"-Dark Pa.s.sage-. That's the name of that Bogart film where he had the plastic surgery and turned out to be Bogart."

"No." She shook her head. "That wasn't the t.i.tle."

"Maybe not. But in the movie, Bogey cleared himself, and didn't have to go back to prison."

"You aren't cleared. When are you leaving, Hank?"

"In about three, maybe four, days."

"I'll check, you know."

"Why don't you let your lawyer do it?"

"That's what I intend to do."

I left the apartment without saying good-bye.

I walked back to my car, and put the suitcase in the trunk. I would drop the suitcase into a Salvation Army collection box on the way home. Then, after I slept for about four hours, I would call Tom Davies in San Juan and tell him that I would accept the midwest district managership. He would be pleased. I would go to the New Jersey home offices for a one-week briefing-- and then--Chicago, cold freezing, miserable Chicago.

I broke off with a short laugh that was a half-sob. But I didn't cry. Not yet. There would be plenty of time to cry during the long, cold, winter nights in Chicago.

PART III.

Eddie Miller:.

You can count on me, Don.

Don Luchessi: You're ten years old, baby, and you're old enough to understand...

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

3624 1/4 Kelly Blvd. AA.

Schiller Park, Ill.

Dear Eddie, The reason you've only had a few postcards from me instead of a decent hr is that I've been as busy as a cat covering s.h.i.t on a marble floor. Also, I wanted to work out the report (inadequate as it is, I've enclosed it) on the contents of Gladys' handbag.

I've only got two of the three ltrs you said you wrote me, but I'm lucky to have that many. Notice my address above. First, there is the 3624 and -one-fourth!- There are four apts in each bldg, and if you leave off the 1/4th, the postman takes the ltr back to the P0 or throws it in the dumpster or gives it to someone else. n.o.body ever knows anybody else in these buildings, because the turnover is about every six weeks or so. After almost three months, I'm probably the oldest resident in these apts. Also, notice, after Kelly BIvd, the "A A." On the other side of Kelly, all the apts are listed with a single capital letter A. The same alphabetical double-talk goes for the other lines of quadriplexes on the streets beyond Kelly Blvd. What happened is that the first row on Kelly was called A through Z as they built them, and then when they build the second identical line-up adjoining across the street, they started with AA and went up through ZZ. The quadriplexes all look alike, the same s.h.i.t-tone of dun, and they go on like that block after block through the alphabet. I would never ask anyone to meet me at my apt. To find me, you would have to be shown, as I was -shown- by the realtor. Anyway, I've put in for a P0 box at the Schiller Park Branch P0, and I'm on the waiting list. Until I get the box, and the reason I have to wait is that everybody else who lives here also wants one, I can expect to miss about half of my mail unless it's addressed -exactly-, with the "1/4th" and the "AA" added after Kelly Blvd. (I even missed one of my paychecks and it was clearly marked because it was computer addressed from New Jersey. Somebody stole it probably and it will be cashed somewhere in Chicago.) It's frustrating to know that you are usually in Chicago Tues and Wed nights before heading back to Miami, while I am out of town. When are you going to get your schedule changed so you can be here on a weekend and we can get together? I've got a duplicate apt. key made for you, and it's enclosed. So if you want to stay in my apt instead of the hotel during your layover go ahead (if you can find it). It's only a five-minute drive from my apt to O'Hare. In fact, every 30 seconds the windows shake as the jets take off. I moved in here because it's convenient to the airport, but that's the only advantage. Because I'm only here on Friday and Sat nights, I haven't done anything about getting a better pad. Besides, on wkends, I'm exhausted.

Outside it's colder than h.e.l.l, as you know, with the d.a.m.ned black snow drifted up to about three feet along the sidewalks. And my car, which sits on the street (minus hubcaps, now) during the five days I'm out of town, has given me a lot of trouble. There are no garages within walking distance to park it in, and it seems stupid to have a car in a garage where you have to call a cab in order to get to it.

All in all, this is a miserable situation I'm in, and despite the money that keeps piling up in the bank, I'd rather be back in Miami at half the salary. But that goes w/out saying.

I did see Larry Dolman one Sat.u.r.day night, two weeks ago, and we went out to have dinner and a few beers. He had--guess?-- a club sandwich, and I had a steak, but he was so preoccupied about his new job that was all he could talk about. He is a Peter Principle textbook case, I think, at his terminal level of incompetency, but his superiors are crazy about him. Now that he's Director of Security Personnel for Cook County, one of the big jobs in the Nat. Sec. Pvt. Eye agency, anything he does in the way of recreation comes out of his sleep. He has to hire security guards for all of the building projects in Cook County, and when you can only pay a top of $2.20 an hour, you can imagine the kinds of men he's hiring!

