Chase said, “How is it that you remember him in such detail?”
Brown smiled, picked up the pen, put it down, and toyed with the ledger as he said, “Evenings and weekends during the summer, my wife and I run The Footlight. It’s a legitimate theater in town—you might even have attended a play there when you were in school. Anyway, I take a role in most of our productions, so I’m always studying people to pick up expressions, mannerisms.”
“You must be very good on stage by now,” Chase said.
Brown blushed. “Not particularly. But that kind of thing gets in your blood. We don’t make much money on the theater, but as long as it breaks even, I can indulge myself.”
Returning to his car, Chase tried to picture Franklin Brown on stage, before an audience, his hands trembling, his face paler than ever; his compulsion to handle things might be exacerbated by being in the spotlight. Perhaps it was no mystery why The Footlight didn’t show much profit.
In the Mustang, Chase opened his notebook and looked over the list that he’d made earlier, trying to find something that indicated that Judge might actually be Eric Blentz, a saloon owner. No good. Didn’t anyone who applied for a liquor license have to be fingerprinted as a matter of routine? And a man who owned a thriving business like the Gateway Mall Tavern probably wouldn’t drive a Volkswagen.
There was one way to find out for sure. He started the car and drove back toward the city, wondering what sort of reception he would get at the Gateway Mall Tavern.
9
THE TAVERN DECOR WAS SUPPOSED TO BE REMINISCENT OF AN ALPINE INN: low beamed ceilings, rough white plaster walls, a brick floor, heavy darkpine furniture. The six windows that faced onto the mall promenade were leaded glass the color of burgundy, only slightly translucent. Around the walls were upholstered booths. Chase sat in one of the smaller booths toward the rear of the place, facing the bar and the front entrance.
A cheerful apple-cheeked blonde in a short brown skirt and lowcut white peasant blouse lit the lantern on his table, then took his order for a whiskey sour.
The bar was not especially busy at six o’clock; only seven other patrons shared the place, three couples and a lone woman who sat at the bar. None of the customers fit the description that Brown had given Chase, and he disregarded them. The bartender was the only other man in the place, aging and bald, with a potbelly, but quick and expert with the bottles and obviously a favorite with barmaids.
Blentz might not frequent his own tavern, of course, though he would be an exception to the rule if that was the case. This was largely a cash business, and most saloon owners liked to keep a watch on the till.
Chase realized that he was tense, leaning away from the back of the booth, his hands curled into fists on the table. He settled back and forced himself to relax, since he might have to wait hours for Blentz.
After the second whiskey sour, he asked for a menu and ordered a veal chop and a baked potato, surprised to be hungry after the meal that he’d had at the drive-in joint earlier.
After dinner, shortly after nine o’clock, Chase finally asked the waitress if Mr. Blentz would be in this evening.
She looked across the now-crowded room and pointed at a heavyset man on a stool at the bar. “That’s him.”
The guy was about fifty, weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds, and was four or five inches shorter than the man in Franklin Brown’s description.
“Blentz?” Chase asked. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve worked for him two years,” the waitress said.
“I was told he was tall, thin. Blond hair, sharp dresser.”
“Maybe twenty years ago he was thin and a sharp dresser,” she said. “But he couldn’t ever have been tall or blond.”
“I guess not,” Chase said. “I guess I must be looking for another Blentz. Could I have the bill, please?”
He felt like Nancy Drew again, rather than Sam Spade. Of course, Nancy Drew did solve every case—and generally, if not always, before anyone was killed.
When he went outside, the mall parking lot was deserted but for the cars in front of the tavern. The stores had closed twenty minutes before.
The night air was sultry after the air-conditioned tavern. It seemed to press Chase to the blacktop, so each step that he took was flatfooted, loud, as though he were walking on a planet with greater gravity than that of earth.
As he was wiping sweat from his forehead, stepping around the front of the Mustang, he heard an engine roar behind him and was pinned by headlights. He didn’t turn to look, but vaulted out of the way and onto the hood of his car.
An instant later a Pontiac scraped noisily along the side of the Mustang. Showers of sparks briefly brightened the night, leaving behind a faint smell of hot metal and scorched paint. Although the car rocked hard when it was struck, Chase held fast by curling his fingers into the trough that housed the recessed windshield wipers. If he fell off, the Pontiac sure as hell would swing around or back up to run him down before he could scramble away again.
