The Conclusion of:

Dead for the Last Time

by John D. Nesbitt

VI

My visit to the police station wasn't as entertaining as the previous one, but at least they treated me decent. Once I told them what I had found, they sent a cop in a car to investigate while two others took me into an inner room to ask me a few questions and to get a statement.

The hardest part was explaining why I had gone into the old building. I didn't have a good explanation. I knew I had felt a compulsion, based on the various things I had heard in the past few days, plus the disappearance of Eugene and the non-appearance of Jesse and Darnell. The best explanation I could give was that I had a strong curiosity. When the cops asked me what I expected to find, I was able to say, in total honesty, that I didn't expect to find anything in particular. When they asked me if I expected to find anything at all, I said I didn't know.

During my interview, the other cop came back from the scene and confirmed the report of a body. Then the two who were questioning me asked if I had any idea of who might have a reason to do such a thing. A shadowy image of Darnell Preston came up in my mind, but I said no. I didn't think that either or both of the punks could do it, drunk or sober. Furthermore, Eugene had disappeared on Thursday, and the kids had picked apricots in their normal half-hearted way on Friday, with nothing more urgent, that I could see, than drawing a meager paycheck later that day.

As the cops plied me with questions, they made no mention of any connection between this crime and the other one, but it was as plain as the nose on President Johnson's face. His portrait presided over the interrogation room, just as Dwight D. Eisenhower's had hung in the principal's office when I was a boy. I didn't feel the authority or the wisdom now, though. I just felt my own unreasonable guilt at being with three different guys who had probably taken money from Old Man Earle, and I also felt guilty for being the one to find the body. After all, I didn't stumble across it in an open field or on the side of the highway. Even if I was following a subconscious hunch, I had trespassed and gone into a place where a body had been found not long before.

All the same, the cops didn't have a good reason to keep me. When they said I could go, they advised me not to leave town without telling them. They also told me it would be better for the case and probably better for me if I didn't tell anyone I was the one who found the body. I answered that it seemed like a good idea to me.

On my way out, I saw a cop, or a man in a uniform with no gun or nightstick, carrying in a tray that had three bowls of beans and a loaf of Wonder Bread. The clock on the wall read eight o'clock straight up, and I figured it must be the lunch or dinner hour on their shift. They would eat their beans and then call the coroner and the mortuary. For a moment it seemed heartless, but then as I thought about it I realized they had a few hours of unpleasant work ahead of them. It was not the first or the last time I was glad not to be a cop.

The sight of the food reminded me that I ought to eat something. I didn't feel like going home for the night, and I didn't want to walk out to the Shady Grove and back just to eat a Spam sandwich. I went to a place called the Coffee Cup Café, where I ordered the plate special, a hot roast beef sandwich that came open-faced with mashed potatoes on the side and gravy on top of all of it. After the main plate, I had a piece of strawberry pie. It felt good to be able to eat a decent meal and to pay for it with money I had made. I was still haunted by a sense of guilt for finding Eugene , and now I felt there was something unfair about my being able to go on enjoying life while his was all over.

But there was nothing I could do about his being dead. He wasn't going to pop up again and say it was a rumor. I knew that for sure. I had to get on with my own affairs, look out for my own ass as the cops suggested, and keep my eyes and ears open in case something came out. Meanwhile, maybe the cops would haul in the right person. Now that I thought of it, they might not be all that dumb. They had convinced me to keep my mouth shut, and they must have done the same with whoever found the old man's body.

* * * * *

The bowling alley had a little life to it when I walked in. Half a dozen of the lanes were busy, with people chattering, balls rolling, and pins crashing. Over in the corner, two guys were playing pinball, each one banging his machine and shaking it, racking up points with pings and whirrs and clicks. Morgan the old hand was standing by watching. When he saw me, he turned and came my way.

Morgan was a year or so older than Bonner and Preston and a year behind me in school. He had dark hair, combed up in a wave in front and slicked back on the sides. In spite of a rough complexion, thick eyebrows, and a heavy shadow where he shaved every day, he had an open, carefree expression. He got along all right with most people, but he was probably not going to get very far in life. He had been in and out of juvenile hall for truancy, petty theft, drinking, and leaving home without permission, and then he dropped out of school. He worked when he had to, usually as a fry cook or dishwasher.

This evening he had less of a smile than usual, so I asked him what was up.

“I guess Bonner and Preston got run in again.”

“Really? What for?”

“They found, or that is, someone found Eugene Fillmore in the old milk factory. Dead as a mackerel.”

“Really? And the cops think these kids did it?”

Morgan shrugged and raised his cigarette. “Don't know what they think, but they hauled their asses in.”

“So Eugene 's dead?”

“Yeah, he was missin' for a couple of days, and someone said they thought he left town because he killed the old queer.”

“Well, that theory sure doesn't hold up. Why do they think Jesse and Darnell might have done in Eugene ?”

“I guess they had some kind of a fight with him, in here, just before he turned up missing.”

“Oh, it wasn't that much. I was here. As far as that goes, Eugene was the one who got pissed off. The other two went on their usual ways. I picked apricots with ‘em for two days after that, and I didn't see anything out of the ordinary.”

“The other theory is that they killed him so they could frame him for killing the old man, and he couldn't deny it.”

“That doesn't make sense. Not to me, at least. As Jesse would say, it's a lot of work. Not to mention bad strategy. Be suspected for one crime, and then commit another one just like it.”