Larry told me about one weirdo he hired. They issued the man a gun and a uniform, but before he reached the warehouse he was supposed to guard, he held up a man in the street (wearing his N.S. uniform, Larry said), and was arrested by the cops. But here's what's -funny-. Larry was worried, and thought he might get reprimanded for hiring the guy. They called him into the office after this incident, and all the top bra.s.s fell all over Larry to keep -him- from quitting! In other words, they thought Larry might get disgusted and quit because the hiring of people is so f.u.c.king hard. Larry has supervisors for his security guards, of course, but they're even harder to recruit, he said, or to keep once he hires them. If one of his men doesn't show up, you see, the supervisor has to take the shift until another guard is found, and sometimes a supervisor will be on duty 36 hours or so filling in for absentees. I suppose Larry has written to you about his new job, or will, eventually. If he hasn't yet, he is busy.

Except for two salesmen I've got--one in St. Louis and one in Detroit--who are really d.o.g.g.i.ng it, the other men in the field seem to be okay. I'm going to fire the man in Detroit as soon as I can find a Negro with a B.A. degree to replace him with, but they are almost impossible to find. I've been running an ad in the -Tribune- for three weekends now, and haven't had a single response. But you can't blame them. A black man with a B A isn't anxious to move to Detroit, unless he's crazy--not when I can only offer him $10,000 to start (and a free car).

My love-life here for some reason has turned kind of nightmarish. You might find it hard to believe, but I haven't had a single piece of a.s.s since I came to Chicago. It might be the cold, the wind, the atmosphere, the fact that I'm tired all the time, depressed--I don't know what. Anyway, about a month ago I went down to this bar about two miles away--The Shill--where a lot of stewardae hang out, picked up a neat Italian girl with short legs, brought her to my apt, and couldn't get it up. It never happened to me before. The girl took it pretty well, and said that because I hadn't screwed her at least she could take communion at Ma.s.s the next morning, so she didn't really mind, but it could've been a nasty scene. You know how some stewardae are when they get the upper hand. Since then I haven't bothered, and haven't thought too much about it, being so busy anyway. But I imagine the urge will come zooming back when Spring comes in and the snow leaves and I've got used to the grind of flying and going with so d.a.m.ned little sleep. It's hard to sleep in hotels on the road, and I usually just watch a lot of TV and drink a few scotch and waters in my room. My TV here in Schiller Park, thanks to the jets and O'Hare, has snow for 10 seconds out of every 30 seconds because of the vibrating antenna on the roof, and there doesn't seem to be any way it can be fixed.

You say that Don is pretty depressed. He has been, as you know, ever since -that- night, but at least you're there to keep an eye on him. He's really in an untenable situation with Clara, and perhaps if you could get him a s.e.xy girl he could see a couple of times a week on the side, it might change his att.i.tude. He can afford it, for Xst sake, and if he isn't getting it at home he should be getting it someplace. He told me once that he gets a rim job once in awhile from his secretary, Nita Peralta, but he only takes advantage of it when he's desperate. But he's worried that she'll tell the priest about it some time. They go to the same church, you know, and besides, Don should get more out of his life than a fat-a.s.sed broad like Nita. When we finally get together up here, you and I, we're going to have to work out some plan or other for Don to make him happier. He's a beautiful guy to be in such a terrible marital situation. Anyway, see him when you can, and call him once in awhile. I'll call him myself over the weekend if I can. The last time I called, Clara answered, and said he wasn't there, which was probably a lie. So if I can't get him at home, I'll call him at his office from St. Louis next week.

You didn't say much about your situation with Gladys, and I don't know if the short report I've enclosed will help you any, but don't forget that I'm your buddy, old buddy, and please call me or write soon. It's a lonely place up here, man.

Schiller Park sucks, Chicago sucks, Cook County sucks, and Illinois sucks.

--Yrs. HANK Ends. The Bag Report Apt Key - 3624 1/4, Kelly Blvd AA GLADYS WILSON'S BAG.

