Man Who Loved God Page 19

Marty, taking an accounting course at Wayne State, by default became head of his family. He was in charge of his four younger brothers. He accepted this responsibility and did well with it.

  In an effort to leave home in an honorable manner, as well as to bequeath responsibility for his siblings to the next in line, Marty enlisted in the Marines.

  He was a Marine in training just long enough to be shipped to Vietnam in the early days of that conflict. He was quickly promoted to sergeant.

  In Vietnam, Marty learned many things. Unlike his father, who was free to be a maverick cop, acting on his own, Marty was part of a team—his platoon. If he was to survive Vietnam, it would be as part of his outfit. Even then there was no guarantee that he would leave that green country alive. But the odds were better that way.

  He learned that the moral standards that had been inculcated, principally by his mother, might be applicable stateside, but not in the jungle. So he went along with fraudulent body counts, fragging officers, whoring, stealing, and cheating.

  He also learned to kill. It was his most distasteful and difficult lesson. His father might have cracked a few ribs, banged a few heads, but though he carried a loaded gun at all times, he had never fired it at anyone until his final action. Indeed, both Marty’s father and mother had lectured him on the sacredness of human life.

  ’Nam was a distinct reversal of priorities.

  He killed the enemy, sometimes with gunfire, sometimes with grenades, sometimes in hand-to-hand combat. He torched villages and their inhabitants. He killed women and children because frequently women and children were the enemy. And if you didn’t kill them, they would kill you.

  Of course, sometimes the women and children were not the enemy. But who could tell?

  Barbara knew all this. She and Marty did not roll in the hay constantly. They talked. Mostly Barbara squeezed information and detail out of Marty. He reminisced reluctantly and slowly. Little by little Barbara had a working profile on him.

  She was not at all clear on how she would use all this information, but she had stored it for future contingency. And this was that contingency.

  She had concluded that under pressure Marty could revert to his alter persona of the jungle. And she now judged that her Al, his dedication to the bank, his volunteering, his likely reward of an executive vice presidency, his possible bumping of Marty out of a job—all of that could have provided sufficient pressure to impel Marty to revert to savage behavior.

  And what might Marty do if he perceived he was again trapped in a kill-or-be-killed situation?

  He might make some hasty moves to salt away some of the bank’s money. He might feather a nest that was in danger of falling from the bank that was his tree. He might arrange for the final solution as far as Al Ulrich was concerned. For someone who had killed so prodigally in the past, paying someone to do the job would be simplicity itself.

  The doorbell rang. The moment of truth.

  Barbara checked the peephole. It was the big guy. She opened the door.

  His mouth dropped. He quickly stepped from the subtly lit hallway into the apartment. With one uninterrupted gesture he pulled apart the Velcroed straps. The dress fell to the floor.

  He scooped her into his arms and practically charged into the bedroom. He dropped her the short distance onto the bed. In record time, his clothes were also dropped and lying where they landed.

  She welcomed him. But she was not quite ready for him. That had not stopped him before and it did not now. She was uncomfortable. He was rougher than usual.

  He tried to hold back to enhance his pleasure. But even after all these years, he could not. Not when it was Barbara.

  Mercifully for her, it was over shortly. He rolled over, panting lightly. His arm was under her head, but he did not hold her. She did not expect more.

  They lay silently for some moments. He had no words. She was trying to find a way to begin. “This is the first time, isn’t it, Marty?”

  “Huh? First time? What …?”

  “The first time we can really relax, is what I mean. No motel room, a different one every time. No cramped car. No secret meeting on vacation. No sneaking off together when Al or Lois is out of town. This is the first time we don’t have to worry. You didn’t even have to be concerned about a rubber. And I didn’t have to worry about the jelly or the diaphragm.”

  Martin smiled and breathed deeply. “You mean because you’re pregnant.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He thought about that for a few moments. Then he chuckled. “You’re right. I didn’t even think of that.”