“Well, that's what's goin' around, anyway.”

One of the pinball machines went quiet, and after a couple of routine curses, the guy who had run out of games told Morgan it was his turn.

“I'm up, Larry,” he said, and turned to claim his machine.

“O.K. Good luck.”

“Thanks. But I think those other guys need it more than I do.”

I went over and stood at the fringe to watch the pinball players. The guy who had just run out of games was watching, too, and in a few minutes a couple of other kids drifted in. Morgan had a good touch for the game, and people liked to watch him. He could rack up enough games to go for quite a while, and even if a bystander got impatient or envious, deep in his heart he liked to see a fella beat the machine. I know I did, even on a small scale. More than once I had seen Morgan step into a phone booth, check the coin return, and come out with a nickel or a dime. Even though I knew it didn't take any talent, I enjoyed seeing him have success. And with the pinball, it did take some talent, or at least ability.

A few more young guys drifted in, some of them the smoke-at-lunchtime and missing-front-bumper variety, and some of them the football and chrome-rims variety. But the same topic buzzed back and forth. Eugene Fillmore had been found dead, and Jesse Bonner and Darnell Preston had been hauled in for it. Mention of Old Man Earle floated through, along with re-hashes of the flimsy motives Jesse and Darnell were supposed to have had for the latest crime. They did it out of anger, they did it to frame him. They did it because Eugene was a queer. I had a hard time keeping my mouth shut, but I figured the best way to keep from saying the wrong thing was to say as little as possible.

By and by I noticed another person taking it all in. Dennis Wilkinson stood not too far from me, wearing a collarless surfer shirt and a spotless pair of tan corduroys.

“Hi, Larry,” he said, moving over so he was within easy range. “What's up?”

“Not much. And you?”

“I just left off my fiancée and stopped in here. We had a date, and she had to be in early tonight.”

“I see.”

“Have you heard this new stuff that's goin' around?”

“Some of it,” I said. “You never know how much to believe.”

“Well, it doesn't surprise me. I knew those two kids were no good. I told you so, in fact.”

“So you think they did it?”

He shrugged. “It seems to fit.”

I shook my head. “I still don't see it.”

“Ah, you were here the other night, when he took a swipe at ‘em.”

“Bah. I just don't see where that was enough motive.”

“That's just it. At first I thought Eugene might have done in the old homo, for things that went on between ‘em, and I still wouldn't rule it out. But it seems now, that if you look for what the two things have in common, these two hoods just don't have any conscience, and they pull stuff like that for trivial reasons.”

“Oh, that's preposterous.”

“Maybe you know something I don't,” he said. “Bein' friends with him and them both.”

I resented the remark but let it go. “I can't say that I know anything, but I don't think they were that mad at him, I don't think they wanted to frame him or even had a reason to, and I don't think they killed him because he was queer.”

“Well, they're your friends.”

His smug tone got to me now, and I felt like punching him right there. But what little judgment I carried around with me helped out. For one thing, he was bigger than I was. For another, I didn't need to be starting trouble myself. I'd been to the cop station twice in the last week, and both times I left on good terms. There was no reason to spoil that, much less give anyone the impression that I knew anything more than the next guy in the bowling alley, and I felt as if I had already said too much.

“Forget it,” I said. “As far as that goes, I was a little pissed at them anyway. They were supposed to pick me up for work, and they didn't. So I missed a day's wages.”

“That's too bad. I didn't know that. Hell, you could have called me.”

“I don't have a phone. I'm staying out at Shady Grove.”

“Oh, I didn't know that either.” He was being friendly and considerate now.

“Yeah. You know, my mom and my step-dad moved to Oroville so he could work on the dam.”

“I guess I knew that but I forget it.”

“Anyway, I'm on my own. I like it better anyway.”

“Sure. You can do as you please.”

“I'm used to it.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, absent-like. Then he frowned. “Does that mean you walk into town and back?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, hell, if you ever need a ride, let me know.”

“I might. Like if I buy a fifty-pound bag of potatoes or something.” I imagined him in his green apron.

“People do that.”

“I know. I've seen ‘em.”

He moved on to talk to a couple of guys his age, one of them a jug-eared fella who had gone off to a junior college, flunked out, and gotten drafted. The guy's name was Walker . He had a high-and-tight, as they called the military buzz cut, and he was good at snapping his Zippo lighter. To my surprise, he offered a cigarette to Dennis and lit it for him.

It was well past ten by now, and I had had enough of the bowling alley for one night. Usually I could find someone to joke with or joke at, but it looked as if I was going to have to wait for some other time for that. I wandered off to the rest room, and when I was done there I went past the powder-blue bowling ball, silent in its endless rotation, and then stepped out into the night to go home.

It was dark as I walked along the old highway, and I kept well off to the side. Even though most of the L.A.-to-Portland traffic was taking the new freeway, some kind of a vehicle came up behind me every minute or two. Because the main part of town was on the same side of the highway as the Shady Grove cabin court, I walked on that side, which was the east side, whether I was going to town or going back. On this night, the headlights from the cars coming up on me made my shadow look large and grotesque as it grew, came toward me, and moved to my right each time. The weeds in the ditch and on the other side had grown up and dried out for the season, and I wondered what my shadow would look like to some cat or varmint crouched there. I fancied that it looked like the shadow of a low-flying hawk, but in reality I figured I was not striking much fear into the hearts of any skunks, opossums, or stray cats. After all, I was just a kid in tennis shoes, crunching along, as each car rushed by and faded away, its lights becoming dots in the distance as the chirping of the crickets filled the night again.