In this report I've disregarded some obvious things, Eddie, and I've drawn partially on my memory of Gladys, plus using some of the info you told me about her to reach my conclusions. So in some respects the report is not precisely objective. Because of Freud, Sullivan, Sykes, Gestalt, and some of the other holistic approaches to personality theories (including knotty old Laing, poor misguided soul) it's considered possible to construct a personality profile from objects; and Glady's profile, as drawn, is I aver, as valid as a horoscope, a phrenology chart, and every bit as meaningful as the cryptic message of a c.o.c.k as decoded by a highly skilled alectromancer. But-- combined with your personal knowledge of Gladys, you can extrapolate, man---extrapolate!- 1. Tangee lipstick. G.o.d only knows where she found this, man. This orangey-pinky concoction was popular several years ago, advertised on full pages, etc., but it's fairly hard to find nowadays. It's dimestore lipstick for the very, very young; for adults it usually doesn't go with anything unless the woman has red hair, and a certain shade of red at that. Gladys has black hair, but because of the Tangee I maintain that it's dyed black hair, and she simply doesn't want to give up her favorite lipstick. From her use of Tangee I say that she was once a redhead, liked the color of Tangee, and did not switch lipsticks when she dyed her hair. Unless she also dyes her pubic hair, it's a dark shade of orange, because pubic hair is usually one or two shades darker than the hair on your head. If her pubic hair is black, check the stubble under Gladys' arms, and you will find that it is red when it occasionally surfaces. In my opinion, Gladys will dye her pubic hair because redheads (at 47-50?) readily show gray, and it would defeat her efforts to look younger than her age to have red--and-gray pubic hair. Check underarm stubble for confirmation.

2. Driver's license. Technically, eyes are only blue, brown, or red (albinos). Gladys, on her license, you say, claims "hazel." Ah, she is a vain woman to claim hazel--but a confirming footnote to the possibility of red hair. Also, with hazel eyes, it's still possible to wear Tangee and get away with it-- if the face is pale enough and unfreckled. And Gladys does have a pale complexion. To get off this minor point--a redhead averages 50,000 hairs on her head compared to an average of 100,000 for a blonde. So if Gladys has coa.r.s.e hair, very coa.r.s.e, and dyed black, the tines of her comb will be set well apart because she cannot use a fine-toothed comb. (To be positive on this point, you would have to count every hair on her head.) 3. Pills. Dexamyl (46), Elavil (120), and hormone pills. This is an incredibly small selection of drugs for a woman to carry in her purse--you don't even list aspirin. The chances are she has a lot more pills than this, but takes them at home on a regular basis. If she carries Dexamyl around, she probably pops more than one a day (I'd guess three). That's because the usual prescription for Elavil is 3 per day, which makes one sleepy, being an anti-depressant-tranquilizer of no uncertain strength. So the Dexamyl will clash and counteract with the Elavil, providing Gladys with mercurial turns of mood. Talky as all get-out and then a gloomy lapse into a deep brooding silence. She will also be a little jumpy. The sudden slamming of a door will make her jump, squeal, bite her nails, which will be followed by a smile, a shake of the head, and an apology for over-reacting.

She has a weight problem, and the dexamyl pills curb her appet.i.te. The Elavil is to alleviate depression, and if she were not depressed, in fact, her doctor would not prescribe them--if she obtained them by prescription. So she has put herself in an ambiguous, ambivalent position. The Elavil will make her sleepy, and the Dexamyl will not let her sleep. She is weary, nagging, and happy by turns, and she will apologize following each time she scolds you about something. You also listed hormone pills which is inadequate evidence without the brand name, or generic make-up. I a.s.sume that they're female hormone pills, which means merely that she is going through the change of life. Once the change begins, hormone pills are needed to supplement what the body no longer provides in sufficient quant.i.ties to prevent backaches and osteoporosis. It isn't necessary to ask her if she is undergoing menopause. If she jumps up suddenly and turns the airconditioning down to sixty degrees, claiming that it isn't working properly, and then, if she just as suddenly turns it up to eighty again a few minutes later, she's had a hot flash. Your Gladys, Eddie, old buddy, will never see fifty again. You know how I feel about drugs, but if you don't get Gladys off this s.h.i.t, she can have some severe physical reactions. (And find out what -else- she's on and let me know.) 4. Dental floss, Lifesavers, Binaca golden breath drops, chapstick, two No. 2 pencils with gnawed eraser ends, paper clip containing small amount of ear wax, Bub's red-hot bubble gum, 2 sticks of Juicy Fruit gum, 1 needle with beige thread, 3 Q-Tips, hair styling brush with ivory handle, aforementioned Tangee lipstick, nail file with ivory handle, gold ballpoint pen with engraved legend "I stole this pen from Gladys Wilson," set of car keys and house keys on chain with bra.s.s marijuana pipe attached, 2 Medico cigarette holders (1 blue, 1 green), ivory toothpick in leather case, and 1 rabbit foot.

Wow!

