Part 6 (1/2)
”Not even a parking ticket,” said Harve.
”We can check on that,” said the captain.
”Wish you would,” said Harve.
”As I told your wife,” said the captain, ”you really pulled a bonehead mistake, trying to pin this thing on Ed Luby. You happened to pick about the most respected man in town.”
”All due respect to Mr. Luby-” Harve began.
The captain interrupted him angrily, banged on his desk. ”I heard enough of that from your wife!” he said. ”I don't have to listen to any more of it from you!”
”What if I'm telling the truth?” said Harve. ”You think we haven't checked your story?” said the captain.
”What about the man who was with her out there?” said Harve. ”He'll tell you what really happened. Have you tried to find him?”
The captain looked at Harve with malicious pity. ”There wasn't any man,” he said. ”She went out there alone, went out in a taxicab.”
”That's wrong!” said Harve. ”Ask the cabdriver. There was a man with her!”
The captain banged on his desk again. ”Don't tell me I'm wrong,” he said. ”We talked to the cabdriver. He swears she was alone. Not that we need any more witnesses,” he said. ”The driver swears he saw you hit her, too.”
The telephone on the captain's desk rang. The captain answered, his eyes still on Harve. ”Captain Luby speaking,” he said.
And then he said to the sergeant standing behind Harve, ”Get this jerk out of here. He's making me sick. Lock him up downstairs.”
The sergeant hustled Harve out of the office and down an iron staircase to the bas.e.m.e.nt. There were cells down there.
Two naked lightbulbs in the corridor gave all the light there was. There were duckboards in the corridor, because the floor was wet.
”The captain's Ed Luby's brother?” Harve asked the sergeant.
”Any law against a policeman having a brother?” said the sergeant.
”Claire!” Harve yelled, wanting to know what cell in h.e.l.l his wife was in.
”They got her upstairs, buddy,” said the sergeant.
”I want to see her!” said Harve. ”I want to talk to her! I want to make sure she's all right!”
”Want a lot of things, don't you?” said the sergeant. He shoved Harve into a narrow cell, shut the door with a clang clang.
”I want my rights!” said Harve.
The sergeant laughed. ”You got 'em, friend. You can do anything you want in there,” he said, ”just as long as you don't damage any government property.”
The sergeant went back upstairs.
There didn't seem to be another soul in the bas.e.m.e.nt. The only sounds that Harve could hear were footfalls overhead.
Harve gripped his barred door, tried to find some meaning in the footfalls.
There were the sounds of many big men walking together-one s.h.i.+ft coming on, another going off, Harve supposed.
There was the clacking of a woman's sharp heels. The clacking was so quick and free and businesslike that the heels could hardly belong to Claire.
Somebody moved a heavy piece of furniture. Something fell. Somebody laughed. Several people suddenly arose and moved their chairs back at the same time.
And Harve knew what it was to be buried alive.
He yelled. ”Hey, up there! Help!” he yelled.
A reply came from close by. Someone groaned drowsily in another cell.
”Who's that?” said Harve.
”Go to sleep,” said the voice. It was rusty, sleepy, irritable. ”What kind of a town is this?” said Harve. ”What kind of a town is any town?” said the voice. ”You got any big-shot friends?”
”No,” said Harve.
”Then it's a bad town,” said the voice. ”Get some sleep.”
”They've got my wife upstairs,” said Harve. ”I don't know what's going on. I've got to do something.”
”Go ahead,” said the voice. It chuckled ruefully.
”Do you know Ed Luby?” said Harve.
”You mean do I know who he is?” said the voice. ”Who doesn't? You mean is he a friend of mine? If he was, you think I'd be locked up down here? I'd be out at Ed's club, eating a two-inch steak on the house, and the cop who brought me in would have had his brains beat out.”
”Ed Luby's that important?” said Harve.
”Important?” said the voice. ”Ed Luby? You never heard the story about the psychiatrist who went to Heaven?”
”What?” said Harve.
The voice told an old, old story-with a local variation. ”This psychiatrist died and went to Heaven, see? And Saint Peter was tickled to death to see him. Seems G.o.d was having mental troubles, needed treatment bad. The psychiatrist asked Saint Peter what G.o.d's symptoms were. And Saint Peter whispered in his ear, 'G.o.d thinks He's Ed Luby.'”
The heels of the businesslike woman clacked across the floor above again. A telephone rang.
”Why should one man be so important?” said Harve.
”Ed Luby's all there is in Ilium,” said the voice. ”That answer your question? Ed came back here during the Depression. He had all the dough he'd made in bootlegging in Chicago. Everything in Ilium was closed down, for sale. Ed Luby bought.”
”I see,” said Harve, beginning to understand how scared he'd better be.
”Funny thing,” said the voice, ”people who get along with Ed, do what Ed says, say what Ed likes to hear-they have a pretty nice time in old Ilium. You take the chief of police now-salary's eight thousand a year. Been chief for five years now. He's managed his salary so well he's got a seventy-thousand-dollar house all paid for, three cars, a summer place on Cape Cod, and a thirty-foot cabin cruiser. Of course, he isn't doing near as good as Luby's brother.”
”The captain?” said Harve.
”Of course, the captain earns everything he gets,” said the voice. ”He's the one who really runs the Police Department. He owns the Ilium Hotel now-and the cab company. Also Radio Station WKLL, the friendly voice of Ilium.