* * *

The next day being Sunday, I didn't know if the crew was working in the apricot orchard, and I didn't want to ask someone like Morgan or Dennis Wilkinson to drive me all the way out there, just to learn that it was a day off. So I frittered away the morning and the first part of the afternoon, thinking that if I didn't see Bonner and Preston by the evening, I would have to find some other way of getting to the orchard and picking up where I left off.

In the late afternoon I walked into town, and for lack of anything better to do I wandered up and down a few shady streets. As I did, I heard a car roll up behind me as someone called my name.

It was the two wayward teenagers, not looking any more like murder suspects than the last time I saw them. Darnell was driving, and Jesse was leaning on the window frame on the side near me. I stepped off the curb and walked toward the car.

“What are you guys doin'?” I asked.

Jesse flicked his ash out the window and said, “Just trollin'.”

“For what? Carp?”

“Quail.”

I thought they might go a long time before they had any luck there, but I figured he was saying what he thought he was supposed to. “I missed you guys yesterday,” I said. “I hope they didn't give away our ladders and buckets.” I looked through the window and across the seat at Darnell. “Are you guys plannin' to go out and give it another try tomorrow?”

“Might as well,” he answered. “Nothin' better goin' on.”

“And Lord knows, we could use the eggs,” Jesse added.

I didn't recognize that line, but it sounded like it came from somewhere. “Do you want to pick me up at seven, then?”

“Sure,” said Jesse. “Do you need a ride anywhere now?”

“No, thanks. I'm just killin' time. I'll let you guys go on about your depredation.”

“What's that?”

“Look it up in your Funk ‘n' Wagnalls.”

“I don't have one,” he said, in a kind of stonewall answer that made me think he didn't know what a Wagnalls was.

* * * * *

They showed up at seven in the morning, and we got out onto the highway and headed north. It felt and looked like a Monday morning. On the right side of the highway, the gates of the junk yard had swung in, and farther up on the left, Seligman's fruit stand was opening for the day. As we drove past, I saw Kathy Seligman, who was about a year younger than my two comrades, setting out gallon jars of green olives on the wooden shelves beneath the canopy.

I remembered a couple of years earlier, and before that, when she wasn't even in junior high, she used to stand out in front of the fruit stand and give the finger to people she knew as they drove by. One time I was with the Nelson brothers, and she stood right out on the edge of the highway with her finger raised for the whole world to see. “Fuck you, Nelsons,” she hollered. They said she did it all the time.

As we drove by, I asked my pals in the front seat, “You guys ever get any of that?”

“Not on your life,” said Jesse. “I wouldn't do it with Prestone's dick. She's the meanest bitch around.”

Darnell looked over his shoulder and said, “I heard she's knocked up. Strapped on one of your hay haulers.”

“They grow up so fast,” I said, in the tone I'd heard so many older people use, but I didn't see where either of the other two caught it. I hadn't gotten a good look at her just now, and I remembered her as a pudgy girl with no curves. The idea of her having any sex appeal mystified me. “By the way,” I added, “Didn't Old Man Earle use to work in their truck garden?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jesse answered. “But her folks didn't let her go anywhere near there. They had some other cases work there, too, like Lanny Marr.”

I remembered him, the half-wit who looked like Walter Brennan. When he walked along the sidewalk, he turned around every twenty paces or so to see if anyone was following him. I would have thought that going out into the world as I did, and hitch-hiking, I would have met so many weirdos that Willow Fork would seem like Father Flanagan's Home for Boys. But now that I was back, it seemed that this little place had at least its share of strange ducks, and what impressed me as well was how Bonner and Preston took it all as normal.

Out at the orchard, we found where someone had picked the rest of our two rows. Our ladders and buckets were gone, too, of course. We walked through the orchard toward the sounds of work—–fruit falling into a metal bucket, the third leg whacking the steps when a guy pulled the ladder back to re-set it. We found the row boss, a short guy named Gus who wore a canvas cap and had hair growing out of his ears.

He gave my two companions a blank gaze, and then, looking past all three of us, he said they were about ready to finish up the orchard. They didn't need any more help right now, but we could go to the yard and pick up what we had coming.

We did that, and half an hour later we were rolling back to town. I had a check for seven dollars and forty-two cents, and the other two guys had about five dollars each. They didn't seem affected one way or the other, and I could think back, not too long before, when I might have shrugged things off as well. If life got boring or seemed at a dead end, I might put a few things in my traveling bag, put a dollar or two in my pocket, and hitch-hike somewhere. Then after getting stuck for half a day in a place like Salinas , I would go back and tend to business. Right now, though, I had things to tend to and no way to do it. I needed to make some wages, pay my rent, and see if I could do something more than live hand to mouth between now and the time I went back to school. It seemed that I needed to do something else as well, but I couldn't pinpoint it. It wasn't until the punks left me off at my trailer, and I realized that no one had said a word about Eugene , that I got a clearer idea. I felt some kind of obligation, a sense of unfinished business. I didn't know what I could do, being broke and on foot and not having any authority in anything. But Eugene was a friend of sorts, and I thought I owed it to him to stick by him, whatever that meant, until things got cleared up.

