Control

by William Goldman

  “Thousand “ the black guy said—”Jesus, it ain’t worth more’n that—”

  Billy Boy started toward him. The number in his head had been two fifty but he was on fire.

  ‘Twelve hunnerds all I got!”

  Billy Boy held out his hand for the money, got it, watched as the pimp grabbed the merchandise, went to the door, opened it. “Don’t never come back to that bar,” he said, and he took off.

  Billy Boy went right back to the bar, ordered another seven and seven, took it back to a chair near where the pimp was sitting with half a dozen others.

  Not one of them even budged. And most of them looked afraid. Billy Boy hked that. He never felt fear. But scaring other people, that was more fun than anything.

  He got up, left the bar. He was hungry. He spotted a McDonald’s and went in. It wasn’t too crowded and when it was his turn he ordered six Big Macs. “To go?” the girl asked. He shook his head, paid, went to a table, started to eat.

  A little kid began to giggle.

  Billy Boy glanced up. The little kid was pointing to another little kid—pointing at the six hamburgers. Now their folks were looking too. Billy Boy turned and stared around the other way. Same story. People were watching him.

  Just lemme be invisible shit!

  He finished the second sandwich, got up, left the rest uneaten. He couldn’t help that he had a big appetite. It took a lot to fill him, so he went to a Burger King and ordered a coupte of Whoppers.

  He wanted a bunch but they’d start looking at him again if he did that. His next stop was the Colonel where he had four pieces of the crispy. Then he found an Arthur Treacher’s and finished up with fish. Then he found a whore, made a deal, took her in the hallway of a tenement Then he headed back down to Ninth Avenue where the Duchess was.

  They went well into the morning talking about their lives…

  He woke in some fleabag, checked to see his money was safe. It was, which was good, cause sometimes when he boozed it bad he did dumb things—there were two empties on the floor, two quarts before sleep, and usually that wasn’t any big deal but he’d been inside so long he was out of practice. Booze was like anything else, you had to practice.

  He got up and went to the sink, put some water on his face. His hangover was pretty bad but you didn’t get them when you were locked inside, so don’t bitch he told himself. Now he studied himself in the mirror.

  Brown eyes, brown hair, average features—except they spotted him because he was so wide. The shoulders belonged on a bigger man. When you were built like he was built you carried your own spotlight. Sometimes he tried slumping, tried being five eleven instead of over six one. And sometimes it didn’t work. Wishing again for invisibility, he opened the door, walked down to the lobby. He’d paid in advance and there was no way he’d come back here again—different places each night, you had to keep moving —so when the rummy room clerk said good day he just grunted and kept on going.

  First thing he saw on the street was a Chink hooker staring at the sun. Dainty, black-haired. He paid her, trailed her into a room she had, got his money’s worth, left. What a great city. Whores in the morning. What a sweet life.

  Hero’s looked better in the daylight than when he’d checked it out the afternoon before. Great-looking threads. That was what the niggers called them back inside: “heavy threads, man.” Been in America all these years and the assholes still couldn’t speak English.

  “Yessir?” the salesman said. Big guy. Six six. Slim build. Average hands.

  Billy Boy looked around the place. He was it as far as customers went. Still he felt nervous—-how long had it been since he’d bought clothes? Years and years. Inside they gave you what to wear, outside he took. He tried to smile and said, “Some heavy threads.”

  “We’ve got the best,” the salesman said. “I’m Nick, you’re… ?”

  “Will. An’ I want the works. I wanna suit. I wanna shirt. I want it should all fit perfect.”

  Nick raised his right hand. “The day something leaves this place that doesn’t fit perfect is the day I close.” He took a step back, studied Billy Boy. “What’s your neck?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Wonderful—cause I’m a great guesser and I’d put you at …” He studied Billy again. “Eighteen and a half neck, thirty-six sleeve.” He got a tape measure, expertly applied it, showed it to Billy Boy. “On the button. For a suit, maybe you ought to try a fifty long, athletic cut. That sound okay?”

