Page 108 of The Furies

“I knew a guy once,” said Veale.

Wadlin’s eyes didn’t leave the action, but to Veale the manager’s mind was elsewhere, and he was looking less at the screen than through it, following images only he could see.

“You don’t say.”

“He was Black,” Veale continued. “He told me that, when he was a kid, his old man used to take him to the Apollo Theater in Harlem to watch westerns as part of the show, and when the Indians shot a cowboy, the audience would cheer.”

Wadlin found the clicker and paused the movie.

“Why would they do that?” he said. He sounded genuinely puzzled.

“Because they were Black,” said Veale, “and the cowboys were white.”

“But there were Negroes in the cavalry, too,” said Wadlin, who remained unreconstructed, and was only woke first thing in the morning. “Buffalo soldiers, they called them, I think on account of the buffalo-skin coats they used to wear in winter, or maybe their hair. When it came to the Indians, everyone was on the same side.”

“Not in Harlem,” said Veale.

“No, I guess not. But then, they didn’t have many Indians in Harlem.” Wadlin hit the clicker again, and the killing resumed. “You’re covered for one more night,” he said. “If you’re planning on staying longer, payment in advance would be appreciated.”

“We’re about done here,” said Veale. “We won’t need the room beyond morning. Could be we may even be gone come nightfall.”

“Well, don’t forget to return both keys, that’s if you want your deposits back.”

Veale considered throwing the keys in a river, and fuck the deposits, if only to cause Wadlin a little inconvenience. The man reminded him of a pale toad.

“What was all the fuss earlier?” said Veale. “The police, and the ambulance.”

Wadlin inhaled so hard that his shoulders touched his earlobes.

“One of the long-term guests had a heart attack down in the basement,” he said. “An old woman. She was dead before the medics got to her. Very sad.”

Veale didn’t think it was so sad, if she was old. Old people died. To Veale, they had no other function. Only the circumstances interested him.

“What was she doing in the basement?” he said.

“Stealing.”

“Stealing what?”

“Furniture for her room. It was full of stuff that shouldn’t have been there, all taken from our basement. Pictures, lamps, rugs. Seems housekeeping was turning a blind eye. I’d fire a couple of them as an example, if I didn’t need them so bad.”

“Doesn’t sound like stealing to me,” said Veale. “More like redecorating, which the rooms could do with.”

He could see Wadlin thinking about objecting to the slur before deciding it had the ring of truth to it.

“Doesn’t mean she could go helping herself,” said Wadlin. “And look where she ended up because of it: in a body bag.” He tapped the clicker meaningfully with a long fingernail. “Anything else on your mind?”

“That kid you mentioned earlier,” said Veale, “the one that was running around during the night. You hear anything else about it?”

“There was no kid,” he said, but Veale caught something in his face. It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but there was confusion, anxiety.

“The old woman,” said Veale, “they have any idea what caused the heart attack?”

“I’m no doctor,” said Wadlin, “but my diagnosis would be that it was probably her heart.”

Veale was immune to sarcasm. It passed him by. This was one of his strengths, although since it didn’t register, he didn’t recognize it as such. Right now, he just thought Wadlin was even dumber than previously suspected.

“I mean,” he said, “could something have scared her?”

---