Clandestine

I walked down the street to a diner that served a boisterous, good-humored aircraft-worker clientele. The rough-hewn camaraderie of the men who sat beside me at the counter restored me further. I ate a big breakfast of sausage, eggs, and potatoes, chased by about a gallon of coffee. I bought a triple order of poached eggs and two chocolate malts for Eddie Engels. Ordering it boxed "to go" made me sad and angry. This was beyond the bailiwick of wonder and justice, reaching toward some kind of knowledge of the human condition that for once I didn't want to know.

There was a pay phone at the back of the diner. I almost gave in to an impulse to call Lorna, but didn't. I wanted it to be over first.

When I got back to the room, Eddie Engels was still passed out on the filthy mattress, his face contorted in terror even in repose.

Dudley, Breuning, and I watched him wake up. For long moments he didn't seem to know where he was. Finally, his brain clicked into reality, and when his eyes focused on Dudley he began to twitch spastically, shutting his eyes and trying to scream. No sound came out.

Dudley and I looked at each other. Mike Breuning fiddled with his steno pad, his eyes downcast, ashamed. I motioned to Dudley. He followed me into the adjoining room. "Let me have him," I said. "He's too terrified of you. Let me talk to him. Alone. I'll bring him around."

"I want a confession, lad. Today."

"You'll have it."

"I'll give you two hours, lad. No more."

I led Engels gently into the other room. I told him he could take his time using the halfway clean bathroom. He did, closing the door behind him. I waited while Engels cleaned himself up. He came back out and sat down on the edge of one of the cots. His torso was badly bruised, and the welt on his shoulder where Dudley had dug in his fingers had swollen to the size of an orange.

I lit him a cigarette and handed it to him. "Are you scared, Eddie?" I asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, I'm real scared."

"Of what?"

"Of that Irish guy."

"I don't blame you."

"What do you want? I'm just a small-time gambler."

"And an abuser of women." He lowered his head. "Look at me, Eddie." He raised his head and met my eyes. "Have you hurt a lot of women, Eddie?" He nodded. "Why?" I asked.

"I don't know!"

"How long have you been doing this?"

"A long time."

"Before you left Seattle?"

"I . . . yes."

"Do your parents know about it?"

"No! Leave them out of this!"

"Sssshhh. Do you love your parents?"

Engels snorted, then looked at me as if I were crazy. "Everyone loves their parents," he said.

"Everyone who knows them. I never knew mine. I grew up in an orphanage."

"That's so sad. That's really sad. Is that why you became a cop, so you could track them down?"

"I never thought about it. You're a lucky fellow, though, to have a nice family."

Engels nodded, his frightened features softening for a moment.

"Are you close to your sister, Lillian?" I asked. Engels didn't answer. "Are you?" Still no response. "Are you, Eddie?"

Engels's face went beet red. "I hate her!" he screamed. "I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!" He slammed his hands into the edge of the cot in frustration. The outburst was over as quickly as it had started, but Eddie's personality had changed again. "I . . . hate . . . Lillian." He said it very softly, with great finality, one word at a time.

"Did she hit you, Eddie?" I asked.

A shake of the head in answer.

"Did she make fun of you?"

No response.

"Did she have power over you?"

"Yes," Engels whimpered. He bit his lip.

"What did she do to you?" I said gently.

Eddie Engels said, quite calmly: "She brought me out. She was lez and she didn't want me to love any other girls but her."

"And?" I whispered.

"And she dressed me up, and made me up . . ."

"And?"

"And . . . fixed me up, and made me do her in front of her girlfriend . . ." Engels's sad voice trailed off.

I cleared my throat. My own voice sounded strange and disembodied. "And you hate her for it?"

"And I hate her for what she made me, Officer. But I love her, too. And I'd rather be what I am than be what you are."

His words hung in the air, poisonous, like atomic fallout. I handed Engels the paper sack containing the eggs and malted milks. "Eat your breakfast," I said. "Rest for a little while, and soon you'll find out why we brought you here."

Making sure the windowless room was locked from the outside, I left Engels alone to contemplate my threat, then went and reported to Dudley Smith.

"You should have been a headshrinker, lad," was his only comment.

At one-thirty that afternoon we brought Eddie Engels back into the interrogation room. He was fed and rested, but looked weary and ready to accept anything. I sat him down on the mattress, and Dudley, Breuning, and I arranged our chairs, allowing him nothing to look at but three oversized cops. Dudley placed an ashtray, matches, and an open pack of Chesterfields on the mattress next to him. Engels helped himself, warily.

Dudley kicked it off: "Of course you know what this is all about, don't you, Engels?"