Salamanders
by Pete Murphy
Chapter 11
Along the Suitcase Trail
He was very polite. Well-dressed. He smelled good, and had a face like
a baby. And, like a baby, seemed almost helpless. That's why she helped him,
maternal instinct. The fact he could not read was just an incidental part of
it.
"Lock. Like a padlock. Is that it?" She shifted her umbrella
to the other arm and laid her purse on the counter in front of them.
"Yes. Oliver. Oliver L...sss...Lock.
Like a padlock. Thank you."
Poor boy. Trouble with his teeth. Didn't fit him right. She knew about
that.
She flipped through the pages and found the L's.
"Here it is. Lock. There are only two. No Oliver here,
though."
He fidgeted, stared at the page.
"No Oliver Lock. Oh my." He looked angry.
"I'm sorry," she said to him. He turned away.
"Would you like a Coca-Cola? Or a glass of milk?"
He was not paying attention. He was almost to the door.
She looked at the page again. Under Lock she found Lockard, then Locke.
"Oh. Look." She called, but he was not listening. She caught
him at the door, tugged at his arm and brought him back.
"See," she said. "There is an "e" on the end.
You spell it L-O-C-K-E and it sounds the same."
She spoke to him as if giving an English lesson. Together they stared
at the page as her gloved finger slid down the column. He seemed a little
happier.
"There are many more than two. See?"
He smiled. She liked his bright, straight teeth.
"But I'm sorry. There is no Oliver. It should be right here
between George and Robert. But it isn't. See?"
He didn't see. He was halfway to the door again. She watched him go. He
seemed lost. He kept whispering loudly: "This will never do. This will
never do."
#
It was two in the afternoon when I left Kiefer’s office. I stopped by
Quasimodo's Taproom on the way home. It's more of a pool hall than a bar.
Twelve tables. Even at this hour it had business. The bartender slid a can of
beer at me as I passed.
"Thanks, Bob." I picked up the beer and went to the end of
the bar. A fat man with a walrus mustache sat in a big easy chair reading a
racing form. I sat on a barstool and looked down at him.
"Hey, Silvie."
He laid the paper on his lap. "Hello, Oliver. Haven't seen you in
a while. Settling down?"
"Sort of, I guess. Staying home. How's business?"
"The same. Good."
He studied me. I drank my beer.
"What can I do for you, Oliver?"
"I need to find Freddie."
"Okay. I'll keep an ear open."
"And Sully too. I need him. I've been out of touch."
"You sure have. Some of the guys've been missing your action.
They've been bored, Oliver, since you became an honest businessman. How is
business?"
"The same. Lousy."
He chuckled. His stomach bounced. "Sully comes in a lot. I'll tell
him."
"Thanks. You heard Freddie might be in a little trouble?"
"I've heard. I'll find him for you."
I was quiet, drank my beer, watched the pool players.
"Anything else, Oliver?"
I looked at him. "Silvie, Finn's in a world of shit. He may come
here."
"Okay."
"I'm going to set Connie up with it, maybe stash him there a
while."
"Okay. I've got her number. That it?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
Sylvie studied me a moment. "Have another beer. Stop drinking your
profits," he said, and went back to his racing form.
I thanked him again and glanced back as I left. He was already dialing
the phone.
#
It had started to drizzle.
Six people lounged at the bar. I raised an eyebrow at Jessie.
"Their car broke down. They're waiting for a taxi," she
explained.
I grabbed the telephone and went to my booth, plugged it into a jack
under the table and dialed. I stopped, placed the phone back into its cradle,
stared at it, wondered if the phone was bugged. The idea seemed silly. Then it
was possible. Then it was almost certain. I decided I was getting paranoid.
Eyes in my soup.
I put the phone back behind the bar and walked down the street in the
rain, stepped into one of the bank of phone booths at the corner and called
Connie.
"You sent me a floozy."
"She's not a floozy, just a girl alone. She needs somebody."
"What makes you think I
do?"
"I thought you might like her. You need each other."
"Listen, Connie. You heard about Billy?"
"Yes." Weakly.
"Freddie wasn't hurt."
"Good."
"Connie, I think Finn's in trouble."
"Finn! How long's he been back?" Coming out of it now.