  “Just so they’re heavy threads is all I care.”

  “Now color.” He led the way to the suit area. “Young man like you, I wouldn’t want to see you in old colors. Dark gray, navy blue, that’s drab.”

  “You pick, okay? I just want it now.”

  “We’re a one-day store, Will. I’ll do the measuring, tailor comes in this afternoon, you can have the shebang before we close. Seven ail right?” ,

  “An’ them—an’ them!” Billy Boy pointed to the salesman’s boots. He was talking too loud, much too loud, but he couldn’t help it. “I want them too!”

  “Not for sale I’m afraid. Those are mine. Custom-made special. Cost me three hundred.”

  Billy Boy put his foot beside the salesman’s. They were about the same size. “I’ll pay five hundred for what you got on.”

  Nick smiled. “Can’t Will—I need them for my job—people like a big salesman in a shop like this—Adler’s only gives you two, these give me four plus.”

  “Six hundred,” Billy Boy said.

  “Just not for sale,” Nick told him.

  Billy Boy said he understood, paid cash in advance for the clothes, promised he’d be back by seven.

  It was closer to quarter after when he knocked at the dark store. There was a pause before Nick appeared from the back, nodded when he saw who it was, opened up. “I was about to lock up and leave,” he said.

  “Sorry,” from Billy Boy.

  “No harm. All’s done.” He indicated a hanger of clothes and a box of shirts. “Come back real soon.”

  “Don’t I get to try ‘em on? What if the pants aren’t right?”

  Nick looked at his watch. “The wife’s waiting.”

  “I’ll hurry. Promise.”

  Nick pointed the way in the back to a curtained-off area. Billy Boy disappeared. Nick paced. Billy Boy called out then, “You better come look at this.” Nick went behind the curtained area. The last thing he saw was a club coming down…

  The police arrived before eight and by then the crowds had already begun and by nine there were mobs of people standing in a semicircle around the lit clothing store. It was cold but more and more of them kept coming, watching the police go in and out of the store and the blond giant didn’t arrive until nine thirty when he went up to a group of black kids and said, point’ ing to the store, “Trouble?” and the black kids looked at him, studied him, then looked away and said, “Murder,” and the blond giant moved on down to another group of people, young couples, and he said, “Is it true, a murder?” and the couples looked at him awhile then said, “Broke the guy’s neck,” and the blond giant moved away, down to some businessmen, and said, “Murdered I hear, neck broke and all,” and the oldest businessman said, “Murdered and robbed, money, clothes, everything, they found him naked and dead,” and the blond giant shook his head, moved on, and as he continued to mingle, continued to move from group to group, Billy Boy wanted to whoop out loud like a kid when he gets his first tw©-wheeler. Because that’s what it was like—his slumping days were over, he stood six foot six now because he was wearing the boots, the special four-inch elevator boots, and the brand new three hundred dollar long-haired blond wig fit perfect, perfect, and as he moved along he knew people were looking at him and he loved it, because they were looking at him, sure, but they weren’t seeing him, he wasn’t there.

  Two detectives came out of the clothing store and walked right past him. The older one smelled of aftershave and the younger one was big with eyes so blue and Billy B
oy tapped the old one on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, sir, but someone down the way said the poor man was naked with his neck broke, and I wondered, what’s the city coming to?” They were deep in conversation and neither of them answered, just shrugged, moved away. Billy Boy stared after them. The old one kept on walking.

  The blue-eyed one stopped, slowly turned, stared back. Enormous, unconquered, invisible at last, Billy Boy made a smile …

  5

  The Last to Know

  Feeling very much a fool—no, worse—feeling very much an old fool, W. Nelson Stewart silently unlocked the great front door of his mansion and stepped inside. It was midnight of the day of his supposed Boston trip, and bitter. He had been hesitating outside for more than a few minutes, and now as he stood there in the darkness, he shivered, shivered with the cold.

  At least that was one reason.

