"The skunk's never coming back," Dick McCue said bitterly. His face was
hurting again. He wanted to lie down again in his comfortable room at
Goudeket's Green Acres, horror and fatigue far behind.
Mrs. Goudeket didn't even hear. She had taken her place on the one good
chair, near the door, and she was waiting for the moment when Artie
Chesbro, the thief of cars, should walk back inside. That, thought
Mickey Groff, would be a moment to watch. Chesbro had been asking for
it for a long time. It would be a pleasure to see the old lady taking
him apart.
He thought wrong.
The old lady sighed and said, "How long now? A day and a half I been
away from Goudeket's Green Acres, and all the time I been worried sick.
You know something? Now I'm not worried."
Mickey Groff said, "That's right, Mrs. Goudeket. There's nothing to
worry about. Everything's all right there, you'll see."
She looked at him surprised. "All right? Nah." She shook her head. "All
wrong, you mean. Believe me, Mickey, I know what can happen to a place
like Goudeket's Green Acres when it should only rain three days in a
row, much less something like this. Goudeket's Green Acres is finished.
What's the sense trying to kid myself? I should know better."
Groff looked at her uncomfortably. But she didn't seem panicky, didn't
seem on the verge of despair. She was calm enough for six. He said,
"What are you going to do?"
She leaned forward and patted him. "I'm going to sell, Mickey," she
announced. "You think I'm doing the right thing? No, don't tell me--I'm
going to do it anyhow. My husband, Mr. Goudeket, he was always after me
to sell and go to Palestine. 'Sell, Mrs. Goudeket,' he'd say--always
I kept the hotel in my name, you see--'sell and let's live a little.'
And every time I'd say next year, next year. Now--it's next year. I'm
sixty-three years old, Mickey. It's time I took it easy for a while."
She brooded silently. "Why should I lie?" she asked. "Sixty-six."
Mickey Groff said reassuringly, "I think it's the right thing to do.
You'll like it in Israel. Nice climate, plenty of things going on, a
whole new country rising out of the desert--"
She looked at him incredulously. "Mickey, a nice climate? Nice with the
Egyptians raining down out the sky like clouds in their jet airplanes?
Please, I'm not a child; if I go there I give up nice things in order
to be with my people. But it's what Mr. Goudeket wanted, and I stole
it from him, so now I'll go. I can sell Goudeket's Green Acres like
_that_." She snapped her fingers proudly. "Only--why didn't I do it
while Mr. Goudeket was still alive?"
A light truck banged past the schoolhouse down toward the river,
and almost immediately another followed. Dick McCue said curiously,
"Something going on? I _thought_ I heard shooting."
"There's plenty going on, Dicky," Sharon Froman informed him kindly.
"Things are very busy around here tonight. But you wouldn't understand."
No one paid any attention to her. After a moment she laughed and lit a
cigarette. Clods, she thought with gentle contempt. Naturally they were
jealous of her and of Artie Chesbro. There were two kinds of people.
One kind was the doers--herself, that is; and along with her such other
persons as she temporarily dragged along to heights of accomplishment
and success. The other kind was everybody else. Not even her worst
enemy, she mused, trickling smoke out of her nostrils--not even Hesch,
or Paul, or Bert, or any of the others she had temporarily blessed
with her help and presence before withdrawing--not any of them could
deny that she had moved fast and successfully this day.
Polly Chesbro got up and crossed over to Mickey Groff. "May I have one
of _your_ cigarettes?" she asked.
"Sure." Groff lit it for her.
She said, "What are you going to do now, Mickey? After things clear up
a little, I mean."
He hesitated. The question had not occurred to him for some time. "Go
ahead as planned, I guess. Chief Brayer said the Swanscomb place wasn't
damaged, and your husband seems to have given up the idea of making a
warehouse out of it."
She laughed, not maliciously. "I wonder if he remembers that he signed
a lease on it," she said.
"Lease?"
She nodded. "There were a couple of men from Ohio in to see him last
week. He drew up a lease on the spot, and they paid him a binder."
Groff said, "Hell. Well, that was pretty stupid of him, but if it's a
matter of getting--him--in trouble I suppose I could find some other--"
"Get Artie in trouble? Small chance, Mickey. He lands on his feet.
And if he doesn't, he always has the family money to bail him out--my
family, that is. What you really mean is you'd back out in order to do
me a favor, isn't it? Don't answer. It wouldn't be a favor, Mickey. I
decided a long time ago that I couldn't mother Artie. I had to let him
get in his own scrapes and get out by himself, if he could get out. It
hasn't made a man of him yet, but there's always the chance it may."
She tipped the ash of her cigarette neatly into a thick china saucer.
"Stay around, Mickey," she said. "All of us need people like you around
here. For much more than business."
A quality in her voice touched him, deeper perhaps than she had
intended, deeper than he could remember being touched before.
Responsibility. That was the word. Someone had to help. And it was
something very different from ego that made him think too: Someone has
to lead.
Dick McCue heaved himself to his feet. His whole head was hurting now,
and he was feeling savage. "I'm going to hit up the chief for another
trip ticket, Mrs. Goudeket," he announced. "Half an hour's long enough
to wait for the b--for Mr. Chesbro."
"Why not?" said Mrs. Goudeket. She went with him. Groff could hear the
discussion clear from the cloakroom; but they won their point. They
came back with another scribbled slip of paper, and the whole party
headed for the motor pool--even Sharon, though no one had asked her.
There was somebody down by the motor pool.
As they drew close another little truck came up, making a convoy of
three of them, and the driver of one of them hopped out, heading
for the motor pool's Coleman lamp. The driver was a captain, and
upset about something; he said to Mr. Cioni, "I understand there's a
temporary morgue somewhere around here."
"Basement of the Methodist Church," Cioni said, absently walking over
to the open jeep. "That's at--"
He had leaned over to peer at what was huddled in the back of the jeep.
He crossed himself and stared at Mrs. Goudeket. "Here's the guy that
got your car, lady!" he called.
"Artie!" gasped Polly Chesbro. She sped to the jeep and unbelievingly
lifted the head on its stiffening neck, staring into the blank face.
The captain, his nerves twanging through his voice, snapped, "Please
don't give us any trouble, lady. This is no business of yours."