Atonement for Iwo. Lester S. Taube

      

      

       Chapter 1

      

       June 1965

      

      Keith Masters jabbed his thumb on the doorbell, then, without waiting for a call to enter, opened the door and strode through the dimly lit hallway to the dining room at the rear of the house. A large, round table stood in the center of the room with a matching buffet off to one side.

      “Hi, Mamie,” he greeted the fat Negress seated in front of a television set. He made his way around the table to the buffet and picked up an envelope marked ‘Metropolitan Life Insurance Company’. Inside was a receipt book and three one dollar bills. He marked down two weeks’ payment in the book, then opened his heavy debit book to record it there.

      Mamie waited for a commercial before turning away from the television set. “Hi there, Mistah Masters. Where’s Mistah Bronsky?”

      Masters grinned. “He’s sick. He got the clap from screwing all you girls on the debit.”

      The fat woman shook with laughter. “Ah swear, Mistah Masters, Ah sure do miss you on the debit.”

      Masters pocketed the three dollars, fired up a cigarette, and eyed her. “How’s everything going, Mamie?”

      She pursed her lips. “Pretty good, considerin’ how sick Ah’ve been the last five years.” She cocked her head. “What you doin’ now. Ain’t seen you fur a long time.”

      “I’m out with the boys all the time. Being an assistant manager is just a crock of crap.”

      The woman, torn between wanting to watch her daily show or asking a question, dragged her eyes away to look back at Masters. “You tell that Mistah Bronsky Ah wants to know what’s goin’ on with that policy fur Lily.”

      Masters shook his head. “Hasn’t he refunded the money?”

      “What you mean, refunded the money?”

      “For Christ’s sake, Mamie, I’ve told you a dozen times not to try grabbing a big policy for Lily. I told you to buy it bit-by-bit, quarter by quarter. Who dreamed up that ten dollar a month shit?”

      “Mistah Bronsky said he’d get it through.”

      Masters shook his head again. “Well, he didn’t get it through. It was rejected, just like the other three applications over the last five years.”

      “What fur they always rejectin’ Lily?”

      “Oh, Jesus Christ, Mamie, you know better than that. There isn’t a guy in town who hasn’t screwed Lily. The Company doesn’t mind you having a piece of ass now and then, but when you make a business of it...”

      Mamie’s eyes narrowed. “That ain’t true, and you know it.”

      He leaned over the table. “Name one guy who hasn’t fucked her?”

      Her eyes narrowed further, then a twinkle came into them. “You!” she shouted, her heavy breasts heaving with laughter.

      Master grinned as he closed the debit book. “I’m holding out for you, baby,” he chuckled, starting out of the house. Behind him, the room shook from her mirth.

      On the street, he looked at his watch, surprised to see it was almost noon. He glanced at his route sheet. The next collection was in the Italian neighborhood. He walked the four blocks to where his car was parked and climbed inside. He turned the key three times before the motor caught.

      Goddamn car, he muttered, eyeing the 1958 Chevrolet with distaste. If I ever get those fucking bills paid off, the first thing I’ll do is drop this heap in the junkyard.

      He drove out of the Negro area to a drug store and sat at the counter to eat a ham sandwich. Thirty minutes later, he was on his way to the Italian section. He parked the car, got out, and opened the debit book to the route card. The first house to collect from was halfway down the block, on the other side of the street. He stepped off the curb.

      (God!) his mind screamed, as a fiery slash of pain ripped at his chest! His mouth opened wide to gasp for breath.

      (God!) He fell to his knees, the debit book sliding under the car.

      (Help!) his mind cried out. Then he crumpled to the ground.

      Mr. and Mrs. Elvino, seated on their porch across the street, saw him fall. The woman grasped her husband’s arm. “Tony, that’sa Mister Masters. Quick!”

      The old Italian limped down the steps and across to the stricken man. He kneeled and rolled him over, then turned startled eyes towards his wife.

      “He’sa dead!” he shouted. “Calla de police.”

      (God, oh God! Stop the pain!) Masters’ mind shrieked.

      Angelo Foretti, picking his teeth, came out of the house directly behind them. He took one look and ran down the steps.

      “What’s the matter, Tony?”

      “He’sa dead.”

      Angelo kneeled to peer into the pale, clammy face. “He sure is. Who is he?”

      “Insurant man, from de Metropolitan.”

      (Stop! Please stop!)

      “He had a heart attack,” explained Foretti. “I saw the same thing with my Aunt Mary. Bang! Just like that. One minute she’s reaching across the table to pour some wine, and the next minute she’s lying over all the food. I thought Mom would have a fit.”

      (God!) the scream started. Then a merciful curtain of darkness cut it off.

      A thin, colorless ray of light bored into the brain cell. The cell quivered under the violent impact, then passed on the vibration to the cells surrounding it. The motion spread out like a circular ripple triggered by a pebble dropped into a motionless pool as it rolled faster and faster in its rush to sensibility.

      “Can you hear me, Mr. Masters?”

      Masters’ eyes flickered, his head turned slowly to one side, his face muscles relaxed, his shallow breathing grew more steady.

      “I think he’ll be all right,” said the cardiologist as he closed the flap of the oxygen tent. He turned to the nurse standing at the foot of the bed. “Keep him under constant observation and call me the moment he stirs.” He left the room with a younger doctor trailing behind. “That was a close one,” he commented in the hallway. “Imagine, a cardiac infarction and angina pectoris at the same time. What a massive shock he must have experienced.”

      The younger doctor nodded. “Three days. I never thought he would make it.”

      A short, gray haired man was waiting at the end of the hall.

      “Doctor Martin?” he inquired of the approaching physicians.

      The older doctor stopped. “Yes.”

      “I’m George Brighton, manager of the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, Northeast District. Keith Masters is one of my assistant managers. How is he?”

      “He’s doing as well as can be expected, Mr. Brighton. I believe one of your people was in a day or two ago, to arrange for his hospitalization insurance.”

      “Yes. I sent over one of our other assistant managers. I realize it’s somewhat premature to make a definite statement, but what is Mr. Masters’ actual condition?”

      The doctor hedged. “It’s quite uncertain at this point.”

      Brighton smiled wryly. “Doctor, I am an attorney by training. Furthermore, in my profession as an insurance company manager, I deal with these matters extensively.”

      Martin