A Candle for the Bag Lady (Matthew Scudder Book 2), Page 4

  He hadn’t, but within the half hour he came in again and I was there to be found. I recognized him from Trina’s description as soon as he came through the door. He looked faintly familiar but he was nobody I knew. I suppose I’d seen him around the neighborhood.

  Evidently he knew me by sight because he found his way to my table without asking directions and took a chair without being invited to sit. He didn’t say anything for a while and neither did I. I had a fresh bourbon and coffee in front of me and I took a sip and looked him over.

  He was under thirty. His cheeks were hollow and the flesh of his face was stretched over his skull like leather that had shrunk upon drying. He wore a forest green work shirt and a pair of khaki pants. He needed a shave.

  Finally he pointed at my cup and asked me what I was drinking. When I told him he said all he drank was beer.

  “They have beer here,” I said.

  “Maybe I’ll have what you’re drinking.” He turned in his chair and waved for Trina. When she came over he said he’d have bourbon and coffee, the same as I was having. He didn’t say anything more until she brought the drink. Then, after he had spent quite some time stirring it, he took a sip. “Well,” he said, “that’s not so bad. That’s okay.”

  “Glad you like it.”

  “I don’t know if I’d order it again, but at least now I know what it’s like.”

  “That’s something.”

  “I seen you around. Matt Scudder. Used to be a cop, private eye now, blah blah blah. Right?”

  “Close enough.”

  “My name’s Floyd. I never liked it but I’m stuck with it, right? I could change but who’m I kidding? Right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “If I don’t somebody else will. Floyd Karp, that’s the full name. I didn’t tell you my last name, did I? That’s it, Floyd Karp.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, okay, okay.” He pursed his lips, blew out air in a silent whistle. “What do we do now, Matt? Huh? That’s what I want to know.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Floyd.”

  “Oh, you know what I’m getting at, driving at, getting at. You know, don’t you?”

  By this time I suppose I did.

  “I killed that old lady. Took her life, stabbed her with my knife.” He flashed the saddest smile. “Steee-rangled her with her skeeee-arf. Hoist her with her own whatchacallit, petard. What’s a petard, Matt?”

  “I don’t know, Floyd. Why’d you kill her?”

  He looked at me, he looked at his coffee, he looked at me again.

  He said, “Had to.”

  “Why?”

  “Same as the bourbon and coffee. Had to see. Had to taste it and find out what it was like.” His eyes met mine. His were very large, hollow, empty. I fancied I could see right through them to the blackness at the back of his skull. “I couldn’t get my mind away from murder,” he said. His voice was more sober now, the mocking playful quality gone from it. “I tried. I just couldn’t do it. It was on my mind all the time and I was afraid of what I might do. I couldn’t function, I couldn’t think, I just saw blood and death all the time. I was afraid to close my eyes for fear of what I might see. I would just stay up, days it seemed, and then I’d be tired enough to pass out the minute I closed my eyes. I stopped eating. I used to be fairly heavy and the weight just fell off of me.”

  “When did all this happen, Floyd?”

  “I don’t know. All winter. And I thought if I went and did it once I would know if I was a man or a monster or what. And I got this knife, and I went out a couple nights but lost my nerve, and then one night—I don’t want to talk about that part of it now.”

  “All right.”

  “I almost couldn’t do it, but I couldn’t not do it, and then I was doing it and it went on forever. It was horrible.”

  “Why didn’t you stop?”

  “I don’t know. I think I was afraid to stop. That doesn’t make any sense, does it? I just don’t know. It was all crazy, insane, like being in a movie and being in the audience at the same time. Watching myself.”

  “No one saw you do it?”

  “No. I threw the knife down a sewer. I went home. I put all my clothes in the incinerator, the ones I was wearing. I kept throwing up. All that night I would throw up even when my stomach was empty. Dry heaves, Department of Dry Heaves. And then I guess I fell asleep, I don’t know when or how but I did, and the next day I woke up and thought I dreamed it. But of course I didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “And what I did think was that it was over. I did it and I knew I’d never want to do it again. It was something crazy that happened and I could forget about it. And I thought that was what happened.”

  “That you managed to forget about it?”

  A nod. “But I guess I didn’t. And now everybody’s talking about her. Mary Alice Redfield, I killed her without knowing her name. Nobody knew her name and now everybody knows it and it’s all back in my mind. And I heard you were looking for me, and I guess, I guess…” He frowned, chasing a thought around in his mind like a dog trying to capture his tail. Then he gave it up and looked at me. “So here I am,” he said. “So here I am.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now what happens?”

  “I think you’d better tell the police about it, Floyd.”

  “Why?”

  “I suppose for the same reason you told me.”

  He thought about it. After a long time he nodded. “All right,” he said. “I can accept that. I’d never kill anybody again. I know that. But—you’re right. I have to tell them. I don’t know who to see or what to say or, hell, I just—”

  “I’ll go with you if you want.”

  “Yeah. I want you to.”

  “I’ll have a drink and then we’ll go. You want another?”

  “No. I’m not much of a drinker.”

  I had it without the coffee this time. After Trina brought it I asked him how he’d picked his victim. Why the bag lady?

  He started to cry. No sobs, just tears spilling from his deep-set eyes. After a while he wiped them on his sleeve.

  “Because she didn’t count,” he said. “That’s what I thought. She was nobody. Who cared if she died? Who’d miss her?” He closed his eyes tight. “Everybody misses her,” he said. “Everybody.”

  So I took him in. I don’t know what they’ll do with him. It’s not my problem.

  It wasn’t really a case and I didn’t really solve it. As far as I can see I didn’t do anything. It was the talk that drove Floyd Karp from cover, and no doubt I helped some of the talk get started, but some of it would have gotten around without me. All those legacies of Mary Alice Redfield’s had made her a nine-day wonder in the neighborhood. It was one of those legacies that got me involved.

  Maybe she caught her own killer. Maybe he caught himself, as everyone does. Maybe no man’s an island and maybe everybody is.

  All I know is I lit a candle for the woman, and I suspect I’m not the only one who did.

  About the Author

  * * *

  Lawrence Block published his first novel in 1958. He has been designated a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, and has received Lifetime Achievement awards from the Crime Writers’ Association (UK), the Private Eye Writers of America, and the Short Mystery Fiction Society. He has won the Nero, Philip Marlowe, Societe 813, and Anthony awards, and is a multiple recipient of the Edgar, the Shamus, and the Japanese Maltese Falcon awards. He and his wife, Lynne, are devout New Yorkers and relentless world travelers.

  Email: [email protected]

  Twitter: @LawrenceBlock

  Blog: LB’s Blog

  Facebook: lawrence.block

  Website: lawrenceblock.com

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  The Matthew Scudder Stories

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  For a list of all my available fiction, with my series novels listed in chronological order, go to About LB’s Fiction
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  Lawrence Block

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