years of guilty conscience and a desperate urge to make a
few amends. The morality of an old hoodlum is like a Baptist's
87notion of charity-a kind of fervent embarrassment. I touched Jo on
the shoulder and she rolled into my arms. That was best. By far. And
I fell asleep, holding her and that thought in my arms.
***
The telephone woke me at eight the next morning--far
earlier than I'd wanted to be awakened. I tried to ignore it until Jo
mumbled something about not waking her, too. So I stumbled out of
bed, stark naked, and padded into the living room. It must have been
close to ninety in the goddamn room, and it was too early to start
the day, and I heartily wished that whoever was calling me was in
hell. I got to the phone on the tenth ring and yelled, "What!"
into the receiver.
"Is this Harold ... Stoner?" a
high-pitched, uncertain voice inquired.
I sat down on the desk chair, wiped the sweat from my
face, and laughed out loud.
"Harry?"
"Yes . . . Hugo," I said. "It's me."
"Good," he said. " 'Cause for a minute
there I thought I'd dialed the wrong number. I left my specs back at
the apartment and the print in these here phonebooks is so damn
small-"
"What time is it, Hugo?"
"Why, it's eight. Or thereabouts."
"Eight in the morning?"
"Sure."
I blew a little steam out of my mouth and said,
"How's Dayton?"
"It stinks,"
Hugo said dully. "Just like I thought it would. Them snot-nosed
brats of Ralph's was up in my room every damn minute. Couldn't sleep
a wink last night. That's why I called you."
***
I guess you pay, one way or another, for what you do.
Ralph's kids wake Hugo, Hugo wakes me. At least he was in Dayton and
out of harm's way. "You'll manage," I said to him.
"Hell, yes, I'll manage. That's easy for you to
say. I'm a sick man, Harry. Last night, that youngest one kicked me
so hard in the spine, I thought I'd dropped a kidney. I won't last up
here," he said tragically. "No, sir, I'm a dead man. You're
talking to a dead man, Harry Stoner. And you're the one that sent him
to his grave."
"C'mon, Hugo. You'll make it."
"I will, will I?" He took a breath and
chuckled. "Maybe I will. But there's some others that may not.
When you going to let me come back?"
"A couple of days, maybe," I said, thinking
about what Red Bannion had told me. "It depends on how things
go."
"You talk to them Jellicoes, yet?"
"No. I spent yesterday trying to find out what
they had Cindy Ann doing."
"Did you find out?"
I hesitated for a minute before telling him and
decided that he was tough enough to hear the truth. Without it, he'd
be impossible to handle. And he was going to have to hear it, anyway,
sooner or later. "They may have her working as a prostitute in
Newport."
"Oh, God," he said faintly.
"Easy, Hugo. If she is working as a hooker, I
have friends who can spot her and get her back to us. I'll know
tonight for sure."
"You'll call me?"
"Yes."
"She ain't ... they ain't abusing her, are they?
I mean like in them pictures?"
"I don't think so," I said.
"'Cause I couldn't stand that, Harry. That would
do me for sure."
He asked if I'd call him, again, and I told him I
would, again. He started to get trembly, and I told him everything
was going to be fine. Then he said he was counting on me. And he hung
up.
I was feeling a very different kind of weariness as I
trudged back to the bedroom. If Jo hadn't been sleeping so soundly, I
would have tried to ease the load by confessing some of it to her.
The big difference between detectives in books and detectives in real
life is that detectives in books are always rescuing their clients
from perilous straits which is a bunch of hokum and dangerous hokum,
at that. That's the way we would have things be, when the bitter
truth is that no one can rescue anyone from anything. As exciting and
professional as they are, those books about ageless beach bums who
salvage their women's psyches along with the family fortunes aren't
doing the world much good. All it takes is a little
few amends. The morality of an old hoodlum is like a Baptist's
87notion of charity-a kind of fervent embarrassment. I touched Jo on
the shoulder and she rolled into my arms. That was best. By far. And
I fell asleep, holding her and that thought in my arms.
***
The telephone woke me at eight the next morning--far
earlier than I'd wanted to be awakened. I tried to ignore it until Jo
mumbled something about not waking her, too. So I stumbled out of
bed, stark naked, and padded into the living room. It must have been
close to ninety in the goddamn room, and it was too early to start
the day, and I heartily wished that whoever was calling me was in
hell. I got to the phone on the tenth ring and yelled, "What!"
into the receiver.
"Is this Harold ... Stoner?" a
high-pitched, uncertain voice inquired.
I sat down on the desk chair, wiped the sweat from my
face, and laughed out loud.
"Harry?"
"Yes . . . Hugo," I said. "It's me."
"Good," he said. " 'Cause for a minute
there I thought I'd dialed the wrong number. I left my specs back at
the apartment and the print in these here phonebooks is so damn
small-"
"What time is it, Hugo?"
"Why, it's eight. Or thereabouts."
"Eight in the morning?"
"Sure."
I blew a little steam out of my mouth and said,
"How's Dayton?"
"It stinks,"
Hugo said dully. "Just like I thought it would. Them snot-nosed
brats of Ralph's was up in my room every damn minute. Couldn't sleep
a wink last night. That's why I called you."
***
I guess you pay, one way or another, for what you do.
Ralph's kids wake Hugo, Hugo wakes me. At least he was in Dayton and
out of harm's way. "You'll manage," I said to him.
"Hell, yes, I'll manage. That's easy for you to
say. I'm a sick man, Harry. Last night, that youngest one kicked me
so hard in the spine, I thought I'd dropped a kidney. I won't last up
here," he said tragically. "No, sir, I'm a dead man. You're
talking to a dead man, Harry Stoner. And you're the one that sent him
to his grave."
"C'mon, Hugo. You'll make it."
"I will, will I?" He took a breath and
chuckled. "Maybe I will. But there's some others that may not.
When you going to let me come back?"
"A couple of days, maybe," I said, thinking
about what Red Bannion had told me. "It depends on how things
go."
"You talk to them Jellicoes, yet?"
"No. I spent yesterday trying to find out what
they had Cindy Ann doing."
"Did you find out?"
I hesitated for a minute before telling him and
decided that he was tough enough to hear the truth. Without it, he'd
be impossible to handle. And he was going to have to hear it, anyway,
sooner or later. "They may have her working as a prostitute in
Newport."
"Oh, God," he said faintly.
"Easy, Hugo. If she is working as a hooker, I
have friends who can spot her and get her back to us. I'll know
tonight for sure."
"You'll call me?"
"Yes."
"She ain't ... they ain't abusing her, are they?
I mean like in them pictures?"
"I don't think so," I said.
"'Cause I couldn't stand that, Harry. That would
do me for sure."
He asked if I'd call him, again, and I told him I
would, again. He started to get trembly, and I told him everything
was going to be fine. Then he said he was counting on me. And he hung
up.
I was feeling a very different kind of weariness as I
trudged back to the bedroom. If Jo hadn't been sleeping so soundly, I
would have tried to ease the load by confessing some of it to her.
The big difference between detectives in books and detectives in real
life is that detectives in books are always rescuing their clients
from perilous straits which is a bunch of hokum and dangerous hokum,
at that. That's the way we would have things be, when the bitter
truth is that no one can rescue anyone from anything. As exciting and
professional as they are, those books about ageless beach bums who
salvage their women's psyches along with the family fortunes aren't
doing the world much good. All it takes is a little
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