  “You didn’t?” She was surprised.

  “I didn’t intend to screw you either.”

  She turned toward him and raised herself on one elbow. She regarded him appraisingly. “For someone who didn’t intend to get under the sheets you damn near set a world’s record.”

  “I wouldn’t be here at all if you hadn’t practically summoned me at the funeral home.” He glanced at his watch. “Good God, that was only a few hours ago. The body isn’t even cold yet.” He looked down at both of them, in indication of their nakedness.

  “The body’s not cold, Marty; it’s hot. He’s being cremated.”

  “A figure of speech.”

  She reached for a robe.

  “No. Don’t put anything on. I like to look at you.”

  She smiled. Compliments flowed from Martin like water from frozen pipes. Besides, she was proud of her figure. She liked to exhibit it under appropriate situations. This was such a situation. She and Marty had few anatomical secrets from each other.

  She leaned back on the pillow, her head turned toward him.

  “We wouldn’t be doing this if Al weren’t … gone.”

  “Dead,” Marty corrected. “Al is dead. Get used to the word, Babs. Al is dead.”

  She reminded herself that Marty had an occupational familiarity with that word. Vietnam. “That’s right, Marty: dead. If Al were alive, he’d be at the opening day celebration. You’d be at work, probably looking at the handwriting on the wall.”

  “What handwriting?”

  “Well, you know the bank gossip as well as or better than I. According to the scenario, Al was supposed to be rewarded if he made the new branch a success.”

  “So?”

  “The reward … being made an executive vice president.”

  Martin guffawed. “Just like that, eh?”

  “In time. In time.” For the first time in this affair Barbara lost a tad of her confidence.

  “In lots and lots of time … if ever.”

  “Well, not according to the scuttlebutt. Sooner than later.”

  “I wouldn’t put my last buck on that,” Martin cautioned. “Al wasn’t equipped to be a VP. He didn’t have the patience for the job. And there’s lots of other caveats that would make that kind of reward unlikely.”

  “If not VP, then what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t given it much thought. His pick among the branches? Something like that.”

  Barbara pulled the quilt up. She hoped Martin wouldn’t make a fuss; she was chilly. “Then I suppose you’ll deny the rumors about you.”

  He sat upright and looked down at her. “Rumors?”

  Barbara nodded. “One of them has it that you set Al up.”

  “What!?”

  “That this was a contract killing and that you paid for it.”

  He could’ve gone either way. He might have been furious or he could’ve been amused. Fortunately for Barbara, he laughed uproariously. “Me? A contract killing? The morning of opening day? How could you believe a pile of crap like that?”

  “I didn’t say I believed it. Just that there were rumors.”

  “And what else did these rumors say?”

  By this time, Barbara had lost a larger measure of self-confidence. But she plowed on. “That failing to kill Al you were already feathering your nest … something like building yourself a golden parachute.”

  He ground
his teeth and flushed from the neck upward. “And how was I supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t know. Make some sweet deals with commercial customers. Make some overly generous loans. In return for their taking good care of you if you were bounced.”

  “Listen here, little lady …” He stood up and reached for his clothes. “If I wanted Al—or anybody for that matter—dead, I certainly wouldn’t hire someone to do it. I like to think I know enough about killing to do it myself and not rely on some crackheaded piece of shit who’d lead the cops right to me.

  “That’s for one. And for two, it’s true we made a few loans that didn’t pan out the way we wanted. But those were inner-city businesses in the neighborhood of the new branch. And we absorbed those losses and made up for them—and more—with other investments. You could check with Jack Fradet about that. He knows.”

  He had wasted no time; he was buttoning his shirt.

  “Okay, okay,” Barbara said. “I told you they were only gossip. I didn’t say I believed them. But before you go, what about my baby … our child?”

  He was putting on a shoe. He stopped and looked at her. There was an odd embarrassment in his expression. “That’s something I’ve got a problem with.”