Before proceeding let me take time out to congratulate you on your list making ability, including the counting of the pills (above 3). As a pilot your life is devoted to checklists, pre-flight, in-flight, etc, but very few people wd notice or put down on paper "gnawed eraser ends," "small amount of ear wax" in the paperclip. You're a keen observer, but then you have Observer wings as well as pilot's wings. If you did not have a fulkime occupation as a co-pilot, I would have to put you down tentatively as an a.n.a.l-retentive. But you escape or elude this impertinent cla.s.sification the way medical students avoid being cla.s.sified as psychopathic paranoids when they are given Rorschach tests. All they see is bones, blood, and organs--such is their preoccupation with such things-- so it is as useless to give a medical student a Rorschach as it is to call you an a.n.a.l-retentive. (Nevertheless, as an aside, Eddie, you'll feel a lot better about facing each day if you take a half-ounce of mineral oil before you retire each night.) The oral orientation of 4, above, is staggering, indicating that this woman was arrested at the oral stage early on. If nothing else is handy, she sits or stands around with one finger in her mouth, and another in her a.s.s. Her nails must be bitten down to the quick (ten times for ten fingers). Her interest in oral s.e.x is keen to the point of being honed. Congratulations! It explains, in part, why you've lived with her for more than a year, and if you take offense at this surmise, it is time for you to reexamine some of the other facets of your relationship with Gladys for positive-- if there are any-- correlations. For example, do you talk to her or does she talk to you-- and about what? The distinction is crucial because you might be drifting, man, drifting. And drifting, ancient pilot, with more than 3,000 hours in multi-engined flight, ain't soaring. It is one thing to have "I stole this -pencil- from Gladys Wilson" on a box of 50 Number 2 pencils (my sergeant did this once up in Pittsburgh), but when it is -engraved- on a solid gold -pen-, well, I'm sorry, man, her penial enviousness is majestically monumental. With Gladys, possession is ten/tenths of the law, and she will, if you allow her to do so, devour you completely. (I wish now, Eddie, I'd gone over this list with you the night you handed it to me in the White Shark parking lot.) There was this black man with diarrhea who went to see a black doctor, recently graduated on the quota system. The doctor consulted his diagnosis book: "You got locked bowels," he told the patient. "But I got diarrhea, Doctor," the patient said. "That's because," the doctor said, "your bowels is locked -open!-"

In other words--and to make you smile, I hope--don't take my unlicensed diagnosis too seriously. The only textbook cases are in textbooks, and we were told in college to be leery of any so-called textbook case because it might be a shammer, don't you know. So disregard my advice (above) on the mineral oil, and take a tablespoonful of Metamusil in an 8-ounce gla.s.s of water before you go to bed instead.

5. Lumping the various plastic cards together, there is little significance in Gladys having courtesy check-cashing cards for Food Fair, Kwik-Chek, Publix, and fuel cards for Standard, Texaco, 66, Sinclair, and Soc Sec card, or checkbooks for three banks, plus one savings bankbook, nor even her Am Express, Diner's, bank I.D., and membership card for Fairchild Garden. Burdines, Sears andJordan Marsh charge cards are merely handy, as is MasterCard. But it -is- peculiar that she only has two one-dollar bills in her wallet. You undoubtedly eat well, and I suppose that Gladys is a good cook, seeing that you get steak, mushroom gravy, and baked potatoes, even if she only eats four ounces of the meat and supplements it with a little cottage cheese, but if you wanted to borrow 2 or 3 hundred dollars from her you wd not be able to get it in cash. No cash will she provide for you (not that you need it), but her presents to you in the form of clothes, I'd say, are expensive, if you'll take them. But as I recall, you don't even own a suit or sports jacket. The only coat I've ever seen you wear is your uniform jacket. When we lived in Dade Towers, you slept in your underwear, but I have a hunch that you are now sleeping in silk pajamas, and you have an expensive dressing gown-- a gown that you wear frequently because Gladys is frequently turning the airconditioning down to 60, or lower. If you want to make Gladys happy, let her buy you some tailor-made uniforms (you can always use them), but don't ask her for a twenty dollar bill if you're leaving the house by yourself (if you can still occasionally get away in the evenings by yourself). Also your old USAF leather flight jacket needs replacing: why not let Gladys order you a nice tailor-made leather jacket (about $350 or $400) from Spain? A new leather jacket will look good with your tie-dyed jeans, Ho-Ho T-Shirt, and flight boots, and you'll make the old lady very happy.

