Charlie Martz and Other Stories: The Unpublished Stories Read online

  Three thousand and fifty-five dollars would buy new vestments, a baptismal font, stations of the cross.

  Three thousand and fifty-five dollars would start a herd for the Aravaipa people up near Galiuro; a seed bull and some yearlings to keep peaceful Apaches from both starvation and the warpath. All around his circuit, which he traveled during the week, from Camp Gila south almost to Benson, from the foothills of the Santa Catalinas east, beyond the San Pedro, there was need for countless things that three thousand and fifty-five dollars would buy. A greater need than Al Rindo would ever have for the money.

  All right, hold it right there, Father Schwinn thought.

  He told himself again that if it was Al Rindo’s money the church’s need for it could not nullify Rindo’s right to it. That much was certain. But was it Rindo’s? Where was the proof? Rindo had admitted he couldn’t identify the money. And if you brought it to him to let him try, the priest thought, what would stop him from saying yes, that’s the money? Why wouldn’t he?

  “Bless me Father for I have sinned—” A woman’s whispered voice in the darkness of the confessional. “It has been a month since my last confession.” He listened, his head close to the basket-weave screen that separated them; and when she finished he spoke quietly, briefly to her, then closed his eyes and said the words of absolution as the whispered Act of Contrition came through the screen.

  “Remember me in your prayers,” he said.

  There had been eleven people this afternoon: from families who had come to Rindo’s for their Saturday buying; from riders in for a Saturday night. Eleven people in three hours. The woman was perhaps the last. It was almost five now and they knew the hours of confession.

  Still he waited. The curtain of the confessional was partly open and he could see the cloth-covered altar and the crucifix on the wall behind it, their shapes dimly illuminated by the soft, red-glass-shielded glow of the sanctuary candle.

  Would Rindo take the money if he showed it to him? No, the question was did he have to show it to him? And the answer to that was no. He had no obligation even to suppose, now, that the money belonged to anyone else.

  Then why, he thought, do you keep bringing Rindo into it?

  Where the red glow was now would be the center of the church. The crucifix—that could be suspended, hung from the ceiling, eh?

  “Bless me Father for I have sinned.” Again the whispered sound. A man’s voice. Familiar? Yes; but he did not try to identify the voice. He listened. “It’s been over two years since my last confession and since then I missed Mass about all the time and I stole things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Money.”

  “Much money?”

  “Over three thousand dollars.”

  Father Schwinn opened his eyes. His elbow was on the ledge of the basket-weave screen and as he looked up his hand moved from his forehead to his beard. “That’s the total amount? From different places?”

  “Nuh-uh. All from the same place.”

  “Did you cause physical harm to anyone?” He spoke slowly, quietly, knowing what the man would answer.

  “We liked to killed one.”

  There you are, he thought. He felt disappointment, but relief at the same time. “This was at Rindo’s, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you—” He stopped. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “That’s what I come to find out.”

  “You know you have to make restitution.”

  “What?”

  “Give back what you stole. That’s a matter of conscience. I can’t force you; but if you don’t make a sincere effort to return the money my absolving you means nothing.”

  “Well—that’s the trouble. I don’t have the money no more.”

  The silent, thoughtful gesture of Father Schwinn stroking his beard stopped. The voice. Dick Massey. Sprawled on the bench with his boot hooked on the edge. The priest saw him now as he had seen him and at once felt a tightening physical reaction. A warning.

  He said carefully, “But you know where the money is?”

  “Well—a couple days after the holdup this other one said he was going to give it back and I wasn’t for it then. Not until he sneaked off with it and I realized he meant it. Then I decided maybe he was right and maybe I should be with him. You know? But when I went to Rindo’s he wasn’t there or hadn’t even come.”

  “How many took part in the holdup?”

  “I don’t see that matters.”

  “I’ll let you know what matters. Answer me.”

  The voice hesitated. “Three of us.”

  “Including the one with you a while ago?”

  There was a silence. “Him too.”

