The Adjustment - By Scott Phillips Page 0,67
or another.
I considered the possibility of killing him right then and disposing of him somehow before the sun came up. I was still curious about him, though, about how he’d settled on me as the villain in his imaginary love story, so I slapped him in the face, hard. He stirred, his eyes unfocused and bleary, and then he got a load of me and tried to yell. Only a hoarse rattle came out, though, and I thought maybe I’d knocked him stupid.
“How are you, Ralph?”
“Go to hell.” He was slurring, but I didn’t think he was drunk.
“So what’s your beef with me? Still mad about that jeep?”
“Lemme go,” he said, pulling at the wire.
“I didn’t kill Brunela, you know. She killed herself.”
“Same as. Lousy pimp. She loved me.”
“She was a pro. She didn’t love you.”
“She listened to me. She was going to come to America with me when the war was over.”
“Brunela fucked you for money, just like she did a thousand other guys. She listened to your sob stories because you were paying her to. And I didn’t kill her.”
“You pimped her.”
I shook my head, exasperated at his refusal to face reality. “But I didn’t turn her out. She’d been working two or three years already by the time I came on the scene. The fact is I improved her working conditions. Made her last six months or so bearable, the way I see it.”
The funny thing about it was, old Ralph didn’t seem very scared. He was pissed off, sure, but I really don’t think he’d figured out that his number was up. “You think the rules don’t apply to you, Ogden. Just the rest of us.”
“I can’t quite figure you out,” I said. “You’re smart enough to track me down halfway across the country, and dumb enough to fall in love with a hooker.”
“And you cheating Uncle Sam while guys like me was getting killed fighting.”
“Ralph, you were stealing jeeps from the army. And I see you’re still stealing cars. I’m guessing the Airflow and the bag both belong to one of your Administration docs. How’d you find me, anyway? I know you work for the VA, but I can’t believe they’d let an illiterate work as a file clerk.”
“I got a lady friend in the filing department, helps me out.”
“Shit, Ralph, you should have been satisfied with that. A job and a girl, that’s the American dream. You probably would have had your own car before long. House with a lawn. Now what have you got to look forward to?”
“Going to make you pay for what you did to Brunela. And then I’m going to fuck that wife of yours. She’s some potato.”
“You mean tomato, you dumb shit.” I was tired of the sound of him and tired of the sight. He was just about to say something when I picked up the shovel.
“Hey, wait. You can’t kill me.”
“Sure I can,” I said, and I dragged him by the legs out the broken doorframe of the shack. He was struggling pretty hard and I thought I’d better shut him down quickly, so I swung the shovel over my shoulder like a golfer. That finally put a scare into him, and he let loose a terrified wail as I brought the blade down sideways and hard on his head. His piteous wail didn’t end with the impact but wound down over two or three seconds, like a radio that’s been turned off.
A dozen yards from the shack I began to dig.
FIFTEEN
SAUL OF TARSUS
JUST BEFORE DAWN I drove the Airflow and left it in front of Ketteman’s bakery with the doctor’s bag locked in the trunk. I didn’t owe him, but I felt a certain kinship since we’d both had a beef with Ralph. They’d get back to him eventually. The adrenalin hadn’t burned off yet, so I headed to Stanley’s for some breakfast.
As I ate I went through both morning papers. Burress wasn’t dead, according to the Morning Eagle, but he was paralyzed on his right side and unable to speak, his active career at an end. The Beacon ignored it, though if they’d gotten wind of the presence of half-naked whores and sneaky photographers they certainly would have featured it as their lead. I wondered about sending the photo of Burress to Wilbur Lamarr and George Latham, just as a warning. I didn’t think I needed to, though. With one member of their cabal in the ground and the other in intensive care, the message