(1969) The Seven Minutes Read online

  States Senator from California. One violent act, in the category of murder, not jewel theft, that’s all we need— .’

  Je-sus, he thought, if anyone ever learned the truth, if anyone ever found out, he’d kill himself.

  He wanted to kill himself right now, this second.

  It was three hours since it had happened, and George was wrong about his feeling better soon, because nothing had helped. The passage of time hadn’t helped. The pot hadn’t helped. The being with others, that hadn’t helped. Nothing. Except maybe now he was less trembling and shaking all over. Now he was numb all over, and sick and crying in his gut and balls, and he wanted blank oblivion, nothingness, goodbye and no memory.

  His eyes went from the road ahead to his white hands welded like white hooks to the wheel of his Rover sedan.

  He heard George Perkins speak from the seat beside him. ‘Hey, you sure you’re okay ?’

  ‘I guess so,’ said Jerry Griffith. ‘I guess I’m okay now.’

  ‘You don’t look it. You look like a zombie.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Jerry Griffith insisted.

  He turned the car into the east block of Kelton Avenue, just off the UCLA campus, where his friend George shared his apartment with two other guys.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ said George, scratching inside his beard. ‘Forget it. Make like it never happened. If it never happened, then it didn’t happen. Put your mind on another plane, like you were in yoga or something. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ said Jerry Griffith.

  ‘Hey, cool it, feller, you’re driving right past my pad.’

  Jerry slammed down on the brake with what felt like a stump, not a foot, and the suddenness of stopping made his chest hit the wheel, but it didn’t hurt. ‘Sorry,’ he said as George pushed himself back from the dashboard.

  He waited for George to get out, but George was still there. He realized George was staring at him. George was smoothing his long sandy sideburns and his beard and still staring at him.

  ‘Jerry, feller, just one thing -‘ George was saying.

  He waited to hear the one thing.

  ‘Like I been telling you all night, you’re in the clear, you’re free. Nobody knows you were there.’

  ‘She knows.’

  ‘She doesn’t know your name.’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘So you’re free,’ said George. ‘But one thing. If anything went wrong -‘

  ‘You said nothing could go wrong.’

  ‘It can’t, if you won’t let it,’ said George meaningfully. ‘Like I

  sometimes tell you, you’re your own worst enemy. Like living at home.’

  ‘You know, George -‘

  ‘Sure, I know all about your old man and you. That’s the only thing that worries me. You go in looking unhinged, and he’ll pound the shit out of you until he finds out what’s eating you. And that gorgeous piece you call your cousin - that Maggie -‘

  ‘Cut it out, George.’

  ‘I got to say what’s on my mind. You’re bugged by this, but if you confide in her you’ll be digging a hole for yourself.’

  ‘I told you this is strictly between us.’

  ‘Just be sure it is,’ said George. ‘Because if it isn’t, and something goes wrong, you remember one thing - you were in this solo. I wasn’t there. Only you were there. Because if you ever said 1 was there, I’d consider that an act of betrayal, and I’d have to tell them it was you who hurt her. If you meant to or not, it was you. So that’s our agreement. I wasn’t there. So I could never say you were there. Do you understand ?’

  ‘Okay, George.’

  George Perkins opened the door, then he hesitated, and his manner was friendly again. ‘But like I told you, there’s nothing to worry about. It didn’t happen.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Just keep a good thought like I’m keeping. You got to admit, she was one helluva lay.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can thank me for opening her up. She was tight as a clam when I shoved it in there. But once I got in there,-it was like going down a greased slide, and all her squealing and biting and hitting, I almost popped right off. It was great.’

  ‘It was great,’ said Jerry, ‘if only -‘

  ‘Forget the rest of it,’ said George. ‘You know my philsophy. Keep the good thoughts and jettison the garbage. Remember that, feller.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You going straight home?’

  ‘Straight home.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, then. See you when you get out of Knight’s Lit class.’

  ‘See you.’

  George Perkins left the car, and went up the apartment-building steps two at a time, and disappeared inside.

  Jerry Griffith dropped his numb foot off the brake and pressed on the gas pedal. He pointed the Rover toward Veteran Avenue to take Sunset Boulevard to his home in the Pacific Palisades.

  It was the shortest way to get home, and he wanted to get home the shortest way, because he was alone and he couldn’t take being alone too long a time, not tonight, not the way he felt, which was

  sicker than before and still suicidal.

  But by the time he had reached Sunset Boulevard, and waited for the light to change, and spun the car left toward the Palisades, he knew something else.

  He wasn’t alone.

  The girl was with him, that squealing girl, that Sheri Moore who was eighteen.

  Except she wasn’t squealing now, no, she was as still asacadaver, and not uttering a sound and not moving at all.

  Jerry considered himself a visual person, because in his head whatever he thought of or remembered was mainly visual, in graphic pictures, not in a lot of wordy dialogue like other people said they had it. He wished he was alone now, but he wasn’t. He wished he wasn’t visual, but he was.

  It was there, that one picture that kept projecting itself inside his skull.

