The Deep End Read online

  A big, beefy man in a sailor straw hat was engaged in tapping and studying the wheels of one of the two cars up on the loading platform behind the vacant ticket booth.

  I stepped over a low gate and walked up beside him. “Going to run today?” I asked him.

  He put down the hammer in his hand and stood up. He pushed the straw hat back on his forehead and looked at me. “Yeah. Why?”

  I gave him a quick flash of my press pass, just enough so he could read the press in big red letters but not enough to let him catch the name of the newspaper. If he knew about the enmity between the Herald and the park, he wouldn’t feel like talking to a Herald man. “Associated Press,” I told him. “Came around to cover the accident you had this morning,”

  “Wasn’t our fault. Damn fool kid back where he had no business being. Going across the tracks, crazy like.”

  I nodded. “When did it happen?”

  “ ’Round ten, just getting ready to open up. Sent the first car around for the test run–we run each of ’em empty once every day before we start operating. And it happened. Car went up, started down the first hill and when it got to the bottom I heard it go off the track. First accident we ever had.”

  “Much damage? To the tracks and the car, I mean.”

  “Not too much. This is the car and we got it fixed up okay and they just finished the tracks a minute ago.”

  “Insured?”

  “Yeah, sure, but it’s going to hurt business. People hear there was an accident on the ride, they get afraid and don’t ride it, don’t stop to think it wasn’t our fault and that the guy that got killed wasn’t riding.”

  “You can’t blame them,” I said. “If there had been passengers in the derailed car they’d have been hurt.”

  “Yeah, there’s that.” He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Guess you can’t blame them. Besides, I’m losing four-five hours business on a Saturday.”

  “Were you the first one there after you heard the crash?”

  “Yeah. Plenty of them there a few seconds after me, but I got there first. Look, mister, I got to keep working. My ticket seller and ride boy will be here in half an hour and by then I want to have run this car around a dozen times or so to be sure it’s okay and the track’s okay at the dip.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Guess I’ve got enough.”

  He was bent down tapping wheels again. He looked up. “Just remember it was the kid’s own damn foolishness, not our fault.”

  “I’ll remember,” I told him.

  I went back to the midway, wondering why I’d wasted time, wondering why I’d come here. Anyway, I’d killed enough time; it was three o’clock and I was on the opposite side of town from home. By the time I got there, unless I drove too fast, Millie would be gone. But why did I want to go home?

  I walked out through the main gate and got into my car in the parking lot. It had been standing in full sunshine and it was baking hot even with all the windows run down.

  I started driving and decided I was ready for another cold beer; I remembered that there was a tavern diagonally across from Haley’s Funeral Parlor and that I’d be driving past there anyway. So I didn’t drive past. I parked in front of the tavern and went in.

  There wasn’t any reason why I should be interested in Haley’s or anything that went on there, but I found myself sipping my beer at the end of the bar next to the window where I had a good view of Haley’s entrance.

  I wondered if the Westphal family had been there yet to learn the good news they were going to learn, or already had learned, on their arrival. It was just about time for them to come. I ordered another beer and drank it slowly. I was just deciding whether to order a third when a big blue Chrysler sedan swung in to a jerky stop in front of Haley’s. I recognized the man driving it from the picture of Armin Westphal I’d seen in the morgue file at the Herald. He was a big man, well dressed, with graying hair. His face looked frozen and expressionless.

  There were two women in the car with him, all three of them in the front seat. I couldn’t see them clearly until Westphal got out of the car on his side, went around and opened the door on their side. They got out and followed him toward Haley’s entrance. The two women were about the same age; I judged that the one crying was Mrs. Westphal and the other, who held her arm and was talking to her, was the sister, Obie’s aunt.

  “Another beer, mister?” the bartender asked.

  I told him, “Yeah, I guess so.”

  They were through the door and out of sight when I looked back. In about five minutes I saw them come out.

  Westphal was walking stiffly, strangely, and his face hadn’t changed at all; it still might have been carved out of ice. But the faces of the two women were radiant. Both of them seemed to be talking at once, excitedly. They were ahead; about halfway to the car one of them turned and said something to Westphal. He answered and smiled, but to me it looked as though the smile hurt him. And his face froze again as soon as the woman turned away.

  They got into the car and drove off.

  After a minute or two I went out and crossed the street to Haley’s. I found Haley in his office but not, apparently, very busy. I looked around and asked, “Where’s the girl? Grace Smith.”

  He smiled. “I sent her home. She threw a wingding when she learned the kid we got back there wasn’t her crush after all. So happy she cried all over the place and then started a laughing jag. My God!”

  “I happened to be having a beer across the street,” I said. “I just saw the Westphals drive away.”

  He nodded. “Swell people and it was a break for me to be able to give somebody good news for once. Real people. Say, you know what Westphal’s going to do?”

  “What?”

  “Pay for the other kid’s funeral. Got me off on one side and wanted to know whether arrangements had been made. And when I told him what the circumstances were, he said to go ahead and he’d pay for it.”

  “What are the circumstances?”

