Heat of Night Page 10

  “Ma, I want to know,” Al said. “What’s the matter with Dolores?”

  Rosa ignored him, herding the children to their beds. They all protested, all had to troop to the kitchen for water, the older ones padded to the back porch to quiet their dogs. Finally they straggled back to their beds with Rosa crooning, “Back to bed. Is all right. Everything is all right.”

  She still barred Dolores’ doorway with her body. Finally, Al firmly but gently moved her aside and stepped into the room.

  He stared at Dolores. “What happened to you, kid?”

  “Dolores is bump her face. In the kitchen in the dark, when she come home. This is all. Is this not true, Dolores?” Rosa was frantic with her lie, crossing herself, mutely pleading with Dolores to substantiate her story, because even hearing it from another would take some of the curse off her lie, make it nearer the truth; at least, the sin would be shared.

  Dolores nodded. She did not lift her head. She kept her face covered with her hands.

  “Dolores, you’re lying. Something happened to you. I want to know what it is.” Al was firm but at the same time very kindly.

  “All right. All right. Shu.” Rosa felt relieved, less abandoned by heaven now Dolores had agreed she’d bumped her face in the dark kitchen. She was ready now for another lie, another sin.

  She crossed herself covertly. She’d get them all back in bed and quieted, somehow pacified. She glanced about worriedly for Juan and caught her breath, hearing him moving about in another part of the house. The world tilted, seemed to stand still as she waited. She was troubled, confused, had to keep her mind on what she said had happened to Dolores so none of them heard anything too near the deadly truth.

  She touched Al’s arm. “She — had a little fight — ”

  “A little fight? She looks like she was overmatched.”

  “I do not mean a fight at all.” Rosa brushed a braid from her face. “This I do not mean. A quarrel. With this man — make her unhappy — ”

  “Hollister?”

  Rosa nodded. “But all for the betters. Dolores have make up her mind. She is not going to see him any more. Is this not true, Dolores?”

  Dolores nodded, the words were painful, she wasn’t ready to hear them spoken yet. She wasn’t going to see Mal any more — she couldn’t face him after what had happened to her but she couldn’t endure either to look ahead to the empty days without him.

  “What’s the truth, Dolores?” Al said.

  “What’s this, Alberto?” Rosa sounded injured. “You think you mama tell you a lie?”

  Al smiled faintly but ignored Rosa. “What happened, Dolores? Did Hollister throw you over?”

  She shook her head, did not look up.

  Bea said, “Whatever it is, Al, it’s too painful for her to talk about. Her heart is broken.”

  “What do you know about it?” Al said. “When did you ever know anything about a heart?”

  “I studied one once. In biology.”

  Al sank to the side of the bed. “Dolores. Tell me. What’d he do? I’ll go up there right now. I’ll beat hell out of him.”

  “Al, please — ” Bea said.

  “You stay out of this. I listened to you once tonight. I let you drag me out of here when Hollister arrived. I should have talked to him then. If I had talked to him then, none of this would have happened.” He put his hand on Dolores’ shoulder. “What’d he do to you, baby?”

  “Nothing.” Dolores whispered, pressing her hands more tightly against her heated face.

  “Don’t try to save his bacon, baby. Don’t lie to save that no-good.”

  “He didn’t do anything!”

  Al stared up at Rosa. “Well somebody is wrong. No sense trying to get anything from either of you. I’m going up there and see Hollister.”

  “In this weather?” Bea cried. “This time of night?”

  “What the hell do I care what time of night it is. I can’t sleep anyway.”

  Bea caught his arm. “Al, for heaven’s sake. Wait until morning, anyhow.”

  He laughed at her, a snarling sound. “Sure. Wait until morning. Make a social call on that bastard. Well, we’ve been polite too long now. If we’d told him once and for all how we felt — Dolores wouldn’t be messed up like this.”

  Dolores touched his arm. “Al — please don’t…. He didn’t do this…. Ric — did it.”

  Al gave a puzzled laugh, hesitated. He glanced at Rosa but obviously she didn’t believe Dolores. Al didn’t know what to do.