  The one picture that he took with his brain before he left, before George dragged him out of there.

  The girl lying flat on her back, stark naked on the rug beside the bed. She was lying spread-eagled, loose, the fleshy creamy thighs loose and apart so that what you saw most was that mound with the crease in between visible through the pubic hairs and looking like the slash of a woman’s lips turned sideways. And one hand up against the night table and the other limp across her navel, and the little cream breasts flattened down, as if deflated, and the mouth hung open and the eyes shut and the red blood still trickling down from the scalp and tangled hair.

  That was the picture.

  He tried to turn it off, and did for a while, except that other pictures kept sliding into its place because he was visual.

  He could see them, George and himself with their Cokes, inside The Underground Railroad, their dance hangout on Melrose Avenue, and George hearing the girl saying to someone else she wished she had a ride to her place, and George striking up a conversation and saying that his friend had a car and where did she live because if it wasn’t too far out of the way they’d be glad to drop her off. Her name was Sheri and she had an apartment with a roommate, Darlene, and it was just above Santa Monica Boulevard on Doheny Drive, so that wasn’t out of the way.

  Another picture. They were parked in front, she was in the back seat with George, and George kidded around, and her thigh was partially showing where her cotton dress had climbed up, and Jerry kept wanting to rip her clothes off and make love all night, imagining it, all visual, when suddenly George was getting out and she was getting out and George was signaling him and saying they’d prove to her they were gentlemen and see her to her place upstairs. Another picture, upstairs, inside. She’d got up to go to the bathroom that was off the bedroom. George winking, patting his

  crotch, saying no question she wanted it, whether she knew it or not, she was ripe for it, so maybe he’d better wait for her in the bedroom, and when he was done Jerry could have her.

  Another picture, this of the bedro
om door closing behind George. And of himself drinking from one of the cans of beer she’d brought out. Then in a short while the door opening partially, and George standing there without a stitch of clothes on, big and hairy with that big wang hanging down the middle, and George grinning and saying, ‘Jus; wanted you to know I’m still waiting to give her a little surprise.’ That moment her voice, and George ducking back into the room, and her voice protesting, and something about Darlene, the roommate, and what sounded like scuffling. And then he himself jumping up and shutting the bedroom door tightly so’s not to hear them.

  Another picture, blurred. Except there was she naked on the bed now, and himself naked, and the moistness between her thighs and his hand clamping over her mouth.

  And then the picture of his getting up, getting his shorts and trousers, and her going after him, and his dropping his clothes and trying to bat her, and her jumping back, the rug going out from under her, and her falling, smashing her head against the sharp corner of the night table, then crumpling, sliding down to the floor, trying to rise, and rolling on her back.

  And then a montage of many pictures, this time with dialogue. George running in, his saying what in the hell did you do that for, and his own stuttering andstammering it was an accident. George’s saying for him to get dressed fast. George’s bending over her and saying what a mess and she’s out cold and thank God she’s alive and breathing. His dressing and wanting to telephone a doctor. George’s snatching the telephone from him, and saying is he crazy, taking a chance of getting themselves caught. His insisting on an anonymous call to a doctor, and George’s insisting no, making him finish dressing, telling him her roommate would be back any minute and would get the doctor and the girl’s allright and let’s get out of here while we can.

  The first picture again. Looking down once more at the nude, spread-eagled body.

  The rest of the pictures underexposed, no longer clear. Mostly with fragments of dialogue, with some bits and pieces of visual. In his car, George’s driving, and George’s saying you’re in no shape to go home yet, let’s go to The Garage, which was a real garage that George and some of the guys had rented and decorated as a kind of clubhouse for getting together and pot parties, and his saying whatever George wanted to do was okay with him. Walking to The Garage and George’s saying he had it figured out whatever happened it was going to be all right, because if Sheri was patched up and none the worse for it, she wouldn’t talk, because then she’d have to explain how she let herself be picked up, because after all

  there was no evidence anyone busted into her place to rape her, and if she was in serious shape or worse then she wouldn’t be able to talk so that was that. Inside The Garage there were three of the guys, and two of the girls, regulars, and plenty of grass, and despite the incense you could smell it, but nobody cared, and he had himself a joint and inhaled it deeply and held the smoke and it settled him down a little, just a little, but not enough. After that he and George went for another long walk, until he could take the wheel himself and he took it to show he was better and then he drove George to his apartment.

  One last picture, again, again, the first one. The girl lying flat on her back, stark naked on the rug beside the bed, with the damp vaginal mound and the blood-clotted hair on her head.

  He had to pull himself together or he’d be asking for trouble. He looked at the dashboard clock. It was almost midnight. His mother and father would be asleep. Probably Maggie too. He was safe.

  He twisted the wheel at the service station on the corner and left Sunset Boulevard, accelerating the car up the incline until he arrived at their driveway. Entering between the hedges, he turned off the car lights and drove slowly onto the broad concrete parking area before the carport. His father’s Bentley S3 was already in its accustomed slot, and he eased his own car in beside it.

