Dover Beach Page 10

  He fell back, exhausted. His pale skin was beaded with sweat, despite the chill of the room. His eyes still stared at me, but the fire was gone.

  After a while, you can almost smell the approach of death—the cells one by one giving up the battle, surrendering to chaos and nullity. You never quite get used to it.

  "Okay, Linc," I murmured. "Can I help you up to bed?"

  He flopped a hand in assent. I went over and lifted him from the couch. He put his arm around my shoulders and we walked slowly upstairs together. He let go when we reached the door to his bedroom. "Get out," he whispered, and then he disappeared into the darkness.

  * * *

  Gwen was still awake. I got into bed next to her, and she wordlessly moved into the crook of my shoulder. We lay like that for a long time, both awake, both silent.

  "What are you thinking?" I asked after a while. I never asked her that.

  Gwen shifted in my arms. "I'm thinking: maybe in England you'll be able to sleep."

  "Fat chance."

  She kissed my cheek. "Someday sleep will come easy," she murmured.

  She waited.

  "And dreams will come true," I managed to say.

  "Someday."

  She turned over then, and soon she was snoring softly.

  Chapter 15

  And then the dream started marching resolutely toward reality.

  Bobby's business partner arrived promptly the next day, accompanied by two thugs and a third, somewhat less thuglike individual. I recognized the thugs. One had a yellowing bruise on his chin from where I had clubbed him; the other's face was covered with cuts from the windshield I had shot out. They didn't look happy to see me.

  "Mr. O'Malley, meet Dr. Winfield and Mr. Sands," Bobby said.

  O'Malley was tall and sandy-haired and missing a couple of teeth. He was wearing a cashmere topcoat, starched white shirt, and a silk tie. I thought he looked a bit silly, but Winfield seemed impressed. O'Malley glared at me. "Get rid of the punk," he growled.

  Bobby nodded to me. "Mr. Sands, would you and Mr. O'Malley's associates like to step outside?"

  "Wait a minute," O'Malley said. "This one here stays." He grabbed the arm of the less thuglike one. "He's a chemist. Gonna test the stuff. Think I'm stupid, Gallagher?"

  Bobby smiled. "What a great idea. I wish I'd thought of it. Of course he stays."

  "Wait a minute", Winfield protested in turn. "Sands is my bodyguard. I need some protection here."

  "Mr. Sands will be right outside the door," Bobby said. "And believe me, he can handle everyone in this room. He's the toughest private eye in the city."

  Winfield didn't look happy, but he let me go. Bobby shut the door behind me and the thugs.

  The two of them kept their hands in their pockets, fingering their guns. I smiled at them. "Terrible weather we've been having lately, don't you agree?"

  They fingered their guns.

  I tried again. "People say it's worse now than in the old days. What do you think?"

  Maybe they didn't think—or couldn't think. I sat down at the top of the stairs and kept quiet. They watched me warily, and didn't take their hands out of their pockets.

  It wasn't long before the door opened and O'Malley came out, accompanied by his chemist. O'Malley was carrying a brown paper bag; I could discern the outline of a peanut butter jar inside. "Let's go," he said to the thugs. He headed for the top of the stairs. "Outa my way, punk," he barked at me.

  I smiled and got up. "Merry Christmas," I called out as they clomped past me down the stairs. I was sure Brutus would lick their hands.

  Bobby was standing in the doorway to his office. I shook my head at him. "First the tax people, now O'Malley. How much lower are you gonna sink, Gallagher?"

  He grinned. "Business is business, Wally."

  I followed him back inside. Winfield was sitting beneath the crucifix, counting his money. He glanced up at me when he had finished, and he looked almost happy. "What's next?" he asked.

  * * *

  Stretch had been reluctant to help when I brought it up at supper. "There are procedures to be followed," he explained. "You can't just march in there and throw money around."

  "Yes you can, Stretch," I said. "Trust me about this. We just need an introduction."

  "Well, I don't know—"

  "Stretch, can you do it?" Gwen demanded.

  "Well, I suppose. But—"

  "Then do it."

