    "It would work, all right," she said.

    "Like a charm. He'd go for it hook, line, and sinker."

    "He would. Only you've got to think of something else, because I won't do it."

    "What? I don't understand."

    "I won't do it, I said."

    I came up behind her.

    "You come in here giving me all that tough stuff," I said. "You tell me how you're going to help me. Then I come up with a foolproof idea and you chicken out on me."

    "There are other ways."

    "Not this good."

    "There must be."

    "For Cod's sake," I said. "Do you hate me that much?"

    She turned and looked at me evenly and Judgment Day was in her face.

    "Maybe I do."

    "All right. So up till yesterday I was living on corn whisky and beans and not washing. But that's not what it is. You want me to think so, but that's not it, not by a damn sight."

    Her hand flashed at my face and I caught her wrist and held it.

    "I'll tell you what it is. It's because I got in bed with you and you enjoyed it. That's it, isn't it?"

    She struggled against my grip and I laughed.

    "That's the real ticket, isn't it? You learned to hate men a long time ago, from the ones you had to give it to, to get what you wanted. And you hate them all. Especially the ones you give it to."

    I laughed again and she stopped fighting. She backed up against the wall and her eyes became wide and shifty.

    "So when you had to give it to somebody to get yourself out of a jam, or to get something out of him, or maybe just because you got to the point sometimes where you wanted it yourself, you had to have it yourself, you really hated that somebody, didn't you? And when you enjoy it, like last night, it's worse. Because you don't understand that. So you hate those times and those men-like me-worst of all. Or maybe I'm the only one it's ever been like that with."

    She stood quietly then and the shiftiness went out of her eyes. Her bosom was heaving a little higher now and I started to laugh. Then I stopped and turned away and sat down on the bunk.

    "You don't need to worry. That's not in the plan. You want my word on it, you can have it."

    For a long time, I thought she hadn't heard me. And then her voice, smaller now, inched hesitantly across the still room.

    "What happens afterward? After we kill him?"

    "For God's sake, what do you think? You go your way, I go mine. We'll split the dough."

    "I don't want any of the money."

    "Why not?"

    "I'm not in it for money. Just to kill him is all I want."

    "That's mighty Christian of you. Mighty Christian."

    A flash of the old fire was back in her voice.

    "You can have the damn money. I won't ever want any of it."

    "But you're in?"

    "Yes. I'm in." Again the flatness, the calm, the brooding, implacable words.

    "And do you want my word on the other?" I said.

    "It wouldn't be any good. You mean what you say now. You probably won't tomorrow. I'll take my chances."

    I got up and went back over to her.

    "My word's good," I said. "That didn't go with the whisky. That's one thing I have left. I'll keep my hands -hand-off."

    She smiled then, I could not tell whether in mockery or amusement.

    "Men," she said. "You beat them, kick them, do anything to them. But they still hang on to something they call pride. Being filthy didn't hurt your pride, or being a coward. But when I just hint your word's no good, you get up on your hind legs. That's what you call pride."

    "And what do you call it?"

    "I don't know. Not pride, though. Conceit, maybe."

    I laughed.

    "The hell with pride," I said. "I'll go out to the spring while you change. On an occasion like this, you want to look your best. Pride or no pride."

    

    

    We came out on the broad porch and stood there a minute and looked at the green lawn and the cars going past on the street, and for the first time since I had hurled that fruit jar into the darkness the night before, I wanted a drink. I wanted one bad.

    "Well, that's over," I said.

    "It was so quick. I didn't know it could be done that fast anywhere."

    "They make a business of it in this state. It has to be quick to satisfy the kind of trade they get."

    She laughed, and the sound was almost mirthful. But not quite. I took her arm and we went down the steps. I still wanted that drink.

    I looked down at her as we walked along. She hardly came to my chest, even in the high heels she had put on for the occasion, and the little hat she had dug up from somewhere perched on top of her blonde head. The faint purple bruise was hardly visible under her make-up. She wore a summer-weight suit of some light yellow material and I decided it was just right for her. For some reason, I forgot about the drink then and my spirits jumped up a couple of notches.

    "Anyway," I said, "you looked the part. I'm sorry about this suit."

    My gabardine, a relic of more cheerful days that I had turned up after much rummaging in the trunk, hung on me in ungraceful folds. I hadn't realized I'd lost so much weight. Before, it had fitted my frame as if it had been made specially for me, which it had. I had had to tuck the left sleeve in the coatpocket, and two years in the trunk had put it in definite need of a press job, which it had not yet had. But it was clean, anyway.