Chase stood on the hood of the Mustang and stared after the retreating Pontiac, trying to see the license number. Even if he had been close enough to read the dark numerals, he couldn’t have done so, because Judge had twisted a large piece of burlap sacking over the plate.
The Pontiac reached the exit lane from the mall lot, took the turn too hard, and appeared in danger of shooting across the sidewalk and striking one of the mercury arc lights. But then Judge regained control, accelerated, went through the amber traffic light at the intersection, and swung right onto the main highway toward the heart of the city. In seconds, the Pontiac passed over the brow of a hill and was out of sight.
Chase looked around to see if anyone had witnessed the short, violent confrontation. He was alone.
He got down from the hood and walked the length of the Mustang, examining the damage. The front fender was jammed back toward the driver’s door, though it hadn’t been crushed against the tire and wouldn’t prevent the car from being driven. The entire flank of the vehicle was scraped and crumpled. He doubted that there was any serious structural or mechanical damage—although the body work would cost several hundred bucks to repair.
He didn’t care. Money was the least of his worries.
He opened the driver’s door, which protested with only a thin shriek, sat behind the wheel, closed the door, opened his notebook, and reread his list. His hand trembled when he added the ninth, tenth, and eleventh items:
Third alias—Eric Blentz
Given to rash action in the face of previous failures
Pontiac, second car (stolen just to make the hit?)
He sat in the car, staring at the empty lot, until his hands stopped shaking. Weary, he drove home, wondering where Judge would be waiting for him the next time.
* * *
The telephone woke him Saturday morning.
Rising from a darkness full of accusatory corpses, Chase put a hand on the receiver—then realized who might be calling. Judge hadn’t phoned since early Wednesday night. He was overdue.
“Hello?”
“Ben?”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Fauvel here.”
It was the first time that Chase had ever heard the psychiatrist on the phone. Except during their office sessions, all communications were through Miss Pringle.
“What do you want?” Chase asked. The name had fully awakened him and chased off his lingering nightmares.
“I wondered why you hadn’t kept your Friday appointment.”
“Didn’t need it.”
Fauvel hesitated. Then: “Listen, if it was because I talked to the police so frankly, you must understand that I wasn’t violating a doctor-patient relationship. They weren’t accusing you of any crime, and I thought it was in your best interest to tell them the truth before they wasted more time on this Judge.”
Chase said nothing.
Fauvel said, “Should we get together this afternoon and talk about it, all of it??
??
“No.”
“I think you would benefit from a session right now, Ben.”
“I’m not coming in again.”
“That would be unwise,” Fauvel said.
“Psychiatric care was not a condition of my hospital discharge, only a benefit I could avail myself of.”
“And you still can avail yourself of it, Ben. I’m here, waiting to see you”
“It’s no longer a benefit,” Chase said. He was beginning to enjoy this. For the first time, he had Fauvel on the defensive for more than a brief moment; the new balance of power was gratifying.
“Ben, you are angry about what I said to the police. That is the whole thing, isn’t it?”
“Partly,” Chase said. “But there are other reasons.”
“What?”
Chase said, “Let’s play the word-association game.”
“Word association? Ben, don’t be—”
“Publish.”
“Ben, I’m ready to see you anytime that—”
“Publish,” Chase interrupted.
“This doesn’t help—”
“Publish,” Chase insisted.
Fauvel was silent. Then he sighed, decided to play along, and said, “I guess … books.”
“Magazines.”
“I don’t know where you want me to go, Ben.”
“Magazines.” “Well … newspapers.”
“Magazines.”
“New word, please,” Fauvel said.
“Contents.”
“Oh. Articles?”
“Five.”
“Five articles?”
“Psychiatry.”
Puzzled, Fauvel said, “You’re not managing this correctly. Word association has to be—”
“Patient C.”
Fauvel was stunned into silence.
“Patient C,” Chase repeated.
“How did you get hold of—”
“One word.”
“Ben, we can’t discuss this in one-word exchanges. I’m sure you’re upset; but—”
“Play the game with me, Doctor, and maybe—just maybe—I won’t make a public response to your five articles and won’t subject you to professional ridicule.”
The silence on the other end of the line was as deep as any Chase had ever heard.
“Patient C,” Chase said.
“Valued.”
“Bullshit.”
“Valued,” Fauvel insisted.
“Exploited.”
“Mistake,” Fauvel admitted.
“Correction?”
“Necessary.”