  Gwen almost never gave orders. When she did, no one disobeyed her.

  Next day, Stretch had a word with the people in the Passport Office while Winfield and I waited in the lobby. He came out after a few minutes, his faith in government a little shaken. "They'll do it," he said through clenched teeth. "Ten new dollars for each of you. The only thing you have to do is sign a form saying you're coming back. They don't fool around with that requirement."

  "Oh, well, we'll sign any forms they give us," Winfield said cheerfully. "Won't we, Sands?"

  "Have you got the money?" I asked.

  He had the money.

  * * *

  Mickey drove us out to get the tickets. "Place used to be crowded," he remarked as we traveled along the deserted road to the airport.

  "How did they stand it—traffic jams and all that?" I wondered.

  Mickey shrugged. "Guess you get used to it."

  "I guess."

  No one was at the ticket counter when Winfield and I arrived. I had a brief, awful feeling that I had it all wrong—that the flights to England were just one of those crazy rumors you half believe because it makes life a little more interesting. Somewhere in Colorado there's a race of mutant super-geniuses who are plotting to take over the world. Aliens saw our little smoke signals twenty-two years ago and have landed in Washington. The government is going to reintroduce professional baseball in the spring. Things like that.

  Well, I just had to hope my feeling was mistaken. "Hullo," I called out.

  There was a shuffling sound in the back room behind the counter, and a gray-haired woman poked her head out. "Yes?" she demanded.

  "Two tickets for England, please," I said. "Next flight."

  The woman came out, ostentatiously aiming a snub-nosed revolver at us. She was wearing a threadbare red blazer with little wings on the breast pocket. There was a long scar on the side of her neck that a white kerchief didn't quite cover. She had an exophthalmic stare that made her look perpetually surprised and slightly crazy.

  "England," she said noncommittally. She didn't put the gun down.

  "We understand there's a flight leaving on Thursday."

  "Thursday?" She seemed to consider this surprising piece of information. Then an idea came to her. "Passports. Can't go anywhere without passports."

  We showed her our passports. She seemed vaguely disappointed. She put the gun down and started shuffling through papers. Finally she seemed to find what she was looking for. "Ah," she said. "Thursday. Booked solid. Sorry." She picked up the gun and turned to leave.

  "Excuse me," I said. I nudged Winfield. He put a five-dollar bill on the counter.

  The woman turned back. She stared at the bill in astonishment. "Thursday," she repeated. Her vocabulary seemed rather limited. She shuffled some more. "Smoking or nonsmoking?" she inquired.

  "Jesus Christ," Winfield exploded. "Why don't you just give us the fucking tickets? I can pay for the damn things, if that's what you're worried about."

  The woman simply blinked at Winfield.

  "Nonsmoking," I said.

  She glanced down at a paper. "Ah," she exclaimed. "I have two cancellations in nonsmoking."

  "We'll take them," I said.

  She immediately grabbed the five-dollar bill and started filling out the tickets. It took a while; they seemed to be very complicated tickets. Finally, Winfield handed her enormous amounts of money, and she handed him the tickets, and the transaction was complete.

  "Thanks a lot," I said.

  She smiled a toothless smile. "Have a nice flight,
" she replied. Then she picked up her revolver and disappeared.

  * * *

  Good-byes.

  Art was selling a nervous teenage boy a yellowed copy of Alien Sex Vampires ("Blood Wasn't All They Sucked!"). "Excellent choice," Art murmured. The boy hurried out, and I told Art my news.

  "England!" he said, and he embraced me. "You'll stay there permanently, of course?"

  "Well, I don't know."

  He chuckled, and then his eyes brightened. "You know what you should do?" he said. "Write a novel. About us—the people back in Boston. Not right away, of course, but someday. Powerful emotions recollected in tranquility. I'm sure they still publish novels over there."

  "Oh, I don't think I can—"

  "Of course you can. You've read enough of them. Wouldn't that be something? To be a character in a novel. Do it, Walter. For us. Make us immortal."

