Shooting Star / Spiderweb

  “Or else what? What are you driving at?”

  “There’ll be a psychosomatic reaction, to begin with. The old-fashioned ‘nervous breakdown.’ You’ve seen it happen to others, many times. In your case, with an anal fixation, it will be most painful. And Eve will take over. She’s almost done so already. From what you’ve told me, she’s practically blackmailing you right now, as it is. And suppose your wife were to find out? Suppose something else happens. In your circumstances, it could easily enough. Then what? Do you remember the Arbuckle affair—”

  When a fat man trembles, his flesh quivers all over. Acres of gray jelly, quaking and oozing perspiration.

  “But what do you want me to do? Suppose I retire, then what?”

  “I’m going to take you back forty years. We’ll start all over again. We’ll go back to the time before the initiation and the scandal, before you had to leave school. You know what your ambitions were then. We’ll recapture that personality, make it dominant once more, make a young man of you, a new man.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll work with you personally. Every day. Oh, nothing spectacular and nothing drastic entailed. You love Marge and the boys—I won’t do anything to affect those feelings. But you must make a major alteration and adjustment. You need help.

  “And you can afford it. Even if you weren’t so badly in need of treatment, I’d advise retirement on the general principle that any man who is financially independent should retire from business and begin living. You’ve tried to retreat from life into your work, and it isn’t successful. So now you must retreat from work into life again.”

  “So that’s it, eh? I can afford it, you say—meaning here is where you make a killing. Big fees, is that the angle now, Roberts?”

  “Please. You’re antagonistic—not to me, but to the truth. You know my fees. Twenty dollars a consultation. That is not exorbitant. I shall not be able to give you more than three sessions a week. Our program will take about a year. Say three thousand dollars, at the most. I assure you I do not need your money, nor would I particularly care to undertake this treatment if the prognosis were not favorable. Besides, frankly, I have a personal interest in your problem, Mr. Caldwell. And you know I can help you.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m going to think over what you said, think it over very seriously. It would be worth it, just to get rid of Eve. Do you think—?”

  “That you will be strong enough to give her up? Yes, I can definitely promise you that, Mr. Caldwell. Quite definitely. Eve England is on her way out.”

  Twelve

  There were empty glasses and filled ashtrays all over the small apartment. I could smell scotch and smoke and Tabu and stale food and Lysol—everything but fresh air. Fresh air wouldn’t have suited Eve England, anyway.

  I didn’t exactly suit her, either. I sat facing her on the sofa, pretending to examine my drink while I sized up the tall blonde with the brunette’s complexion. Her hair was dark at the roots, her eyes were red at the corners, her mouth was lined at the edges where the lipstick tapered off.

  She gave me a look that would have made her a fortune as a glass cutter and said, “Well, now that you’re here, what’s the big idea?”

  “No big ideas. Just little ones.”

  “Cut the cute stuff. Speak your piece and get out.”

  “That’s no way to handle a customer.”

  “Say, what is this?” She stood up, bracelets jangling.

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  “Afraid? Listen, you—”

  She began to impugn my character and reputation in rapid, monosyllabic fashion, and that told me all I wanted to know. She was not a clever woman. Just a pushover. And I knew how to handle her. I kept my voice loud, made it harsh.

  “You’ve come up in the world, haven’t you? This Caldwell must treat you all right. Of course, he goes for your little tricks. Where’d you pick up those fancy ideas? When you worked Las Vegas?”

  Her earrings quivered and danced. “So it’s a shakedown, huh? Well, let me tell you—”

  “No. I’ll tell you, instead. This isn’t a shakedown at all, Edith.”

  “Eve.”

  “Edith Adamowski. You see, I know your name. I know all about you. But don’t get excited. If you want to know who told me, it was Caldwell himself.”

  “Caldwell? What kind of a gag is this, anyway?”

  I told her what kind of a gag it was. She sat down, after a while, and drank her drink. She even nodded. I went right on talking.

