That’s not the only thing the years have stolen.
How true. Irrelevant, but true. He smoked and looked at the road. Now Roger Whittaker was telling him and Sonny that a ship lay loaded in the harbor, and that soon for England they would sail. Sonny Trotts sang the last word of each line. No more; just the last word. Cars and trucks went back and forth on Route 23. Greg’s Ford Ranger did not come. Mort pitched away his cigarette, looked at his watch, and saw it was quarter to ten. He understood that Greg, who was almost religiously punctual, was not coming, either.
Shooter got them both.
Oh, bullshit! You don’t know that!
Yes I do. The hat. The car. The keys.
You’re not just Jumping to conclusions, you’re leaping to them.
The hat. The car. The keys.
He turned and walked back toward the scaffold. ‘I guess he forgot,’ he said, but Sonny didn’t hear him. He was swaying back and forth, lost in the art of painting and the soul of Roger Whittaker.
Mort got back into his car and drove away. Lost in his own thoughts, he never heard Sonny call after him.
The music probably would have covered it, anyway.
34
He arrived back at his house at quarter past ten, got out of the car, and started for the house. Halfway there, he turned back and opened the trunk. The hat sat inside, black and final, a real toad in an imaginary garden.
He picked it up, not being so choosy of how he handled it this time, slammed the trunk shut, and went into the house.
He stood in the front hallway, not sure what he wanted to do next … and suddenly, for no reason at all, he put the hat on his head. He shuddered when he did it, the way a man will sometimes shudder after swallowing a mouthful of raw liquor. But the shudder passed.
And the hat felt like quite a good fit, actually.
He went slowly into the master bathroom, turned on the light, and positioned himself in front of the mirror.
He almost burst out laughing – he looked like the man with the pitchfork in that Grant Wood painting,
‘American Gothic.’ He looked like that even though the guy in the picture was bareheaded. The hat covered Mort’s hair completely, as it had covered Shooter’s (if Shooter had hair – that was yet to be determined, although Mort supposed that he would know for sure the next time he saw him, since Mort now had his chapeau), and just touched the tops of his ears. It was pretty funny. A scream, in fact.
Then the restless voice in his head asked, Why’d you put it on? Who’d you think you’d look like? Him? and the laughter died. Why had he put the hat on in the first place?
He wanted you to, the restless voice said quietly.
Yes? But why? Why would Shooter want Mort to put on his hat?
Maybe he wants you to …
Yes? he prompted the restless voice again. Wants me to what?
He thought the voice had gone away and was reaching for the light-switch when it spoke again.
… to get confused, it said.
The phone rang then, making him jump. He snatched the hat off guiltily (a little like a man who fears he may be caught trying on his wife’s underwear) and went to answer it, thinking it would be Greg, and it would turn out Tom was at Greg’s house. Yes, of course, that was what had happened; Tom had called Greg, had told him about Shooter and Shooter’s threats, and Greg had taken the old man to his place. To protect him. It made such perfect sense that Mort couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before.
Except it wasn’t Greg. It was Herb Creekmore.
‘Everything’s arranged,’ Herb said cheerfully. ‘Marianne came through for me. She’s a peach.’
‘Marianne?’ Mort asked stupidly.
‘Marianne Jaffery, at EQMM!’ Herb said. ‘EQMM? “Sowing Season”? June, 1980? You understand dese t’ings, bwana?’
‘Oh,’ Mort said. ‘Oh, good! Thanks, Herb! Is it for sure?’
‘Yep. You’ll have it tomorrow – the actual magazine, not just a Xerox of the story. It’s coming up from PA Federal Express. Have you heard anything else from Mr Shooter?’
‘Not yet,’ Mort said., looking down at the black hat in his hand. He could still smell the odd, evocative aroma it held.
‘Well, no news is good news, they say. Did you talk to the local law?’
Had he promised Herb he would do that? Mort couldn’t remember for sure, but he might have. Best to play safe, anyway. ‘Yes. Old Dave Newsome didn’t exactly burst a gasket. He thought the guy was probably just playing games.’ It was downright nasty to lie to Herb, especially after Herb had done him such a favor, but what sense would it make to tell him the truth? It was too crazy, too complicated.
‘Well you passed it along. I think that’s important, Mort – I really do.’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No – but thanks a million for this. You saved my life.’ And maybe, he thought, that wasn’t just a figure of speech.
‘My pleasure. Remember that in small towns, FedEx usually delivers right to the local post office. Okay?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How’s the new book coming? I’ve really been wanting to ask.’
‘Great!’ Mort cried heartily.
‘Well, good. Get this guy off your back and turn to it. Work has saved many a better man than you or me, Mort.’
‘I know. Best to your lady.’
‘Thanks. Best to -‘ Herb stopped abruptly, and Mort could almost see him biting his lip. Separations were hard to get used to. Amputees kept feeling the foot which was no longer there, they said. ‘- to you,’ he finished.
‘I got it,’ Mort said. ‘Take care, Herbert.’
He walked slowly out to the deck and looked down at the lake. There were no boats on it today. I’m one step up, no matter what else happens. I can show the man the goddam magazine. It may not tame him . . .
but then again, it may. He’s crazy, after all, and you never know what people from the fabled tribe of the Crazy Folks will or won’t do. That is their dubious charm. Anything is possible.
It was even possible that Greg was at home after all, he thought – he might have forgotten their meeting at the Parish Hall, or something totally unrelated to this business might have come up. Feeling suddenly hopeful, Mort went to the telephone and dialled Greg’s number. The phone was on the third ring when he remembered Greg saying the week before that his wife and kids were going to spend some time at his in-laws’. Megan starts school next year, and it’ll be harder for them to get away, he’d said.
So Greg had been alone.
(the hat)
Like Tom Greenleaf.
(the car)
The young husband and the old widower.
(the keys)
And how does it work? Why, as simple as ordering a Roger Whittaker tape off the TV. Shooter goes to Tom Greenleafs house, but not in his station wagon – oh no, that would be too much like advertising. He leaves his car parked in Mort Rainey’s driveway, or maybe around the side of the house. He goes to Tom’s in the Buick. Forces Tom to call Greg. Probably gets Greg out of bed, but Greg has got Tom on his mind and comes in a hurry. Then Shooter forces Tom to call Sonny Trotts and tell Sonny he doesn’t feel well enough to come to work. Shooter puts a screwdriver against old Tom’s jugular and suggests that if Tom doesn’t make it good, he’ll be one sorry old coot. Tom makes it good enough … although even Sonny, not too bright and just out of bed, realizes that Tom doesn’t sound like himself at all. Shooter uses the screwdriver on Tom. And when Greg Carstairs arrives, he uses the screwdriver – or something like it – on him. And …
You’ve gone shit out of your mind. This is just a bad case of the screaming meemies and that’s all. Repeat: that … IS … ALL.
That was reasonable, but it didn’t convince him. It wasn’t a Chesterfield. It didn’t satisfy.
Mort walked rapidly through the downstairs part of the house, tugging and twirling at his hair.
What about the trucks? Tom’s Scout, Greg’s Ranger? Add the Buick and you’re thinking about three vehicles here – four if you count in Shooter’s Ford wagon, and Shooter is just one man.
He didn’t know … but he knew that enough was enough.
When he arrived at the telephone again, he pulled the phone book out of its drawer and started looking for the town constable’s number. He stopped abruptly.
One of those vehicles was the Buick, my Buick.
He put the telephone down slowly. He tried to think of a way Shooter could have handled all of the vehicles. Nothing came. It was like sitting in front of the word processor when you were tapped for ideas –