“Next?”
“Session.”
“Next?”
“Session.”
“Please don’t repeat your answers,” Chase admonished. “New word. Psychiatrist.”
“Healer.”
“Psychiatrist.”
“Me.”
“Sonofabitch.”
“That’s childish, Ben.”
“Egomaniac.”
Fauvel only sighed.
“Asshole,” Ben said, and he hung up.
He hadn’t felt so good in years.
Later, as he was exercising the stiffness out of his battered muscles, he realized that making the break with his psychiatrist was a stronger rejection of his recent despair than anything else that he had done. He’d been telling himself that when Judge was located and dealt with, he could then resume his sheltered existence on the third floor of Mrs. Fielding’s house. But that was no longer possible. By discontinuing all psychiatric treatment, he was admitting that he had changed forever and that his burden of guilt was growing distinctly less heavy.
Chase’s pleasure in Fauvel’s humiliation was tempered by the daunting prospect of having to live again. If he forsook the solace of solitude—what would replace it?
A new, quiet, but profound anxiety overcame him. Embracing the possibility of hope was far riskier and more frightening than walking boldly through enemy gunfire.
* * *
Once Chase had shaved and bathed, he realized that he had no leads to follow in his investigation. He had been everywhere that Judge had been, and yet he had gained nothing for his trouble except a description of the man, which would do him no good unless he could connect a name with it.
While eating a late breakfast at a pancake house on Galasio Boulevard, he decided to return to the Gateway Mall Tavern and talk to the real Eric Blentz to see if the man could put a name to Judge’s description. It seemed likely that Judge had not just chosen Blentz’s name out of the phone book when he’d used it in the Student Records Office at State. Perhaps he knew Blentz. And even if Blentz could provide no new lead, Chase could go back to Glenda Kleaver at the newspaper morgue and question her about anyone who had come into her office on Tuesday—which he hadn’t done previously, for fear of making a fool of himself or pricking the interest of the reporters in the room.
From a phone booth outside the restaurant, he called the newspaper morgue, but it wasn’t open for business on Saturday. In the directory he found a listing for Glenda Kleaver.
She answered on the fourth ring. He had forgotten how like music her voice was.
He said, “Miss Kleaver, you probably don’t remember me. I was in your office yesterday. My name’s Chase. I had to leave while you were out of the room getting information for one of your reporters.”
“Sure. I remember you.”
He hesitated, not certain how to proceed. Then he blurted out a request or an invitation; he wasn’t sure which it was. “My name’s Chase, Benjamin Chase, and I’d like to see you again, see you today, if that’s at all possible.”
“See me?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
After a hesitation, she said, “Mr. Chase … are you asking me for a date?”
He was so out of practice—and so surprised to discover that he did, indeed, want to see her again for reasons that had nothing to do with Judge—that he was as awkward as a schoolboy. “Well, yes, more or less, I suppose, yeah, a date, if that’s okay.”
“You have an interesting approach,” she said.
“I guess so.” He was afraid that she would turn him down—and was simultaneously frightened that she would accept.
“What time?” she asked.
“Well, actually, I was thinking today, this evening, dinner.”
She was silent.
“But now,” he said, “I realize that isn’t much notice-“
“It’s fine.”
“Really?” His throat was tight, and his voice rose toward an adolescent pitch. He amazed himself.
“One problem, though,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve already started marinating a lovely sea bass for dinner. Started preparing other dishes too. I don’t like wasting any of this. Could you come here for supper?”
“Okay,” he said.
She gave him the address. “Dress casually, please. And I’ll see you at seven.”
“At seven.”
When the connection was broken, Chase stood for a while in the booth, trembling. Into his mind’s eye came vivid memories of Operation Jules Verne: the narrow tunnel, the descent, the awful darkness, the fear, the bamboo gate, the women, the guns … the blood. His knees felt weak, and his heart beat rabbit-fast, as it had done in that subterranean battleground. Shaking violently, he leaned against the Plexiglas wall of the booth and closed his eyes.
Making a date with Glenda Kleaver was in no way a rejection of his responsibility in the deaths of those Vietnamese women. A long time had passed, after all, and a great deal of penitence had been suffered. And suffered alone.
Nevertheless, he still felt that making a date with her was wrong. Callous and selfish and wrong.
He left the booth.
The day was hot and humid. His damp shirt clung to him nearly as tenaciously as guilt.
* * *