The Old Die Rich

in a coma."

  "He might start talking," Lou told me. "I fixed it up so you can sithere and listen in case he does."

  "So I can listen to delirious ravings, you mean."

  Lou got me a chair and put it next to the bed. "What are you kickingabout? This is the first live one you've seen, isn't it? That ought tobe good enough for you." He looked as annoyed as a director. "Besides,you can get biographical data out of delirium that you'd never get ifhe was conscious."

  * * * * *

  He was right, of course. Not only data, but attitudes, wishes,resentments that would normally be repressed. I wasn't thinking ofacting at the moment, though. Here was somebody who could tell mewhat I wanted to know ... only he couldn't talk.

  Lou went to the door. "Good luck," he said, and went out.

  I sat down and stared at the old man, _willing_ him to talk. I don'thave to ask if you've ever done that; everybody has. You keep thinkingover and over, getting more and more tense, "Talk, damn you, _talk_!"until you find that every muscle in your body is a fist and your jawsare aching because you've been clenching your teeth so hard. You mightjust as well not bother, but once in a while a coincidence makes youthink you've done it. Like now.

  The old man sort of came to. That is, he opened his eyes and lookedaround without seeing anything, or it was so far away and long agothat nobody else could see what he saw.

  I hunched forward on the chair and willed harder than ever. Nothinghappened. He stared at the ceiling and through and beyond me. Then heclosed his eyes again and I slumped back, defeated and bitter--butthat was when he began talking.

  There were a couple of women, though they might have been little girlsin his childhood, and he had his troubles with them. He was prayingfor a toy train, a roadster, to pass his tests, to keep from beingfired, to be less lonely, and back to toys again. He hated his father,and his mother was too busy with church bazaars and such to pay muchattention to him. There was a sister: she died when he was a kid. Hewas glad she died, hoping maybe now his mother would notice him, buthe was also filled with guilt because he was glad. Then somebody, hefelt, was trying to shove him out of his job.

  The intravenous feeding kept dripping into his vein and he went onrambling. After ten or fifteen minutes of it, he fell asleep. I feltso disappointed that I could have slapped him awake, only it wouldn'thave done any good. Smoking would have helped me relax, but it wasn'tallowed, and I didn't dare go outside for one, for fear he mightrevive again and this time come up to the present.

  * * * * *

  "Broke!" he suddenly shrieked, trying to sit up.

  I pushed him down gently, and he went on in frightful terror, "Old andpoor, nowhere to go, nobody wants me, can't make a living, read theads every day, no jobs for old men."

  He blurted through weeks, months, years--I don't know--of fear anddespair. And finally he came to something that made his face glow likea radium dial.

  "An ad. No experience needed. Good salary." His face got dark andawful. All he added was, "El Greco," or something that sounded likeit, and then he went into terminal breathing.

  I rang for the nurse and she went for the doctor. I couldn't stand thelong moments when the old man's chest stopped moving, the abruptfrantic gulps of air followed by no breath at all. I wanted to getaway from it, but I had to wait for whatever more he might say.

  It didn't come. His eyes fogged and rolled up and he stopped takingthose spasmodic strangling breaths. The nurse came back with thedoctor, who felt his pulse and shook his head. She pulled the blanketover the old man's face.

  I left, feeling sick. I'd learned things I already knew about hate andlove and fear and hope and frustration. There was an ad in itsomewhere, but I had no way of telling if it had been years ago orrecently. And a name that sounded like "El Greco." That was a Spanishpainter of four-five hundred years ago. Had the old guy beenremembering a picture he'd seen?

  No, he'd come up at least close to the present. The ad seemed to solvehis problem about being broke. But what about the $17,000 that hadbeen found in the lining of his jacket? He hadn't mentioned that. Ofcourse, being a senile psychotic, he could have considered himselfbroke even with that amount of money. None coming in, you see.

  That didn't add up, either. His was the terror of being old andjobless. If he'd had money, he would have figured how to make it last,and that would have come through in one way or another.

  There was the ad, there was his hope, and there was this El Greco. AGreek restaurant, maybe, where he might have been bumming his meals.

  But where did the $17,000 fit in?

  * * * * *

  Lou Pape was too fed up with the whole thing to discuss it with me. Hejust gave me the weary eye and said, "You're riding this too hard,Mark. The guy was talking from fever. How do I know what figures andwhat doesn't when I'm dealing with insanity or delirium?"

  "But you admit there's plenty about these cases that doesn't figure?"

  "Sure. Did you take a look at the condition the world is in lately?Why should these old people be any exception?"

  I couldn't blame him. He'd pulled me in on the cases with plenty oftrouble to himself, just to do me a favor. Now he was fed up. I guessit wasn't even that--he thought I was ruining myself, at leastfinancially and maybe worse, by trying to run down the problem. Hesaid he'd be glad to see me any time and gas about anything or help mewith whatever might be bothering me, if he could, but not these casesany more. He told me to lay off them, and then he left me on my own.

  I don't know what he could have done, actually. I didn't need him togo through the want ads with me, which I was doing every day, figuringthere might be something in the ravings about an ad. I spent more timethan I liked checking those slanted at old people, only to find theywere supposed to become messengers and such.

  One brought me to an old brownstone five-story house in the East 80s.I got on line with the rest of the applicants--there were men andwomen, all decrepit, all looking badly in need of money--and waited myturn. My face was lined with collodion wrinkles and I wore an antiqueshiny suit and rundown shoes. I didn't look more prosperous or anyyounger than they did.

  I finally came up to the woman who was doing the interviewing. She satbehind a plain office desk down in the main floor hall, with a pileof application cards in front of her and a ballpoint pen in onestrong, slender hand. She had red hair with gold lights in it and eyesso pale blue that they would have seemed the same color as the whitesif she'd been on the stage. Her face would have been beautiful exceptfor her rigid control of expression; she smiled abruptly, shut it offjust like that, looked me over with all the impersonality andpenetration of an X-ray from the soles to the bald head, exactly asshe'd done with the others. But that skin! If it was as perfect asthat all over her slim, stiffly erect, proudly shaped body, she had nobusiness off the stage!

  "Name, address, previous occupation, social security number?" sheasked in a voice with good clarity, resonance and diction. She wroteit all down while I gave the information to her. Then she asked me forreferences, and I mentioned Sergeant Lou Pape. "Fine," she said."We'll get in touch with you if anything comes up. Don't callus--we'll call you."

  I hung around to see who'd be picked. There was only one, an old man,two ahead of me in the line, who had no social security number, noreferences, not even any relatives or friends she could have checkedup on him with.

  Damn! _Of course_ that was what she wanted! Hadn't all the starvationcases been people without social security, references, either nofriends and relatives or those they'd lost track of?

  I'd pulled a blooper, but how was I to know until too late?

  Well, there was a way of making it right.

  * * * * *

  When it was good and dark that evening, I stood on the corner andwatched the lights in the brownstone house. The ones on the first twofloors went out, leaving only those on the third and fourth. Closedfor the
day ... or open for business?

  I got into a building a few doors down by pushing a button and waitinguntil the buzzer answered, then racing up to the roof while some manyelled down the stairs to find out who was there. I crossed the topsof the two houses between and went down the fire escape.

  It wasn't easy, though not as tough as you might imagine. The fact isthat I'm a whole year younger than Lou Pape, even if I could play hisgrandpa professionally. I still have muscles left and I used them toget down the fire escape at the rear of the house.

  The fourth floor room I looked into had some kind of wire mesh cageand some hooded machinery. Nobody there.

  The third floor room was the redhead's. She was coming out of thebathroom with a terrycloth