Mady shook her head. “It's money.”
“Everything's money,” I said brightly.
“But the city is all money, and that causes people to go wrong. You know when you wake up every morning it will cost you a couple of bucks just to be alive. You have to be on the make all the time—for dough—in the city and that scares me. Why, each day before I get out of bed I know it will cost me about three bucks that day for rent, couple dimes to have my dress cleaned, underthings laundered. I must spend two bits for carfare, and even if I eat home, I have to spend at least a buck-fifty for even a scrimpy meal. In the city it costs all the time.”
“And in the country they live on air?”
“Am I talking too much?”
I laughed. “No.”
Mady smiled. “Sometimes how I love to gab! To get to the country that's what I want. A place not too isolated but where we could walk around in wrinkled clothes, pull up our food from the garden, go fishing and hunting. Where, if I feel like it, I can wake up and say, 'Today I don't have to worry about making a dime, I can live around my house, eat and walk and breath— and all for free!' None of that city drive and strain— once you get your house paid for.”
“Living in the country is okay,” I said, “for a weekend now and then. But how about all the other days when you go nuts for lack of something to do? Why I get a bang out of just walking down the main drag, being a part of the crowd, even if I haven't got a place to go. You're practically in the country now, got a backyard here, why don't you raise a garden if you go for that?”
“Isn't the same, got to make money here all the time. Say, I do go surf-casting, catch me a couple fish now and then. Ever try that?”
“No.”
She began counting on her long fingers. “Be the end of the high tide about... 4 a.m. I'll set the alarm. We wear boots—I have several pair around—take a thermos of hot coffee and stand on the edge of the ocean and cast—let the tide take our bait out. First we dig a couple clams for bait—but that's hard. I'll buy some tonight. It's great fun and by daybreak we'll have enough fish for a whopping breakfast, and hungry as... Let's do it tomorrow morning!”
“Well... I never was one for getting up early,” I began. “And standing in water isn't the best...”
“Oh please, Matt. It's such fun.”
She had all the eagerness of a school kid, a wonderful change from the loose, lush look. If I didn't get wet, couldn't do me much harm. “Sure, set the alarm. Now let me help with the dishes and...”
An auto horn sounded outside. The red clock on the kitchen wall said seven. “I have a... eh... kind of business appointment. Be back soon—about a half hour.”
“The Wilson killings?”
“Not exactly—new angle I'm exploring.”
“Don't be long. I'll take care of the dishes. Have some ironing to do. Went through your stuff and washed some shirts and underwear for you. See how domestic I can be?”
“It's frightening. Trying to trap me into marrying you?” I asked with a corny smirk.
“Now that you mention it, I might at that,” Mady said gently.
I stared at her as the horn sounded again and we both smiled. I suddenly realized I'd proposed for the first time in my life—and been accepted. And I liked the idea!
“We'll talk about that some more... maybe soon,” I said, slipping my coat on as I made for the door.
Joe had a light old roadster that hardly seemed big enough for his bulky figure. And when I climbed in beside him I expected the tires to explode. He said, “Let's make this snappy, my wife is sick. What about our mutual friend?”
“He's getting in my hair, via Mady. You worry, she worries and hits the bottle, and I don't like that.”
He grunted, said, “Damn, so it's like that between you and Mady! One, two, three stuff! I warned you...”
“I like you, Joe, so before you run your big mouth, let me tell you it's no jump and run stuff with us. Mady and I have a lot in common, and we'll hit it off.”
“You damn well better. I'm warning you, Matt—I won't see Mady ending up as a tramp. Not only because she's my sister, but somehow it would make Billy's dying in vain and...”
“That's a cracked crock of slop,” I said. “Everybody dies in vain. Once you're dead you're out of it. And whether your death made a better or worse world doesn't make your corpse taste any better or worse to the worms eating it.”
“I don't like that kind of talk. After all, our boys who died...”
“Died because of some old men who didn't know how to make the world run right, played checkers with the other guys' lives. A coffin can hide a fool or a hero. The idea is to stay alive, watch, the show. But let's not get off on that. The only way you can shake Harry Loughlin off your back is to tell him to go to hell.”
“And lose my job? That's a great solution.”
“Other ways of telling him to lay off. You can fight blackmail with blackmail. Harry has a king-size skeleton in his closet.”
“Yeah? How do you know?”
“Used to be his partner couple years back. We had a detective agency.”
Joe was silent for a moment. “I don't like this. You claim you picked out Mady's place—just like that. Then it turns out you worked for Saxton. Now you're Harry Loughlin's partner. You...?”
“Was his partner.”
“You FBI?”
I laughed. “You been to too many movies. Let me straighten you out—I'm only interested in you because it will help Mady. You want to keep paying Harry off— fine. Only don't come whining to us everytime he socks your pocketbook.” I started to open the door and he said, “Wait a minute,” as I knew he would. “What do you want me to do?”
“Harry has a bit of pansy in him and these days a man will do anything to keep that quiet.”
“Doesn't look queer to me.”
“He isn't—all the way. But it's in him, probably come out in the open when he's older. Works that way with some of them. Point is, I know he has his fag moments. Framing a guy as a pansy is about the lowest—and easiest—form of blackmail. First, is there anybody else in the P.O. he's after, a young kid, or anybody else who would be willing to work with us? Somebody we can really trust?”
“What do you mean trust? I don't want to get mixed up in nothing shady.”
“Listen, chances are 99.99% Harry won't run to the cops. Never do in this type of swindle. By trust I mean I don't want to run from one blackmail into another. Got anybody we can use?”
Joe thought for a moment, grunted, “No.”
“Then we'll have to do it ourselves, although you're too old and ugly for queer-bait. Listen to me carefully: tomorrow morning you call Harry, make sure you speak to him personally. Tell him you've been thinking things over, that you know of a slew of P.O. guys that are in the same boat as you—were in favor of that stuff about going on strike—be careful you don't go into any details. All you want to do is talk this over with Harry, but not on the phone. Just tell him enough to get him interested. Understand?”