Chapter 8

Insomniac Theatre was flashing the credit, to its three o'clock movie on a reconditioned television set when Ralph Decker glanced at the clock sitting amongst a heap of broken down toasters and hair dryers cluttering the dusty shelves in his appliance repair shop. He sat slumped in his swivel office chair picking at the tape loosening around the arm's tear. A bottle of Jim Beam was perched at his elbow.

Ralph dug his strong fingers into the wrinkles of his forehead, staring glumly at the telephone, his body diseased with fatigue and a bad case of jitters. He'd spent the night here should Tucker decide to play with matches. Tonight was the deadline for paying the last of the money. An injured groan welled in his tight chest in a burst of depression. The house wasn't paid for, the shop wasn't paid for. He had nothing left to pawn except for his wife and kids.

What was that Goddamned Tucker up to? The big man lifted himself out of his chair and gloomily reached for his wool jacket hanging on the peg next to his grease smeared smock. Bud, hit assistant would be in the shop in another half hour. He might as well go home and face the music of Irma's nagging about him staying out playing cards all night.

Sara bolted upright in bed and switched on the night lamp. Somebody was coming up the drive, a burst of headlights washing over the corner of the house. The pink light of awakening dawn smeared the sky in a rainbow of colors. It was a little after six. Now what was Daddy doing coining home at this hour? Certainly he wasn't having an affair with another woman! Hurriedly, she slipped on her slippers and robe and went out into the hallway.

Pausing at the head of the stairs, she watched the sliver of light wedge through the slowly opening door and the shadow of her slumped over father scuffing into the kitchen. The soft thud of the door closing behind him brought a funeral pall over the house and Sara shivered under the filmy nylon of her peignoir.

Something was wrong— desperately wrong.

Her tiny feet fluttered down the carpeted steps, silent as a cat, and Sara stood outside the kitchen door. She held her breath and listened closely to hear the faint splash of liquid into glass, the sound of a bottle being set back down on the countertop. She opened the door a crack and peered inside.

Ralph had not heard her. He sat with his back to her, sipping straight bourbon from a water tumbler.

"Daddy?"

She moved closer, her face pinching concernedly with each slippered footstep. It sounded almost... as if he were crying! He was wearing his frayed old lumber-jacket. God, how long had he worn that ragged old thing? His right hand partially covered something black on the cabinet next to him. He picked it up, aimed it at his temple. It was a gun.

"DADDY!"

It had been more than Ralph Decker could handle... losing his life savings was bad enough, but pawning his wife's jewelry was too much.

The gun fell to the floor. Sara had startled him out of it. His big body shook with his weeping, his heavy face buried in his hands.

"Oh, Daddy, why?"

Sara swooshed across the room, taking a seat next to him at the counter, gently easing the gun out of the way with her foot as she reached in front of him to pour him another glass of liquor. Her hand shook with terror, and she spilled the bourbon over the sides of the water glass as she poured. "What's wrong, Daddy? This is Sara, your daughter!"

Ralph tried to speak, but his words were too slurred to be comprehensible.

Daddy, please! Talk to me!"

Ralph lowered his shaking hands and turned to face his golden haired daughter. Sara had never seen him in such a sorry state before. Oh, he'd had his share of depressions, trying to run that store, but never anything this grave. His eyes were bloodshot and his voice cracked.

"I-I lost some money," he finally managed. "A lot of money!"

"H-How much, Daddy... to who?"

Here Ralph Decker cleared his throat. "Simon Tucker." He took a long pull at the whiskey.

"Bookie... I've been in the racket for three months."

"But why?"

"I—I know this sounds nuts," he began, snickering bitterly. "But I wanted to get the house and shop paid off and take your... your mother on an anniversary cruise. We've been married for thirty years this c-coming June."

"Oh, Daddy... Mommy doesn't care about cruises! You know how she's scared to death of—"

But something in her father's expression made Sara stop.

"That's wonderful of you, Daddy. Mother would love it."

"Well... the way we've been fighting lately... she needs to get out..."

"Oh, a kind word once in a while and a kiss would do just as well... like it used to be when I was a little girl. We had such a happy family."

Ralph blinked at his daughter and swallowed tightly, studying her beatific innocence. He already felt a little better talking with Sara. She had always been generous and patient...

"Boy," Ralph continued, a faint smile flickering across his lips at the memory. "We used to be such a close family... and then... everything fell apart... with that damned sister of yours..." He traced the rim of his glass with one thick finger. Sara placed her hand on his wrist, as much to steady herself as her father. "It's been my fault, I guess... I always blamed Irma because Tanya wasn't born a boy."

Daddy don't talk about that now. The important thing is what you're going to do about Tucker."

Somehow thinking about his number two daughter usually took the edge off the problem at hand-when the car engine blew up or somebody handed him a rubber check at the shop. This time, it wouldn't work. Ralph emptied the glass in a gulp.

"How much do you owe Tucker Daddy?"

"Another five hundred.. I... I was late in getting him his money. I-I used the bookie money in a card game... and lost it all."

"How much?"

"Twenty five hundred."

"What will you do?"

"I... I've done all I can. I... I pawned your mother's jewels."

Sara paled at the pain on his face from that admission of guilt.

"Go to the police, Daddy... Tucker's up before the Grand Jury on bookie charges. You can turn State s evidence on him and get off Scot free...!"

"And end up with chains around my ankles at the bottom of the Bay." He reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.

"He's the one who tried to burn down the shop, too...!"

Ralph chugged at his glass. His whole body felt numb and very, very tired. "I... I don't know what Tucker's got up his sleeve now, Sara, but I smell a rat.

"You go to bed now. Daddy and get... get some rest. And if there's anything I can do to help..."

"Oh, Sara, my baby!" Ralph's arms enclosed his eldest daughter's round, nylon covered shoulders, hugging her close to his chest, the feel of her milky bosom mashing against his virile chest lightening his fears. "If anything happened to you, honey... well. I don't know what I'd do," the grown man sobbed.

She patted him fondly on the back. "Nothing will happen to me Daddy."