  “Are you going to tell me he’s coming in next?”

  “I’ll tell you how it is,” the close, hushed voice said carefully. “This man was coming to give the money back. We know it because we followed him far enough to be sure. Then we lost him and cut fast to Rindo’s to be there with him. But he never came. He would have passed your place this morning, but he never came to Rindo’s. Instead you show up and start asking about the money was stolen.”

  “You’re implying he left the money with me?”

  “I’m saying it right out. All three thousand and something.”

  Father Schwinn paused, looking down, his right hand slowly tracing the purple ribbon-like stole that hung from his shoulders. “Rindo claims it was more.”

  “Then he was bragging. I know how much we took.”

  “This man—what made him want to return the money?”

  “He shouldn’t have been along in the first place.”

  “But now you say he’s right. You should give it back.”

  “You told me yourself I had to.”

  “Which you knew I would, eh?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “And how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “You know whatever I tell you,” the voice hissed. “But just you know it and you can’t tell anybody not anybody, because it’s in confession. I can tell you anything I want and your mouth is shut tight.”

  “Because we’re in a confessional—that means I have to believe you?”

  “I’m telling you I want that money and you can’t do a thing about it.”

  “You and your friend thought this up, eh? You think I have the money and I’ll simply hand it over. With sealed lips, you might say.”

  “Listen, you don’t have a thing to say about it.”

  “Boy, get out of here. You’re talking about something you don’t know anything about.”

  “What you hear in confession—what a priest hears, he can’t tell. I know that much!”

  “You’re over your head, sonny.” He said it calmly, his thoughts coming clearly now that he understood the boy’s intention. “You go home and think seriously about what you’ve done. When you’re sorry, and you know it, then come back.”

  “I’m not leaving without the money.”

  “Tell your friend it didn’t work. Then stay away from him and look at yourself very closely. I’ll give you that much advice.”

  The boy moved, bumping against the board partition. Then, close to the priest, the hammer of a Colt revolver clicked into a cocked position. “I said I’m not leaving without the money.”

  “Now you’re going to shoot me, eh? Then what?”

  “I’m telling you for the last time—”

  “Boy, just get out of here, will you?”

  “Listen—this is two inches from your head. Two inches. All I got to do is pull the trigger and you’re dead.” His words came strung together and he jabbed the gun barrel against the screen. “You hear me? Now get up and get the money . . . You think I’m kidding? Listen—you think I won’t shoot you find out different. You hear? . . . You hear me!” His voice rose, sounding through the adobe room. “Father, I swear to God I don’t want to do it, but you’re making me!”

 
Father Schwinn had not moved. His head was close to the screen, one hand still at his beard. “Put the gun away,” he said quietly. “Put it away and make a good Act of Contrition.”

  He waited. There was no sound, no movement, no breathing or stirring or creak of the straw screen with the gun pressed against it. Only the feeling of someone close to him. It was there with the seconds passing slowly, silently in his mind. It was there and abruptly, with sudden sounds, it wasn’t there. With the swish of the curtain and quick steps in the empty church the Massey boy was gone.

  Father Schwinn watched the sanctuary light flickering silently in the dimness, a small red glow that would be here through the night and through the days, unchanging.

  He was tired and content to sit for a while without having to think, without supposing or doubting or half-believing or reasoning; but just knowing now and feeling the actual physical relief that accompanied it. The money was Rindo’s. Perhaps he had known it all the time. No, he had felt it; which was not the same as honestly knowing.

  Like with the Massey boy. Feeling there was hope for him; not honestly knowing it as you know something is objectively, unquestionably true, but being quite sure of it another way. The boy would need help, perhaps more kicks than kind words, and he would have to keep away from the older one, which was also part of the feeling; but the boy still had a conscience and because of it there was hope for him.

  It had come close, he thought, thinking of the larger church then and the baptismal font and the new vestments and the cattle for the Aravaipa people and the countless things three thousand and fifty-five dollars would buy.

