Morgan had read somewhere that marijuana did this to you, played tricks with time, so first it seemed to slow down, almost grind to a full stop, and then sent everything past you at the speed of light. His watch told him he'd been standing here on this corner just an hour and twelve minutes, no more and no less; for a while it had felt like half eternity, and then, a while after that, time began to go too fast. Where he'd been tense with impatience, wound up tight for action- God, make him come -suddenly, now, he could have prayed for time to stop. Not now, he said to Smith frantically in his mind, you can't come now, until I've thought about this, figured it out, got hold of another plan.
Oh, Christ damn Luis Mendoza and his little slum-street mugging!-what the hell did that matter, some damn- fool chippy knocked off, probably she'd asked for it, and that crazy idea about those Lindstroms who couldn't by any fantastic stretch of the imagination have had anything to do… Because, yes, this upright citizen Morgan had a good innocent reason to visit that apartment house, he wouldn't care if the whole L.A. police force stood by in squads to watch him go in-but after he was clocked in by men watching, he couldn't lie in wait maybe an hour, and do what he'd come to do, and then say Just as I got to the top of the stairs – Nor could he call at the Lindstroms' first, thinking to say, Just as I was leaving – That woman might not be very smart but she could tell time, and suppose he'd left her half an hour before, as might well happen? Also, of course, there was no telling about the cops: where and how and how many. It might be a desultory thing, one man outside up to midnight, something like that; it might be a couple of men round the clock; it could be a couple of men inside somewhere.
So he hadn't dared go near Graham Court at all. It had had to be the street corner; and on his way here, and up to a while ago, he'd been telling himself that after all the street was safer. Once you were off Main, off Second, along here, the streets were underhghted and there weren't many people; in all this while he'd stood and strolled up and down outside the corner drugstore here, only four people had come by, at long intervals. Safer, and also more plausible that Smith would try a holdup on a darkish side street, instead of in the very building where he lived.
Morgan had been feeling pretty good then: ready for it, coldly wound up (the way it had been before action, when you knew action was coming) but-in control. He'd known just how it would go, Smith coming along (he'd been wary before, sent the boy to check that Morgan had come alone, but this time he wouldn't bother, he thought he had Morgan and-the ransom-tied up); and Morgan pretending nervousness, saying he had the money locked in the glove compartment, his car was just round the corner. Round the corner, an even narrower, darker street. Sure to God Smith would walk a dozen steps with him…
Safe and easy. Sure. Before a while ago, when the scraggly bald old fellow had peered out the drugstore door at him.
Morgan knew this window by heart now. Everything in it a little dusty, a little second-hand-looking: out-of- date ad placards, the platinm blonde with a toothy smile, INSTANT PROTECTION, the giant tube of shaving cream, the giant bottle of antiseptic, the cigarette ad, GET SATISFACTION, the face-cream ad, YOU CAN LOOK YOUNGER. In a vague way he'd known the drugstore was open, but the door was shut on this coolish evening, he hadn't glanced inside. When people came by, he'd strolled away the opposite direction: nobody had seemed to take much notice of him-why should they? And then that old fellow came to the door, peered out: Morgan met his glance through the dirty glass panel, by chance, and that was when time began to race.
God, don't let Smith come now, not until I've had time to think.
The druggist, alone there, pottering around his store in the hopeful expectation of a few customers before nine o'clock, or maybe just because he hadn't anything to go home to. Time on his hands. Looking out the window, the door, every so often, for customers at first-and then to see, only out of idle curiosity, if that fellow was still there on the corner, waiting… All that clutter in the window, Morgan hadn't noticed him; not much light, no, but enough-and without thought, when he was standing still he'd hugged the building for shelter from the chill wind. Most of the time he'd have been in the perimeter of light from the window, from the door. God alone knew how often the old man had looked out, spotted him.
The expression in the rheumy eyes meeting his briefly through the dirty pane-focused, curious, a little defensive-told Morgan the man had marked him individually.