  Little enough to ask, I suppose. "Okay, Art," I said. "Immortality. You got it."

  He cackled. "Thanks, Walter. England! Now be sure to send me a postcard from Stratford-on-Avon and—and Wimpole Street."

  I grinned. "Sure thing, Art. Immortality and postcards." We embraced again, and I left his shop.

  "And Dover Beach!" he called out after me as I walked through the slush on School Street.

  * * *

  Cindy Tappen was sitting in the cafeteria at Northeastern. I told her.

  She was suitably impressed. "You're a private eye? And you're going to England? Walter, that's so—so sexy."

  I shrugged my most casual, sophisticated shrug. "It's a job."

  She leaned closer, put her hand on my thigh. "When you come back, Walter, why don't we get together, have a shot at making that baby you were talking about the other day—okay?" Then, like Stretch, she thought it through. "But wait a minute. Are you coming back, Walter?"

  "If I wasn't before, I sure am now," I said. I squeezed her hand.

  Cindy grinned. "I can hardly wait."

  On the way out, I saw Professor Hemphill slouching along one of the cinderblock corridors. I hadn't planned on saying good-bye to him, but fate had thrown him in my way. "Professor," I called out.

  As before, he didn't look pleased to see me. "Yes?"

  "I just thought I'd tell you," I said. "You seemed so certain that Robert Cornwall was dead. But I found some evidence that he did in fact go to England."

  He blushed. "Are you saying I'm a liar?"

  Touchy fellow. "Not at all. I'm just telling you what I found out." I told him about the letter.

  He seemed unimpressed. "Have you considered that your evidence might be fabricated?"

  Well, no, I hadn't. "Why would anyone fabricate evidence?"

  "I don't know. Why would I lie?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know." It looked like I wasn't going to get anywhere with him. "Well, listen, we're going over there to find him, and if we do I'll let you know what really happened, okay?"

  That seemed to give him pause. "You're going to England?"

  "Right. Me and my client—the one who thinks he's Cornwall's clone."

  "Your letter doesn't say if Cornwall is still alive, does it?"

  I shook my head. "It just says he went there. Maybe he's dead. Maybe he's hanging around, waiting for visitors."

  Hemphill looked puzzled. And then he got that misty, faraway look I had seen before. Too many memories, I figured. A friend he thought was dead might still be alive. Maybe he didn't have that many friends still alive. Eventually he shook it off and came back to the present. "Well, this is certainly interesting news," he said, in a tone of dismissal. "Please let me know what you find out."

  "I'll be happy to."

  And I left him there, an old man in a dreary hallway, struggling to escape from the past.

  * * *

  Stretch was full of practicalities. "You should put up a sign in your office window saying you're coming back."

  "Fat lot of good a sign did you."

  "Well, we can check the place for you," I reminded him. "All right. I'll put up a sign."

  "How much money are you going to take?"

  "Oh, I don't know." I had been planning to take every cent I had, but suddenly that didn't seem like a good idea. "I guess I'll let my client take care of me. I'll be back soon enough. You can look after my money."

  "Well, all right. The exchange rate makes it practically worthless over there, anyway. Now, what about clothing?"

  "Stretch," Gwen said. "He's a big boy now."

  "Bigger than Stretch, anyway," Linc said.

  I stared at my stew.

  * * *

  "I'm going away, Ground Zero. Know any good-bye songs?"

  The old man's hands moved over the accordion keys. "Good-bye thongth," he mused, and then it came to him. "Beatleth. Magical Mythtery Tour." He played a couple of chords, and then started to sing.

  You thay good-bye, and I thay hello, hello, hello.

  I don't know why you thay good-bye I thay hello.

  (Hello good-bye hello good-bye.)

  I don't know why you thay good-bye I thay hello.

  This was not the most meaningful Beatles' song I had ever heard. I tossed a penny into his hat. "Thanks, Ground Zero."

  "Good-bye," he said.

  "Hello," I said.