  But not close enough. It could have happened but it didn’t and after supper he would go to Rindo’s again; this time with the money. But wouldn’t it have been good, he thought (knowing it could never have happened but enjoying the thought momentarily), to have used Rindo’s money for the church.

  Off beyond the dark mass of the Santa Catalinas the sky would show the last red traces of daylight. But here it was dusk, with the cool, quiet feel of night coming. Father Schwinn had made sure no one waited in the pines, moving carefully through the trees until he was out on the open grade; and now, with the saddlebags over his shoulder, he was almost to the road. Light from the inside framed the screened doorway of Rindo’s main house and a lantern near the end of the ramada showed horses hitched along the side of the house, keeping the front clear for the evening Hatch & Hodges arrival.

  Someone came out the screen door and a cigarette glowed in the shadow of the ramada. Then to the left, a figure had emerged from the line of horses and was crossing the porch now. The cigarette glowed, brightening, then soared in a slow arc out toward the road.

  Father Schwinn continued on, straining now to make out the man standing by one of the support posts. It was the other one, though, Dick Massey, passing through the lantern light to stand by the steps, that he recognized first. Father Schwinn stopped, less than fifteen feet away from them.

  “We were about to come see you about something,” Frank Calder said. He spoke quietly, his words barely carrying to the priest. “But I declare if you didn’t bring it with you.”

  Father Schwinn watched him. “You aren’t easily discouraged, are you? Your friend here—he and I have been all through it.”

  “Well, maybe he didn’t make our point clear.”

  “Not as convincingly as you might, eh?” Father Schwinn shrugged, one hand on the saddlebag that hung in front, over his right shoulder. “All right, you try it now.”

  “I’ll tell you one time,” Frank Calder said. “Drop the bags where you stand. Turn around and walk back the way you came.”

  Father Schwinn looked at Dick Massey. “You were that good. Not the same words, but the same meaning.” He looked at Calder again. “And what happens if I don’t?”

  “You will.”

  “Ah—confidence.” The priest’s gaze went to Massey. “You hear the way he said that? Very calm. Very sure of himself. He poses better too. You notice? Hip out—so I don’t miss the gun—relaxed, thumbs in the belt. Very good. Now you—you look all arms, and you keep shifting from one foot—”

  “That’s enough talk,” Calder said.

  “Cold and commanding.” Father Schwinn nodded approvingly. “And without raising his voice. That comes of practice.”

  “I told you what to do,” Calder said.

  “Yes, I know you did.”

  “You’ve got until Dick brings the horses around.”

  Father Schwinn glanced at the boy. “Did you know you were getting the horses? Or anything he tells you, eh?” He was looking at Calder again. “Then what?” Calder stared at the priest; he said nothing. “Then you draw your gun?”

  “If I pull it, you’re dead.”

  “Another lesson,” Father Schwinn said to the boy. “Don’t draw your gun unless you intend to kill. Even if it’s in church.”

  The screen door swung open. The Massey boy half-turned to face the man coming out, but Calder kept his eyes on the priest. The man held the door, steadying himself, then let go and moved purposefully toward the line of horses. They waited in silence: the boy glancing over his shoulder, Frank Calder not moving or taking his eyes from Father Schwinn, not until the man swung out past them and the sound of his horse stretched into the night.

  “Life,” the priest said, “has its anxious moments, eh?”

  “Get the horses,” Calder said.

  “Get the horses,” the priest repeated. “That’s an order, boy. It’s also a sign your friend’s had enough. Standing there not knowing who might come out next. A roomful of people behind him.” Father Schwinn paused, his gaze shifting to Frank Calder and holding there. “He has to do something, eh? But what?”

  “I told you once,” Calder said, “to drop the bags.”

  “Now you’ve told me twice.”

  Calder’s head jerked to the side. “I SAID GET THE HORSES!”

