"I take it you weren't home, then."
"No, I was not. If you want to ask any more, let's see your Junior
G-man badge."
Kintyre sighed. "All right." He stood up. "I'll go. The cops won't be
so obliging, if you don't cooperate with them."
He looked past Gene, to the window. It was a hole into total blackness.
He wondered if that had been the last sight Bruce saw--of all this
earth of majesty, a single smeared window opening on the dark.
"I didn't do it," said Gene. "We didn't." He showed his teeth. "But I
say three cheers for whoever did. I'd like to get the lot of 'em here,
that sister now--"
"Hold on!" The violence of his tone shivered Kintyre's skull. Afterward
it was a wonder to him, how rage had leaped up.
Gene swayed for a moment. An unpleasant twisting went along his lips.
Beside Kintyre, the father also rose, massive and watchful.
"So you'd like some of that too, would you?" said Gene. "You won't get
it. She's only a whore inside. Outside, she's like a goddam nun. You
know what we call that kind where I come from? Pri--"
"I'm going," said Kintyre harshly. "I prefer to be among men."
Unthinkingly, he had chosen the crudest cut. He saw that at once. A
physical creature like Gene Michaelis, whose sexual exploits must have
been his one wall against every hidden inadequacy, must now be feeling
nearly unmanned.
Gene roared. His cane lifted and whistled down.
It could have been a head-smashing blow. Kintyre stepped from it and it
jarred against the floor. The cane broke across. Gene rocked forward on
his artificial legs, his hands reaching out for Kintyre's throat.
Kintyre planted himself passively, waiting. He didn't want to hit a
cripple. Nor would fists be much use against all that bone and meat.
As Gene lunged, Kintyre slipped a few inches to one side, so the
clutching arm went above his shoulder. He took it in his hands, his
knee helped the great body along, and Gene Michaelis crashed into the
wall.
As the cloud of plaster exploded, Kintyre saw the old man attack. Peter
Michaelis was still as strong as a wild ox, and as wrathful.
Kintyre could have killed him with no trouble.
Kintyre had no wish to. Anyone could be driven berserk, given enough
low-grade alcohol on top of enough wretchedness. He waited again, until
the fisherman's fist came about in a round-house swing. There was time
enough for a judo man to get out of the way, catch that arm, spin the
opponent halfway around, and send him on his way. It would have been
more scientific to throttle him unconscious, but that would have taken
a few seconds and Gene was crawling back to his feet.
"Let's call it a day," said Kintyre. "I'm not after a fight."
"You--filthy--bastard." Gene tottered erect. Blood ran down one side of
his mouth; the breath sobbed in and out of him; but he came.
On the way he picked up the other cane.
He tried to jab with it. Kintyre took it away from him. As simple as
that--let the stick's own motion carry it out of the opponent's hand.
Gene bellowed and fell. Kintyre rapped him lightly on the head, to
discourage him.
Someone was pounding on the door. "What's going on in there? Hey,
what's going on?"
"I recommend you cooperate with the police," said Kintyre. "Wherever
you were this weekend, Gene, tell them. They'll find out eventually."
He opened the window, went through, and hung for a moment by his hands.
Father and son were sitting up, not much damaged. Kintyre straightened
his elbows and let go. It wasn't too long a drop to the street, if you
knew how to land.
He went to his car and got in. There was no especial sense of victory
within him: a growing dark feeling of his own momentum, perhaps. He had
to keep moving, the horror was not yet asleep.
_All right, Corinna_, he thought as the motor whirred to life. It was a
bit childish, but he was not in any normal state. _I did your job. Now
I'll do one for myself._
6
When Bruce last mentioned Guido to Kintyre, not so long ago, the name
of the Alley Cat occurred. Presumably Guido was still singing there.
Kintyre looked up the address in a drugstore phone book. It was back
in North Beach, of course, in a subdistrict which proved to be quiet,
shabby, and tough.
There was no neon sign to guide him, only a flight of stairs downward
to a door with the name painted on it. Once past a solid-looking
bouncer, he found a dark low-ceilinged room, decorated with abstract
murals and a few mobiles. The bar was opposite him. Otherwise the walls
were lined with booths, advantageously deep, and the floor was packed
with tables. Most of the light came from candles on these, in old
wax-crusted Chianti bottles. Patronage was thin this evening, perhaps
a dozen couples and as many stags. They ran to type: either barely
of drinking age or else quite gray, the men with their long hair and
half-open blouses more ornate than most of the women, a few obvious
faggots, a crop-headed girl in a man's shirt and trousers holding hands
with a more female-looking one.
Hipsters, professionally futile; students, many of whom would never
leave the warm walls of academe; a Communist or two, or a disillusioned
ex-Communist who had not found a fresh illusion, perpetually refighting
the Spanish Civil War; self-appointed intellectuals who had long ago
stopped learning or forgetting; dabblers in art or religion or the
dance; petty racketeers, some with a college degree but no will to make
use of it--Kintyre stopped enumerating. He knew these people. One of
his strictures on Margery was her weakness for such a crowd. They bored
him.
Guido sat on a dais near the bar, draped around a high stool with a
glass of beer handy. His fingers tickled the guitar strings, they
responded with life, he bore his brother's musical gifts. His voice was
better than Bruce's:
"--_Who lived long years ago.
He ruled the land with an iron hand
But his mind was weak and low_--"
Despite himself, Kintyre was amused to find such an old acquaintance
here. He wondered if Guido knew the author.
He threaded between the tables till he reached one close by the
platform. Guido's glance touched him, and the curly head made a
half-nod of recognition.
Since he would be overcharged anyway, Kintyre ordered an import beer
and settled back to nurse it. The ballad went on to its indelicate
conclusion. Guido ended with a crashing chord and finished his brew at
a gulp. There was light applause and buzzing conversation.
Guido leaned back against the wall. His eyelids drooped and he drew
wholly different sounds from the strings. Talk died away. Not many here
would know this song. Kintyre himself didn't recognize it before the
singer had embarked on the haunting refrain. Then Guido looked his way,
smiling a little, and he knew it was a gift to him.
"_Quant' è bella giovinezza
Che si fugge tuttavia!
Di doman' non c' è certezza:
Chi vuol esse lieto, sia!_"
Lorenzo the Magnificent had written it, long ago in the days of pride.
When he finished, Guido said, "_Entr'acte_," laid down his guitar, and
came over to Kintyre's table. He stood with his left hand on his hip,
fetching out a cigarette and lighting it with the right.
"Thanks," said Kintyre.
Guido continued the business with the cigarette, taking his time.
Kintyre returned to his beer.
"Well," said Guido finally. He grinned. "You're a cool one. I mean in
every sense of the word. Let's find a booth."
They sat down on opposite sides of the recessed table. A handsome young
waitress lit the candle for them. "On me," said Guido.
"Same, then," said Kintyre, emptying his glass.
Guido squirmed. "How d'you like the place?" he asked.