VII

By lunchtime I was pretty restless from sitting around in the little trailer, and in spite of how much I had told myself I was going to do extra reading during the summer, it seemed absurd to be trying to read Kafka in a place like that. If I'd had something by Vonnegut, maybe the time would have passed in a less torturing way. Pynchon was another. You could read him without understanding him, and at least it was fun. But The Penal Colony was too far out of touch, or I was too far out of touch with it. I closed the book of Kafka stories without having gotten very far on the day, and I ate the lunch I had packed that morning. Then I walked into town.

After working three days with the punks and losing two, I thought I should try looking in the newspaper for some other kind of work. I took detours to avoid going near the milk factory or the police station, and I came into the downtown area where a bar called The Sportsman's sat on one of the main corners. The leather-covered door was swung inward, and I could hear casual conversation and the crack of balls on a pool table. It must be nice, I thought, to sit in a cool barroom on a Monday afternoon, and I wondered what the men looked like. Old guys in khakis, young guys in crew-neck T-shirts and blue denim Levi's.

I turned and went east for a block and then south for a block, until I found the newspaper office. I went in to buy a copy at the counter, and as I was paying for it a heavy-set guy at one of the old manual typewriters turned and waved at me. Then he went back to pecking at the typewriter.

I recognized him as Bernie Tompkins, an easy-going fellow a year ahead of me in school. I knew he was majoring in journalism, and I figured he was home for the summer. I went over to say hello to him. He was pecking away, not much more gallantly than Officer Arnold, when I spoke out.

“Hi, Bernie. What're you doin'?”

He turned and spoke over his shoulder. “Just an o-bit.”

“Anyone I know?”

He stopped typing and rotated in the swivel chair. “Eugene Fillmore. You heard about him, didn't you?”

“Well, yeah. I just forgot for a moment that someone would be doing his obituary.”

“It's easier if someone stands there and gives me all the details,” he said, in a matter-of-fact way. “But I had to go get some information from his grandfather and then fill in with what I knew. We were in the same class, you know.”

“You seem to be cheerful enough about it.”

“From where I sit, it's just another piece to write. And if I don't have someone choking up and sobbing, I get through it all right. Off the job, though, it's too bad about him. And I feel sorry for his grandfather.”

“So do I.” I watched him take a swallow from a sixteen-ounce bottle of Pepsi, and then I said, “Any ideas on who's responsible?”

“Oh, that's not for me. I don't do the police beat or the crime blotter. But it's hard to imagine what someone would have against Eugene .”

“Someone apparently did, though. And I think the cops are barkin' up the wrong tree.”

“You don't think those two kids did it?”

“Nah. I know them, and I knew Eugene . There just wasn't that much bad feeling between ‘em.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “What's your theory, then?”

“I don't know. But I got the impression from Eugene that he thought he had something over on someone.”

“Interesting.” With his arms still folded, he rotated an eighth of a turn in the chair.

From the way he looked at me, or rather seemed to look through me, I got the feeling I had said too much. I made a hand motion as if to brush things away. “Well,” I said, “I'd better let you get back to work.”

“No trouble. If you get any more ideas, let me know.”

“Even if you don't do the police beat.”

“Hey, anyone would like to be the first to get onto a good story.”

“I imagine.” I raised my hand in good-bye, and I walked out of the newspaper office.

I sat on a bench in front of the soda-and-dairy fountain on the corner, and it didn't take me long to read the want-ads. The only two jobs except for baby-sitting and hair-dressing were for an electrician and a truck driver. That left me out. I knew a lot of people heard of jobs just through word of mouth, so I figured I was going to have to ask around. According to wisdom, Monday was supposed to be a good day to get a job, but it was pretty late in the day, and I didn't have a good start. A fellow had to have his name out, plus a phone number if he had one. Maybe I could get someone to use for a message number—–someone like Morgan, who wouldn't mind driving out to tell me and who might even take me to see about the job. That was it. I could get a message number, then ask around and leave my name.

At least I had a plan, but I was still restless. The whole business about Eugene was eating on me. I didn't like the way Dennis or Bernie talked about it, or the way Jesse and Darnell didn't. I had no idea of whether there would be a funeral, and if so, where. That kind of information usually appeared in the obituary, and the paper wouldn't be out till Wednesday.

The thought nearly stopped me in my tracks. For the first time, I remembered Eugene telling the punks they would know he was dead when they read his obituary. I doubted they would even read it, and furthermore, they already knew he was dead for sure if they were brought in for questioning. It was the type of situation that if it had happened to someone a little more distant, there would have been a joke in it, but the whole world seemed like a pretty humorless place for the moment.

I walked on, trying to think of anyone else in this town who might give a damn. I found myself walking in the direction of a white stucco house across the highway near the stockyards.

As before, Paula came to the screen door when I knocked. The TV. was going, and I could smell cigarette smoke.

“Hi,” she said. “I guess you heard about Eugene .”

“Yeah, I did. Has anyone been to talk to you?”

“No, why?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. I just wonder if anyone's going to any trouble at all about it.”

Just then the phone rang. “I need to get that,” she said. “Do you want to come in out of the heat?”

“I guess.”

The phone rang again. She pushed the door against the spring-loaded latch, and it popped open about an inch. “Come on in,” she said as she headed for the phone.

