RoseMarie worked for CIA and the UN before she was 20, took a tramp steamer to Istanbul, was confidential secretary to the assistant managing editor at The New York Times and, most recently, worked as a programmer in Paris rewriting the reservation system for the high speed trains and Eurostar. She has studied writing with Catherine Ryan Hyde, author of "Pay it Forward" and 15 other novels, Leslie Lehr, and Charlotte Cook. She tirelessly searches for agents to represent her seven novels — so far unsuccessfully, which is why shes frustrated,
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Rose Marie is trying something a little different, serializing a book she has written — "The Evil Men Do." Each month she will be sharing a chapter with you. As the months go by, you will be able to go back and re-read previous chapters if you wish to. This book is presented here exactly as she has written it. We welcome your thoughts on both the book itself and the process we are trying. So — jump in!
If you missed previous chapters, they can be read here: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11
The Evil Men Do — Chapter Twelve
Driving home, he spotted Suzanne leaving BG on Fifth Avenue and, to the annoyance of the traffic behind him, expressed with horns and fingers, he pulled over to the curb. She acted glad to see him but first rejected his offer of a ride home, then changed her mind. "Well, I guess I'd rather drive than take the Long Island Railroad."
"Gee, thanks," he said.
"I didn't mean it that way. Let's have a drink first, do you mind? I'm not in a big hurry to get home." She got in, and he turned east down 50th Street, looking for a parking space. Bars were more plentiful than parking spaces.
"How's George?" he asked when they were sitting at a table. He insisted on a table, guessing that their conversation should be kept private.
Who knows, not me, she complained "He mopes around all day. That defeat last time he ran for office finished him off. He doesn't know what else to do. Poor George, defeat comes naturally to him."
"Politics is a tough game." Too tough for anyone as soft as George. He didn't have to say it. "What's he do all day?"
"You know what he does; he gambles."
"Still?" Stu knew he sounded shocked—because he was.
"Still." She confirmed it. "He hops the plane to Vegas, most of the time doesn't even stay the night, gambles for a few hours then takes the first flight back in the wee hours of the morning. The redeye. He prefers sleeping at home or so he says. Maybe he just wants to check up on me."
Stu ignored that. "Is he losing?"
"He always loses."
"He lose much so far?"
"I wouldn't know, he doesn't tell me, only when he wins, and since he hasn't said anything lately, I'm guessing he's losing."
Poor George. Nothing had changed since he was little and teased him until he cried. "Who does he think's going to bail him out this time?"
"Beats me."
"You ever go with him?"
"Me? I can't stand the place. I'm not a gambler. My first and only time there I put $3.00 in a slot machine and a second later it was gone. It wasn't fun. Keep him company? Stu, when he's gambling he doesn't know I'm there so why should I bother?"
Stu was thinking, there were worse vices. Or they just looked worse. The man who spent his paycheck at the bar, the wife who locked the door and brought out the bottle as soon as she was alone.
"What are you insinuating, Stu?"
"Nothing."
"That bastard, Reed. He could've asked George to join the firm after Prudhomme died. I know George expected him to, so did I. I even took it upon myself to ask him. Never expected he'd refuse. He said they already hired that yokel, what's his name. Jenkins. Why couldn't he do something for George for once, give him a job. I mean, what's Jenkins to him?" That's what I'd like to know, Stu thought. "I asked him, Stu," she repeated. "I lowered myself, begged him to find something for George, and Reed refused."
"It may be a blessing in disguise. The firm's in trouble, Suzanne," Stu said.
She looked at him in disbelief. He nodded. "How'd that happen?" she asked.
"You're asking me? My father called me a playboy." He could see acknowledgement in her eyes. "He was right."
"Is that why you want to prove he was murdered? Some kind of penance? Even if you do, he won't know about it so why bother?"
"You don't have to believe me, but it's more than guilt on my part. I want to punish whoever did it."
"You have to find out who first."
"I intend to."
She took out a cigarette. "I won't light this. I've given them up. Maybe you're right, Stu. George believes as you do. It preys on his mind. He hasn't been the same since Prudhomme died."
"Does he know the firms's in trouble?"
