Читать книгу Dig My Grave Deep - Peter Rabe - Страница 8

RAMON came back to the club at eight the next morning. He pushed the front door open with one shoulder, because he was carrying the questionnaires with both hands. In the front hall he put the stack on the counter of the cloak room and took a deep breath. He felt like sitting down; he wanted a cup of hot coffee and afterwards some sleep. The job had been more work than he’d figured. It had taken all night. There were only three questions with only a “yes” or “no” answer, but it had taken all night to tally them up. Shelly had come into the kitchen twice and offered to help him. He had told her to go back to bed, the job was too important.

Ramon stood behind the counter and stacked the sheets. Then he went to the bar and found a carton with empty whisky bottles. He put the bottles on the floor, took the carton and put the stacked sheets inside it.

At eight-thirty Lantek came in. He nodded at Ramon and came over to look into the box. The top sheet had the totals on it.

“What you got here?”

“The questionnaires. You remember, Dan told me . . .”

“This here,” and Lantek took up the sheet with the totals.

“I added the whole thing up. I was sure we’d need the whole thing tallied, so I did it last night. Don’t you think . . .”

Lantek looked ill-humored and put the sheet back.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said. “Dan don’t impress.”

“We need the tallies, don’t we?”

Lantek looked up at the tone but didn’t say anything. The whole thing was done, anyway. “You’re done,” he said, and picked up the box.

“Leave it. I’ll give it to him. I’m supposed to wait for him anyway.”

Lantek put down the box. “You’re done, I said.”

They looked at each other for a moment.

“Out, Ramon. And don’t come back.”

Ramon felt suddenly weak, with a filminess getting into his vision. His effort to get back his strength made the sweat come out on his forehead. But then he couldn’t talk.

“Don’t look at me,” said Lantek. “I get my orders, same as you, straight from Port.”

He picked up the box with the stack of papers inside and went to the stairs. Before going up he turned and called back. “You waiting for me to throw you out?” He stood at the bottom step, watching, till Ramon had gone out of the door.

At first he was not going anywhere, just walking away, but when he got down to the street he had to stop because the tension would not let him walk any further. To leave now would make the break physically final. From one day to the next—and all night, working to get it done for the next big day—Shelly sleeping in the next room, plans and thoughts about what he would do with—for—Shelly. He was going to throw her at him. His own sister. He was going to get her messed up with that Port bastard who had it in his hands to make or to break him.

Ramon sat down on the steps of the club and scraped his nails over his scalp. His throat pained, as if he had been screaming. He raked his nails through his hair, made two fists and held on. Whom would he kill first? Port? Of course Port, and then that swinehead back in the club. And there were a few more that might get in his way and the thing would be . . . But first back to Port.

Ramon heard footsteps on the pavement and sat up immediately. He coughed hard, distorting his face. He did this without thought, but it served to blank out what he had been doing, as if it was necessary to blank it out or else it might show. Whoever was walking on the street would see Ramon on the steps, coughing.

Across the street a boy was walking by and he looked at Ramon only because he was coughing.

Now that Ramon was not thinking about the murder any more he felt lost and aimless. Ramon did not feel that he wanted to see anyone he might know, because his feelings were out of hand, confused and painful. Of course with Port it would be different—there would be the sharp, clear, incisive thing. When Ramon turned to cross the street the car slid up and cut off his view. The two antennas dipped and weaved over the massive hulk of the car. If heraldic standards had flown from the antennas it would not have surprised Ramon.

Port looked at Ramon over the top of the car while he slammed the door shut.

“Morning. You been inside?”

Ramon stared at Port, waiting for his rage to come to him.

“Hey—Calvin!”

Ramon started chewing his lip, but no rage came to his aid, not even insults. Port came around the car, one hand in his pocket. He stopped with one foot on the curb, and looked at Ramon. Port was so casual, Ramon thought for a moment he could hit the man now.

“Come along,” said Port. “I’ll buy you some coffee.”

Then Ramon ran after him and started to talk before he even caught up. “Why? Why did you do it? You threw me out without even a chance for me to make good, to do anything. I’m a member for two weeks, after it took me maybe three months—ever since we moved into the neighborhood. And you don’t even—”

He stopped when Port turned to look at him at the door to the shop. Ramon burst out, finally angry.

“Did you tell that swinehead to throw me out? Did you?”

“Sure I did,” said Port, and held the door open for Ramon.

Ramon looked inside and remembered that Shelly would not be there, not until later. He went in and sat down at the counter.

“Two coffees,” said Port to the man at the grill. Then he looked at Ramon. “Now shut up and listen.”

Ramon sat still, his mouth open.

“You wormed your way into the club. You’re in for two weeks, and you get thrown out. We don’t want you. That’s what Lantek knows, that’s what anybody knows who cares to ask about it.” Port stopped to blow on his coffee. “I got a job for you and for that job you got to be thrown out of the club.”

Ramon burned his mouth on the coffee.

“Now here’s the deal. Let me know if you want it.”

Ramon had a sensation of quivering and was afraid it might show. He sucked in his breath, he smiled with mouth wide and stiff.

“Sure, Dan. Anything. But why didn’t you tell me? Why send Lantek—and me not knowing a thing, Dan. I thought I-was going nuts!”

Port looked at his coffee and blew on it.

“Don’t get so eager it makes you scared, Ramon. I told you once.”

“You can talk. You’re on top, and nothing can . . . .”

“You had a bad morning?” Port paused. “When you’re in, Ramon, this happens all the time.”

Port drank coffee and didn’t say any more for a while. He poured water into the coffee and drank it that way. Ramon sat and waited. He thought about what he had heard, and didn’t believe a word of it. After a while he said, “You have a job for me?”

“As a gardener.”

“You mean—in a garden?”

“Go to the Apex Employment Bureau. They know you’re coming. They got a request for a gardener and I want you to apply for the job. You’ll be the only applicant, so you shouldn’t have any trouble. Sam White at the agency will show you a sheet with dates and references. Learn it by heart, because that’s your background. You’ve been a gardener most of your life.” Ramon listened for more.

“After you try for the job go home and wait for me there. Where do you live?”

Ramon told him.

“I’ll be over late. If you have the job, I’ll tell you the rest.” Port got up, paid for the coffee. “And keep away from the club. You’re out, and you don’t like it.”

Ramon nodded and watched Port walk out the door. Ramon felt he should be elated, now that everything was again well in hand; except, as he found it, nothing seemed to be in his own hands.