I stepped inside, where the lights were off and a black-and-white TV was playing a quiz program. Three contestants were trying for a refrigerator, and the crowd was shouting, “Higher, higher.”

Paula came back and pointed at the couch. “You can sit down if you want.”

She was dressed as before, in a white sleeveless blouse and a tight pair of cut-offs. She had a full bosom and rounded hips, and she didn't seem to be guarding any of it with much suspicion.

I sat at one end of the couch, and she sat at the other. She lit a cigarette and offered me one. As I shook my head, I noticed that she smoked Marlboros.

“I didn't know him very well,” she said. “He just came around, was all. Said he wanted to be a songwriter.”

‘That's what he told me, too.”

“He said he wanted to get out of this town for good, but everyone says that.” She blew a cloud of smoke out in front of her, then turned to look at me. “What do you do?”

“Oh, I'm looking for work right now. I came back for the summer.”

“You went to college, didn't you?”

“I just finished my first year.”

“I was never smart.”

“Sometimes I think I am, and it doesn't do much good.”

She gave a shrug. “There's no harm in it.” Then she made as if she was scratching her thigh, and she moved the fringe of her cut-off about two inches toward her hip.

My heart started pounding, and I felt a swelling in my throat. I couldn't think of a thing to say.

“What do you learn in college?” she asked.

I felt dazed, and I heard myself say, “Oh, different things. Psychology, history, philosophy. Read books.”

“What are you going to be, a lawyer?”

“Oh, I don't know. I haven't decided yet.”

“Do you want some iced tea?”

“No, not now, thanks.”

“You sound nervous.”

I guess I was. I was shaking, and I could feel my voice quavering. But I said, “No, I'm fine.”

The TV chattered on and seemed to fill the living room until she rubbed her thigh again. “What did you learn from those college girls?”

I pulled in a quick breath. “Nothin', really.”

“Nothin'?”

I shook my head. “No. It wasn't a good year for that.”

She moved her shoulders and sort of brandished her boobs. “That's too bad. Where are you going to learn the things you need to know?”

I swallowed hard. “I don't know. Wherever I can, I guess.”

She pretended to frown. “You don't learn it all out of the book, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Don't be so afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of me. I'm not going to bite you.”

“Well, I wouldn't want you to think I'm afraid.”

She patted the space on the couch next to her, and I scooted over. I wanted to bury my face in her boobs, but I waited for her to say something.

“I bet your teachers in college aren't like this.”

“Not at all.”

“What kind of a teacher do you think I would be?”

My mouth was dry, but I was able to say, “Pretty good.”

She turned her face directly toward me, and my lips met hers in a wet, smoky kiss. My right hand was on her waist, and my left hand was rubbing the points of both her breasts.

She got up, went to the door, and swung the little hook around and settled it in the eye. Then with the entry door still open, the TV playing, and the cigarette burning in the ashtray, she held out her hand to me. I rose from the couch and followed her into the bedroom.

It wasn't soft and perfume-y, but it was a woman's room, with a bed and a dresser and a chair, and nothing distasteful to make me wish I hadn't gone in there. In no time at all we were between the sheets, and she was pressing my face into her large, luscious breasts. Then I was on top of her, and in her, and moving with a rhythm I had never known before. I was lost in the swirl of it all, and when I was finished and was still lying on her with my face in her pink breasts, I wondered if this was what it was like for the two hitch-hikers who did it in the back seat with the woman whose husband looked on.

When I rolled onto my side, she said, “How was that?”

“That was terrific,” I said.

“Have you ever done it before?”

“Just a couple of times, but it was nothing like that.”

“A lot of those girls don't know anything yet.”

Now that I was catching my breath and getting my thoughts back, I realized she must have been one of those women who liked to break in younger guys. I said, “That's why you're a good teacher.”

She smiled and said, “You think I am?”

* * * * *

After we had done it a second time, we lay apart under the thin sheets. We were both perspiring from the exertion and the summer heat, and I uncovered one arm and one leg for some ventilation.

“Did you really come to ask about Eugene ?” she asked.

“I guess so. I didn't have a real purpose in mind, but you seemed like a person I should talk to. I haven't been satisfied with the way people are treating this thing.”

“You mean, not tryin' to find out who did it?”

“Well, that, and how they connect his death with the one that happened last week.”

“You mean the old queer.”

“Um, yeah. Old Man Earle.”

“How do they connect that?”

“Well, one theory is that these two kids, Jesse Bonner and Darnell Preston, did in both of them for practically no reason.”

“Bah,” she said, “those kids aren't up to it.”

“That's what I think, too, and I don't like anyone and everyone hangin' the blame on them, for lack of a better idea. And meanwhile, if someone else did do in Eugene , I don't like them goin' free. It's not right.”

“No, it isn't.”

“You know, they say the truth always comes out. I don't know if it does, but I do know there's a truth to this, an overall truth, and I wish people were doing more to get at it.”

“Maybe they are.”

“I don't know. There seems to be an attitude, and not just with the cops, that as long as they've got two suspects, that's good enough until a better suspect comes along.”

“Huh.” She shifted her body but did not move toward me. “You said one theory was that these kid did in both of ‘em. What's the other theory?”

“I heard it side by side with the first one, as if they could both be right. In this one, Eugene killed the old man because of things in the past, and the kids killed him just out of anger, because of a little squabble they had in the bowling alley.”

