11
WALT FLIPPED ON THE garage light at six in the evening, leaving Ivy to wash up the dishes with Aunt Jinx. Henry was watching the news in the living room, drinking a cup of coffee laced with Half and Half and about a pound of sugar as an antidote to the chickpeas and shrubbery. Actually, there hadn’t been anything wrong with the food at dinner—nothing that a double cheeseburger from Wimpy’s wouldn’t cure. Of course, Jinx was probably right about what they needed, dietetically speaking. And probably she’d tire out soon.
It was pitch dark out and raining in flurries, but he decided he wouldn’t bother with an umbrella. He picked up Argyle’s cardboard carton and went down the carport toward the street, where the dim yellow circles of light from the streetlamps seemed, if anything, to make the night a little darker. The wind was blowing out of the east, and the sky overhead was heavy with clouds barely illuminated by a hidden moon. A car passed as he hurried toward the corner, but otherwise the streets were deserted. The bad weather kept everyone indoors.
He turned the corner and walked up toward Sycamore, and even from a distance he could see that Argyle’s house was lit up. There were a couple of cars parked along the street and smoke coming out of the chimney, and for a moment Walt thought about turning around and heading back home. But there was no sign of anyone outside, and the porch light was off.
He decided to risk it. He crossed the street, angling toward Argyle’s front porch, prepared to walk straight on past if anyone came out. Quickly he cut across the lawn, slid the box beneath the porch railings and gave it a good shove. It slid beneath a wicker chair where it lay hidden in the shadows. The box was nearly invisible; when Argyle found it he’d have to wonder whether it hadn’t been lying there for a week.
Just then the porch light blinked on, and Walt ducked, sliding around the side of the porch toward a couple of big hydrangea bushes against the side of the house. Immediately he knew he’d made a mistake. He should simply have headed for the street—just another pedestrian hurrying home in the rain. Now it was too late. He felt like a kid, out marauding through the neighborhood at night. There was the rattling of a latch, and then the door swung open, casting light from the entryway out onto the lawn. Walt crammed himself in behind the bush, pressing himself into the shadows.
It started to rain harder, and he pulled his coat shut, waiting for them to leave, listening to shoe soles scraping on the wooden floorboards of the porch. Then there was silence for a moment, followed by low conversation. Somebody laughed, and a voice said, “I’ll say.” Then there was silence again, as if they were standing there watching the rain fall, hoping that it would let up so they could make a dash for their cars.
“I hate this damned rain,” someone finally said.
“It’s the season,” someone else said.
“Well, I hate the season, too.”
“Too commercialized. I agree with you.”
“That isn’t what I mean. God, I hate it when people say that. To my mind it isn’t half commercial enough, not this year. Profit—that’s the only thing about Christmas that does me any good, and here we are in the middle of it and nobody’s spending any money.”
A third voice spoke, Argyle this time. “Call me after someone’s had a look at LeRoy’s. Don’t worry about waking me up. We want those jars.”
“Yes, we do.” It was the second man now, the one who didn’t like Christmas. “I’m still not clear on something. I understand that we’ve got a green light over there tonight, but if we can’t—what shall I say—clean it out, are we absolutely certain … ?”
“And it rained fire and brimstone out of heaven and destroyed them all,” Argyle said, interrupting him.
“That’s just your style, Bob, to dismiss something like this with an irrelevant quote. It’s easier than thinking, isn’t it?”
Argyle laughed then. “Relax, George. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Just have your people take care of things over at LeRoy’s and let me know. They won’t be bothered over there tonight. When we’ve got what we want, we can all dismiss it. It’ll be an irrelevancy. And have them look around good—crawl spaces, secret panels, throw rugs. Don’t rush it. LeRoy had his own way with things, if you follow me. He went in for all the trappings. Leave the place clean.”
The rain let up abruptly, and Walt watched through the branches, hearing them descend the porch steps now, their shadows jutting out across the lawn. Something told him that he didn’t want to know anything more than he already knew—which was virtually nothing—but he couldn’t stop himself from wondering who the two men were. One of the cars was visible from where he was hidden, and when the door swung open the driver was illuminated for a moment by the dome light. Walt recognized him, from downtown. He was one of the Watson’s morning regulars, which meant he probably worked in one of the buildings around the Plaza. He usually wore a suit, too; so he was likely a professional of some sort—lawyer, maybe, or chiropractor.
The engines started up and the cars moved off. He heard footsteps crossing the porch, and then a moment later the house door shut and the light went out. Walt peeked past the edge of the house, making sure the porch was empty. He saw immediately that there was no carton beneath the wicker chair; Argyle had retrieved it, probably wondering right now how long it had lain there, gathering dust. He hurried out to the sidewalk and headed home, his jacket soaked and his hair plastered to his forehead with rainwater.