I was playing a card that was still in the deck.
Sallie folded.
He gave me the photograph and negative. It was a blurred image of Grace half-naked, sneering happily down on Bertrand—who was on his knees.
I guess we all have to submit sometimes.
I TOLD MYSELF that that was the last favor in a lifetime of doing favors. From that day on I planned to work for my living; to put in my eight hours and take home my paycheck.
Stowe demanded Bill Bartlett’s resignation, got it, and then hired me. There was a lot of red tape but we got through it. Bertrand and I became good friends. I was his confidant.
He’d broken up with Grace after the whole thing was over. But almost every week he’d call me in, or come to my office, and talk about her. He’d tell me about her calling him at work and at home. I knew she did because she called me too, trying to find out how to get to him.
Finally, more than a year later, he broke down and went back to her after she’d gotten pregnant by some other man. That’s the way Bert was, he wanted to take care of somebody—Grace needed a whole lot of care.
“BERTRAND.” I took his hand and shook it.
“Sit down, sit down,” he told me. “How’s it going?” Bertrand wore thick glasses that magnified his already intense eyes. His black-and-gray mustache stuck out like a bristle brush.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I guess it could be better.”
“The police were here,” he said.
“Oh?”
“They told me that you were suspected for crimes at the Seventy-seventh Street station.” Stowe angled his lenses at me.
“I see,” I said. Each passing minute brought me closer to the tight-lipped attitude of my earlier years in the street.
“I never knew that you were suspected of murder.” Stowe looked at me for some kind of reply.
He wanted a declaration.
“Is that what they said?” All he got was another question.
“Is that all you have to say?” asked my boss.
“You didn’t ask me about what my record might be when you had problems with Sallie Monroe and Billy B. All you cared about then was your wife—and your girlfriend too.”
“Is that a threat, Easy?” Stowe was turning whiter, in more ways than one.
“You the one threatenin’, Bert,” I said. “The cops come in here an’ scare you an’ you ready to give me up. You already got your story all set about how you didn’t know anything.”
Bert took off his glasses and wiped them clean. He looked up at me with an indecipherable expression.
“Did you have anything to do with that man getting killed?” he asked.
“What do you think?” I asked back.
“I don’t know what to think. The police say that you’ve been involved in this kind of thing before.”
“And you believe that?”
Bertrand Stowe was confused. He didn’t see anything wrong with asking a man if he was implicated in murder. He didn’t see anything wrong in believing a stranger in uniform over a friend. It wasn’t a rude question—for him to ask.
“Don’t you understand me, Easy?”
“I understand you. It’s you who don’t get me.”
Bert sat down and I did too. He put his glasses back on. I crossed my right leg over my left.
“What do you want?” he asked me at last.
“You called me, Mr. Stowe. You wanted me to come here.”
“I told you,” he said. “The police called. They said that you were a suspect in the killing. They said that you knew something about the people involved and that you were involved in similar crimes in the past.”
“They said all that?”
“Yes they did.”
“And what did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Bertrand said. “What was I supposed to say?”
“You could have said that you knew me, that I wasn’t the kinda man who went around killin’ folks. You could have said that I was an excellent worker who came in on time every day and who bent over backwards to make sure that my plant worked smoothly for the kids and teachers. You could have said that I got a hard principal but that, to your knowledge, I never lost my temper or spoke a word in anger.” I sat up straight in my chair. “You could have said I was a good friend to you who never asked you for nuthin’ without givin’ you something in return. It wouldn’t have cost you a dime to tell that man that you backed me up. Not a goddam dime.”
Bertrand Stowe had his strong stubby fingers splayed out in front of him on the desk.