  He shook his head. “Why would Ric do a thing like this? He never did anything like this before.”

  “Shu. She’s all upset. Don’t know what she says.” Rosa watched Al’s face, seeing her own need for vengeance in his eyes. Hollister was to blame, no matter what anyone could prove, and she wanted him hurt, as Dolores was hurt, as she and her family were hurt.

  Al nodded. “You afraid what Papa might do to Hollister, kid? Think he’d be easier on Ric?” He shook Dolores’ shoulder. “Is this true?”

  “No. I told you. It was Ric, I swear.”

  “Stop covering up for Hollister. By God, I’m going up there. I can’t stand seeing a thing like this happen to her.”

  Rosa nodded, this was as it had to be, the only way. She wanted revenge, she could not think of vengeance cruel enough but she knew Juan would kill Hollister and she didn’t want this. She wanted Hollister dead. Alberto was smart. There was much Alberto could say and do.

  She closed her fingers on Al’s arm, face white. “Yes. You go there, Alberto. Quick. Before you papa can do something we all regret.”

  Al stared at Rosa. He’d never seen her face like this, contorted with rage and the need for vengeance. He nodded, not looking at Bea.

  “All right, Ma. All right.”

  He heeled around, strode from the room. He struck his shoulder against Juan who was coming through the doorway. For a moment they stayed wedged there because neither cared to give way. Juan’s face was like something hewn from peeled cypress.

  Rosa stared at Dolores’ torn dress wadded in Juan’s fist. She slapped her hand over her mouth. Juan was dressed, ready to leave the house.

  “Papa,” Rosa said.

  She caught Juan’s arm, looking wildly at AI, her black eyes begging him to do something. Anything. He held her gaze a moment then strode across the parlor. If he got to Hollister ahead of Juan he could throw a scare into him, get him out of town.

  Juan stepped close to Dolores’ bed, grasping the torn dress in his trembling fist. He shook Rosa aside as though she were a small child.

  “Dolores.” Juan’s voice was deadly.

  With hands over her face she looked up. In his face she saw the agony and anger. Her swollen mouth quavered in a silent prayer. When he learned she’d been attacked, he’d kill somebody — Mal or Ric. He would kill. She had to lie with Rosa and keep him from learning the truth. She hated Ric, she wasn’t trying to protect him, she only wanted to protect her father from his own wrath and its consequences.

  Mostly she wanted to be left alone — in the dark.

  He saw the bruises on her face now, but since he’d found the dress where Rosa had stuffed it behind a chair in their bedroom, he’d become immune to further shock. He shuddered. His eyes darkened.

  “I find this.” He shook the dress. “This you dress? Dress you wear out of here tonight?”

  “Papa,” Rosa said. “Is not what you think.”

  “Is not what I think. How you know what I think?” Juan’s voice was flat. “Is what I know.”

  “Papa, no,” Rosa said.

  He shook the dress again before Dolores’ face. She sagged against the pillow.

  Bea bit at her lip but did not speak. She stared at the torn frock, frowning. Something was terribly wrong. She couldn’t make herself believe Mal Hollister had done this. She knew Rosa and Juan would believe Hollister was guilty but wouldn’t believe Ric was. You trusted first in your own people.

  “Dolores,” Juan’s voice
was choked, but gentle. “Just answer you papa one question. You hear you papa?”

  Dolores nodded. His trembling fist shook the dress. “This man. This Hollister do this?”

  She moved her head from side to side.

  “He did not tear it? This Hollister?”

  “She tell you no!” Rosa said.

  “You stay out of this. Now, Dolores. You papa ask you one more thing.”

  Dolores did not move. Bea went to her, put her arm about her and Dolores sagged against her.

  Juan looked ill. “He not do it, then who?”

  She shook her head, frightened eyes darting toward Rosa. If they told him Ric had done it, his rage would be uncontrollable. She prayed Rosa would not speak.

  Juan bent forward, pleading. “Dolores. You papa very sad. Very sick. You not fool with you papa. Not now. You tell Papa. If not this Hollister, then you tell me quick.” His voice rose, raging. “Who did this?”