6. The photographs. Your descriptions read okay, but I would still like to look at them myself before making a positive judgment. But, taken together, the four photos add up significantly. The wallet photo of the watercolor of Gladys by Augustus (Edwin) John--when she was 18--is more than just a conversation piece. Too bad he didn't date it (or if he did, you didn't put the date on the list). You told me about this photo before, and that her first husband kept the original painting. I'll tell you one thing, though, and I don't have to see the photo. She -never- looked that beautiful, man, not at 18, or any other age. And if you think this is a harsh and hasty critique, the next time you pa.s.s a library, enter at the risk of disillusionment, and compare A. John's watercolor of Dylan Thomas with a -photograph- of the poet. If you ask Gladys for an actual photo of herself at 18, she'll tell you-- and I'll bet money on this-- that she somehow lost all of her early photo alb.u.ms. By now, though, I imagine that she actually believes she did look that good as a girl, and because she has still kept her lush, girlish figure, despite two children, why in h.e.l.l shouldn't she?

Her son teaches Art History at San Francisco State, and her daughter is married to a -dentist- in Seattle. So why does she only have a photo of her son at age 14, and one of her daughter at age 12? Why not a few recent -adult- pictures? Because--I think-- that's the last time she had complete control, or domination over them. Not only did they manage to get away, they got -far far- away. They have put a continent between them, they never visit Fla, and the last time she saw them both together was at their father's funeral. (Any woman who marries a man who spends his days with his fingers in somebody's mouth has got to be desperate to get away.) Her son--and this is a mean surmise--who became an Art History teacher instead of an artist, probably didn't get away soon enough.

The reason for this rude judgment is, of course, the 4th photo--the one she w.a.n.gled from your mother in Ft. Lauderdale when you (stupidly, and I told you so at the time) took Gladys up to meet her. Why, for G.o.d's sake, would she want a photo of you in your Culver military academy uniform taken when you were only 12 years old? If she likes uniforms so much, why not a current photo of you in your airline uniform? Or in your USAF (Res.) uniform? There can only be one answer. Gladys sees in you the manly little boy she wanted her son to be, and if there isn't something incestual about her attachment (adherence is a better word), why does Gladys call your mother every week (when your mother doesn't call her first) to trade t.l.'s? If you don't want to think about such things, try, at least to extrapolate.

I've been thinking on and writing this report for about 4 hours, and I'll let the rest of the s.h.i.t go. You can ask Gladys why she still carries a Wash. D.C. driving license that expired 15 years ago, and you might ask her why the business cards of her gynecologist, opthamologist, insurance man (Prudential), and lawyer all bear Anglo-Saxon names. Jesus, do you know how hard it is to find WASP gynecologists and lawyers in Miami?

But enough.

I reread the report, and I'm sorry about the negative tone of the over-all comments. Gladys is a beautiful and well-groomed woman, and it was quite evident from her possessive att.i.tude toward you-- on the night we went to Sloane's-for-Steak-- that she is really crazy about you. Psychology works better with rats than it does with people, Eddie, and most of it is bulls.h.i.t, but propinquity is valid. I have a lot of faith in propinquity, and it rarely fails: if you continue to live with Gladys she'll talk you into marrying her. In some respects, you and Gladys remind me of Wolfe's Monk Webber and Esther Jack in -You Can't Go Home Again-, except that Mrs. Jack was safely married, and Gladys is free...

"O lost, and by the wind-grieved, ghost, come back again."

Hank

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

Eddie Miller folded Hank's report on Glady's handbag and, without reading it, shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. He had made his decision already, and to read the report now would be strictly academic. He would read it later on, when he had more time. He read Hank's letter three times. He read it hastily in the Miami Springs Post Office, where he kept a P.O. Box, and reread it twice more, taking his time, while he ate a breakfast of blueberry pancakes, sausage, and coffee at The Pancake House on Flagler Street.

Thinking about Hank's letter, Eddie came to the conclusion (if he read rightly between the lines) that the letter was somewhat in the nature of a cry for help. A man writing is not the same as a man speaking, but the tortured joviality, or tone of the letter, emphasized Hank's unhappiness, or disenchantment, with Chicago.

Eddie was familiar with Schiller Park, the suburban town within Chicago which was not unlike Miami Springs and Greater Miami. Miami Springs and Schiller Park, because of their proximity to International Airports-- O'Hare and Miami-- had restless transient populations, and a vast number of airline employees in temporary residence. Both towns had a substantial permanent population of steady citizens, as well, homeowners, who came into frictional conflict with the outgoing lifestyles of the transient residents. The homeowner residents of Miami Springs had not been overjoyed by the designation, "Miami Springs: Haven for Swingers," applied to the suburb by an enterprising -Herald- reporter who had dug the night life along the strip, and the singles-only apartment houses. In Schiller Park, the hard-drinking working men, who quaffed tankards of ale and dreamed of the day when Wallace would take up his residence in the White House, disapproved of young stewardesses with long-haired dates entering the dark, smelly, neighborhood taverns. There was no comparable high-life, or pick-up bars in Schiller Park as there were in Miami Springs, but there was no need for them: Chicago was a real city, not a group of sprawling suburbs like Miami.