  “The important thing is, he doesn’t know anything about it. He mustn’t know. As I told you, he’s willing to pay five grand to get rid of you for good. He thinks he’s a new man, that he can frighten you into it. I advise you to let him do just that. Take the five grand and blow. Then stand by for further orders and maybe you can make more.”

  “Well, I dunno. I got a good setup here.”

  I walked over to her and sat down. I smiled into her eyes. “Do you mean to tell me you like it?” I asked, softly. “Do you really like it when—”

  “Shut up! Don’t talk about it! I hate it. Why do you think I’m on the sauce all the time? He gives me the creeps, but—”

  “Then do as I tell you. Take the money and wait for more.”

  “How can I be sure you don’t double-cross me?”

  “How can I be sure you don’t double-cross me and tell Caldwell I was here?”

  She grinned. “Yeah, I never thought of that.”

  I grinned right back at her. “Well, don’t start thinking of it, either. Because if you do sing to him, you’re going to have an awful sore throat.”

  “Huh?”

  “Come here.” I led her to the window, pushed aside the gray strand of a curtain that had once been white. “See that man down there? The big one, standing next to the car?”

  She looked at Jake and nodded to me. “I see him. What about it, who is he?”

  “I’m not going to introduce you. I hope I never have to. But he’s the man who has orders to see you if you don’t play ball.”

  “So that’s it, huh?”

  “That’s it. Are you in?”

  Eve England gulped the rest of her drink. She drank fast, like a bar tramp, and that’s what she was. If Jake didn’t kill her, some cop or bum surely would. I watched her mouth dispose of the drink and waited for her to form the words I knew would come.

  “All right,” she said. “Count me in.” And then, “When do I get the five grand?”

  “Caldwell will have it for you,” I told her.

  And he did.

  I saw him just two days later. He entered, exuding exultancy.

  “By God, Roberts, you were right! I did it!” His knobby knuckle slammed against the desk.

  “I knew you would. Did you say what I told you?”

  “Bet your life. And it was just the way you predicted it would be. She turned on the tears, and then she tried to threaten me. But I remembered what you said, and it worked out.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You know something? I almost couldn’t go through with it. At one time she almost had me backing out. But I didn’t weaken.”

  “Did you pay her off?”

  “That’s the important thing. She left town today. I gave her the money in cash.”

  “That isn’t the really important thing.”

  “No?”

  “The important thing is what you’ve proved to yourself. That you have the courage to start over, start fresh. That you are already beginning to become the kind of man you want to be.”

  I stood up and looked down at him. “I’m anxious to get started on our regular sessions. How soon will you be through winding up your affairs?”

  “Be about three weeks more. They took it pretty hard down at the office, you know. And if it wasn’t for your suggestions, I’d never have been able to sell the retirement notion to Marge. But I’ll be a free man in three weeks.”

  “Except for your stock.”

  ?
??You can’t talk me out of that one, Roberts. There’s one setup where I’m the expert. Dumping fifteen percent of the company stock on the market right now would sink them. The Imperial outfit is just waiting to close in and reorganize. Besides, as it is, the stuff keeps bringing in dividends. It’s a sound investment. And I won’t have to watch it, just let it sit. I’m going to be a free man.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “In three weeks you’ll be a free man.” I stood up. “Meanwhile, we might as well begin our sessions. Suppose I meet you at ten tomorrow, corner of Wilshire and Western?”

  “All right,” he said. “You’re the doctor.”

  We stood on the corner the next morning, bucking the breeze. “What’s the big idea of the briefcase?” Caldwell asked. “I don’t get it.”

  “You will, soon enough. Just follow me and obey orders.”

  “Right. Oh, what the devil—”

  His hat blew off. I watched it swirl away over the car tops, then spiral into the street. It rolled on its brim.

  He started to rush after it.

  I grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute. Let it go.”

