Time to Murder and Create

I didn't say anything. He got up and walked around a little and told me all the plans he had for the great State of New York. I didn't pay too much attention. I just listened to the tone, and I decided I believed he was sincere enough. He really wanted to be governor, that was always obvious, but he seemed to want to be governor for reasonably good reasons.

"Well," he said at length, "I seemed to have found an opportunity to make a speech, haven't I? Will I be able to count on your vote. Scudder?"

"No."

"Oh? I thought that was rather a good speech."

"I won't vote against you, either. I don't vote."

"Your duty as a citizen, Mr. Scudder."

"I'm a rotten citizen."

He smiled broadly at that, for reasons that escaped me. "You know," he said,

"I like your style, Scudder. For all the bad moments you gave me, I still like your style. I even liked it before I knew the blackmail pose was a charade." He lowered his voice confidentially. "I could find a very good place for someone like you in my organization."

"I'm not interested in organizations. I was in one for fifteen years."

"The Police Department."

"That's right."

"Perhaps I stated it poorly. You wouldn't be part of an organization per se.

You'd be working for me."

"I don't like to work for people."

"You're contented with your life as it is."

"Not particularly."

"But you don't want to change it."

"No."

"It's your life," he said. "I'm surprised, though. You have a great deal of depth to you. I should think you would want to accomplish more in the world. I would think you would be more ambitious, if not for your own personal advancement then in terms of your potential for doing some good in the world."

"I told you I was a rotten citizen."

"Because you don't exercise your right to vote, yes. But I would think—Well, if you should change your mind, Mr. Scudder, the offer will hold."

I got to my feet. He stood and extended his hand. I didn't really want to shake hands with him, but I couldn't see how to avoid it. His grip was firm and sure, which boded well for him. He was going to have to shake a lot of hands if he wanted to win elections.

I wondered if he'd really lost his passion for young boys. It didn't matter much to me one way or the other. The photos I'd seen had turned my stomach, but I don't know that I had all that much moral objection to them. The boy who'd posed for them had been paid, and undoubtedly knew what he was doing. I didn't like shaking hands with him, and he would never be my choice for a drinking buddy, but I figured he wouldn't be too much worse in Albany than any other son of a bitch who would want the job.

Chapter 18

It was around three when I left Huysendahl's office. I thought of calling Guzik and finding out how they were doing with Beverly Ethridge, but I decided to save a dime. I didn't want to talk to him, and I didn't much care how they were doing anyway. I walked around for a while and stopped at a lunch counter on Warren Street. I didn't have an appetite, but it had been a while since I'd had anything to eat, and my stomach was starting to tell me I was mistreating it. I had a couple of sandwiches and some coffee.

I walked around some more. I'd wanted to go to the bank where the data on Henry Prager was tucked away, but it was too late now, they were closed. I decided I'd do that in the morning so that I could destroy all that material. Prager couldn't be hurt any more, but there was still the daughter, and I would feel better when the stuff Spinner had willed to me had ceased to exist.

After a while I got on the subway, and got off at Columbus Circle. There was a message for me at the hotel desk. Anita had called and wanted me to call her back.

I went upstairs and addressed a plain white envelope to Boys Town. I enclosed Huysendahl's check, put a stamp on the envelope, and, in a monumental expression of faith, dropped the letter in the hotel's mail chute. Back in my room, I counted the money I'd taken from the Marlboro man. It came to two hundred and eighty dollars. Some church or other had twenty-eight dollars coming, but at the moment I didn't feel like going to a church. I didn't really feel like much of anything.

It was over now. There was really nothing more to do, and all I felt was empty. If Beverly Ethridge ever stood trial, I would probably have to testify, but that wouldn't be for months, if ever, and the prospect of testifying didn't bother me.

I'd given testimony on enough occasions in the past. There was nothing more to do.

Huysendahl was free to become governor or not, depending upon the whims of political bosses and the public at large, and Beverly Ethridge was up against the wall, and Henry Prager was going to be buried in a day or so. The moving finger had written and he had written himself off, and my role in his life was as finished as his life itself. He was another person to light meaningless candles for, that was all.

I called Anita.

"Thanks for the money order," she said. "I appreciated it."