  Only when he had left the carport and started for the house entrance did he become aware that behind the drapes the living room was illuminated. His mother, an invalid, would be asleep, but hisfather might be havingsome friends in. More likelyit was Maggie up late reading. He would have to be prepared for anyone. He would have to be controlled and normal.

  The pictures had left his mind, and he felt safer, more assured.

  Reaching the front door, he dropped his car keys into his coat pocket and dug down into his trouser pocket for the key ring, the fancy silver one with the shiny disk engraved with his name that Maggie had given him on his last birthday. He kept his car and house keys separate because Maggie and he shared the Rover and she was always misplacing her car keys and borrowing his.

  Standing at the door, Jerry fumbled about inside his pocket for the key ring. It wasn’t there. He tried the other pocket. Not there. Worriedly, he went through the pockets of his sport jacket. No key ring. A chill of apprehension swept his chest, and in that moment he felt panic.

  He heard a rustle from the hedgerow to his left, and suddenly the bright beam of a flashlight hit his face, and a rangy uniformed police officer loomed over him.

  In his free hand, the officer was holding up a gleaming silver disk from which dangled a chain, a metal ring, and a set of keys.

  ‘You looking for these, son ?’ the officer asked. The beam of his flashlight dropped down to the disk and the ring, now lying in the palm of his hand. Jerry blinked at his name etched in scroll on the

  disk. ‘You’re Jerry Griffith, aren’t you, young man?’

  ‘Yes.’ He began to shake uncontrollably, and he reached for the keys, but the police officer’s fist closed over them. Jerry looked up. ‘Where - where’d you get them?’

  ‘We found them, Jerry. We found them a couple hours ago. We found them on the floor of the bedroom on Doheny, right near the body of the young gin you’re suspected of having raped tonight. That was a rough one, Jerry.’

  ‘I didn’t rape anyone!’

  ‘No? Well, her roommate, she found Miss Moore, and after she phoned for an ambulance, Miss Moore recovered consciousness for a half minute and she told her roommate that she’d been raped, forcibly violated. She was in a coma when they took her to the hospital. Fractured skull. She’s in bad shape, Jerry.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ Jerry blurted. ‘She slipped, and fell, and hit her head -‘

  ‘Or maybe somebody hit her head when she was resisting, eh, Jerry? That’s not a question. You don’t have to say a word until your attorney gets here.’ The police officer looked past Jerry, and then Jerry heard the tread of someone else on the cement nearby. ‘Nat,’ the officer called out, ‘this is the kid. Better frisk him.’

  He heard someone directly behind him, and then a pair of hands was expertly going through his pockets.

  The beam of the flashlight was again full on his face. ‘You alone in this?’ the police officer asked.

  ‘I… I… Yes, I was alone. Listen, let me -‘

  The police officer was looking past him once more. ‘What did you find, Nat?’

  ‘Wallet. Small change. Another set of keys. Jackknife.’

  The police officer with the flashlight nodded. ‘Knife. Yeah, I expected something like that. They’ve always got to have something like that when they try to rape a woman alone.’

  Jerry felt flushed and weak. ‘Listen - no - that knife’s a souvenir from Switzerland, when f was - It’s got gadgets - scissors and -‘

  ‘And blades?’ finished the officer. ‘What’s the other set of keys for?’

  ‘For the… for - for the car, my car.’

  ‘Hear that, Nat? You better go through his vehicle with a fine-tooth comb. I’ll take him in the house now. Nat, meet us inside when you’ve finished with his car.’ He took Jerry by the arm. ‘We’re going inside, Jerry.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Don’t make any more trouble, young man. You’re in enough trouble for a lifetime already. Your family’s together in there waiting for you and waiting for the family attorney. You come along. When the charge is forcible rape, with injuries inflicted, you’re goi
ng to need all the help you can get. So let’s get moving, Jerry. In you go.’

  Luther Yerkes unsnapped the catch on the heavy gold Rolex watch on his wrist, pulled the watch over his dainty hand, and held it up before his tinted glasses.

  ‘Twelve-thirty,’ he said. ‘I have no idea it was this late. I, think we’ve done as much as we can do in one meeting.’

  Elmo Duncan stood up, stretching, yawning. ‘I’m bushed.’

  Underwood had returned his papers to his leather portfolio. ‘Well, I hope we accomplished something.’

  ‘Why don’t we meet again in a few days ?’ said Irwin Blair, rising briskly. ‘We’ve got a long enough list of new ideas we can kick around.’

  ‘I’m too foggy to know whether we came up with anything constructive,’ said Duncan. ‘But I appreciate it, the way you’re all pitching in.’

  Yerkes downed the last of his third armagnac. ‘We’re not going to give up, Elmo.’ He suddenly cocked his head. ‘Is that the telephone at this hour?’

  There was a faint ringing from the billiard room, and then the muffled sound of the butler’s voice.

  ‘Probably my wife,’ said Duncan with a short laugh. ‘Well, gentlemen, I’d better be -‘

  The Scottish butler had materialized in the archway.

  ‘It is a telephone call for you, Mr Duncan.’

  ‘See? I told you,’ said Duncan.