  “What do you mean, ‘problem’?” Barbara sat up. The quilt fell.

  “I mean it’s a problem. Look, you say you’re pregnant. I know how much you didn’t want to get pregnant. So, I suppose you’re telling the truth. Why would you lie?”

  She was about to object. But Martin raised a silencing hand. “Listen to me. This’ll be hard enough without interrruptions. If Al had lived, and if it’s true, that he couldn’t possibly be the father, then he’d be mad as hell and telling the world about it. And when you gave me that note at the party, Al was alive with no prospects of dying soon. So that’s probably true too—that Al would know for certain he couldn’t be the father.

  “Now we come to the hard part.”

  He paused. Barbara couldn’t imagine what was to come next.

  “Babs, I don’t know who the father is, but it isn’t me.”

  “W … what?”

  “For years, Lois and I tried to have a family. We couldn’t. I’ve got rock bottom motility. In other words, I’m sterile. As you well know, I’m as potent as a guy can be. But I can’t father kids. If you’ve got a baby inside you, I wish it was mine. But it’s not. I didn’t want anybody but Lois and the doc to know. If your pregnancy hadn’t happened, you wouldn’t know. I’d never have told you. All that protection we used … we didn’t need any.”

  Neither spoke nor moved.

  At length, Barbara said. “You lie! How contemptible can you be!”

  Martin smiled sadly. “No. I have no reason to lie. No more than you do when you say you’re pregnant. I know how you feel about abortion. So if everything goes well, you’ll have a child. There’s no reason for you to lie about it.

  “Same with me. I can get my doctor to share his findings with you. Or I can go to the doctor of your choice. Whoever does the exam, he’s going to find the same thing: a bunch of sperm turned over on their backs floating when they should be swimming like hell.”

  He stood up.

  “You knew it was going to end this way.” Barbara held back tears. “From the time I gave you the note you knew we’d come to this moment when you would claim you’re sterile. Why did you play it out? Why did you have sex with me?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t intend to. Then you opened the, door, and there you were, wearing that dress that never fails to turn me on. What did you expect me to do, Babs: ask if you wanted to buy some Girl Scout cookies?”

  She drew a robe about her as she followed him to the door.

  He turned. “Babs, I believed you then and I believe you now when you say Al, for years, hasn’t screwed you or even fooled around with you … although I can’t understand how he could’ve kept his hands off you.

  “I thought I was the only one you were having an affair with. That was until you let me in on your little secret. You’re pregnant. Then I knew you had to be seeing somebody else. Thing is, I haven’t the slightest idea how many ‘somebody elses’ you’re laying. The bottom line is you’re a whore. And that’s that.

  “We may have to meet again. Maybe at a company get-together. Tom Adams is the kind of guy who would see to it you’re included in the company doings. That’s about it for us. I won’t be seeing you on any other basis—ever.

  “And one last thing: if you intend on making this public … if you reveal my secret in any way so that anyone besides Lois or my doctor—or another doctor, if you insist—finds out that I’m sterile, I’ll show you what I learned in ‘Nam. I’ll show you how to kill and leave no clue.”

  He closed the door behind him, leaving Barbara standing there trying to absorb and comprehend what had just happened.

  This very definitely had not gone as she had planned.

  Still, it wasn’t time to panic. She was only a quarter of the way through her very flexible scenario. She had allowed for a setback, just not so soon.

  Clearly she hadn’t been prepared for that naked threat. That had sent a chill up her spine.

  She had known he could do it. Now she knew he would.

  Twenty

  Barbara hadn’t even considered a death threat.

  And a palpable threat it was. He had killed before, prodigally in Vietnam. He made no secret of that.

  The threat had its desired effect: Barbara would not reveal Martin’s secret. She only hoped that neither of the other two who were in on the secret might let it slip, leading him to suspect her.

  No doubt about it, Martin could be dangerous.

