The Man Everybody Was Afraid Of by Joseph Hansen Page A

morning glory. In the deepening shadows, white flowers showed ghost faces. And there was the glint of bright metal. He looked up. The sky still held a lot of daylight. He started down, careful of his footing. The bank was steep and he kept having to stop and rip loops of vine from around his ankles. He lost sight of the bright metal. He leaned left, leaned right, narrowing his eyes. Was it glass he saw now? He dropped quickly, stumbling, nearly falling, to the bottom of the barranca, where vines were heaped chin-high. He plunged fingers into the top of the mound and yanked. A thick and heavy mat came away.
    Beneath was a small car. Bright green. Brand new.

10
    T HE SHINY KNOB OF the motel-room door turned around broken. He pushed the door. A reek of whiskey came at him. He clicked the light switch. Nothing happened. He groped for cords and drew back the curtains on the glass wall. The sky was luminous blue green. So was the water. Their light was enough. Blankets and sheets had been torn off the bed and strewn around. The mattress had been dragged half off the box spring. Drawers had been yanked out and dumped. His suitcase lay like a gutted fish.
    He stepped over crumpled suit, shirts, underwear, to lay on the chest the photo of Ben Orton in its envelope, the loaf of carrot bread in its sack, and the distributor head from the little green car. The long mirror over the chest was splintered. The television set lay on its back and stared at the shattered star-spangled white glass of the ceiling light fixture. His bottle of Old Crow had been smashed on the edge of the desk. The whiskey had soaked dark into the carpet.
    Next to the toppled nightstand by the bed, among shards of pottery lamp base, lay the telephone. He picked it up, cradled the receiver, lifted it and listened. No dial tone. He pulled at the cord. It came to him limp, ripped loose from the wall. He set the phone on the slope of mattress, found a small pocket-clip screwdriver in the jacket of the fallen suit, and knelt to uncap the little white plastic housing at the foot of the wall and reconnect the wires. He righted the armchair, sat in it, put the phone on his knees, and dialed the hospital.
    The floor nurse said, “Mrs. Brandstetter has gone to dinner. She asked me to tell you that your father regained consciousness this afternoon and spoke of you.”
    “Good,” Dave said. “Can I talk to him?”
    “Perhaps tomorrow,” the nurse said. “His condition is stable now. Doctor is encouraged.”
    “Tell her I called,” Dave said. “Did she go alone?”
    “Mr. Sawyer came. With a young man. Hawaiian?”
    “Tahitian,” Dave said wearily. “Thank you, nurse.”
    He broke the connection and sat frowning with his finger on the button. Christian Jacques was tall and brown and smooth. With grace, wit, and a stunning smile, he ran a bar and restaurant across the street from Doug’s gallery. The Bamboo Raft. It was fronted with fake palm thatch. Fake torches burned beside the door. If you weren’t careful, your drink would be laced with coconut milk or papaya juice. Jacques’s speech was laced with French. Which was what had got to Doug. Doug had lived and worked in France from the end of the war until de Gaulle expelled NATO. For twenty years, French had been his language—on the job, in shops, taxis, theaters, cinemas, bistros. And in bed. He’d lived with a young French auto racer. Not hearing the language had to have left in him the kind of space that aches. In Jacques too, no doubt. He’d been born into the language in Papeete and grown up with it in Marseilles and Paris. He and Doug were together so much in order to talk French. And France. Sure they were. Ah, the hell with it.
    He dialed 0 and was given the police. But Jerry Orton wasn’t there. He wasn’t out in his spavined patrol car either. He was off duty till midnight. Dave set the receiver back, took a deep breath, blew it out, and rubbed his eyelids with thumb and knuckle. He was tired