The Cunning Read online

  Now it was just a matter of killing time.

  FIVE

  Lulu Owens was having trouble with the toilet again.

  Well, not exactly trouble, not really—it was just that she still couldn’t get used to the way the seat rose the moment you stood up. Unless she was paying attention, it startled the wits out of her every time. This morning she had been thinking about something else, and when she flushed the toilet and rose she almost jumped out of her skin.

  Must have been a man who thought up that idea; it was convenient for men to have the seat up like this. Back home in the old house things were just the opposite. She’d always kept the seat down, and she saw to it that Homer remembered to put it down whenever he used the john.

  But it sure flushed good. So quiet and all. The plumbing back home always sounded like a threshing machine, and when they had company it was embarrassing. Homer used to kid her about it sometimes. “I told you it was a mistake when we put it in. Never heard a sound when we went out back, did you? Talk about modern conveniences, what folks call progress—all it is is spending a lot of money to make a lot of noise.”

  Of course, Homer was only teasing; he appreciated comfort as much as she did. That’s why they’d bought here after selling the farm. With the kids grown up and moved away, there was no reason to stay, and it sure was a lot nicer out here. Those winters back home—how she’d stood them all those years she didn’t know.

  Lulu made a face at herself in the mirror. Why did she keep saying back home? This was home now. And a darned sight better than she’d ever expected anything would ever be for them. Of course, it was expensive, but then living wasn’t cheap anywhere nowadays, not even back—not even on the farm. In a place like this everything was so handy, too. They didn’t even need a car, because of the bus service right inside the grounds. Take you down to the clubhouse, the shops, wherever you wanted to go. And there were so many places to go, so many things to do, so many people.

  That had been the one thing Lulu worried abut when they first came to Eden. So many people, and all of them strangers. But everybody was friendly. Well, almost everybody. A lot of them were from back East, just like Homer and herself. Funny, calling Nebraska “back East,” but that’s the way they talked out here.

  And they were easy to talk to. Inside of a few weeks she’d met all kinds of folks—not just at church services but at the sewing club. She even signed up for bridge lessons, and that’s where she got acquainted with Mrs. Marks.

  That was funny, too, the way she and Irene hit it off together right from the start. You wouldn’t think they had anything in common at all, on account of Irene being born and bred in New Jersey, really back East, and always living in town. Why, she’d never as much as been on a farm in her whole life! Irene was a lot younger, too, and she dressed like a million dollars even when she was just going shopping or to the clubhouse for bridge. Maybe she had a million dollars, or her husband did. Irene never said very much about Mr. Marks; all Lulu knew was that he was an older man and whatever business he’d been in had kept him away a lot. Could have been a salesman, out on the road, which would explain why Irene was so glad he’d retired and come here, because now she didn’t have to spend so much time alone.

  That was the real reason the two of them got along so well, Lulu decided. Because when you came right down to it, Irene was just plain lonely. The way she talked, it sounded as if she’d never had any real friends before—just sat around in a big house watching television and waiting for her husband to come home. And now, when somebody made a point of being sociable, she really seemed to appreciate it. Lulu made friends easily, and when she realized what Irene was like, underneath all her fancy clothes, she sort of took her under her wing. There were times when it almost seemed as if Irene was frightened of strangers. She had what was once called an inferiority complex. Lulu made a point of introducing her to the other women in the bridge class, and got her into the sewing club too. It seemed to help bring her out of her shell, and that was a good thing. Probably never had a chance to find out how nice people were before, but maybe that was her husband’s fault. Lulu wondered just what kind of man Joe Marks could be, letting her live cooped up like that all these years.

  She wouldn’t have to wonder much longer, because she’d be meeting him tonight at the party.

  That had been a good idea, putting a bug in Irene’s ear about having folks in—some of the women and their husbands, a few neighbors.

  Lulu hoped it wouldn’t be too fancy. For a while she’d thought maybe she ought to go to the beauty salon and get her hair done, but she decided against it. Besides, she didn’t want to get all dolled up if she was going to help with the serving. Irene told her she was having the party catered, but even so there were always lots of little things to look after, and Lulu wanted to help. It would make things a little easier for Irene to have somebody around, just for moral support.

  There. Lulu put the last curler in place. She’d look a fright all day, but then Homer was used to it. Besides, he’d be going out to the woodworking shop this morning.

  Matter of fact, he was already getting ready to leave when she came into the parlor, standing there putting his change into his trousers and looking out the window.

  From the rear he was still a fine-looking figure of a man, no stoop to his shoulders, just as tall and straight as the day they met, and that was—Lord’s sake, was it really forty-three years ago?

  It wasn’t until he turned around and the sunlight hit his face through the window that you could see what forty-three years had done. But in spite of the wrinkles and the bald spot running clear back to the top of his head, he was still a nice-looking man. A nice man.

  “Come here a minute,” he said.

  She walked up to him and he put one of his big hands on her shoulder, turning to glance back through the window again. “That fella just walking past,” he said. “Looks familiar but I can’t place him.”

  Lulu followed his stare, then nodded.

  “Warren Clark.”

  “Don’t I know him?”