  Probably a greater contributor was simply fear, fear of what he suspected might be going on between Charlotte and Theo—no, worse—fear of what he knew to be going on between them.

  He crept now toward the staircase.

  Crept. That was the right word. Here he was, a decent fellow, a decent somber admittedly humorless businessman, mid-fifties, worth a million and more for every year, reduced to skulking.

  To skulk was lower in dignity than to creep.

  I have never committed an immoral act in my life, Nelson Stewart thought, never knowingly wronged another, and here I am, stealthily slinking into my own house, prowling up my own stairs, intent on lurking in the dark to catch my own wife in the arms of another.

  Part of his mind said “get out, stop this, it doesn’t matter, this is not what you do well, you don’t belong here” and for a moment he paused on the stairs and glanced back at the door.

  But he did belong here. It was, after all, his home.

  And of course, it did, it did matter.

  He had cared for Charlotte Bridgeman since she was born, had watched her become perhaps the one genuine beauty it had ever been his great pleasure to know, had married her, babied her, fathered children with her.

  Only to be betrayed.

  The act of betrayal was not in itself so surprising. Nelson remembered the looks Charlotte got when they entered rooms together. And he knew he was, to her, old, and he knew he had more stomach than necessary and his rimless glasses were not the sort a hero might wear. And there were always so many younger men in the world—as you got older, he realized, their number increased; thirty was now a younger man to him, thirty-five even.

  But in his mind, if he was to lose Charlotte, it was also to an athlete, someone who matched her beauty. A man who played tennis or golf and of course had money and the graces and darting eyes; that sort of figure might replace him.

  Not a Theo.

  Not an undernourished less than manly trashy poet. At the top of the stairs now, Nelson wondered again at the incredible choice Charlotte had made. And though he was yet short of tangible proof, he had caught the looks between them, seen the flushes of cheek, caught the occasional stammer.

  As he crossed silently toward his bedroom, he allowed for the possibility that he was wrong. That she had not betrayed. That his jealousy was simply getting brewed stronger with age. Fifty-five. He was fifty-five, she was just past thirty.

  But Theo was young and that must be the greater part of it. Plus: he was though dreary to Nelson, undoubtedly soulful to her. Probably he read her poetry aloud. Probably he spoke in metaphor.

  But surely there could not be much physical between them.

  Nelson entered his bedroom, crossed it, carefully unlocked and turned the terrace door. Their rooms were close, his and Charlotte’s, and the terrace went the entire length of the house. He slipped outside now, walking very slowly. A step at a time. Pause. Another. Pause. Breath. No sound. Step. Pause. Step. Pause. As he approached her bedroom, he slowed even more. There was a splash of light where the curtains parted. Not much. But more than sufficient for his needs.

  W. Nelson Stewart moved to where the bed was entirely within his view. He stepped back, taking no chance of being seen from within. Then he waited.

  Theo was seated on her bed, his hands clasped in his lap, a tatty robe tight around his ridiculous body. He wore old slippers, torn. One of his toes protruded.

  W. Nelson Stewart shook his head. For such a creature, betrayal. For such a forlorn wet kitten of a man, a life thrown away. No sense, no sense at all.

  Charlotte entered the room now from her dressing room area. Her black hair framed her pale face; her violet eyes had never been brighter. She wore a long elegant robe her husband had lovingly bought her in Paris on their honeymoon.

  Theo stood.

  Charlotte gestured sharply, gestured down.

  Theo sat.

  Charlotte approached the bed.

  Nelson approached the window.

  She knelt, reached out, took off one of his slippers, then the other. Then she stood, reached out, took his hands. And kissed them. And kissed them. She brought him to his feet their hands still clasped.

  Nelson moved back a quiet step.

  She put her fingers to the sash around his robe, untied it. The robe parted. Theo was naked. She put her hands beneath the robe, moved it back until it fell from his shoulders. It fell to the floor. She bent, picked it up, touched it gently with her strong fingers, stroked the robe smooth, lay it carefully at the foot of the bed. Then she stood in front of him and leaning forward, put her tongue to his nipple. Theo reached for her. She took his hands, replaced them at his sides. She kissed his other nipple, then knelt in front of him briefly and kissed him again.