"Well, I'm not sure he is back, really. But I think he was up
there when Billy got...died, and he might be coming down here to hide out
someplace. Your name is in the phonebook and all and...he'll be looking for
help."
"Sure. I'll keep an ear open."
"Thanks, darlin'."
Silence.
"I've got to run, now, Connie."
"Oliver, come see me sometime, spend some time."
"I will. Promise."
I was feeling really scattered now, withered, faded. I drove to Odie's
No surprises. It smelled like he'd dropped grated cheese into the shag
carpet. The room had clutter built-in: empty beer cans, a pizza box, a bicycle
with a flat tire, a space heater, trash basket, TV, old newspapers, Playboys,
Motorcycle magazines. No bed. An old couch. Dust everywhere, hanging in
clustered webs from everything, dirty clothes scattered here and there and in
the corner two brown paper bags held the clean ones. I stared at the coffee
table. Beer cans. Full ash tray. Salt. Hot sauce. TV Guide. Unopened mail:
invoice enclosed.
It felt familiar.
I knocked on some other doors. Everybody had gotten a good look at the
bulldozer and had the same picture: A big guy, baby-faced, well-dressed, blue
suit. He smelled antiseptic. Like bay rum. They all agreed: bay rum.
I said good-bye to Earl and left.
A man in a brown corduroy jacket passed me on the steps. He was small,
muscular, olive-skinned, almost green, with eyes like big wet marbles set so
far away from his flat, bulbous nose they looked about to fall off. Looked like
a toad. I held the door open for him and shuffled down the steps to my car.
"Spic shoes," Earl's partner said.
I held my door open. "What?"
"Spic shoes."
I looked at my feet.
"No", he said. "The van."
He pointed at the green van parked in front of me.
"I don't get it." I got into my car.
"Tires with thrown retreads. Spic shoes."
I nodded, started the car. Idiot.
I glanced at the van.
I walked back up the steps and into the building. The toad was talking
to Earl through the check-in window.
"Butcha got no idea when he's comin' back, huh?"
"None. But, like I say, you leave a message, I'll be sure he gets
it," Earl told him.
I walked through the doorway and picked up the telephone near the
Motorola.
"Naw. I don't wanna leave no message." The toad turned and
left.
Earl opened the front door, copied the plate number of the van onto his
pad and stuffed it back into his shirt pocket.
I spoke quietly into the phone and waited. Earl came back and sat down.
I smiled at him.
Silvie came on the phone. "Yeah."
"It's me. Oliver."
"Yeah. Okay. I found Sully. He's heading to your place."
"Thanks, Silvie."
"Okay, kid."
I hung up and ran to my car, caught up with the van two blocks away. It
turned twice, headed for City Hall and went up
It was an old place, dusty. The lobby was small, dim. An old guy in a
brown suit sat behind the counter and a uniformed man with plastic half-lenses
sat on a stool at the only elevator staring at a folded newspaper. The stairs
were to the right, a bank of three phones to the left. Musak played from the
ceiling.
I smiled at the desk-guy and went to the phone booths, slid into one.
Jessie answered the phone. "Ollie's Oilcan." It struck me
maybe if I changed the name business would pick up.
"It's me. Is Sully there?"
"Yeah. Just a minute." She set the phone down. I watched the
elevator operator. The buzzer had rung and he got in and shut the door.
"Yeah."
"Sully. It's Oliver."
"Hey, buddy. What's up?"
"I got a thing going on. I need a wizard."
"To be sure. What you got?"
I told him to meet me in front of the
He said, "To be sure," and hung up. The elevator was coming
down from the third floor. The operator helped an old woman to the front door.
I went outside and stood a few doors down and waited for Sully.
It took him about half an hour to get there. He'd already parked and
was a block away when I spotted him coming towards me. I'd forgotten what
four-feet-nine looked like: an elf in a pinstriped suit, mustache and
"Don't see you much anymore, buddy."
"I've been quiet. Sully you've got some time?"
"Absolutely. For you, buddy." He did a quick little soft shoe
and clapped his hands. "What's up?"
"Where'd you park?"
"Around the corner."
"As soon as you can, get a spot around here behind that green van.
The owner's in there. Can't miss him. Looks like a toad. Follow him. Call me at
the Oilcan and keep me posted. I'll send you relief as soon as I can."
"To be sure, buddy. Good to be doing a scene with you again."