  “I don’t think so. He and his wife live up on the hill.”

  “One of the rich ones, is he?” Homer grinned. “Those fellas mostly drive wherever they’re going. Never walk on the side of the hill because they’re afraid it’ll stretch one of their legs longer than the other. But he don’t look lopsided to me.”

  “Now Homer!” Lulu smiled up at him. “He’s a very nice man. I think you’ll be meeting him tonight at the party.”

  Homer squeezed her shoulder. Together they stood and watched Warren Clark move down the walk past Ed Brice’s place across the street.

  Ed Brice was watching too.

  He sat at the little desk in the den, ready to write a letter to the paper. Ed made a point of writing every week, always on Saturday morning; that way it would reach the editor first thing Monday. Getting it in early gave you a better chance of having it printed in the readers column the following Saturday. Not that they always printed what he wrote. When you came right down to it, they’d only run two of his letters so far this year—the one about stamping out obscenity with a mandatory sentence of life imprisonment for all convicted smut peddlers, and the one about refusing work permits to anyone not a citizen of the United States. He’d had a lot better suggestions but they were too chicken to run them. Either too chicken or just plain subversive. Bunch of damned left-wingers, always talking about freedom of the press, but seeing to it that you never got a chance to speak out and tell the real truth about what was happening in this country.

  Ed wondered how they’d feel when they read what he was going to write today. Any fool could recognize the problem: using a stamp was a clear violation of the law protecting the American flag, because every time a stamp was cancelled, the picture of the flag was deliberately defaced. Psychological warfare, that’s all it was—a typical Commie trick. Get people accustomed to seeing a picture of our flag besmirched, and pretty soon they’ll stand still for
seeing Old Glory itself dragged in the dirt. Once you lose respect for the flag, it’s all over but the shouting. What was needed was a full Congressional investigation to find out who had infiltrated into the democratic system and instigated this conspiracy to tear down the moral fiber of the nation.

  Maybe they wouldn’t run this letter either, but he was going to write it anyway; it was his duty as a law-abiding citizen to enlist in a crusade against the crackpots who were out to destroy the country.

  Ed tore a sheet of paper off the writing tablet and got his ballpoint out of the top desk drawer. He was just putting on his glasses when he glanced out the window and saw Warren Clark go by.

  Now where do you suppose he was going, this time of the morning?

  Ed had never met the man, but he knew who he was. One of the things Ed made a point of doing was to keep track of all the bigshots up there on the hill. These were the ones you really had to watch out for. Sure, those welfare bums down in the slums all followed the Party line, but they were small potatoes. It was the rich crowd, sometimes called the radical chic, who carried the clout. Worming their way into newspapers, magazines, television; getting control of big business, heavy industry.

  Nobody knew better than Ed what they were capable of. If it hadn’t been for them he’d still have his old job as inspector at the plant. But when the new owners took over and found out Ed was one of the most valuable employees—assigned to keeping an eye on what the union and the shop stewards were up to and reporting back to top management—that’s when he got the axe. All that business about retirement age was just a cover-up; the minute they leveled with him and said they didn’t believe in company spies, it was all clear as day. “Company spies”—that was the tip-off, typical left-wing name calling. What they really meant was they didn’t want anybody around checking up on them; God knows what they were up to, probably had orders to sabotage the whole operation, run it into the ground.

  Well, they’d forced him out, put him on pension, but he wasn’t licked. He’d saved his money all those years, and when he decided to buy in here he paid spot cash. And coming to a retirement community didn’t mean he was retiring. Maybe from work, yes, but not from fighting the good fight. If anything, he had time now to devote himself completely to the crusade against subversives. The crusade against the really dangerous elements worked inside the system, and there was a lot more to it than just writing letters to the newspapers.

  Ed had been keeping a sharp lookout, and he knew his way around. All those years as a special investigator paid off. Besides, didn’t the government train him for such duties in the first place, even before he took the job at the plant?

  So he made it his business to circulate, get acquainted with people here, keep an ear to the ground. And it wasn’t too long before he spotted the problem area. Just as he suspected, it was up on the hill. That’s where the big money crowd lived, the rich Jews like this Joe Marks. Never heard a peep out of them, never even set eyes on most of them, but he was wise to their little game. You take somebody like Marks for example. Kept to himself, didn’t show around, join the social activities, didn’t go in for recreation, not even golf. But this was the whole strategy. He didn’t have to—that was his wife’s job. She and all the other women up there, they were the joiners. They were the ones who made a point of getting into everything, taking over.

  Ed didn’t know if Warren Clark was Jewish, but he’d bet his life that his wife must be. Sylvia, that was a Jewish name to begin with. And she had the system down pat. Not just joining the clubs, but starting them. Getting up in the community council meetings and making suggestions. “Why can’t we have a ‘great books’ program, why don’t we form a current-events discussion group, how about setting up a philosophy class?”

  And just who do you suppose ended up running such programs? Picking out the books to study, Das Kapital—now there’s a “great book” for you! Ed knew what line would be taken on current events, what kind of philosophy they’d end up discussing. That’s how they worked it, that’s how they spread their poison nowadays.