  She shook her head, pressing hard against Bea.

  He raged at her. “You don’t have to tell me. I know — and I kill.”

  He turned and his shoulders sagged. His mind was tormented and full of gray thoughts. He was no longer young — once he had acted in rage, now he stopped to think first. He was getting old. The thought of killing was more terrible now than in his youth. But he had not gotten so old that a terrible wrong like this should go unpunished. It was just that it seemed to him he was old suddenly and God was turning his face away when for the first time in his life he needed Him. He moved toward the door.

  “Papa.” Rosa said.

  He turned, waiting.

  “It was not this Hollister, Papa. You got to believe the girl.”

  “You lie about it, too. You think to turn me from what I got to do?”

  Rosa ran after him, caught him when he reached the high shelf in the front room where he kept his ancient Colt .45. They looked at each other. The rain battered the roof, driven by wailing wind.

  “You crazy, Papa? You gone crazy?”

  “I guess so. Mama, maybe I never had good sense. The man who does this to my daughter. If he lives — what kind of man am I?” His fist closed on the dress.

  “Papa, you think I not hate? But — maybe it was not this man — what then?”

  Juan nodded. “I’ll give him his chance to beg before I — ”

  “Oh, Papa. If you kill this man, you kill not just him but also kill me, you kill yourself — and the children.”

  “You talk as if this is something I want. Is something I must do.”

  “He’s not worth it, Papa.”

  “No. But not worth living, too.”

  “But that’s it, Papa. He not worth it. Not worth the bullet. Not worth one day of Luis’ happiness. And Linda? What of her? At thirteen, she begins to need a papa — what of her? And of me, Papa? You think I have not had nightmares when you talk of hunting treasure in the Gulf? Why do I weep to keep you home? Yet a hundred times I rather you go out there and hunt this treasure — with air-lung, without air-lung — because in the night when I stand on the porch looking for you to come home across bay — I know in my heart maybe there is a chance you do come home…. But no — if you go now, if you kill this man, I got no hope. I cannot live like this, Papa … not without no hope.”

  He shook his head slowly, tears standing in his haggard eyes. “What you want I should do, Mama?”

  She looked about prayerfully but her gaze came always back to the ripped dress, the big ugly gun. “Leave the gun here, Papa. Sí. Sí. I know. You got to do something. Sí. Go to the sheriff. Tell him what happened. Ask him what to do. Tell him there must be a law — some law.”

  He thought about this for a long time, looked at the wadded dress, at the gun. “I go to him, Mama. But Hollister is — a rich man. I am a fisherman. I do not hope the sheriff will do much.”

  “But you will have try. Never can they say you did not try.”

  Finally he nodded. “Still I tried to talk to this Hollister. This did nothing.”

  “But you did try. Once more try, Papa. For me.”

  He nodded again. “But if the law does nothing, then I must. You see this, Mama?”

  She nodded, no longer hoping for anything but time. “You wait for me, Papa. I go with you as far as the church. I must pray.”

  He jerked his head impatiently. “Then hurry. I might change my mind as I stand here.”

  15

  STELLA’S LAWYER took a long pull at the Scotch-and-water Hollister had mixed for him. He gestured with his glass, ice tinkling. “Against the rain.”

  “Against anything, at this hour,” Hollister said. Stella had told him Norcross was going to call on him but she didn’t say it would be after midnight in a storm.

  Norcross let his gaze move about the room. It had the cozy look of a recent rendezvous. He was a dark-haired man of medium height who wore a look of the correct schools, good law practice, and impenetrable smugness like a mask against the world. He let his gaze dwell on the remains of the intimate supper, the drapes drawn at the windows, the warm way the big divan was rumpled. He was a man who never managed a rendezvous for himself but believed the worst of other men upon finding the scrappiest evidence. But it was all here for him to look upon. He hid his smirk behind the excellent Scotch; it was of fine quality and he wondered if Hollister’s taste in women was as good. He hoped so; he deserved it. Stella had given him a rough time.

  “Wouldn’t have come at this hour and in a storm, Mal,” Norcross said. “But you know Stella.”