And hell, hell, it didn't matter whether the druggist thought he'd been stood up by a date, or was planning to hold up the drugstore, or was just lonely or worried or crazy, hanging around this corner an hour and twelve minutes. The druggist would remember him… That was a basic principle, and only common sense, in planning anything underhand and secret-from robbing Junior's piggy bank to murder: Keep it simple. Don't have too many lies to remember, don't dream up the complicated routine, the fancy alibi. The way he'd designed it was like that-short, straight, and sweet. Now, if he went on with it that way, there'd be the plausible lie to figure out and remember and stick to: just why the hell had Morgan been hanging around here, obviously a man waiting for someone?
Half-formed ideas, wild, ridiculous, skittered along the top of his mind. You know how it is, officer, I met this blonde, didn't mean any harm but a fellow likes a night out once in a while; sure I felt guilty, sure I love my wife, but, well, the blonde said she'd meet meI tell you how it was, I'd lent this guy a five-spot, felt sorry for him you know, guess I was a sucker, anyway he said he'd meet me and pay-Well, I met this fellow who said he'd give me an inside tip on a horse, only he wouldn't know for sure until tonight, if I'd meet him All right, he thought furiously, all right; of all the damn-fool ideas… So, produce the blonde, the debtor, the tipster! It couldn't be done that way.
He stood now right at the building corner, close, out of the druggist's view. Think: if, when Smith comes, what are you going to do now? What can you do?
The little panic passed and he saw the only possible answer: it wasn't a very good one, it put more complication into this than was really safe, but that couldn't be helped. Obviously, get Smith away from this place. The farther away the better. In the car. Stall him and get him into the car, and Christ, the possibilities, the dangers that opened wouldn't drive far, maybe not at all, without getting him suspicious. Sure, knock him out with a wrench or something as soon as they got in, fine, and have it show up at the autopsy later on. Great, shoot him in the car under cover of the revving motor, and get blood all over the seat covers. All right: think.
Yes. It could be managed, it had to be: the only way. In the car, then, right away, and in the body, so the clothes would get the blood. Have to take a chance. Then quick around to Humboldt or Foster, only a few blocks, both dark streets too, thank God; park the car, get him out to the sidewalk, get his prints on the gun, make a little disturbance, fire another shot, and yell for the cops. I was on my way to visit this case I'm on, when- And the druggist no danger then, no reason to connect a holdup there with his corner.
Not as safe, but it could work: maybe, with luck, it would work fine. Now let Smith come. Morgan was ready for him, as ready as he'd ever be. He looked at his watch. It was seventeen minutes past eight.
And suddenly be began to get in a sweat about something else. Smith had made him wait on Saturday night, deliberately, to soften him up: but why the hell should Smith delay coming to collect the ransom he thought was waiting?
Cops, thought Morgan-cold, resentful, sullen, helpless-cops! Maybe so obvious there outside, inside, that Smith spotted them-and thought, of course, Morgan had roped them in? God, the whole thing blown open
ELEVEN
Cops, Marty thought. Cops, he'd said. Funny, the words meant the same, but seemed like people who didn't like them, maybe were afraid of them, said 'cops,' and other people said 'policemen.'
He sat up in bed in the dark; it was the bad time again, the time alone with the secret. And a lot of what made it bad was, usually, not having outside things to keep him from thinking about it, remembering; but right now he had, and that somehow made it worse.
He sat up straight against the headboard; he tried to sit still as still, but couldn't help shivering even in his flannel pajamas, with the top of him outside the blanket. If he laid right down like usual he was afraid he'd go to sleep after a while, even the long while it'd got to taking him lately; and he mustn't, if he was going to do what he planned safe. He had to stay awake until everybody else was asleep, maybe two, three o'clock in the morning, and then be awful quiet and careful… Like a lesson he was memorizing, he said it all over again to himself in his mind, all he'd got to remember about: don't make any noise, get up when it's time and put on his pants and jacket over