"Sully, don't get too close to this guy. I've got a feeling he's
not nice."
"To be sure."
I left him there.
#
Driving back to the Oilcan I realized I hadn't seen Dalby's olive drab
kid or his orange Datsun today.
Jessie was alone in the bar, playing with Crank.
"Rush hour, huh?"
"Got us worn out."
"I've got to get some sleep. Need to wait for Sully, though. Got
any coffee?"
"Go on up. I'll wake you in an hour. Sully'll be all
right." She smiled.
"I don't want Sully in a jam."
"Sleep. Sully'll call if he needs help."
I went upstairs and stretched out on the bed.
I thought of Freddie's room. Jessie kept this apartment clean, orderly.
She'd made some line drawings of me while I slept naked and hung them in a
montage near the dresser. She'd dusted again, kept the bed made. On the wall
opposite the bed she'd hung a poster of giant redwoods. Below them was printed:
"There is no companion as companionable as solitude." She'd
apparently made the quilt I was sprawled on. A lot of colors floated in my
head. I dreamt in color.
I was on a stage singing,
I woke up in the dark, groped for the lamp and turned it on. My face
itched. I looked at the clock.
I went downstairs. Twelve people at the bar. Wednesday night. Go
figure.
Jessie told me Sully called three times. He'd call again at
nine-thirty. Yeah, he was okay, safe, "Absolutely. To be sure," she
said, and smiled.
"Did he say anything over the phone?"
"No. He wasn't sure he should."
"Neither am I."
"Silvie called."
"Okay."
I pulled a beer from the box and went to the phone stall on the corner.
Silvie told me Freddie was seen yesterday afternoon talking to the Shuffler.
Nobody knew where he was hiding yet. I told him thanks and went back to the
bar, grabbed the phone and sat in my booth, my office.
Fuck I care it's bugged?
I thought about Finn. The farmer had heard the gun shots Monday night.
The middle of the night, he'd said. Two nights ago, maybe fifty miles away. If
Finn's hurt he may still be up there. If he's moving and hurt he may not look
too good to be out in the open. Maybe he'll stay away from the highway until he
gets closer to the city. No. He'll clean up somewhere and try to hitchhike. The
river, probably. There's no reason for him to believe I know what's going on.
Maybe he'll think to call Silvie. No telling what he'll do. Christ. Caved a
guy's head in. Broke a guy's back. Arms like Popeye.
By the time Sully called I'd switched to milk.
I cautioned him not to say much on the phone, told him to come to the
bar.
"To be sure," he said and hung up.
Jessie was watering the plants. The group at the bar drank quietly.
In the next half hour three people left, two came in. They both wore
light jackets, ordered beers.
After a while Sully came in and sat across from me in the booth. Jessie
brought him a beer. Sully'd lived a hustle all his life, didn't know anything
else. He often joked about how he thought his parents had put him up as
collateral on a borrowed lawnmower and forgot about him. He had beautiful,
calm, unshifting eyes for a hustler.
"Hey, buddy."
"Hey, Sully. Sorry I fell asleep."
He shrugged.
The two men in jackets came over with their beers and sat in the next
booth. They were silent. Jessie watched them, then went over and played the
jukebox, turned it up. Sully leaned closer.
"Well, your guy came out about six o'clock. Christ, he's not a
pretty man, Oliver."
"To be sure," I said.
He smiled. "He got in the van and I followed him. He went to a
house over in Camden. I couldn't tell if it was a boarding house or a private
home. It's pretty big with a high porch. Big wide stairs going up to it. I
didn't want to get close."
"Damn. Camden."
"Yeah. Ain't that the shits? They still wear leaves over there. He stayed about twenty minutes and left. Went to
a poolroom for a while, not long, then straight back to the hotel. He's still
in there."
I studied my milk.
"You want me to go back Oliver?"
"Not tonight."
"I will if you want, buddy."
"No. Sully, did you see a limousine parked anywhere, at either
place?"
"I wasn't looking for any. I don't remember seeing one."
"A big baby-face in a blue suit?"
"Uh-uh."
"You don't need to do anymore tonight. I'm sure you've got
something else planned."
"Absolutely."
"But check on this guy for a couple days. Just cruise around them
a little, see what you can find. The cops have the license number now. We need
to do what we can before they pin it down."