  “Let it go? But that’s a twenty-dollar panama, I’m not going to—”

  “Hold it. Your first lesson in living begins right now. Look, Ed. Never chase your hat in the street. You might be killed by a car. Besides, who wants to get sweated up and out of breath chasing a hat?”

  “But—”

  “Let the other fellow do it for you, Ed. Don’t you understand? There’s always somebody else who’s willing to chase your hat for you. Willing? He’s crazy to death to do it. It makes him a hero. And if you thank him for it, he’ll fall all over you.”

  I turned and gestured.

  “You see? That man without a coat, between those two sedans. He’s picking it up for you. Here he comes now. Just wait here.”

  “This yours, mister?”

  “Yes, it is. Thank you very much. I appreciate your kindness.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. Glad to oblige.”

  “Look at him blush,” I murmured, as we turned away. But Caldwell held back.

  “Don’t you think I ought to give him something for—?”

  “Certainly not. As it is, he’s happy. He’s done his good deed for the day. He feels superior. If you handed him a dollar now it would be like kicking him in the face. He’s on top of the world at the moment, and you have your hat back without any exertion. Just remember that principle in the future.”

  Caldwell nodded. “I guess your theories aren’t as impractical as they sound.”

  “Well, we’ll test another one right now. Follow me down this block.”

  We walked quickly without speaking. At the corner I led him to my car. “Get in.”

  “We going somewhere?”

  “Not yet. First, you’ve got a job to do. Take this pencil and paper.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, write down everything you can remember seeing during our walk down the block.”

  “How’s that again?”

  “It’s very simple. Just write down everything you saw as we walked over to the car here. People. Costumes. Faces. The names of stores. What was in the windows. Everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask questions. I’m trying to find out something about your powers of observation and association.”

  He grumbled and he sweated, but he wrote. And he was secretly flattered by the attention. This was something like it!

  Here was somebody who really took an interest in what a man thought, what he could do, what made him tick. Nobody had ever cared about those things before—Marge didn’t, that slut Eve didn’t, the fellows at the office didn’t, even his friends. Why, in the old days his teachers, his father, his own mother hadn’t cared.

  I watched him, knowing what he was thinking, knowing what he was doing, knowing what I was doing.

  In a way, I almost felt sorry for the man. He looked so pathetic, so eager, as he sat there scribbling away like an anxious schoolboy. I was giving him something nobody else had ever bestowed upon him in his lifetime—something few men ever get or ever realize they want—personal interest. I suddenly knew that I could do what I had promised: remake him, remold him into a better, more integrated, healthy personality.

  But why should I? Suddenly it all came back to me: a picture of Caldwell, dozens of men like Caldwell and what they had done to me in the past.

  “Sorry, Mr. Caldwell is busy and cannot be disturbed... Afraid there’s nothing doing right now...If you’d care to leave your name...No, I haven’t time to discuss it with you...”

  Yes, there were a lot of Caldwells, a lot of fat, well-fed Mr. Bigs around, ready and waiting to make the little fellows dance to their tune, ready to play God.

  Well, I wasn’t having any more. From now on, I was Mr. Big and the Caldwells could dance for me.

  “All right, that’s enough,” I snapped.

  “But I’m not finished yet.”

  “Sorry, another time.” I looked at my watch. “I’ve got a new assignment for you.”

  And so we started.

  I gave him assignments galore—went through the whole bag of tricks.

  I supplied him with a card, an order pad, and a briefcase full of sample neckties and sent him into a haberdashery shop, cold, to pose as a tie salesman and get an order.

  Another day I got him hopelessly lost in the canyons and made him drive us back.

  I kept him awake for two days and two nights, denied him food and water for twenty-four hours, ordered him to grow a beard.

  It was silly, it was pathetic, it was as simple as A-B-C, and he loved it. Because I kept up a fast line of patter about personality development, exposing oneself to new experience variants, learning dormant skills and realizing and utilizing psychic potential. The very simplicity of the methodology is what made it so effective. I was always at his side, always ready with a new problem, always eager to discuss his reactions, listen to him talk about himself. He was completely sold.

