Love Has No Alibi

by Octavus Roy Cohen

  We started walking again, this time toward Fifth Avenue. I said, “Is it necessary for me to start building up again to make you understand how much this has meant to me?”

  “You know better than that, darling. And I don’t feel like a woman scorned. I don’t feel that you have rejected me. I don’t feel anything but grateful—and disappointed.”

  We looked at each other and smiled. “Okay now?” I asked.

  “Okay, Mister.”

  And it was okay. That was Dana. No putting me on the spot. Instead of driving us farther apart, this had drawn us closer. She said, “If you ever change your mind, Kirk—I can be had.” She said it lightly, with an obvious effort to relieve the tension.

  I said, “I’ll come up and see you sometime.”

  We left the park and walked as far as Lexington. We went into a hamburger stand and sat on red leather stools in front of a polished white counter. We ordered hamburgers and steaming coffee. Until we started to eat, we didn’t realize that we’d forgotten dinner altogether.

  The place was immaculate. We were the only customers. The counterman looked us over and walked to the front of his place where he stood staring moodily out into the street. Everything was back to normal again.

  Dana smiled at me without turning her head. She smiled into the big polished mirror and I smiled back the same way. She said, “I should feel embarrassed.”

  “You should? What about me?”

  “You’re a big strong man. You’ve done your good deed for the day.”

  “And in consequence, I feel like a dope.”

  “That’s nice, she said. “I hoped you would.”

  We wound up with more coffee and some sugared doughnuts. We were beginning to get down to earth. Dana said, “At least I won’t hate myself in the morning.”

  “I wish I could say the same thing.”

  “Pure,” she said, touching my cheek. “Pure as the driven snow.”

  “You could have gone on,” I grinned. “You could have said, ‘and twice as cold’.”

  We were back in the groove by the time we finished our informal meal. We stopped at the cash register and paid the counterman. I left a tip that made his eyes bug out. He said, “Good luck, buddy,” and I thought I knew what he meant. I looked at Dana and she giggled. Then I knew that everything was right as rain.

  The Caliente was jammed when we got there. Chris, the doorman, greeted us. The head waiter walked around the velvet rope and said, “Somebody been asking for you two.”

  “Who”

  “Candy Livingston. She’s got a big party tonight.” He gave a little thought to his next comment, and then took a chance. “She’s kinda high,” he said.

  It was a gay party, all right: a long table at the ringside. Candy was there, looking as though she’d been poured into the black evening gown which set off her blonde beauty to rare advantage. She was surrounded by a half dozen other people. Across the table from Candy sat Agnes Sheridan. Arthur Maybank wasn’t anywhere around, but that didn’t surprise me because this was one of his duty nights at the hospital.

  Candy saw us coming. As an interceptor, she was good. She said to Dana, “I’ve already got three extra places at the table. That hooks Kirk as of now, and you and Ricardo later.”

  They talked for a few seconds, and then Dana rushed off to dress for the supper show. Candy dragged me after her and introduced me all around. She sat me next to her, which put me right across from Agnes.

  I was interested in Agnes. She seemed to have plenty on the ball, and I wondered what she saw in Arthur. Maybe, I reflected, it was that he was a doctor in the hospital where she was a lowly nurse’s aide, so that she saw something other than the puny frame and shy manner of a little man who was considerably less than a shining personality socially. But looking her over now, she seemed to me to belong more definitely with Candy Livingston than with Arthur. And Candy seemed to think so, too, I gathered from snatches of conversation that Miss Livingston and Miss Sheridan had been seeing quite a bit of each other.

  Candy’s party was in high gear when I sat down. The hostess was particularly gay. Once she leaned over and whispered, “Changed your mind yet, Big Boy?”

  I laughed and pretended not to take her seriously. She said, “Are you hard to get! ” and the scene in the park flashed back to me. It all made me feel slightly ridiculous.

  The show started and finished. A few minutes later Dana joined our table and right behind her came Ricardo. They paid no attention to each other, and I didn’t know whether the fight was continuing.