  “The Chojnackis? The kid’s mother’s a widow, works in a laundry. No money, and she didn’t carry any insurance on the boy. She came here after the police had notified her. And after I’d talked with her I advised her to make arrangements with one of the cheaper morticians who could do the job so she wouldn’t be mortgaging herself for the next five years paying it off. We’re just not set up to provide inexpensive services.” He frowned. “That reminds me. I’d better go around and see her right away–she hasn’t got a phone–before she does make other arrangements.”

  “She’s probably out doing that now.”

  “I don’t think so. She was in pretty bad shape. I sent her home in a cab, and paid for the cab, and made her promise she’d stay home this afternoon. I told her there wasn’t any hurry in making the transfer and that I wasn’t charging her anything. Say, I forgot you were a reporter; I should have kept my mouth shut. Westphal asked me not to let anybody know he was paying for the funeral. You won’t print it, will you?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not even working. On vacation, starting an hour ago.”

  “Then what are you asking questions for?”

  “Just curiosity. Happened to be in the neighborhood and, like I told you, I was having a beer across the street when I saw the Westphals leave here. But I’d got kind of interested in the case when I worked on it this morning so I thought I’d drop in a minute.”

  “Sure. Any time.”

  “Has the Westphal boy turned up yet?”

  “About an hour ago. Missed his wallet and went to the lost-and-found at Whitewater. They figured he would and were waiting for him there. He went on home to wait for his parents.”

  “Why not here? They were coming here first.”

  He looked at me strangely. “Are you crazy? Think of the shock if they walked in here and saw him alive, thinking him dead. People keel over for le
ss than that. Better to let me break it to them first before they see him.”

  “I’m stupid,” I said.

  “In my business you think of things like that, that’s all. You get used to seeing people in shock and knowing how they act and how to handle them.” He stood up. “Well, I don’t want to push you out, but I’ve got to go see Mrs. Chojnacki. Got a car or can I drop you off anywhere?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ve got a car.”

  I went out and got into it and drove home.

  Home was an empty house. There was a note on the kitchen table in Millie’s scrawly handwriting.

  Sam: Unless you want to open cans you’ll have to eat out tonight. I gave away the bread and other things that were left that wouldn’t keep. Don’t change the setting on the refrigerator. Be sure all the doors and windows are locked when you leave and you’d better go to bed early tonight because don’t forget Bill and Harvey are picking you up at five and you’ll have to get up at four unless you do all your packing and everything tonight. Have a good time.

  The chime clock on the mantel in the living room struck four times while I was reading. Millie would be on the train now and the train would be starting or about to start.

  I decided I might as well get my packing over with right away. There wasn’t much to do, just to throw some clothes into a suitcase and put it beside the front door. My fishing paraphernalia and my gun were ready, all cleaned and oiled and ready to use, and I put them by the suitcase. I even chose and laid out the clothes I was going to wear in the morning. Now I could sleep until a quarter of five and still be ready when they came. We’d stop for breakfast somewhere, we’d decided, after we were on the way.

  I puttered around a while and then went out and drove to the nearest restaurant and had myself a dinner. It was not quite six when I’d finished and I sat there over coffee wondering if I should do something this evening. Even if I shorted myself a bit on sleep it seemed wasteful to spend the first evening of my vacation reading at home and early to bed.

  Maybe I should call Nina Carberry. No, this wasn’t the time to start anything like that. Or was it? Neither Millie nor I had done any playing around; however else either of us had failed it hadn’t been that. But even if our being on the outs was temporary–in fact even more particularly if it turned out to be temporary—tonight would be my best and possibly only chance to stray a bit off the reservation at a time when it wouldn’t put too much of a strain on my conscience. But no, I decided, it wouldn’t be fair to Nina to pull a trick like that on her, strictly a one night stand at that. If Millie and I had already definitely broken up, things would be different; not that I’d have any intention of getting married again right away, but at least I’d be free. Besides I had no reason to believe that Nina would be even friendly if I called her or looked her up.

  No, I might as well behave myself, go home and go to bed early, start my vacation trip with a full quota of sleep under my belt.

  I went home, read a while, then went to bed and to sleep. I’d forgotten all about Jimmy Chojnacki and the roller coaster, and about Obie Westphal.

  SUNDAY

  1

  Part of my mind knew that I was dreaming. It was one of those borderline things between sleep and waking when you can think “This is only a dream” and still see and hear and feel vividly the things you know are not really happening.

  I was lying face down across the tracks of a roller coaster, at ground level at the bottom of the first dip. I was able to move no part of me except my head; I could turn that to see the car that was rushing down the long steep incline toward me. There were three people in the front seat of the car; they were leaning over the railing watching me. They were the three I’d seen entering and leaving the funeral parlor, Mr. and Mrs. Westphal and the aunt. The two women were crying and laughing at the same time; the man’s face was rigid and emotionless, a mask. The car passed over me and I felt nothing, I wasn’t hurt. But one does not wonder in a dream, so I didn’t wonder why I wasn’t harmed and I didn’t wonder how I knew that the next car would kill me. I lay there waiting for it, watching for it up that long slope of track, waiting to die. And fear grew into utter terror as I tried to move and couldn’t, not even the muscles of my throat to scream.