    "Never mind the suit," she said. "It's more than I would have expected of you."

    "I'm not going to quarrel with you," I said. "You don't like me. O.K. But we -have a job to do, and until we get it done you just shoot off that pretty mouth of yours all you want to. You don't bother me a bit."

    "Go to hell," she said.

    We walked into the downtown district of St. Johns. There was one main street, and the only reason it was paved was because it was also a state highway. You could count maybe a dozen stores of all descriptions, if you looked closely, and a doctor's office, and a couple of lawyers' dens, the mellow old courthouse, a ramshackle newspaper office, and two benches on a corner. Dick Stewart's was the largest of the stores, but it was at the other end of the street from us.

    I stopped in front of the street's only dry-goods store.

    "Let's go in here a minute," I said.

    "What' for?"

    "I owe you something. Remember?"

    "You owe me plenty."

    "I mean the bra. The one I tore off you."

    "Oh. That. Skip it for now. I'm in no mood to go shopping."

    I took her arm again. "Come on," I said. "I possess the grand total of fifteen dollars and seventy-eight cents. That's what's left of the London fortune. It won't take that much, will it?"

    "Not in this store. Nothing would. What are you so cheerful about, anyway?"

    We were in the store now and I half pulled her with me back to the ladies'-wear section.

    "I just woke from the dead," I said. "Why shouldn't I be cheerful about it? What size do you wear?"

    "Never mind that. If your heart's set on it, I'll do the buying."

    I stood by grinning while she and the salesgirl huddled. When the salesgirl looked at me over her shoulder, I winked at her. She liked that but she hastily started wrapping the package when Jean gave her a dirty look.

    "That didn't hurt, did it?" I said, when we came out into the bright sunlight again. "And I still have nearly thirteen bucks."

    "Let's get home, buster. I'm dying of the heat in this fancy getup."

    "Home," I said. "Who would ever have thought you'd call it that? One more stop, sugar, and we're on our way."

    I led her across the street and into the newspaper office. Harvey Jenkins, who had been editing the little weekly as long as I could remember, sat at a littered desk, its pigeonholes dribbling odd papers and pencils, old paste pots and proof sheets.

    "Hello, Harvey," I said. "We've got an item for you."

    He looked up at us and pushed an ancient green eye-shade back on his forehead. He peered closely at me and I saw at once that he didn't recognize me. Even two years ago, his memory had begun to fail him.

    "It's Harry London," I said.

    He looked at me a while longer, then swiveled his gaze to Jean's bored face. He leaned forward and spat a bolt of Brown's Mule at the stained baseboard.

    "It ain't," he said.

    "Yes, it is," I said. "You just haven't seen me in a long time."

    "I seen you a month ago, walking right down that street. Leastways, a feller told me it was you. Didn't believe him then, and don't believe you now. Neither one of you looked like Harry London to me."

    "It's him, all right," Jean said. "He washed, that's all."

    He looked at her sharply. "Who might you be?"

    "Who might you be?"

    He cackled at that and I smiled too. "You want to see my driver's license, Harvey?"

    "Nope. Reckon it's you, all right. Always had a smart lip on you. You decide to come out'n hibernation?"

    "Sure did. I have a society note for you."

    He pulled a scrawled-on sheet of paper closer and took up a thoroughly chewed stub of pencil. A faint blob of tobacco juice formed in a corner of his mouth. He adjusted the green eyeshade on his brow and looked up at me through it.

    "The wedding of Harry London of this county… I said, and he started to write and then stopped and looked up at me again, his decrepit jaw sagging… and Miss Jean Cummings of New York City…"

    "I be ding-dabbed," he said.

    "Co on, write it down." I waited for him to catch up and then I went on: "… was solemnized-isn't that the word they use, Harvey?-at the home of Justice of the Peace Orville Snuggins on the afternoon of July twenty-fifth. The couple will be at home at the former Caldwell farm near St. Johns."

    "Don't you dare put that in there," Jean said. "That about being at home at that place."

    "That where you goin' to live, Harry?"

    "For now," I said.

    "Then in it goes," Harvey said. Jean looked angrily at me and I grinned cheerfully.

    "I wish I had a picture of the bride," I said, "but that'll have to do."

    "A Yankee girl. Ain't you learned your lesson yet, Harry?"

    "This one's different."