  * * *

  The last night. A last supper to remember: ham, boiled potatoes, cornbread, beans... it was embarrassing. Bobby came for the last dessert—walking over from South Boston with Doctor J, since Mickey was fixing up the van for the drive to the airport in the morning. He arrived, red-cheeked and runny-nosed from the cold, carrying a bottle of Scotch. "See if you can find some more of these over there, will you, Wally?" he said as he opened the bottle. "I'm running low."

  "I'll keep an eye out."

  Linc and Stretch joined Bobby in drinking the Scotch. Everyone ate Gwen's apple pie. Linc made a toast. "To the Sandman. May his fame spread to every jealous husband and worried parent and good-looking blonde in distress. May his fees be exorbitant and his risks trifling. May he live life to the fullest and die in bed."

  "To the Sandman," everyone cried.

  I stared at my pie. No one said being a private eye was easy.

  When the apple pie was gone, we moved to the parlor. Gwen sat on the piano bench; I sat next to the Christmas tree (still not quite straight); and Bobby, Linc, and Stretch plunked themselves down on the couch with the bottle of Scotch. The Scotch made them rather maudlin, and they started reminiscing about all the good times they had had in their lives. Strange, the pockets of happiness and humor they could find to talk about. I suppose even the inhabitants of hell have their little memories of the place to cherish.

  They noticed after a while that I wasn't talking. "Wassa matter, Walter?" Stretch demanded. He wasn't used to Scotch. "Dincha ever njoy yourself here?"

  "Come on, Wally," Bobby said. "What's your favorite memory?"

  I didn't like this game. I thought for a moment. "I suppose," I said, "that it was the first time I ate pineapple slices."

  "God, tha's the dullest thing I ever heard," Stretch mumbled.

  Linc laughed. Bobby shook his head.

  "Why don't we sing carols?" Gwen suggested. She turned around on the piano bench and started playing "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen." That seemed to put an end to the memories. After a few carols Linc went to bed and Stretch passed out. Bobby finished off the Scotch, then Doctor J led him, drunk and dim-sighted, out into the night. The party was over.

  Gwen and I carried Stretch upstairs; he wasn't much to carry. We tucked him in, then went into our room and silently got into bed ourselves.

  "We've been through a lot together, haven't we, Gwen?" I whispered into the darkness.

  "A lot."

  "Saying good-bye isn't easy."

  "Then don't say it, Walter. You'll be back."

  I teetered on the brink of confession, and then retreated, a coward at heart. "It doesn't seem fair that I get to go and you don't."

  Gwen allowed herself a sigh.
"Whoever said life was fair?" she asked. "You're doing what you have to do. Don't feel guilty, Walter. Life's too short. Whatever you do, don't feel guilty."

  Fat chance. But when Gwen gave an order, you had to obey. "Okay," I said.

  "Now, tell me, where are you going to visit while you're over there?"

  "Oh, I haven't really thought about it. Art gave me a list of literary sights: Stratford-on-Avon, Dover Beach...."

  Gwen considered. "Dover Beach. Isn't that where ignorant armies clash by night?"

  "Well, um, sort of."

  "Well, you should think about all the wonderful places you're going to see, and don't worry about good-byes. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  We kissed, and she turned away. Before long she was asleep—or maybe just pretending to be asleep. Then I realized that we hadn't gone through our nightly ritual—that we would never go through it again. And that was almost enough to make me forget all about my dream. "Gwen?" I whispered.

  No reply. I wanted to shake her, to make her wake up and say the words we had said to each other for so long. But I didn't. If Gwen had wanted to say them, she would have said them. Gwen knew what she was doing; Gwen knew everything. I hugged her from behind, feeling her thin body beneath the flannel nightgown, smelling the soapy cleanness of her skin, remembering. Ah, love, let us be... It was too much. I got out of bed.

  Too restless to read, I walked downstairs, found my coat, and went out into the night. It was cold and clear. I crunched over to the statue of Columbus. "I guess I should say good-bye to you too," I said. "You understand, right? 'There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; / There gloom the dark, broad seas.' Another one of those English poets. The guy wasn't talking about you, but the point is clear, right? 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world,' right? You know it, everyone knows it."