Although Dade County boasted of an over-all population of more than a million, Miami itself only had a population of 350,000. The remaining residents were scattered over the county in twenty tight communities with their own shopping plazas, movies, and churches, all of them fighting the notion of becoming a single, unified city.

Miami Beach, a skinny sandy island, cut off from the mainland by Biscayne Bay, was, in Eddie Miller's opinion, merely Boyle Heights (in Los Angeles) without the hills. Eddie rarely went to Miami Beach. To see fifty guests sitting on a hotel veranda in metal chairs staring across Collins Avenue at another fifty guests sitting on a veranda of another hotel was too depressing. Old Americans used to go to Los Angeles to die before World War II. But the ancients now came to Miami Beach to die instead. Except, perhaps, for Brooklyn, Eddie had read somewhere, Miami Beach had more doctors and hospital beds per capita than any other American community of comparable population density, and Greater Los Angeles, with its polluted skies, had apparently lost the geriatric business to Miami Beach forever.

It was the clear bright skies and good flying weather of South Florida Eddie enjoyed. He did not love Miami the way Hank and Larry had, nor did he envy the dull, higher-styled suburban life, with country club-centered activities, that Don Luchessi and his family lived.

Ever since the swift and surprising departure of Hank, followed by Larry, only three weeks later, the salty air of South Florida had lost its savor for Eddie Miller. Solitude and a few close friends were all Eddie needed when he wasn't flying, but he did not, and could not, have any solitude living with Gladys Wilson. And, as much as he liked Don--his remaining friend--it was increasingly harder for the two of them to get together. Eddie was free to go anywhere and do anything he liked--although Gladys usually went with him--but Don, to get away from the house at night, always had to make up some kind of lie to tell Clara. Don disliked Gladys as much as Gladys disliked Don, but Clara hated Gladys and Eddie equally. Eddie was indifferent to Clara, having dismissed her in his mind long ago as a typical American housewife, accepting Clara at her word when she had claimed that she was "a simple homemaker," so he neither liked nor disliked her. On the single occasion the four of them had gone out to dinner, however, the almost electrical enmity at the table, and the frequent manifestations of middle-cla.s.s morality Clara had interjected into the dinner conversation had outraged Gladys, and finally, irritated Eddie.

As a practicing, professional Catholic mother, Clara had given an implicit impression that she would have to confess to her priest that she had eaten dinner with an unmarried couple who "were living in sin."

Before Clara consented to going out with them in the first place--not wanting to leave Marie, their nine-year-old daughter, alone--she had insisted that Don hire a registered nurse as a babysitter. During dinner, Clara had called the nurse three times, and Don had called her twice. Gladys, a past-president of W.A.S.P. (Widows as Single People), and quite active in women's liberation activities, found these calls amusing, at first; and then, turning serious, had lectured Don and Clara on the advisability of providing their daughter with Kung Fu lessons so the girl could become self-reliant. Gladys' rather generous offer to teach Marie a few basic lessons in Karate had been rejected with unnecessary force, if not rudeness, Eddie recalled.

When they got home to Miami Springs, Gladys said: "Never again, Baby!"

Eddie had grinned and nodded, visualizing a similar conversation taking place in Don's house in South Miami.

Eddie enjoyed his solitary breakfast. To prolong the pleasant feeling of being alone, he signaled the waitress to bring him another cup of coffee. He was going flying later this morning, and he decided to take old Don with him. He would feel Don out, and see how he was getting along. Perhaps he would have something to report to Hank when he saw him.

While he waited for fresh coffee, Eddie added the apartment key Hank had mailed to him to his key ring.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.

The window in Don's warehouse office was uncurtained, and in the mornings he opened the venetian blinds. He found it soothing to look through the slats at the traffic on the 1-95 overpa.s.s. Almost a half-block away the noise of the traffic was a steady comforting murmur, and the sound only rose in volume when a heavy diesel semi rumbled south over the overpa.s.s in the near lane. Beneath the overpa.s.s, extending from the deeply shadowed bridge, were twenty colorful frame houses. The one-story houses, of two and four rooms, were about the last wooden houses remaining in Miami, but they were not destined to exist much longer. When Don had first moved into the warehouse office there had been seventy of these clapboard houses along Fair Alley, as it was called by the black residents (although there was no such street or alley listed on the city map), but fifty of them had been torn down, ten houses at a time, as new "Little HUD" housing had been constructed. The black residents had been "relocated," as the officials put it, in Liberty City, Brownsville, and Coconut Grove.