  It was just possible that Marty was lying. Should she go ahead and request his physician’s report? But if she did go to his doctor, she’d have to be extremely cautious. No need to roil those waters.

  So, pending checking a couple of his statements, she had struck out with Martin. She was now pretty well convinced that he’d had no part in Al’s death. On the surface at least there appeared to be nothing improper in his management of commercial loans. And if he was honest about his reproductive system, he couldn’t have gotten her with child.

  There was time to kill before her next guest arrived. She had allowed for a generous space between visitors. That gave her flexibility in grilling them, as well as insuring that none would meet in the revolving door that was her apartment.

  She heated some soup, more because it was dinnertime than due to hunger. Nervousness had destroyed her appetite.

  As she awaited the arrival of Jack Fradet, she went over what she knew of the comptroller of Adams Bank and Trust.

  If one word could describe his early years, it probably would be “sickly.” If there were any germs around, they would attach themselves to Jack like zebra mussels.

  Being of a practical nature, the lad made no plans to excel in sports or any other type of strenuous activity. He didn’t star on the field or in the gym. But in the classroom, he was a whiz.

  Though he was attracted to the study of almost everything, his forte was math. When Jack landed a job with Adams Bank and Trust, it was a marriage blessed by the god of matchmakers. He could’ve taken and kept a vow of stability. He was there for life.

  Rather rapidly he rose to what in effect was the number-two position in the bank. He had no desire to go higher and supplant Tom Adams.

  Adams did what his job required, and he did it well. He was visible, a hail-fellow-well-met. Jack Fradet was not suited to that role in any way. He would have been awkward and ineffective, to say the least. He was most content to stay in the shadows and take care of the money. For in that, he was taking care of the bank.

  Those who knew him at all well-—and there were few—wondered that he had married Marilyn—or anyone, for that matter. It was difficult to imagine him in bed with a woman unless he was asleep. Marilyn seemed genuinely bewildered that she was mated to this math machine with flesh.

  But they ha
d three children, all now adults with families of their own, so something must have happened besides refreshing slumber in preparation for the next day’s adventures in the bank.

  Almost from the time Al began to work at the bank, Barbara knew who Jack Fradet was. After all, he was an executive vice president. But if she thought of him at all, it was as the little man who counted money.

  Yet over the past several years, Jack and Barbara had been paramours. People who were astonished at the mating of Jack and Marilyn would’ve been struck dumb by Jack and Barbara.

  How had this happened?

  Al has been assistant manager of one of the Adams branches. There was an annual picnic for ranking employees down to Al’s level—and their spouses. Barbara had gone along hoping to steal some time with Martin Whitston, the first of her four conquests. That was the day she bumped into Jack. She thought it was an accident. For Jack, it was no accident.

  It began simply enough. She’d had no opportunity to be alone with Martin. His wife, Lois, had seen to that. For Barbara, the picnic grew deadly dull. She was peripherally alert to her husband’s. whereabouts. She didn’t care what he did, she just didn’t want him spying on her.

  Keeping an eye out for Martin, on the one hand, and Al, on the other, she was totally unaware of Jack Fradet.

  But he was acutely aware of her. Oh, not in any obvious manner. He stayed on the fringe of groups of guests. He had long had an eye for her—as did lots of men. The difference between them and him was that, over the long haul, Jack Fradet usually got what he went after. Barbara was one of the most desirable goals he had set for himself.

  His opportunity occurred this day when Barbara found an unoccupied bench under a corner tree. With a bored look, she sighed deeply and settled herself in the middle of the bench, hoping to discourage anyone else from sitting down alongside.

  Jack waited a few minutes then approached, leisurely, with no indication that he had anything particular in mind. He paused when he reached her. She looked up and gave him a perfunctory smile.

  Still standing and making no move to sit down, he introduced himself and began talking. He didn’t direct his words at her specifically—or toward anyone in particular, for that matter.