  Ricardo was still working on Candy. But he was overdoing it. Candy winked at me. I had an idea that Ricardo wasn’t ever going to get to first base. But he kept right on trying.

  I danced with Dana, and asked about Ricardo. She said, “He’s still in an ugly mood. But I kept my mouth shut.”

  “Smart girl.”

  She glanced at the table. “Candy and Agnes seem to be hitting it off, don’t they?”

  “I was thinking the same thing. But why not?”

  “No reason. As a matter of fact, I like Agnes myself. She’d be good for Arthur.”

  I said, “How about Candy? Who would she be good for?”

  Dana didn’t answer immediately. Then she said, “I don’t know. Maybe Ricardo. Maybe you.”

  “We don’t play in the same league.”

  “It could be arranged.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “I’ve flattered you twice tonight. You should be a bundle of conceit.”

  The party kept going until three o’clock. Candy wanted to continue celebrating. Dana and I talked our way out of it. Ricardo checked in with her suggestion. He was full of optimism.

  I left Dana in front of her apartment house. I went home and prepared for bed. I set the alarm clock, and knew I wasn’t going to like it when it exploded in my ear four hours from now.

  I got a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. I didn’t think I merited any applause, which was why the night seemed so fantastic.

  I thought back beyond that. Within the past week, I had turned down a very gorgeous young lady who offered herself and twenty million dollars. Tonight I had said No to the girl I was in love with.

  “If you heard that about someone else,” I remarked to my reflection, “you’d say he was a double damn fool.”

  I snapped out the light, opened the window and slipped into bed. “And,” I finished, “you’d be right.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  DURING THE next seventy-two hours I thought of a new invention. It was going to be some sort of a gadget with which you could stop thinking about things you didn’t want to think about. With it, I’d be able to concentrate on nice things like Dana Warren and the work I was doing for John Ferguson; and forget all the things that were worrying me. I’d forget—at least temporarily—the girl who had been murdered in my apartment, the hundred thousand dollars, the unknown person who had tried to kill Arthur Maybank, about how Ricardo’s luck piece got into my room, and I’d quit wondering why I had become so irresistible.

  It was the last item that seemed to stick with me. I checked Dana out. She was foolish enough to be in love with me, and that was swell. But the Candy Livingston set-up still had me buffaloed.

  I’m a long way from a prize package. If my face had to be my fortune, I’d owe somebody thirteen cents. I didn’t scintillate socially. I was fairly big and rather strong, but nothing to get excited about. I could do the average things in the average way, and when you had said that, you had said it all.

  My life had been an open book which anyone was privileged to read—but wouldn’t, because it wasn’t interesting. Yet suddenly things had started happening all around me. They happened to friends and acquaintances who apparently had committed no sin except to be friends and acquaintances. I wanted somebody to tell me I was figuring wrong. But nobody did; not even Dana.

  As a matter of fact, Dana wasn’t having any easy time of it herself. She tried not to unload her t
roubles on me, but there were certain things I couldn’t miss. Mostly Ricardo.

  According to Dana, he continued to be in a vicious mood. I could understand that a superstitious man might let himself be upset by the loss of a luck piece, but this seemed to be more than that. I still had the battered quarter, and I was keeping it until I decided what to do—or until something else turned up which would justify handing it over to the police.

  I wasn’t holding out on the cops. I’ve got a high opinion of the New York police force. They’re trained to their jobs and they do ‘em well. But they’re human. If the coin really meant something, they were welcome to it. If it didn’t, I wasn’t keen about touching off a scandal in which Dana would be the object of prime interest.

  I saw as much of Dana as my work permitted. I made my visits to the club as brief as possible. One reason for that was that I didn’t like the change in Ricardo’s manner toward me.

  He had always ridden me. Now he wasn’t doing that. He seldom spoke to me. But he looked at me a lot and there was a light in his eyes I didn’t relish. I was developing a beautiful case of the jitters.