  Ed was too cagey to get mixed up in anything like that directly and tip his hand. But he kept track of what went on and who joined. The next step was to find a way of getting close to them so he could do a little infiltrating himself, beat them at their own game.

  It was a cinch, too. Once he found out that some of these same women were members of the ladies’ bowling club he went to Lou Keene, the recreation director, and volunteered his services. Lou was glad to find somebody willing to take charge of the equipment and keep track of the tournament scoring. And the women were grateful.

  That’s how he met Sylvia Clark and Irene Marks and the rest of the lot. Mrs. Clark was a tough customer all right, one of those bossy dames, typical women’s libber—the kind who thinks she’s being discriminated against if she isn’t allowed to use the men’s toilet. But Irene Marks seemed a lot friendlier than he’d expected. She palled around with a Mrs. Owens, Lulu Owens, some hick farmer’s wife, and she’d never bowled before.

  Ed made a point of being extra friendly, helping her select the right weight ball to use, tipping her off on what kind of bowling shoes to buy, giving her little pointers on the game.

  And sure enough, it worked. That’s why he’d been invited to the party up on the hill.

  So it really didn’t matter where Warren Clark was heading this morning. Ed would be seeing him tonight, meeting Joe Marks and all the others who’d been hiding in the weeds, working under cover.

  Well, he could show them how a real undercover agent operated. And when he got the goods on that crowd he wouldn’t have to sit here any more writing letters to the paper. His name would be right up front, in the headlines.

  Ed watched Warren Clark move past the window until he disappeared down the street. Then he adjusted his glasses on his nose, picked up the ballpoint, and started to defend his flag.

  SIX

  Warren was crossing the mall when he heard somebody calling.

  “Hey, what’s your hurry?”

  He turned and saw the motorized cart parked next to the curbing, its white hood emblazoned with bright red lettering. Eden Estates—Traffic Patrol.

  Warren recognized the man behind the wheel—Bob Huxtable, one of the older residents, wearing the green jacket of a volunteer security officer. The jacket was much too large for him, and its semi-military cut added a grotesque touch to the garb of the wizened, white-haired little septuagenarian, but Bob seemed unaware of any incongruity.

  He waved happily as Warren approached. “How’s it going, Mr. Clark?”

  “Okay. What about you?”

  “Can’t complain. Last night I slept like a baby. Wet my pants and woke up crying.”

  Bob grinned, as if to assure Warren he was only making a joke, then started his motor. “Well, I got to be moseying along. Give my regards to the Missus.”

  “Will do.”

  Warren watched as the cart pulled away. Nice old guy, friendly with everybody, perfectly content to spend his declining years playing soldier. There seemed to be a whole contingent of such types, working as crossing guards at public schools or monitoring playground activities. Well, it at least gave them the illusion of authority, and being outdoors was probably a healthy thing, smog or no smog. In the old days most of them ended up as night watchmen, or running elevators. Now such jobs were gone, and the elderly took on voluntary tasks.

  But God, was that the only choice?

  The problem was, nobody wanted to face the issue until too late. Warren remembered how completely he ignored it when he was young, he and all his friends. He couldn’t even recall discussing old age with anyone he knew. It was a totally alien phenomenon, like death, something that happened to somebody else. Such things don’t matter when you’re young, because there’s always tomorrow. And then, suddenly, the time comes when tomorrow doesn’t count. There’s only today, a few todays at most, and what are you going to do with them now? And what are they going
to do to you?

  Warren rounded the walk bordering the long wall of the recreation area. Strange how one’s priorities change. There was a time when he thought the most important activity in life was the discharge of semen. That was the message of the media, loud and clear, the premise and promise of book and magazine story, of theater, motion pictures, radio, the allure of advertising-such stuff as wet-dreams are made of. The world belonged to beautiful, big-busted women and brawny men with bulging biceps.

  It was only later that you learned the lie.

  Because despite the universal preoccupation with mammaries and muscles, most women weren’t beautiful and most men weren’t strong. At a generous estimate, such attributes were shared by only one out of ten. And only temporarily; at thirty, the beauty finds a bra and the fighter loses his legs.

  But life goes on—and on, and on. It seemed only logical that one would prepare for the long years ahead, when breasts sag and muscles turn to flab.

  Warren shrugged. Logic was a lie too. We pride ourselves on the rule of reason, but fight against adopting the thirteen-month calendar or even a simple reform of spelling and pronunciation. He’d been as guilty as the rest—a CPA who fought changing over to the metric system.

  To his left, the sunlight swept the sward of the golf course. The greens were already crowded; half the residents of Eden had bought their homes because the course was here. Was that sufficient recompense for forty years of hard work—to spend the remainder of your days swinging a golf club until you dropped dead on the eighteenth hole? Warren had avoided contact with the sports enthusiasts, but he couldn’t avoid the accounts of their activities in the community newspaper. Every week more than half of its pages was devoted to write-ups of golfing tourneys, softball matches, tennis tournaments. He had yet to see a front page that didn’t feature the faces of wrinkled, weatherbeaten winners displaying their plaques, cups and championship trophies. Big smiles for big news.