  As a matter of fact, it didn’t hurt him a bit. It was really good therapy. He dropped about eight pounds in two weeks, took on some color, stopped washing his hands every hour. He was still a string saver, but the change of pace and the absence of Eve combined to restore his sex drive and focus it upon more normal goals.

  It surprised me, at first, to see him benefit. But why shouldn’t he benefit? The fake religions, the fake healers, the fake mystics, all have a history of success with sufferers and seekers. Sometimes the success is illusory and temporary, often the converts plunge still further into a final morass of maladjustment, but that doesn’t seem to matter to them.

  Certainly the change made Caldwell happy. He felt free, uninhibited, readjusted.

  “I’m ready to start fresh now,” he kept telling me. “And thanks to you, I know what I want to do. I was never happy in corporation law, anyway. Handling other peoples’ affairs and other peoples’ funds—that’s living your life secondhand. You’ve shown me I know how to sell, how to analyze. And I do have a background of business experience. Seems to me I ought to take advantage of it.”

  “What did you have in mind, Ed?”

  “Real estate. There’s a boom building up again in the south, you know. Beach development, housing. I’ve had my eye on some property for a long time, now. But I always kept putting it off, being cautious and afraid. Well, now I’m ready.

  “And if I do, Roberts—I’d like to show my appreciation to you. Cut you in on the deal if you want.”

  “But your funds are tied up,” I reminded him. “Everything’s invested in that stock, remember?”

  He laughed. It was a surprisingly energetic laugh. “That was a lot of nonsense. I was talking like an old woman in those days, wasn’t I? Sure, if I sell, the company may have to reorganize and Imperial might take over. But I’ve got my own life to lead.”

  This was a new Caldwell talking, and I listened with new interest.

  “What do y
ou say, Roberts? Should I go ahead, sell my stock? And do you want in if I do?”

  “Well.” I hedged. “I don’t know if you’re ready yet. Give me a little time to analyze the elements involved. I trust you won’t do anything rash until we work things out.”

  “Naturally I wouldn’t make a move without your say-so. But I want action.”

  “All right.” I nodded. “I think I can promise you some action very shortly.”

  And we left it at that, and I went home.

  My new place on New Hampshire was a white frame affair, seven rooms and a fireplace—conventional enough, because I didn’t operate from here. Rogers had a bedroom on the second floor, and he kept out of my way, using the back entrance. I wasn’t usually around much anyhow. I ate out, and the night work didn’t give me much chance to try out the fireplace-and-slippers routine.

  Once in a while, like tonight, I had a chance to relax. Or thought I did. That’s why I set the pint bottle out on the table and poured myself a shot.

  I had to be careful. Rogers mustn’t see me drink. If he was home, he’d be upstairs, though, with his own pint. The important thing was to keep my occasional indulgence from the Professor.

  To hell with the Professor!

  I took my first drink on that. And as I did so, I realized I meant it. Perhaps Caldwell’s offer today had started me off. Whatever it was, I felt differently now. I knew I had to get out, get away. If only I could take advantage of his friendly offer, go into real estate or something legitimate. Why, this was the kind of thing I’d always looked for.

  And now it came too late. Much too late. Because I couldn’t go in with Caldwell. My job was to line him up for the big trimming. And I couldn’t run, either. Because they’d bring me back. I’d have company all the way—some brawny dick sitting next to me in a coach car, trying to make conversation and hide the handcuffs.

  No, I couldn’t run because that would only mean trouble. Besides, I was thinking like Eddie Haines now, not Judson Roberts. Not Judson Roberts, who sat in the driver’s seat, who had a fancy office and clients and money rolling in.

  Or did he? The Professor was really in the driver’s seat. And the money was rolling in to him, not to me. Sure, I was drawing my hundred a week plus expenses—but he was making more, would make thousands on these killings.