She cleared her throat. “Well, as for Eugene , I didn't know him very well, but he didn't seem like the type to kill someone. And how much of a reason would he have?”

“No more than the two punks. Supposedly the old man took some liberties with him as well as with them, but Eugene told me he never let the old creep do anything to him. I took that to mean contact, as opposed to watching while the old man exposed himself or whatever.”

“If that's what he said, it was probably true.”

“That's the way it seemed to me. And I don't think these kids did anything except watch, either, or maybe touch at one time. They said the old man would give ‘em fifty cents, and this was, I don't know, three years ago.”

“That was it,” she said. “And he was doing it before the milk plant ever closed down. He'd give those kids fifty cents to watch him expose himself and play with himself, and he'd give ‘em five dollars if they'd let him suck them off.”

She didn't mince her words. If some guy in the bowling alley had said the same thing, I would have found it revolting. But with her, it was clear that she was talking about a different world than the one she and I were in.

“The hell,” I said. “All I ever heard about was the fifty cents. I don't think Jesse and Darnell ever got out of that bracket.”

“Well, the five-dollar stuff happened. I heard about it more than once.”

“ Eugene said there were guys who let the old man do more, but he didn't give details and he didn't say how much.”

“Oh, yeah, there were others,” she said. “But you'd never get ‘em to admit it, especially now.”

“I bet. It's like the old saying, dead men don't tell tales.”

“Ah, that old queer wouldn't tell anyone anyway. It would be his ass.”

“I suppose so.” I didn't say any more, but I was thinking about something Eugene had said. I didn't know if he meant one person or more, but whoever had gone in for that stuff, he said they hated themselves for it and they knew he knew it. Maybe they hated him, too, for not having gone that far as well as for having something over on them.

“Don't be so quiet,” she said. “Do you want a cigarette?”

“No, thanks.”

“I'm gonna go get one.” She rolled out of bed, went to the living room, and came back smoking a Marlboro. “I think you're going to have to get dressed,” she said. “My mom gets home at a little after five.” She sat on the edge of the bed, and with the cigarette in her mouth she put her bra on backwards so she could hook it in front of her.

“You ought to let me help you with something like that,” I said. I was sitting on my side of the bed looking back at her.

“Guys are clumsy like that.”

“Some of us are good learners. Don't you think?”

She smiled over her shoulder. “You're all right, honey. You came along just fine.”

“I hope it's not all said and done in one lesson.”

She pulled her bra up into place, put the straps over her shoulders, and pooked her boobs out. “It doesn't have to be.”

“That's good.” Even though her movement and her words sent a wave of excitement through me, I knew I was going to have to make hay while I could, because even this pleasure was going to have an expiration date. On the other hand, for once it wasn't something that just happened to someone else.

VIII

When I got back to my trailer, it was hot and stuffy inside, and the cooler was gone. I understood this development to mean that the rent was due, so I dug into my stash of money and went to get the cooler out of hock. I found it a little embarrassing, but the heavy-set guy who ran the place treated it like normal business. I lugged the unit back to my trailer and got it to churning the air. Another week, I thought, and if I didn't find some work, I might be looking at moving out on my rent.

* * * * *

Going to the bowling alley that evening was a good idea, insofar as I ran into Morgan. A couple of other guys were on the pinball machines, and he was just standing by, looking half-interested. He said he had gotten off work a little while ago at the Highway 99 Café, where he washed dishes. I believed him, because he had the smell of a restaurant kitchen about him. He was wearing a white t-shirt that sagged, and I could picture him working in the steam and over-spray of the big sink and the dishwashing machine, maybe with a stained white apron covering his pack of Winstons.

I asked him about using his home phone for messages, and he said he thought it would be all right. He would tell his mom. I went on to explain that I didn't want to use the Shady Grove number because I didn't think the fat guy who ran the store and bar liked me very well. I said I could imagine the guy not wanting to venture out into the hot sun just to deliver a message, much less heave his ass off a stool if he was in the middle of a dice game. I didn't mention to Morgan that the fellow had found it in him to confiscate my cooler, nor did I mention that I wasn't sure how much longer I could afford to live there if I didn't find a job. One thing at a time, I thought.

Morgan nodded and said it shouldn't be any trouble. If something came up, he could let me know. He kept casting glances at the pinball machine, so I asked him if he wanted to go play.

“Nah,” he said. “I already lost the change I had when I came in, and I'm gonna go home and get cleaned up.”

“Maybe I'll see you later, then.”

He didn't turn and leave, but rather shook out a cigarette and lit it. I was wondering if he was going to ask to borrow money, but he didn't say anything.

I spoke again. “Have you heard anything new about the murder case?”

He turned down the corners of his mouth as he shook his head. “No one says much to me about it, like at work. I guess it's because they know Jesse and Darnell are my friends.”

“Yeah,” I said. “People seem satisfied with the idea that those two guys did it.”

Morgan raised his heavy eyebrows. “Who-all have you heard it from?”

“From Bernie Tompkins. He's workin' at the newspaper, you know. And then Dennis Wilkinson.”

“Huh. Strange you should mention those two.”

“Why's that?”

“I didn't think they were that good of friends, but they had lunch together today at the Highway.”

That did seem like a mismatch, but it made a kind of sense. “I think Bernie wants to be Jimmy Olsen, cub reporter.”

Morgan smiled. “And Dennis is Clark Kent ?”