  It was somewhere in there that Nelson knew he had to kill them.

  Break the little bastard’s back, rip out her offending tongue, storm in, surprise them, destroy them but let them live enough to suffer for their sins, beat them, slash them, crush them—

  —with what?

  He looked at his hands—they were small, unused to violence, soft, useless when it came to feats of strength. And even though Charlotte was a woman she was strong, and Theo though small, was young and—and—

  —with the pistol.

  He turned, walked along the terrace, reentered his room, moved swiftly to the door and to the stairs beyond. Down the stairs and then he turned toward the library. He went immediately to the large desk, took his keys, unlocked the central drawer. Then he reached inside toward the deep right corner, pulled the pistol out.

  It had never been fired. Certainly never by him. He had bought it years before when two robberies had taken place on Gramercy Park within a week. He opened it now just long enough to see the bullets were in place.

  Then back up the stairs, to his room, to the terrace door, to outside. He was amazed at the clarity of his mind. While he had waited outside the house before entering, he had imagined all kinds of wild scenes, all kinds of rage bursting from him. But he felt no rage now. Just a desire for order, for justice, for sins to be repaid.

  The night air was no longer cold to him. He walked along the terrace steadily, steadily without fear approached the light. The gun was at his side. He stared into the room.

  Theo was pursuing his wife.

  He was still naked, emaciated, worthless. She was still beautiful in her Paris robe. He pursued her slowly around her bed. She retreated, he advanced. Then he leapt forward, grabbed her, brought her to him, kissed her.

  Charlotte turned her head away. He tried again to kiss her. Again she would have none of it. He tried to hold her tight but she broke free and stepped away. She pointed sharply to the bed. He made for her again but she gestured to the bed a second time, more sharply. She meant it—sit—down.

  Theo sat.

  Charlotte moved in front of him. Slowly her hands went to her own sash. She was about to disrobe.

  The pistol was level now, level and aimed at Theo—Nelson wanted her to be the first to see her loved one’s pain.

  And it was then that Charlotte began to dance. Not
like a waltz, not really steps at all. But it was some kind of dance movement, her shoulders dipped and her hips undulated and—

  —and as Nelson watched he realized she was vamping him. She was Cleopatra now, she was flirting with Antony. Charlotte’s eyes flashed and gradually the robe came off one shoulder and her hips kept moving—

  —and as Nelson watched what had so recently been passion now became, to his eyes, ridiculous and sad. Charlotte was never graceful and she was always big and her eyes narrowed as she dropped the robe to the floor and now she was naked too, except naked her breasts were soft and sagging and her poor stomach bulged from the scars of giving birth.

  Nelson stared at his wife, then at his pistol. Dear God, he had actually contemplated using the thing. Had considered stamping “scandal” beside his family name forever. Inside now, Charlotte raised her long arms and continued her slow movements. Theo sat as before, pale and implausible on the bed. What a terrible thing almost happened, Nelson thought, watching his aging beauty of a wife, scarred and simple, at most with half a-mind. Not an item to go berserk over. Hardly that. She was snapping her fingers now as her dance of passion continued. Feigned passion, Nelson thought. He doubted the real thing had ever happened to her. Not even doubted; he knew.

  Whenever they had sex, she was always dry…

  6

  The Capture of Billy Boy

  It was their day off, Eric was in a foul mood, so Haggerty decided they could do with the double sirloin at Wally’s.

  Haggerty treasured his days off now. When he was first alone, they were a bitch. Crazy-making. But once he finally admitted Helen was not going to pull a Lazarus, he realized what he had to do was block out his time, not leave himself unattended spaces. So he always slept late, no problem, he was good at sleeping, even better when he was allowed to doze. He loved dropping off again, coming to half an hour later, stretching, getting the pillow back smooth, then snoozing another twenty, thirty minutes; he was a great dozer.