  Thursday afternoon I got a call from Dana. She phoned to tell me that she wouldn’t be home when I got off from work. Ricardo wanted her to rehearse a new routine. She suggested that I pick her up at the rehearsal hall about 5:30. I asked whether it was anything special and she said it was nothing more special than wanting to see me.

  I was there at 5:20. The rehearsal hall was an old, barren building in the Fifties. What it had been originally, I haven’t the faintest idea. Now, it was a four-story, red-brick building with dingy hallways connected by dark, narrow stairways. There was a room on the second floor which crouched behind a sign reading “Office—Enter.”

  It was a favorite building for people in show business. It contained a great number of fairly large rooms which had hardwood floors. Each of the rooms also had a small electric phonograph. The din in the hallways was terrific: recorded music blaring, tap dancers tapping, singers singing. I went up to the third floor and walked the length of the hallway toward the big front room where Ricardo & Dana always rehearsed. The door was open. There was a rickety chair in the hall and I parked myself on it. I didn’t go into the rehearsal room for two reasons. The first was that I was just as happy to avoid Ricardo. The second reason was that he and Dana were quarreling.

  Ricardo was wearing dancing slippers, a pair of old gray slacks and a sport shirt open at the neck. His hair was disheveled and his face covered with perspiration.

  Dana looked as cute as a black-and-white kitten. She had on dancing shoes, a white blouse, and black shorts which ended above the knee. She had beautiful legs: smooth and well-shaped. There was a bit of pink ribbon tied around her hair, which was probably what made me think of the kitten.

  Rehearsal time is always bad with a dance team. They’re ironing out new rputines. They’re doing things they’ve never done in public and which haven’t yet been grooved. They’re tense and nervous. They try lifts and spins which might work and might not.

  Ricardo & Dana had a collection of special records. These were pressings made for them from their own orchestrations. One of the records—a very fancy waltz—was. playing now. They were dancing, but they didn’t look like they looked at the Caliente. They looked like two people in a gymnasium.

  They floated past the doorway. Then Ricardo grabbed her and swung her over his head. He spun her around, then twirled her body and let it fall. He caught her just before she hit the floor and started spinning with her again. Dana said, “Oh!” as though something hurt. She jerked away from him, and said, “That’s no good.”

  He growled something which I didn’t understand, and she went on: “It just won’t work.”

  He walked across to the phonograph and set the needle back. He said, “We’ll try it again.”

  “No. You hurt me.”

  “So what?”

  “I’m not having any more. The whole routine is absurd. It isn’t even pretty.”

  “You’re telling me what’s good, huh?”

  “I’m only saying that part of it is out.”

  “Oh, yeah . . .” The music had caught up with them. He put his right arm around her and started the lift. She squirmed and pulled away. He staggered back and would have fallen if he hadn’t crashed into the wall. He called her a name that could not have offended a female canine, but which sounded harsh and ugly when applied to Dana. I felt my face flushing and my body getting tight. I relaxed with an effort. I said, “Hold on, Kirk—hold on. This is their business.”

  They started having it out verbally. It wasn’t new to me. I had seen other dance teams rehearsing: topflight teams . . . nice people who were turtledoves outside. They all quarreled and argued.

  But it didn’t take me long to realize that this was different. Ricardo was nasty. He wasn’t the suave Ricardo of the Club Caliente. He was Ricky Sanchez of Red Hook.

  Once more he dropped the needle where he wanted it. He grabbed her again, and again she tore away from him.

  He said something vile. His open hand whipped out. It caught her on the cheek. Hard.

  I was in the room before I knew what was happening. This wasn’t their business any more. It was mine. Ricardo whirled to face me. He was on his toes, and his face was contorted with anger.

  He knew why I was there. He knew it even better than I did. I closed in on him and my fist flashed out. It had everything I could give it. It caught him on the side of the jaw.