“Maybe something like that. How about you? What's your secret identity?”

“I don't know. What's yours?”

“Inspector Clouseau. Back on the Gambrelli case.”

We both cracked up. A Shot in the Dark was one of the funniest things that ever came to this town, and it was always good for another laugh.

“Well, I'm gonna go,” he said. “I'll tell my mom you want to use the number for job messages.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

I hung around a little while longer, but there wasn't much going on. The two guys on the pinball machines ran out of games and left. It was about twenty to ten on a Monday night, and since I had accomplished the one thing I came back into town to do, I decided to go home. Tomorrow I could start over looking for a job.

I walked past the powder-blue bowling ball with swirls of silvery white, rotating in the glow of the little spotlight. Outside, the night was still and quiet. I had just crossed the railroad tracks and was halfway to the corner streetlight when a shiny white Chevrolet stopped on my left.

It was Dennis Wilkinson, so I opened the door on the passenger's side.

“Get in,” he said. “I'll give you a ride.”

The car was a hardtop and had white bucket seats. I slid in on the clean upholstery and closed the door. “Thanks,” I said.

“Goin' home?”

“Yeah.”

He stopped at the stop sign with the car angled to turn right. Then as he pulled out onto the highway, he said, “If you want a beer, there's some on the back floorboard.”

“Oh, that's all right.”

“Nah, get us each one.”

I reached between the bucket seats to the floorboard in back of him and found my way into a paper bag. From there I found a six-pack that already had a couple missing. I took out one can and then another, not very cold to the touch. I handed one to him.

“They're pop-tops,” he said. “Just pull the ring.”

It being Monday, I imagined the beer was not left over from a date. If it had been riding around on the floorboard for a couple of days, it would be a lot warmer than it was. I assumed he had taken it out the back door of the One-Stop Market, where he worked, and had had it in the car for a few hours. When it came right down to it, though, I didn't care where it came from. I didn't have any money to spend on beer, and being under age, I was used to drinking beer that wasn't very cold. So I popped mine open and took a drink.

From the dash lights I could see it was an Olympia . “Thanks,” I said. “This tastes all right.”

“We'll drive out a little ways. No need to chug it.”

He stepped on the gas, and we were going sixty as we went past the Shady Grove. The hay haulers' pickups and trucks were parked under the yard light, and of course my trailer was dark. Farther on, we passed Seligman's fruit stand, which was closed for the night. I expected to see Kathy out in front, one hand on her pregnant stomach and the other giving the finger in her vile way, but the parking area in front of the fruit stand was vacant.

Dennis turned right and drove out through the farm country, past alfalfa fields and almond orchards and orange groves. I rolled down my window, and I could smell the curing hay, the dust, the irrigated fields.

I took another drink of my beer. I didn't want to drink it too fast, but I didn't want him to think I didn't like it, just in case he had it in mind to offer me another one.

“So,” he said, lowering his can of Oly, “have you been gettin' into Paula Reynolds?”

I was caught off guard a little, but I figured he must have seen me at about the time he got off work and I was going down her front steps and trying to make myself scarce. One thing I knew about girls like her was that even if they did it with half the guys in town, they didn't like being told on, so I said, “Not yet.”

“Ah,” he said, “you can get into her if you want. She's an easy make.”

“Not that I noticed. But it's good to know.”

“Just keep tryin'.” He stepped on it and ran the needle up to eighty. “Do you have a cigarette?”

“No, I don't smoke.”

“Oh, I guess that's right.” He slowed down, turned left, and headed north. After a couple of miles he turned left again and headed back in the direction of the highway. “Go ahead and drink up,” he said. “We've got two more to get rid of before we go back to town.” He tipped his all the way up, then threw the empty out the window. With both hands on the wheel, he stepped on the gas again.

The Chevy took off smooth and fast. I watched the speedometer go to sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, and a hundred. He held it there for about a mile and then let off. The car slowed down on its own, and when it was down to sixty again, he kept it there.

“If you're done, you can get us the other two.”

I drained mine and threw the can out the open window. I didn't like to litter, but everyone knew you didn't keep the evidence.

With his second beer opened and in his lap, he drove on without talking. Then he said, “There's a lot of pussy in this town. Did you know that?”

“Well, I would guess so. It's just not all available.”

“No, but there's a lot that is. And I can tell you how to get it. In fact, I know two girls that'll go out together. They won't go out one by one, but they'll go out with two guys. And they'll do it. Just give em a little beer, get ‘em hot, and you've got it.” He didn't say anything for a few seconds, and then he said, “You and I could do it. You know how to keep from blabbin'.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, shifting in my seat. “But this is the last of the beer.”

“We'll get some more. That's the least of our worries.”

I took a drink of my second Oly and didn't say anything.

“We just need to kill these two before we get back to town.”

I had heard great plans before, from one guy or another who knew where to get the beer, where to get the girls, and all of that. I figured I would drink this beer, and before we got back into town, I would ask him to leave me off at my place.

When we stopped at the highway, I took another good pull on my beer. He turned left and headed back to town.

“The main thing is,” he said, “you've got to keep this under your hat.”

“Oh, yeah. That's one thing I know how to do.”

“I thought so, or I wouldn't have offered it.”

He drove about two miles and then pulled off where there was a turn-out. It was a rest stop where a cement picnic table sat below a clump of oak trees. There was a dirt parking area on both sides of the table, and off to the right there was a border of oak brush. Dennis pulled the car over to the right side, near the brush, and stopped.