"I'm sure he doesn't. He'd be the last to know anything like that," she said. "You like George, don't you?" she asked and waited for him to nod. "He never means to hurt anyone. Just, nothing he does turns out as planned."
"Seems the Prudhommes are always hurting someone."
"What a funny thing to say. I'll tell you something, but you didn't hear it from me. Reed's worried about his daughter. He complains she's too much like her mother—restless, bored, constantly looking for excitement. I never met his wife. I wonder what happened to her."
"Why don't you ask George?"
"He doesn't like talking about the past."
"You're telling me," said Stu.
"You asked him?"
"Not about Joyce's mother, about mine."
She replaced the cigarette in her purse and stood. "Let's go home. If George is there you can talk to him. At least tell him about the firm being in trouble so he'll feel better about Reed not asking him to work there."
But when they arrived at the house, they found George gone. "Flew the coop," she complained. "He knows we have a party to go to tonight, I suppose that's why. George hates parties now. He used to like them, but he says he doesn't know what to say to people. Like anyone expects more than small talk."
"Tell him to call me, would you? I'll talk to him."
"George told me once he was frightened a lot of the time when he was growing up," Suzanne said. "He expected to be punished, and then he realized that they weren't mad at him. If you ask me, he still expects to be punished. When you talk to George, you might ask what that was about."
Stu drove home thinking about Suzanne's words, remembered the papers he had brought with him to read at home. They were still in the trunk. At home, he made coffee and sat down to read them. Roy Jenkins was one of the officers of the corporation formed to develop the marsh. He had made unexpected progress in the short time he'd been with the firm. All the more reason not to trust him, either of them, in fact, Jenkins or Reed, who'd tried to get him to sign the papers before leaving the office.
This project seemed no different from hundreds of others in which Prudhomme had been involved. Why the change of mind? Stu took his coffee to the window and looked out. As usual, he glimpsed only the edge of the salt marsh from where he stood, far enough away so the famous, or infamous green mosquitoes did not pose a problem, close enough to watch the bird life through binoculars. One of his best paintings, in his opinion and the gallery's since it had actually found a buyer, a tourist in for the day, depicted the marsh close up. Tall grasses formed the background, above them a patch of blue sky and in the foreground stones and shells, the details as sharp as if under a microscope.
Around the room hung the numerous oils he painted of the marsh at low tide, the marsh at high tide, ignoring the onslaught of the vicious insects in abundance there. Looking at the pictures, you could feel the wind blowing across the spartina grass, hear the wind, smell the salt water—iodine, salt, grass, clean fresh smells loved by those who love the sea, unpleasant to anyone unused to it. Normally, Stu never felt satisfied with his work, but even he liked the paintings of the marsh at low tide and the marsh at high tide. The attic of the tiny house bore witness to the many paintings that had not made the grade and waited to be scraped and reused. He wasn't going to give up painting but from now on it would be a hobby. Like Prudhomme. Until perhaps, far away in the future, he too would find a reason to sail away somewhere .
Prudhomme's death was having a domino effect. Stu foresaw that a time would come when he would leave this place. He did not feel relieved exactly, he felt like he was accepting a new burden. Meanwhile, he had unfinished business with Janet and couldn't escape it even if he wanted to, which he didn't. He'd have to start over with her. Would she start over with him? He'd start over as many times as necessary, but first he had to solve the puzzle of Prudhomme's death. The time had come to return to the past, go back as far as he could. He had to visit his old grandfather, who still lived in the big house upstate.
He rinsed out his coffee cup and started for the door. Before reaching it, however, he heard the phone. He'd been thinking of Janet, intending to call her. She had probably read his mind and called him. Instead, he heard Suzanne's contralto. She told him that George had called. "From Last Vegas. He went to Las Vegas."
"Gambling again," Stu said, "that's what you were afraid of."
"That's not all I'm afraid of," she said. "He's got some crazy idea those guys in Las Vegas killed Prudhomme. You heard him. He wants payback. I'm worried, Stu. No telling what he might do in his present state of mind. Suppose he's going out there to accuse them. Or worse. Even if he's right, what can he do? They're not going to admit it."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know," she said irritably. "Something. I'm afraid what they'll do to him if he shows up and starts making accusations. He's defenseless, Stu. As a baby."