"Sure. What's it about?"
"I think he's trying to find Finn. To kill him. Blue-suit."
"Shit. Where is he?"
"I don't know. Billy's dead, Sully. You heard?"
"No shit. What happened?"
I filled him in with what I knew, told him to watch out for Blue Suit.
And Freddie. I told him Freddie was in the wind after he'd been seen talking to
the pawnbroker, Shuffler. Sully could check around there, too. He got up. I
pulled him back.
"Make sure you're not tailed," I whispered.
"You know me, buddy."
"I don't worry about you. You'll do fine."
"To be sure," he said. He waved a hand at Jessie on the way
out. The two guys in the booth got up and left.
I sat with the phone for a long time. Once in a while a familiar face
would come in and I'd wave back, but I didn't leave the booth. At one-thirty
the bar was empty so we locked the door. Jessie came and sat with me and held
my hand across the table. We sat in the dark for a long time.
"He'll be all right," she said.
Soon she was very tired and went upstairs.
Jessie only pretended to like it here, I thought.
The fan whirred above my head.
I got another milk from the box.
A big man in a blue suit tried the door and went away. I ignored it. I
had no reason to believe he was looking for me. What I'd told Kiefer was true.
Nobody was on my back. I was clear of it, no connections to any of it. I had
safety, freedom to move, find what I could. The icemaker churned cubes into the
bin and quieted. Crank trotted up, peered inside for a moment, then skipped
away to the side alley.
The phone rang at three AM.
"I knew you'd be waiting at the phone. Go to bed. Come see me
tomorrow."
I didn't speak.
"C'mon Oliver. Snap out of it. I might have an answer. Go to
bed."
She hung up.
I sighed deeply. After a little while I went upstairs and crawled into
the closet next to Jessie. She held my hand in hers at her stomach. I dropped
off to sleep dreaming of bicycles without fenders and soapboxes with baby
carriage wheels.
Good old girl, Connie.
#
Sully
He was a man with luck. Everything was easier, having luck. When you
had it you made decisions quicker, took life off the top of your head, because
after all, that's where it sat, smack on top, and on the edges of your hair
around the tips, like an aura, the touch of nature's glow. It had a clean,
clear and cold smell, pleasant on your face. It never left. Not everybody had
it. Those who had it knew it, felt its comfort. And, right now, in the cool of
Philly's March morning, walking along the rumbling and rattling shop district
buzz of South street, hearing the pitches and the hum, blinking at the tinsel,
smiling at the hocus and the juggle, the Cornish hugs and the winks, Francis P.
Sully felt positively COOL!
It wasn't really the ab-so-lute beating he'd given Fitzwell at the
table the night before. Sully never did that: Gloated. Not really. He didn't
care for gloat that much. Take it in stride he'd always felt. The wins as well
as the losses, though he really did feel cool about last night, to be sure.
Fitzwell. Oh God! Oh the absolute godawful look on Fitzwell's paralytic mug
when Sully slam-dunked four big ones flat on the table - crowned the pot he did
- and called him! Called that fat red-faced turkey. And
Fitzwell starting, slowly at first, trying to keep his COOL, but not doing very
fucking good at it, starting to shake. And sweating. Oh god! Fitzwell sweating!
The fat turkey'd probably sweat frozen solid, getting his mouth open, but
nothing coming out, and the cards slipping out of Fitzwell's fat hand flat out
in a fan onto the table and Fitzwell's mouth still open trying to declare -
trying to declare! - only he couldn't speak, and
Kowaleski yawning, drawling real low-keyed, "Three kings, ten high,"
like he was bored, and then wham! another slam-dunk,
one-at-a-time now, hard onto the table, Sully crooning: "...six...seven…eight...nine...
Fitzwell, you looking at this? I've got you Fitzie, you're in my pocket, you
fat blister! Absolutely!"
Sully had wanted to say more then, but, of course, didn't gloat. He'd
let the silence come into it and pulled his money in, picked it up, feeling the
game was probably over now that he'd goddamn creamed the Fat Man. So...that was
all right. He'd had enough of these unenlightened pachyderms anyhow, to be
sure. He'd stacked and folded his wad, stuffed it into his pockets, and glanced
at Kowaleski: Beddie-bye for him. Sully left the change, about twenty dollars,
on the table.