Sometimes, when he had nothing else to do, which was most of the time, Don stood by the window for hours, watching the remaining row of homes and the activity of the black inhabitants. The houses were painted in gay colors--bright mustards, carnation pinks, pastel blues. On the house closest to Don's window, a brown, misshapen, short-legged panther, with pink flowered decals pasted on the body, had been painted on the lemon wall. Don truly admired this lop-sided panther, and had considered the idea of buying the wall when the bulldozers came eventually to tear down the houses. He thought about framing the panther and part of the wall and putting the mural-sized picture on the patio wall by his pool. But he had merely considered the idea, knowing that he would miss the painting when the house was gone. He knew he wouldn't actually buy the brown panther and take it home. Clara would never stand still for it. Not in -her- house.

And it -was- truly her house now, in deed as well as in name, and so was the bank account and the bonds and jewelry in her private lock box at the Southwest Bank of South Miami, and the small waterfront lot on Marathon Key where he had hoped to build a weekend fishing cottage some day. The cottage was another plan that was out forever now that Clara had listed the lot and the price she wanted for it with a Miami realtor. The price was much too high at present, but eventually, as property values climbed inevitably, she would get it. She would get the money; not Don. He wished, somehow, that he had kept the Marathon lot a secret from her, but he had been unable to salvage anything when he went back to her. Nothing. Clara wasn't that bright, but Paul Vitale, her greasy lawyer brother, was a sharp, mean, vindictive sonofab.i.t.c.h. And Paul had drawn up all the papers to protect his "little sister."

An old black man, wearing a blue short-sleeved workshirt and a pair of pink-and-white striped bermudas, came out of the second yellow house. He sat on a bench beside the door, and opened a can of beer. He dropped the tab inside the can, took a long gulping pull, and leaned back against the wall, lifting his wrinkled, grayish black face to the hot morning sun. To the old man's left, along the wall of the house, there was a row of red and pink geraniums planted in five-gallon oil cans. Each can had been painted a different color--red, yellow, and blue-- and the shadows of the geraniums against the yellow wall looked a little greenish to Don. That would make a h.e.l.l of a nice oil painting, Don thought--the old black man, sitting there in the sunlight, with all that garish color in the background. Not a care in the world-- except that he would be "relocated" in another month or so in some regulated concrete block-and-stucco housing development in Brownsville.

Don would miss the old man, the houses and brown panther, but if all went well, he, too, might be "relocated" by then. But how? How? And how could he take Marie with him? That was one thing he knew: he wouldn't leave Miami without Marie.

Don left the window, sighed, sat at his desk, moved the stack of yellow invoices to one side, and took out his ostrich leather wallet. He unzipped the "secret" compartment. Before removing the two bills, he glanced at the door to see if it was shut, and listened for a moment to Nita's hunt and peck typing in the outer office. He took out two crisp bills, and put them on the desk, placing the $1,000-bill above the $500-bill. He studied Stephen Grover Cleveland's face on the $1,000-bill, wondering again how this weak-chinned unmemorable man--at least Don couldn't remember anything about Cleveland--had been chosen for this honor. William McKinley was different. He, at least, had been a.s.sa.s.sinated, and it was decent of the U.S. Treasury officials, or Congress, or whoever it was that decided whose picture was engraved on money to remember McKinley this way on the $500-bill. But why not McKinley, then, on the $1,000, and Cleveland on the $500? What in h.e.l.l had Cleveland ever done to be honored more than McKinley? But maybe it worked the other way. Kennedy was a.s.sa.s.sinated, and his face ended up on fiftycent pieces. The lower the denomination, perhaps, the higher the honor was supposed to be, like Lincoln's face on pennies.

But who remembered Leon Czolgosz, or if they did, how many people could spell his name? Don could, and he had won a few bucks in bars by betting he could spell it. How many people, in fact, remembered or knew that Czolgosz had a.s.sa.s.sinated McKinley? Or knew that McKinley, because he had been a.s.sa.s.sinated, now had his picture on the $500-bill? Don hadn't known about the faces on the $1,000 and $500 bills himself until he had changed smaller bills for them, and it had taken the bank three days to get the higher denominations for him when he requested them.