“Let's take a piss,” he said. He tipped up his second beer just like the first one and threw the can out on the ground.

“Let me finish mine.” I got out of the car and stood up with my eyes away from the headlights. As I was leaning my head back for a drink of beer, I thought I saw the car moving backwards. Then I heard the engine gun up, and the right headlight was coming straight at me.

I jumped, and the front part of the fender hit me on the hip and spun me into the oak brush. The car backed up, and I scrambled out of the glare of the headlights. I didn't know which way to move.

The car stood still. The driver's door opened and closed. I was waiting for Dennis to come around the front of the car, when all of a sudden he came out of the dark on my left side and tackled me.

By now I had an idea of what was up. He was the person Eugene had been smirking about, one of the guys who had been in the five-dollar bracket with Old Man Earle, and he had figured out I was getting too close to the truth.

When we hit the ground, he tried to get his hands on my throat. I grabbed his left wrist, shifted my weight, and rolled him off me. As I was coming up, he threw dirt in my face and grabbed my hair with both hands. I drove at him, pulled one leg out from under him, and made him lose his hold. I landed to one side of him, and this time as I was getting up, he fetched me a hell of a wallop on the left side of my head. It almost knocked me down, but I staggered to my feet and kept my dukes up.

All this time, the headlights were shining for all the world to see, but not a single car came by. The two of us moved in and out of the glare of the right headlight, and a thin cloud of dust hung in the air.

He came at me, swinging, a dark shadowy shape in the dust and glare. I went under his fists, drove my shoulder into his mid-section, and tackled him. I got in two good punches until he threw me off. He got up before I did, and as I was halfway up and off balance, he grabbed me and pinned my left arm to my side. As my feet came off the ground I tried to swing around with my right fist, but he lifted me up and slammed me to the ground.

I hit the dirt hard, and I saw darkness with the little spots of light that people call stars. Then I realized I was lying in the beams of the headlights, and the car was backing up. It was like that kind of bad dream when you can't move, but it didn't last long. I rolled over, pushed up, jumped one way, then another, as the car came rushing at me, swerved, and crunched into the cement picnic table.

I couldn't see inside the car because of the glare of the right headlight, but when I heard the car door open, I lit out on a run. I got up onto the shoulder of the highway and headed for town. I was sore all over from the fight, and my hip ached where the fender had hit it, but I kept running. I thought I might be able to get a ride, but still no traffic came from either direction.

Looking back over my shoulder, I saw the car pull out of the picnic spot and onto the highway. Moving slow with one headlight put out, it looked full of vengeance. I knew from the low speed that Dennis was on the lookout for me, so I went down into the ditch and up the other side, then climbed the fence and headed out across an open pasture. I moved on a diagonal, and after I had gone about a half-mile, I stopped to look back. Dennis was stopped sideways in the middle of the highway, pointing his right headlight out into the pasture. He swept the beam in a small arc, then moved ahead a quarter of a mile and tried again.

I cut back to the highway and lay in the weeds until he got into position a third time. Then I went over the fence, crossed the highway, and took off for town that way.

I figured I was about three miles from town, and I knew it would be hard going as I went through orchards, across irrigated pastures, and over shaky fences. But that was the way I went, running on a cramped hip and an aching side, breathing hard, heaving deep, slowing to catch my breath, and running again. From time to time I could feel my head throbbing as well. The episode with Dennis seemed unreal, like another part of a bad dream, but the pain reminded me it was real.

For the last mile I ran along the railroad racks, smelling the creosote of the ties and raking my feet on the large pieces of crushed rock. When I reached the edge of town, I cut over one block and jogged past the olive plant, the orange co-op, and then the laundromat. A block from the police station, a cop car stopped me.

Inside were Office Arnold and one of the men who had questioned me about Eugene and then let me go so they could eat their beans.

Officer Arnold, who had been driving, got out and came around to the passenger side where I stood. He looked me over with his five-cell flashlight and kept to one side so that the other cop could see me as well.

All the way into town, I had gone over how I was going to tell my story, so when they asked me what I was up to, the words came in a rush. As I talked, I was sure I looked a fright. I was dirty and sweaty, with a scrape across my forehead. My hair was matted, grainy to the touch. My pants were torn, and the neck of my t-shirt had been pulled down to look like a V-neck.

I told the cops the whole story, from the time Dennis picked me up to the moment they stopped me. When Officer Arnold asked why Dennis would do something like that, I told them what I had heard from Eugene and from Paula Reynolds.

Arnold spoke again. “That's quite a story, kid.” He ran his light over me. “I'd like to know what you're really running from.”

“I told you. And if you don't believe me, you can look at the front left fender of his ‘64 Chevy hardtop.”

“The fender he hit you with?”

“No. The one he ran into the picnic table. But if you want to see where he hit me, I can show you that, too.”

Arnold looked up and down the empty street. “Go ahead.”

I turned my back to the patrol car, undid my pants, and pulled the right side halfway to my knee. In the glare of the flashlight, I could see a reddish-purple bruise about the size of a small oval dinner plate.

Arnold held his light on it for a few seconds, then shined to the side before he clicked off the light.

I pulled up my Levi's and buttoned the front. “Well?” I asked.

“Get in. We'll go find this guy, take a look at his fender, and see what his story is.”