“Was it locked?” Her voice was muffled.
“No, hell, it wasn’t locked. I’m just askin’ because I like the sound of my own voice.”
“I don’t know,” her voice came back. “Maybe it’s getting loose and slipped down by itself.”
He snapped the latch up and down several tunes. It seemed quite stiff. “It couldn’t have,” he yelled back at her, “it’s tighter’n hell.”
“Well, I don’t know. Maybe I latched it myself from force of habit.” The toilet flushed, and she came out. “So why don’t you beat me?”
“I just wanted to know why the door was latched, that’s all.”
“Lou and I were having a mad, passionate affair,” she snapped, “and we didn’t want to be interrupted. Satisfied?”
“Oh,” Jack said, “that’s different. How was it, Lou?”
“Just dandy,” Lou said, laughing uneasily.
“Let’s see now,” Jack said, “am I supposed to shoot you, or her, or both of you?”
“Why not shoot yourself?” Margaret suggested. “That would be the best bet — you have got your insurance all paid up, haven’t you?”
Jack laughed and Margaret seemed to relax.
“Where’d you guys take off to in the car?” she asked me.
“We made a grocery run,” Jack said. “Had to lay in a few essentials for him — you know, beer, aspirin, Alka-Seltzer — staples.”
“We saw you take off,” she said. “We kinda wondered what you were up to.”
“Hey, Alders,” Lou said, “what time are we supposed to be at Sloane’s?”
“Jesus,” Jack said, “you’re right. We better get cranked up. We’ve got to pick up Carter.”
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“Another guy. Works for the city. You’ll like him.”
“We’ll have to stop by a liquor store, too, won’t we?” I said.
“What for? Sloane’s buying.”
“Sloane always buys,” McKlearey said, putting on his shoes. “He’d be insulted if anybody showed up at one of his parlies with their own liquor.”
“Sure, Dan,” Jack said. “It’s one of the ways he gets his kicks. When you got as much money as old Calvin’s got, you’ve already bought everything you want for yourself so about the only kick you get out of it is spendin’ it where other guys can watch you.”
“Conspicuous consumption,” I said.
“Sloane’s conspicuous enough, all right,” Jack agreed.
“And he can consume about twice as much as any three other guys in town.” Lou laughed.
“We’ll probably be late,” Jack told Margaret.
“No kidding,” she said dryly.
“Come on, you guys,” Jack said, ignoring her. We went out of the trailer into the slanting late-afternoon sun.
“I’ll take my own car,” McKlearey said. “Why don’t you guys pick up Carter? I’ve got to swing by the car lot for a minute.”
“OK, Lou,” Jack said. “See you at Sloane’s place.” He and I piled into his Plymouth and followed McKlearey on out to the street. I knew that my brother wasn’t stupid. He had to know what was going on with Margaret. Maybe he just didn’t care. I began not to like the feel of the whole situation. I began to wish I’d stayed the hell out of that damned poker game.
5
MIKE Carter and Betty, his wife, lived in a development out by Spanaway Lake, and it took Jack and me about three-quarters of an hour to get there.
We pulled into the driveway of one of those square, boxy houses that looked like every other one on the block. A heavyset guy with black, curly hair came out into the little square block of concrete that served as a front porch.
“Where in hell have you bastards been?” he called as Jack cut the motor.
“Don’t get all worked up,” Jack yelled back as we got out of the car. “This is my brother, Dan.” He turned his face toward me. “That lard-ass up there is Carter — Tacoma’s answer to King Kong.”
Mike glanced around quickly to make sure no one was watching and then gave Jack the finger, “Wie geht’s?” he said to me grinning.
“Es geht mir gut,” I answered, almost without thinking. Then I threw some more at him to see if he really knew any German. “Und wie geht’s Ihnen heute?”
“Mit dieses und jenes,” he said, pointing at his legs and repeating that weary joke that all Germans seem to think is so hysterically funny.
“Es freut mich,” I said dryly.
“How long were you in Germany?” he asked, coming down the steps.
“Eighteen months.”
“Where were you stationed?”
“Kitzingen. Then later in Wertheim.”