  He brought up against the table that held the little phonograph. The music kept right on playing. I knew I had started something, but that was the way I had wanted it for a long time.

  He smiled. It was a thin, cruel smile. He said, “You’ve been asking for this, Fauntleroy. Now you’re gonna get it.”

  He slid forward like a boxer. I was ready. Or at least I thought I was. I led with my left and then threw a hard right. He stepped inside of it neatly. His counter—a hard right cross—caught me on the cheek. It calmed me down and told me that I was up against a man who knew his stuff.

  He snapped one at my stomach. I blocked that and let fly with my right. Too high. It rolled off his forehead. It couldn’t have hurt much.

  He was a little larger than I was. I was the better boxer, but this wasn’t a boxing match. It wasn’t something that could be staged in Madison Square Garden.

  It was ugly. Rules were forgotten. Down the hall a woman screamed. Doors opened and the other rehearsal halls disgorged people in odd attires. But I wasn’t interested. I had plenty on my hands. More, perhaps, than I could cope with.

  Dana was standing against the wall. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t said anything.

  Ricardo butted me. He brought his right knee up hard against my groin. I returned the compliment. If that was the way he wanted to play, it was okay with me.

  There was a commotion in the hall. A husky voice said, “Break it up!” and I saw a blue uniform. There was a silver shield on the blue coat. Behind the cop was a little man I’d never seen before, but who apparently managed the building. He was jumping around and making futile gestures.

  The patrolman hauled us to our feet. Ricardo slugged me. It was a Sunday punch and I reeled back from the impact. I started toward him, but I didn’t get there. The cop knew his stuff, too. He crowded Ricardo against the wall, holding him with his body. He said, “Quit playin’ rough, sonny. Or you’re gonna get it how you won’t like it.”

  Ricardo tried to shove past him. Two well-muscled young men who had been rehearsing an adagio act appointed themselves deputies. Each one grabbed an arm. They held Ricardo tight.

  Somebody said something to the patrolman. He looked at Ricardo. “You oughta be ashamed,” he said. “You’re big enough to know better.”

  Ricardo called him a dirty name. The cop’s eyes clouded. “That’ll be enough,” he snapped. “By rights I oughta run you in. But if you act nice, I’ll lay off. Take it or leave it.”

  He stepped back.
The adagio boys dropped Ricardo’s arms. Ricardo looked like a mess. I had a hunch that I looked twice as bad. He said to me in a flat, toneless voice, “This isn’t finished, Douglas.”

  He walked over to the corner where there was a little washstand with running water. He bathed his face and dried it in a towel. He brushed his hair with his hands. He put on his coat and then his overcoat. He clapped his hat on his head and walked out through the buzzing spectators.

  I used the basin, too. I washed off some blood. The cold water stung, but it felt good, too. I was beginning to think connectedly again. I hated what had happened.

  Dana said, “I’ll be back.” She went out of the room. The cop looked me over. “Just a private scrap, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “I wisht I didn’t have to break it up,” he said. “You was goin’ good: the both of you.”

  Dana came back. She had on a dress, a coat and a hat. She had on street shoes and carried a little bag. She said to the policeman, “May we go?”

  “Go ahead.” A broad grin split his countenance. “I ain’t seen a thing.”

  Dana and I walked downstairs. We hailed a cab and got in. I gave the address of her apartment.

  After a long while, she spoke.

  She said, “It wasn’t your fault, Kirk. But I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  She put an icy hand in mine. “I’m afraid,” she said.

  I didn’t say anything. There was no point to telling her that I was afraid, too.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  WHEN I shaved the next morning I had lots of no fun. My lower lip was cut inside and puffed outside. There was a bruise on my jaw. I had a bit of a mouse under my left eye, but that didn’t interfere with the shaving.

  The somewhat ancient and bowlegged doorman took one look at me and grinned. Two girls in the crosstown bus stared and giggled. I hunched my shoulders so they’d look square and stuck my chest out. Maybe they’d think I had fought the main bout in the Garden the previous night.