  I heard the sound of the car that had passed over me dying away in the distance, into silence. And then I heard a new sound.

  I woke up fully. The new sound was the ticking of the alarm clock beside my bed, but it hadn’t been that sound in my dream; it had been the clicking of a great ratchet. The sound you hear when a roller coaster car is being pulled up the first hill of its course; an endless chain pulls it up while a loudly clicking ratchet keeps it from sliding backward in case the chain should break. If you’ve ever ridden, or even watched, a roller coaster you’ve heard that sound.

  I turned my head–as I had turned it in the dream, for I was lying face down in bed as I had lain face down across the track in my dream–and looked at the luminous hands and numbers of the clock on the night stand. It was five minutes after four o’clock; the alarm was set to go off in another twenty-five minutes, at four-thirty.

  I burrowed my head back into the pillow and tried to sleep again, but I couldn’t. I was wide and completely awake, although I usually waken slowly and groggily. I got up and shut off the alarm, knowing I might as well get up then as later.

  I took a shower and dressed and then, because there was time to kill, I went down to the kitchen and made myself coffee. I had to drink it black because there wasn’t any cream, but it tasted good.

  I drank two cups of it, hot, black and sweet, and still had time to make a final round of the house, checking all the doors and windows, before the doorbell rang.

  We got to Lake Laflamme a little before seven, with the day bright and clear and the sun just rising over the hills. It looked like a good day and a good time of day for fishing so we dumped our stuff in the Whelans’ cottage, got the boat out of the boat house and went out on the lake right away without taking time to unpack anything but our fishing tackle.

  By noon we had a nice string of perch and walleyes. It was hot as hell by then, out in the sun, and we figured that was our day’s work, so we stayed on the screened-in porch all afternoon. We played two-bit limit stud and we drank cool Tom Collinses, lots of them.

  When six o’clock came around none of us was in mood or shape to cook so we made some sandwiches and kept on playing poker while we ate them. We played another half hour or so until Harv–who was a bit out of practice at drinking–showed too strong a tendency to go to sleep among his chips. Bill and I shooed him to bed and made ourselves another drink.

  Then, glasses in hand, we went down to the shore to watch the sun set across the lake. It was quite a sunset, like something out of Dante.

  We sat there watching until the colors faded. My body was a bit drunk but my mind felt clear. Too clear.

  I said, “Bill, maybe I should go back. I shouldn’t have come.”

  He turned to look at me. “I know you’ve got something on your mind, Sam. You’ve been like a cat on a hot stove all day. If you really want to go back to town, Harv and I’ll get along all right except that we’ll have to play gin rummy instead of stud.”

  “I’d hate to spoil the week for you and Harv.”

  “You won’t. But listen, Sam. Are you in trouble? Anything we can do?”

  I shook my head.

  “This is none of my business, but is it a woman?”

  “No. Bill, it’s something too screwy to explain. I’d sound crazy, even to myself, if I tried.”

  “Is it something you can maybe do quickly and get back while we’re still here?”

  I said, “It could be. It’s something I’ve got to learn, to satisfy myself about. I might be able to do it in a day or it might take God knows how long. There’s a bus runs near here, isn’t there, Bill?”

 
“Sure. Stops at Holton, three miles from here. I think there’s a night bus, I mean a southbound one. Want me to telephone and find out what time it leaves?”

  We went back in and Bill Whelan called the bus station.

  He said, “Leaves at ten. That’s–let’s see–about an hour and a half from now. Want me to drive you in?”

  “Thanks, no. A three-mile walk is just what I need to sober up and do some thinking, and an hour and a half is plenty of time for me to make it.”

  “Okay, Sam. Listen, is there anything Harv or I can do? If there is–”

  “No, Bill, not a thing. Except–well, I don’t want to carry a suitcase three miles. Just keep all my stuff for me and bring it back to town unless I do get back here before the week is up. There’s nothing in it I’ll need except my razor and toothbrush and I can carry them in my pocket. And if I find I’m coming back I’ll phone you and let you meet me in Holton. Otherwise don’t look for me.”

  I walked to Holton through bright moonlight and I was sober when I got there, sober enough to wonder just how big a fool I was making of myself.

  But I took the bus.

  MONDAY

  1

  It was the damnedest thing, waking up that morning. I was in my own bed in my own house but everything was wrong. I wasn’t supposed to be there. For awful seconds of disorientation I couldn’t remember where I was supposed to be or why or what everything was all about.

  Then it came back to me, and I didn’t like it. I remembered the long walk, the bus ride, the taxi home from the bus station, unlocking the house and crawling into bed. But it seemed as ridiculous, as unmotivated, as though I’d dreamed it. Why in God’s name had I spoiled a perfectly good vacation?

  The clock told me that it was eight. That meant I’d had less than six hours’ sleep–I hadn’t got home until after two in the morning–but I was feeling so disgusted with myself that I knew I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. I got up and dressed, and I made coffee and drank it.