  “We both know Stella.”

  “She says she needs some money and she’s quite capable of taking you back to court to get it.”

  “Let her. I told her. I tell you. I’ll see her in hell first. She’s getting a lot more from me than I ever got from her.”

  “That’s hardly a point of law. This happens in most cases.”

  “Stop being friendly. Tell me what you want.”

  “I want to be friendly. After all, Mal, you’ve done your brave act. You told her to go to hell. She told me what you said. But now you’ve got to be realistic. A man doesn’t stand a chance in a divorce court and you ought to know it by now.”

  “Threatening me won’t get you anywhere, either.”

  “I hardly want to threaten you. From the looks of this storm, I may have to accept your hospitality and spend the night.”

  “How pleasant. Will you have another Scotch?”

  “Please. It’s delicious.”

  “I’ll give you my recipe.”

  Hollister poured him another long drink. They were silent, listening to the storm.

  “Reminds me of Poe,” Norcross said, shivering. “Sounds like someone trying to get in.”

  “Just the storm.”

  “Well, my idea is that if we can get this little matter of increased alimony settled tonight, we can both sleep better.”

  “I don’t mind staying awake a bit.”

  Norcross smiled, studying him. “I have what may be some good news for you, Mal.”

  “Stella is getting herself a job?”

  “No. She might come back to you.”

  “What?”

  “She’s hinted as much. She suggested I sound you out. That’s why I came tonight. So you see I am friendly. This is what you might call a personal visit.”

  “Last I heard she had a rich old guy on the string.”

  Norcross shrugged.

  “You must be drunk.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not. You see, Stella has found divorce less than she thought it would be.”

  Mal’s laugh was cold.

  “Man who’ll chase married woman run like hell when she’s free. Old Hindustan proverb.”

  “Well, be that as it may, I don’t know anything about it.”

  “What you mean is, as Stella’s lawyer you’re not about to admit she has lovers. The hell with you, Norcross. She had them when we were married. Right here in this house — hell, in this room.”

&nbs
p; “This is an allegation you couldn’t prove at the divorce hearings, Mal. But I’m quite willing to overlook it. Another Scotch? Fine. The important thing is that you didn’t want to let her go — ”

  “Like a fool I thought marriage meant something — ”

  “And now you have an opportunity to get her back.”

  “My God, man, you are crazy. I finally found out nobody has to live in a meat chopper and you want me to stick my head right back into it?”

  Norcross shrugged. “It’ll be a lot cheaper than the alimony she’ll gouge out of you. You’re a rich man, Hollister; we have your tax reports. You’re set up like a clay pigeon.”

  “I ought to throw you out in the rain.”

  “And add assault to your other woes?” Norcross smiled. “I don’t think so.” Now he frowned. “I swear, Hollister, that sounds like somebody beating on your door.”

  Hollister listened. He didn’t believe there was anyone at the door but was pleased to leave Norcross.

  “I’ll see who it is. Meantime, your room is the guest room, first right at the head of the stairs.”

  “I’ll just finish my Scotch.”

  Hollister strode from the room, feeling anger mount in him against Norcross, against the courts, against Stella, against himself.

  He opened the door. His mouth sagged open when he saw Alberto Venzino standing there. He hadn’t expected to see anything except a limb blown against the door.

  But Alberto read something else in his startled look. Hollister was a guilty man. This was clear in the whiteness of his cheeks, the sag of his mouth. Al did not ask if he could come in, he pushed by Hollister, dripping rain on the foyer carpet. He glanced around, conscious of a sense of insecurity. This was a lovely house, it would make Bea’s eyes round with awe. Al hated it but was impressed despite himself.

  “I’m surprised to see you, Alberto.”

  “Knock it off. Don’t be polite to me.”

  Mal shrugged. This wasn’t his night, hadn’t been; he’d ordered a moon, gotten a storm.

  Al frowned when he followed Mal into the living room and saw Norcross. He refused a drink but saw the small table, candles, intimate placing of the chairs, the wine, the cocktail shaker, the disarray of pillows on the divan, the drawn drapes. A red haze filmed his eyes.