"Well, the merrymaking's over. Thank you for your hospitality.
'Tis grieving parting with such confusion. I'm outta here." Fitzwell
hadn't seemed too thrilled about the whole goddamned affair but, what the hell.
He'd brought me here, Sully told himself. No sweat. Nothing personal. Luck won.
Aura. Vibes. Some's got it, some ain't. A snap.
But Fitzwell looked a little full of the old mortal funk. More than a
little pale, old pal, Sully had thought.
"Look, I got lucky. It's not all that grand a performance. You
guys have lost before. I can tell."
And Fitzwell was up now, sweating, trying to wipe it off but it was
coming too fast. "Mr. Sully we can do it again. It doesn't need to
be...We'll have another hand or two. Please sit down. Please relax." He'd
gestured toward the chair and Sully laughed and Kowaleski was up then, too,
wanting to go home anyway. Then Fitzwell was up and sweating to beat all.
But Kowaleski was leaving. He'd had enough. Fitzwell was still pounding
the dead horse to a frazzle, wiping his face. Sully picked up his cigarettes
then, shot a quick wave to Fitzwell and turned toward the door. The fat man
kept at it: "...shot at it, Mr.
Sully. You've just got to. It's only..."
Kowaleski had gone. Sully smiled at Fitzwell, strode to the door,
patted his host on the arm, tipped his hat at the barman standing at his
station in the corner, and left.
He could still hear Fitzwell blustering as he skipped down the stairs
to the street.
He'd even jogged all the goddamn way home, loving it more and more,
feeling the bulge in his pockets with every step. All in all it had been a
peach of a night. A peach of a night.
But it was easy when you had the luck. The aura. A snap.
After all, getting into that game in the first place wasn't such a
stout accomplishment. Nor was it contrived. Nothing Sully ever did was an
accident. He didn't believe in them. There were no eventualities, no
consequences, only destiny. No first chances or last, no flukes. There were
theories, rational causes. No accidents. Only the sheer will to see something
happen right. In short, most people lived their whole lives as total fuckups.
But, with Sully, everything generated from the aura and the touch. A
Snap.
And the Snap was there now as Sully watched Blue-Suit's arms flailing
wildly, pelting the air, fingers rigid, trying to reason with the Shuffler,
which is, of course, something no one could ever do. The Shuffler bought and
sold things his way and, like everyone else here on
Blue-Suit was raving. Sully wiped his mouth and hands, studied him for
a while: Classy dresser, almost elegant, but not overdone. Tasty. A husky man,
athletic, about forty with a good head of hair. Neat. Probably a gentleman,
too, despite his present situation. But there was something else, something
exciting, impressive somewhere under the skin he saw as Blue-Suit suddenly
stopped his railing, removed the handkerchief from his jacket pocket, wiped his
forehead and his hands, replaced it -- folding it first -- then tossed his head slightly and curled his lip,
seemed to loom bigger than his size, and filled up the little space between him
and the puppet face.
Sully stepped from the curb, sucking his teeth. He strolled closer. The
Shuffler, it seems, had won and was offering pleasantries now, smiling with his
tiny mouth, but Blue-Suit was moving closer, his hands palms up in front of the
bewildered little puppet-face, backing him into the doorway. His muted, raspy
sounds melted in the air around them:
"This will never do. This will never do."
Sully slipped closer, tried to hear, but not really able to anymore and
not seeing the Shuffler either now as Blue-Suit bent closer and seemed to
whisper in the little ear, then, just as quietly, step back again toward the
sidewalk. This time he smiled, bowed slightly, courteously, stepped away, and
moved on down the street. He walked with grace for such a huge man, Sully
thought. He looked at the Shuffler.
He looked too white to be alive.
He was not sweating. He was shivering a little, looking at Sully. He
blinked once, then froze, then blinked again, the big eyes closing and opening
like a muppet, his mouth agape, then turned, reeled on the doorjamb, and
disappeared into his unlit shop, shutting the door. Sully looked at Blue-Suit,
now strolling unhurriedly through South Street’s circus, and he knew then the
difference about him: Not that he could scare a little man, 'though he did, God
knows, but that here, after all, was a man who seemed to have sheer will,
destiny.
Snap.
Snap. He could feel the aura and the touch.
Snap. Sully followed him.
#