But it wasn't nearly enough money. He put the two bills away, zipped the compartment closed, and returned the wallet to his hip pocket. To acc.u.mulate this $1,500 had taken Don almost three months. To be able to leave Clara-- and take Marie with him-- Don had set an arbitrary sum of $10,000 as getaway bread. He would need at least that much. With $10,000, all in $1,000 and $500 bills, so his wallet wouldn't bulge in his pocket, he could go somewhere, anywhere he pleased, and set up housekeeping for himself and his daughter. He could change his name and have enough money left over to take care of the two of them while he established himself in business, or got a job of some kind, for a full year. Of, if he were frugal enough, the two of them could live for a year-and-a-half or even two, on $10,000. Surely, within a year-and-a-half he would be earning enough money again somewhere to support them in a half-way decent middlecla.s.s neighborhood.

With a pad and pencil, Don refigured his money and escape plans. By h.o.a.rding $500 a month--which was really rushing it-- it would still be close to two years before he could make the break. But he couldn't hold out that long. In two more years, living in the same house with Clara, he would be as crazy as a s.h.i.thouse rat...

There was a timid rap-rap on the door. Nita opened the door and entered. Her olive face had turned rosy, and she announced formally, "Mr. Miller to see you, sir."

Eddie Miller followed her in. The sound of his boots was masked by the clatter of Nita's wooden-soled wedgies on the linoleum floor. Winking at Don, Eddie stood a foot behind Nita. As she turned clumsily to leave, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s brushed his chest. Unsmiling now, his face solemn, but teasing the poor woman, Eddie side-stepped as Nita side-stepped, and they did a frantic skipping dance back and forth a few times before Eddie grinned and allowed her to escape. She closed the door behind her with a bang.

Nita would be upset all day about Eddie, Don thought. Visitors rarely came to the warehouse office, and she would feel that the clumsy dance was all her fault-- not realizing that Eddie was as agile and wiry as a mountain goat.

Don, blushing with genuine pleasure, got up and shook hands with Eddie. "Did you have any trouble finding the place?"

Eddie grinned and shook his head. "Not much. These warehouses down here all look alike, but once I spotted the brown tiger it was easy. I'm parked in a yellow loading zone, outside, though."

"That's okay," Don said. "I had it painted myself so I'd be sure to always have a parking place. You saw my Mark IV, didn't you?"

Eddie nodded, and looked incuriously around the office, shaking his head. "This is a crummy office, Don, for a man making your kind of dough."

There was a shrill whine and then a heavy thunking sound behind the plywood part.i.tion separating the office from the warehouse. Eddie raised his eyebrows.

"It's the printer," Don explained. "There was an extra storeroom in the warehouse I didn't use, so I rented it out to this guy. He prints bolita tickets, I think, and a few other interesting things. Fake I.D. cards, birth certificates, high school diplomas, and s.h.i.t like that. But he's away a lot, so he doesn't bother me any-- and I pick up an extra seventy-five bucks a month that way."

"Is that why you moved down here yourself, to save dough on office s.p.a.ce?"

"No. It was too inconvenient being downtown. No place to park, and I always had to be coming here anyway for silver. All the flatware's in the safe here, you know, and I keep a black warehouseman. When I used to talk to him on the phone he got the orders wrong, so it was easier this way. Besides, no one ever comes to see me for orders. I go to them, so it was stupid to keep an expensive office on Biscayne Boulevard."

Eddie winked, and jerked his head toward the closed door. "If I'd known you had that around, I'd've been down before. How is she, Don?"

"Keep you voice down, man. I told Hank about Nita, and he told you, didn't he?" Don smiled sheepishly.

"Not the juicy details."

"It isn't that juicy, but Nita's been with me about five years now, and well, you know, I talked to her about some things. My problems, some, and about Clara. So-- d'you remember when we got the vasectomies?"

"You're really something, Don," Eddie laughed. "That's an incident that would hardly slip a man's mind, for Christ's sake!"

"You remember -when-, I mean--it was when I was separated and living in the Towers with you guys. Well, Clara and I had always used the rhythm system, which is a b.l.o.o.d.y pain in the a.s.s. You don't f.u.c.k when you want to, you have to wait until you have to, so to speak. I was living at the Towers when you and I and Hank talked about the vasectomy, so I never told Clara when I decided to get it done with you. Did Hank ever get his?"

"No. He chickened out finally. He read some study where about one guy out of every thousand or so has some side effects or something. He reads all those medical magazines, and he takes that s.h.i.t seriously. You know how Hank is, Don."

"I got a postcard from Hank last week. From St. Paul."