The Memory of Eva Ryker by Donald Stanwood

scabs and the salmon pink roof tiles were falling out like the teeth of an old woman.
    A second-story tenant had a radio up fall volume, blasting Jan and Dean out into the street. Surf City, Here We Come. Jerry fumbled with keys and climbed the creaking staircase, swearing in a thin stream. Those goddam kids were ruining this town. The flea-ridden little bastards should be shipped to Siberia, where they belong.
    He shut and locked the door behind me, muting the blare of KFWB.
    â€œOkay, Norm.” He leaned against the door jamb. “Business talk.”
    I held out a fifty-dollar bill and watched it vanish. “That’s for your time. There’s more for any information.”
    â€œWhat sort?” The eyes were noncommittal.
    I treaded through the heaped newspapers and magazines and settled in a musty overstuffed chair. “Do you know about my article for World? ”
    Jerry’s eyelids blinked in assent. “Proctor hopes you’ll help get World out of hot water.”
    â€œWith my little story? You mean people are going to flock to the newsstands?”
    â€œProctor got a good deal of money from William Ryker to cover the Titanic story.”
    â€œEvery magazine and newspaper in the U.S. would’ve jumped at the chance for an exclusive feature. Ryker wouldn’t need to pay anyone off.”
    â€œOrdinarily not.” His smile was bland. “But the money had strings attached. Ryker wanted you to write the story.”
    I couldn’t think of anything to say and I watched him laugh at my expression.
    â€œI’ve never met the man before! Exactly how much did he pay Proctor?”
    â€œAbout a half million. Ryker’s coffee money, you might say. Not to mention all your expenses. Proctor’s sending the tab to him.”
    â€œThe whole thing’s crazy. Not to mention dishonest and probably illegal.”
    â€œWant to call a cop?”
    â€œWhat I should do is fly to New York and wring Geoffrey Proctor’s neck. Maybe, in his last dying gasp, he could supply the whys behind his little business deal.”
    â€œCan’t help you there. I try to know what people are doing. Why they’re doing it is their own business.”
    I smiled briefly. “Is that a Goldwynism?”
    â€œOf a sort. I really don’t know anything else about it, so don’t corrupt me with more money. For right now, just say that with William Ryker you have one hell of a fan.”
    I leaned forward, hands folded. “I want to know more about him. Something besides the Who’s Who statistics.”
    â€œJesus!” He grimaced painfully. “Do you have any idea how many years ago all of that was? Ryker goes back to when dinosaurs roamed the earth.”
    â€œCome on, Jerry. Two months ago Ryker was just a rich old man waiting to die. But he’s made the Titanic news. And he’s brought himself into the headlines. Just tell me what you know, without the accompanying greasy con.”
    He chewed on a lower lip. “There’s not much to tell. Not that anyone can find out. William Ryker started with a modest nest egg from a well-to-do aunt from Topeka. By age twenty-one he’d made the egg hatch into a couple of million. That became twelve by the turn of the century.
    â€œIn nineteen hundred one, Ryker married Clair Austin, daughter of a prominent but financially on-the-skids Baltimore family. Mostly it was a cool business relationship. Ryker supplied the niceties of life. In return, Clair was expected to spread her lily-white loins and moan and groan on cue.”
    â€œQuaintly put.”
    â€œNot surprisingly, this system resulted with Clair Ryker being ‘with child.’ Eva arrived in 1904 and seemed to shore up the marriage. For a few years, anyway. Ryker became very possessive over his wife and daughter. As a result, Clair got very indiscreet with those loins. Gardeners, dishwashers, chauffeurs—the common denominator seems to