“Ach so? Ich war zwei Jahren in Munchen.”
“Die Haupstadt von the Welt? Ganz glucklich!”
Jack chortled gleefully. “See, Mike, I told you he’d be able to sprechen that shit as well as you.”
“He’s been at me all week to talk German to you when he brought you over,” Mike said.
“Man” — Jack laughed —”you two sounded like a couple of real Krauts. Too bad you don’t know any Japanese like I do. Then we could all talk that foreign shit. Bug hell out of Sloane.” Very slowly, mouthing the words with exaggerated care, he spoke a sentence or two in Japanese. “Know what that means?’
“One-two-three-four-five?” Mike asked.
“Come on, man. I said, ‘How are you? Isn’t this a floe day?'” He repeated it in Japanese again.
“Couldn’t prove it by me,” I said, letting him have his small triumph.
He grinned at both of us, obviously very proud of himself. “Hey, Mike, how’s that boat comin’?” he asked. “Is it gonna be ready by duck season?”
“Shit!” Mike snorted. “Come on out back and look at the damn thing.”
We trooped on around to the back of the house. He had a fourteen-foot boat overturned on a pair of sawhorses out by the garage. It was surrounded by a litter of paint-scrapings which powdered the burned-out grass.
“Look at that son of a bitch,” Mike said. “I’ve counted twelve coats of paint already, and I’m still not down to bare wood. It feels pretty spongy in a couple places, too — probably rotten underneath. I’m afraid to take off any more paint — probably all that’s holding it together.”
Jack laughed. “That’s what you get for doin’ business with Thorwaldsen. He slipped you the Royal Swedish Weenie. I could have told you that.”
“That sure won’t do me much good right now,” Mike said gloomily.
We went into the house long enough for me to meet Betty.” She was a big, pleasant girl with a sweet face. I liked her, too.
Then the three of us went out and piled into Jack’s car. Betty stood on the little porch and waved as we pulled out of the driveway.
Jack drove on out to the highway, and we headed back toward town through the blood-colored light of the sunset.
“You have yourself a steady Schatzie in Germany?” Mike asked me.
“Last few months I did,” I told him. “Up until then I was being faithful to my ‘One and Only’ back here in the States. Of course ‘One and Only’ had a different outlook on life.”
“Got yourself one of those letters, huh?”
“Eight pages long,” I said. “By the end of the fourth page, it was all my fault. At the end of the last page, I was eighteen kinds of an unreasonable son of a bitch — you know the type.”
“Oh, gosh, yes.” Mike laughed. “We used to tack ours up on a bulletin board. So then you found yourself a Schatzie?”
I nodded. “Girl named Heidi. Pretty good kid, really.”
“I got myself tied up with a nympho in a town just outside Munich,” Mike said. “She even had her own house, for God’s sake. Her folks were loaded. I spent every weekend and all my leave-time over at her place. Exhausting!” He rolled his eyes back in his head. “I was absolutely used when I came back to the States.”
I laughed. “She had it pretty well made then. At least you probably didn’t get that ‘Marry me Chee-Eye, und take me to der land uf der big P-X’ routine.”
“No chance. I said good-bye over the telephone five minutes before the train left.”
“That’s the smart way. I figured I knew this girl of mine pretty well — hell, I’d done everything but hit her over the head to make her realize that we weren’t a permanent thing. I guess none of it sunk in. She must have had visions of a vine-covered cottage in Pismo Beach or some damned thing. Anyway, when I told her I had my orders and it was Auf Wiedersehen, she just flat flipped out. Started to scream bloody murder and then tried to carve out my liver and lights with a butcher knife.”
They both laughed.
“You guys think it’s funny?” I said indignantly. “You ever try to take an eighteen-inch butcher knife away from a hysterical woman without hurting her or getting castrated in the process?”
They howled with laughter.
I quite suddenly felt very shitty. Heidi had been a sweet, trusting kid. In spite of everything I’d told her, she’d gone on dreaming. Everybody’s entitled to dream once in a while. And if it hadn’t been for her, God knows how I’d have gotten through the first few months after that letter. Now I was treating her like she was a dirty joke. What makes a guy do that anyway?