  Father Schwinn’s smile was in his beard and he let his gaze linger on Calder as he said, “He told you that time. But,” he said carefully, “if you leave now you might miss the main lesson.” He saw the boy staring at him; confused or uncertain or afraid. Or fascinated? Don’t flatter yourself, the priest thought; but he felt the boy closer to him now, not out somewhere in the middle, and he said, “Your friend has to do something sooner or later. But what? Shoot me? Threaten me again. Or”—the priest shrugged—“what, just take the money? We go through the same things, over and over, until—”

  “Until,” Calder said tonelessly, “I get sick to my stomach hearing you talk.” He came down the steps carefully, his hands sliding away from his gun belt, his eyes not leaving the priest as he walked directly up to him.

  “All that talk for nothing,” Calder said. He seemed calm again, sure of himself. “You didn’t truly expect I’d back down, did you?”

  “My friend,” Father Schwinn said, just as carefully, “you don’t have it yet.”

  Frank Calder hesitated. In that moment, standing close to the black cassock, close to the distracting movement of the priest’s right hand going to the strap of the saddlebags, sensing that he should do something—yell or draw or push or fall back—it was too late. Father Schwinn’s left hand hooked into Calder’s face. The saddlebags were off the priest’s shoulder and his right fist followed through, taking Calder in the stomach, doubling him as he fell back. Instinctively Calder’s hand was on his revolver and it was free of the holster, barely free of it, as Father Schwinn’s left fist slammed into him again. He went down, still holding the Colt, and the priest’s boot came down on Calder’s wrist, pinning it to the ground.

  “The lesson,” Father Schwinn said, looking up at the boy, who was staring at him and hadn’t moved. “If you can’t convert them, confuse them. Now get out of here.” He heard steps on the wood floor inside and saw shapes at the screen door, pushing it open. “But we’ll talk some other time, uh?”

  THEY WERE IN RINDO’S office with the door closed, Rindo sta
nding, facing the priest who sat holding a brandy and a fresh cigar.

  “I was curious,” Rindo said guardedly, “if you thought your prayer had anything to do with it.” He saw Father Schwinn frown. “You said something about, I think, St. Anthony?”

  “Oh—” Father Schwinn nodded, remembering. “To tell you the truth I forgot to say it.” He took a sip of the brandy. “You don’t want to call on him too often. Only when the situation seems impossible—eh?”

  “Uh-huh.” Rindo watched him suspiciously. “There are still a few things I haven’t got clear in my mind.”

  “Like how much reward to give me?”

  “Well, you’re not too proud to admit what you want.”

  “Mr. Rindo, if I refuse your offer it would be a gentlemanly gesture. It would have nothing to do with my pride.”

  Rindo watched him closely. “The more I see of you the more I believe you’re even more of a realist than I am.”

  Father Schwinn blew a thin, slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling. He watched it thoughtfully. “Yes, a church shaped like a cross is real. Even made out of adobe. And vestments are real.” He looked at Rindo again, holding him with his gaze. “Mr. Rindo, let me tell you about a few real things, eh? Like these Aravaipa people up near Galiuro . . .”

  Evenings Away From Home

  1959

  LEAVING A DISMAL MARCH afternoon in Detroit and landing that evening among Arizona palm trees and illuminated swimming pools will tend to mellow anyone’s outlook. The fact that it’s a business trip makes little difference. The fact that you’ve brought along a miserable sinus-aching Detroit-type cold is an impediment only so long.

  I’m not saying this to excuse what happened. A guy with a wife and three children is obliged to keep his moral fiber in one piece even when he’s two thousand miles away from home and even when a girl like Terry McLean is involved.

  But I am saying that moral fiber tends to lose some of its stuff by the time you’ve checked into the Desert Sands, noticed the candle-lit dining room serving midnight supper, heard the cool combo music coming from the cocktail lounge, and walked out past the swimming pool set among palms and flowering shrubs to C-unit and up to room 36 on the balcony level—getting a picture window view of the whole scene before taking nose drops, aspirin, and going to bed. Boy.