"You want me to go to Las Vegas," Stu offered, "see what I can do?"
"Would you? I don't know who else to ask."
Stu made a quick decision. "You know where he is?"
"Probably the Sands. He always goes there first. He usually gets a room even if he doesn't use it in case he wants to rest for a while, and he calls me and tells me where he is in case I need to have him paged. He must be there now. You'll go? Oh, Stu, thanks."
Promising to call her as soon as he had any news, Stu hung up and redialed, making a reservation on American for the next flight out and charging the ticket to his credit card. A last minute flight, it was cheaper than expected. He didn't have much time to get ready, but it didn't take long to pack his shaving gear and a few other articles in case he had to stay, unlikely as Suzanne said George took no luggage. Unless he wasn't planning on coming back.
Stu took a shower and shaved so he wouldn't have to do it later and thought about Suzanne. She sounded genuinely worried. She had changed, he liked her better now. Why had she married George anyway? She could have had a career in music. She claimed she lacked the talent. Was that the reason? Why does anybody marry anybody?
The drive to JFK, after a detour to an ATM machine, took nearly an hour. Afraid of missing the plane, he parked in short term and raced to the line of passengers entering Security. He arrived at the gate as the flight was boarding and took a seat.
Most of the passengers seemed to know each other, a tour, or else they were airline employees. Soon there was a party atmosphere, and as soon as the fasten seatbelt light went out, several passengers stood up and walked up and down the aisle, greeting one another. The flight attendants were busy handing out drinks. Stu shook his head when offered one. He read the paperback he had picked up in the airline terminal and after a while leaned back and tried to sleep. Alternating between the book and sleep, he looked out only when a sudden drop in engine noise signaled that the plane was beginning its descent over the eerily striped environs of Las Vegas—the only natural beauty in the place except for the Grand Canyon's north rim, six hours away by car. The landing at McCarran was uneventful. Instead of renting a car, Stu took a taxi to the strip. The city looked its best at night, when neon lights transformed the strip into a man-made wonderland. During the day the city was tawdry and depressing. When the taxi stopped at a light, Stu looked out the window. Across the street a sign in the window of a sleazy motel read, "we cash payroll checks."
He could understand the lure of the tinsel city to men seeking excitement or forgetfulness or hoping to make their fortunes the "easy" way. Most came and went in the space of a few days, losing or winning a little money and seeing a show or two, continuing north to Arizona or Utah. But what about the people who lived here—the woman he saw wheeling a baby carriage, two oldsters seated on a bench—why did they come, why did they stay? Not to gamble, he was sure. Every casino advertised buffet meals, breakfast for $2.99, lunch and dinner for $4.99. Was that the draw—cheap food?
Stu had the taxi drop him at the Sands, although George might be anywhere by now. Because of the change in time zones, the plane had touched down shortly before noon. The long ramp outside the casino had been designed to be approached by limousine, not on foot. Inside, it was night. It was always night inside the casinos. Chandeliers exposed a lavishly decorated and immense room full of slot machines. Twenty-four hours a day people came to gamble, here, where day and night no longer meant anything.
Stu didn't see George at any of the slot machines. Most players were elderly women wearing gloves, depositing nickels in the slots. A crowd formed out of nowhere to wait for the chance to drop coins into one particular slot machine which had just spewed out a quantity of coins, although this bonanza would not recur for a long time because they thought if it paid off once it might, contrary to the odds, pay off again. The monotonous jingle of the machines assaulted his ears from every direction. How did they stand it?
"Drink, Sir?"
He accepted the drink, offered by a beautiful girl wearing an abbreviated tuxedo. She had a long pony tail. All the waitresses sported them. "Thanks."
"And thank you, Sir."
He walked around wondering where the hell George was, decided to pay a visit to the manager, who, after all this time, no doubt knew him by sight. He hoped that George had had second thoughts about confronting the casino bosses. The croupier and several guests watched him amble across the floor unhurriedly while he kept an eye out for George. "Mesdames, messiers, faites vos jeux." The croupier's accent sounded real. When Stu bypassed the table, the players returned to the wheel. He wasn't going to join them. He wasn't going to change their luck.
Check Next Month's Issue for Chapter 13 |
