“Operator,” said the voice.
“Give me the police, please,” he said.
“One moment.”
There was a sound of dialing, a single buzz before Chris hung up.
He leaned forward, suddenly breathless, pressing his forehead against the cold metal of the telephone. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t. No matter what risks it entailed, he had to take them. To lose everything at his age; family, work, hopes; it wasn’t worth it.
Quickly, blanking his mind, he re-inserted the coin and dialed.
“Hello?” she said.
“Honey—”
She couldn’t disguise her exhalation of relief. “What?” she asked.
“I have to stay at the store a while. You’d better take the car.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll phone you there later,” he said, “and we’ll—discuss it.”
She didn’t answer. Chris winced as the pain in his stomach flared again.
“All right?” he asked. If only he could tell her to leave immediately without making her suspicious.
Another moment she was silent.
Then, softly, she said, “Good-bye, Chris,” and hung up.
“Helen—!” He’d realized, too late, what was wrong. She thought he was avoiding her.
He put the receiver back onto its hook and sat there heavily. It’s just for now, he told himself. She’ll understand later. I’ll make it up to her and everything will be all right.
Chris stood motionless in front of the store window looking in. It was a good display: neat, well-balanced, imaginative. He and Jimmy had worked it out between them two weeks before—Jimmy with his brief training in visual arts, Chris with his instinct for effective order.
He remembered how proud he’d felt of the display when it was completed. How he’d stood in front of the window for a long time looking at it. His store and its operation was an endless source of pleasure to him. At least it had been.
Chris looked at the wall clock inside the store. It was twenty-five minutes to ten. His eyes focused on the lettering—DENIS SCHOOL OF MUSIC—across its face. He remembered the day the head of the school had come into his store and offered the clock. Chris had taken it gladly. He’d just borrowed enough money to buy the store from Mrs. Saxton and he was in no position to turn down a free clock, advertising or no advertising.
A melancholy smile raised Chris’s lips as he recalled those first days of ownership.
Mrs., Saxton was old and tired, anxious to retire. That was why she sold out so cheaply; that plus the fact that she liked and trusted Chris. He’d been with her for almost five years and, during that time, the store had expanded markedly. When he’d started, it had been a run-down place with a few racks of sheet music, outmoded record albums, a modicum of instruments for rent or sale. Nothing like what it became after Chris began working there.
After the purchase, he expanded it further. He took out a lease on the adjoining store which had been vacant for almost two years and had the wall removed. He had racks built for a complete line of records, three listening booths installed as well as a counter with stools where all kinds of music were sold, from orchestral scores to children’s piano primers and including all the current sheet music. He had a new tile floor put in with a motif of bass and treble clefs and notes in the design. He enlarged his line of instruments and made an exchange agreement with the Denis School and others.
All this put him considerably into debt. He was unable, in the beginning, to afford help. He and Helen ran the store until Connie’s growth made working too difficult for Helen. Then Chris managed on his own. It was exhausting but joyous work. The weariness he felt at night was a wholesome one.
Little by little, his venture paid off. People from the area began patronizing his store to the exclusion of others. It was a pleasant place and Chris was a pleasant host. His reputation as a man who understood children no less than music broadened. He was asked, by the Chamber of Commerce, to take over the operation of the Junior Orchestra; invited to join the Chamber.
As business increased, so did the scope of his work. He began to arrange neighborhood square dances, organizing the local mothers into an entertainment committee. Gradually, he helped convert the Junior Orchestra into a polished group which gave well-received concerts all over the Los Angeles area. He sponsored and coached the Santa Monica Wildcats who played baseball in spring and summer, football in fall and winter. Life became more and more rewarding. The store did more business and he did more for the community. His idea for the creative workshop had come only a few weeks before and it was, already, halfway to fruition. All this, ended by a phone call in the night.
Jimmy looked up from behind the counter as Chris entered. “Hi Mr. Martin,” he said.
“Hello, Jimmy,” Chris smiled at him. “How’s it going?”
“Up to the B’s,” said Jimmy, grinning. “I just put Brahms in his place.” Then he added, concerned, “Gee, Mr. Martin, you okay?”
“Sure.” Chris stopped by the counter and hesitated a moment before speaking. “Oh, uh, my wife has the car this morning, Jimmy. Going to her mother’s.”
Jimmy nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“I’ll be needing a car for a while though,” Chris said.
“And you wanna borrow mine?” said Jimmy. “Sure thing, Mr. Martin. Any time.”
“I’d appreciate it,” said Chris.”Any time at all,” said Jimmy. “Well, I’ll get back to Britten and Bruckner now.”
Chris managed another smile. “Has Mrs. Anthony called?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. I gave her the message.”
“Good. Thanks.”
Chris shut the door of his office and drew off his top coat. As he dropped it on a chair, he noticed the smudges on it. He must have gotten them when Steve knocked him down. He checked his trousers and found dirt streaks on the knees, a small rip. If he’d gone home. Helen would have seen them. He’d have had to tell her what happened.
He wondered what she’d say when she found out about the money. They’d been saving for a bigger house; this would reduce their account to almost nothing. Well, there was no help for it. It had to be done. After all these years, three thousand was a cheap enough price for continued freedom.
Suddenly, it occurred, to Chris that after bringing the money he would no longer be of any value to Adam and Steve. He heard repeated in his mind what Adam had said:
Chris sank down heavily before his desk. Dear God, what was he to do? If he gave Adam and Steve the money, he’d always be subject to their blackmail. If he went to the police, he’d be put in prison—and he had no romantic illusions about “getting a fresh start” after that. If he were twenty, perhaps. Not now.
It was in that moment that the idea came with a flash of hideous logic. An idea that had to do with Cliff’s loaded gun and Chris’s two enemies waiting in Latigo Canyon, with the hills around and the unlikelihood of anyone hearing a shot.
His fingers jerked suddenly into blood-drained fists. No! He was not that kind of man and never would be!
Abruptly, the false defenses seemed to fall away like scales. He’d been wrong. It might entail a kind of courage to go on in the face of pressure but to face the obligation of honesty was the only true courage.
Chris sighed. Strange that, after all his indecision, the solution should prove so simple. He could feel the simple lightness of it in his very flesh. He pulled the telephone across his desk and, lifting the receiver, dialed quickly Helen’s mother answered. “This is Chris, Mom,” he said.
“Yes, Chris.”
“Could I speak to Helen for a moment?”
“Helen? Is she supposed to be here?”
“Yes.” Chris felt a sinking of disappointment. “I guess she hasn’t had time to get there yet.”
