“An executive’s wife isn’t any special type,” Irene had said. “And I don’t think of myself as playing a role. I think the most important thing an executive’s wife can be is a real partner, not standing behind, pushing, but standing beside him, sharing his problems and his hopes and his achievements. And after all,” she had added thoughtfully, “isn’t that what any wife should be—a real partner?”
The Fortune writer had been impressed—and when the interview appeared everyone at Venture Electronics, from Mr. Braun on down, had been equally impressed.
Richard watched the perfect partner, long slim-limbed, her hips surprisingly full-swelling, the pale texture of her skin flawless. He reached for the chrome flask, and Irene, who was now wearing only brassière and panties, reached for her nightgown. She went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Richard poured a drink into the cap and gulped it down. He stared at the bathroom door, his mind filled with the image of Irene’s white body. He felt the sickness starting, the aching hunger and the bitterness and the anger with himself. Another man wouldn’t stand for it, he thought—but another man would have been able to cope with the situation in the beginning, would have been able to break through the barrier.
He remembered the horror of that first night, Irene’s terror and revulsion and his own fumbling inadequacy, his woeful inexperience. God, how clumsy he had been! At thirty-seven he had had less experience than the average eighteen-year-old, and he had been totally unprepared for the violence of Irene’s reaction, completely unequipped to cope with it. The price of your moral upbringing, he thought bitterly. Avoiding hell in the hereafter, you’ve created your own private little hell on earth.
He wondered, as he often did, why he had waited so long to marry, and why he had chosen Irene. There had been his shy stiffness when he was young, at the age when girls are not old enough to like shy men. Then there was the war, and the steady girl friend who didn’t wait for Richard to return from two years overseas duty. After that, school and work, and a tightening, imprisoning circle of friends and acquaintances in which the right woman somehow never appeared. There had been women, a few, like the wife of a missiles engineer who had moved back East, a woman with whom Richard had made love guiltily but easily, guided by her experience.
But these affairs had been brief and very infrequent, and there had been no love, no strong attraction—until Irene. And that had happened quite unexpectedly. One day the pretty secretary he had seen dozens or times smiled casually at him in the company cafeteria, and in the act of smiling suddenly acquired an individual personality, became not another obscure face at a family picnic but a woman incredibly lovely and desirable.
Impulsively Richard put down the flask, rose and walked across to the bathroom door. Irene was just slipping her nightgown over her head, her back turned toward him. Richard stepped forward and put his hands on her waist. His fingers touched the astonishing smoothness of her skin, and his lips brushed her shoulder.
Irene whirled as if she had been struck. She spun away from him, holding the nightgown in front of her breasts. Behind her blue eyes was an ocean of impenetrable cold.
“Richard!” she snapped. She broke off the icicle words one by one. “Don’t-be-a-god-damned-fool!”
14
The maroon Packard made the twenty miles from Albuquerque to the Daro intersection in slightly over seventeen minutes. Pete Baer sat silently, staring out the window, while Lefty Cox re-lived aloud a glittering moment of past glory, untarnished by time.
“One lousy hit was all they got,” Lefty said. “For seven innings they didn’t get a loud foul off me. Then this lucky son of a bitch gets a piece of my fast one in the bottom of the eighth and bloops it into right for a Texas Leaguer. If that second baseman hadn’t been asleep on his goddam feet, he could of caught it, too. Well, this bastard dies on first. I strike out the next two deadheads. Christ, was I mad! One lousy fluke hit between me and a no-hitter! They didn’t touch me in the ninth, either. 2-0, we won. And this wasn’t any goddam Class D league, either. This was Double-A.”
Pete let Lefty talk, not bothering to make a pretense of listening. When Lefty got going like this, he would get so wound up that he didn’t really notice whether Pete was listening or not.
Pete’s temporary hope that Cutter would be found at the Daro motel had begun to leave him. It was too lucky a break to hope for. For the first time Pete began to entertain seriously the thought that Cutter might escape completely. They had found the used car dealer so easily where Cutter had bought his getaway car, and they had picked up his trail so quickly, that rete had been sure Cutter didn’t have a chance in the world of getting away.
Well, maybe he didn’t. Maybe they would find him at this motel. Or maybe they would pick up the scent again in the morning. Cutter had lost them a couple of times before, changing routes the way he did, and they had managed to get on his tail again each time.
But the chances were that the other guys, moving west from El Paso, or covering the border cities, would be the ones to find Cutter now. Pete hoped that they would take him alive and ship him back to L.A. Maybe Sam would let Pete do the honors after Sam was through.
Pete was not a natural born killer, not the way Lefty was. Lefty took pride in it. It made the little man feel big. Nevertheless, Pete was tough and strong and smart, and it didn’t bother him to hurt people. Three years of college football and two years with a semi-pro outfit had eliminated any compunctions Pete might have had about inflicting pain. Aggressiveness was what football coaches wanted, and aggressiveness, especially among the pros, meant that you liked the going rough, and you didn’t hesitate to put a man out of action if you could. Maybe they weren’t all like that, but the coach of Pete’s semi-pro team hadn’t cared how you did it. If a guy gave his team trouble, the coach wanted the guy out of there, period.
Pete had had enough aggressiveness and enough size. It was a lack of speed which had kept him from being good enough for the big league pros, like the Los Angeles Rams, with whom he had had a tryout.
Pete had met Sam Garner while he was with this semi-pro team. Not counting money and that sexy Italian girl, Carla, Sam had two ruling passions: sports and gambling. They went together. He gambled heavily on everything from football to billiards. And he liked athletes. He was surrounded by them. Once, Pete remembered, Sam had even let a bartender off the hook for refusing to pay protection—just because the bartender was an ex-pug and Sam liked him. Pete himself had won Garner’s favor by putting a rival quarterback out of action with a dislocated shoulder during a game Garner had a bet on. Garner had use for a big, tough man whose conscience didn’t keep him awake nights.
After Pete’s second season with the pro team ended, Garner offered him some off-season work. Pete wasn’t sure about it at first, but after a couple of jobs he learned roughing up a storekeeper who didn’t want to pay protection, or a careless husband who didn’t like being shaken down by Sam, was no different from roughing up a fast end or a fleet tailback. It was just a lot easier and the pay was better.
So Pete quit football for good. And when Al flunked out of college, Pete introduced him to Garner and Sam took him on. Al wasn’t as bright as Pete but he was just as big and just as tough. He was Pete’s kid brother, and Pete had taken care of him since Al was fourteen and their mother died. Their old man had disappeared years before that. Pete felt a responsibility toward Al.
That was why Cutter was one man Pete was going to enjoy killing.
He felt a spasm of anticipation in his stomach as Lefty turned off the main highway and shot down the side road toward the motel. A red “VACANCY” sign was blinking on and off out front. Lefty pulled onto the gravel and stopped in front of the office. If Cutter was here and watching, Pete thought, let him sweat.
There was just one man in the office, a big guy, sun-browned, rangy, who looked as if he would make a good pro end. He didn’t look as if he’d be as easy to push around as the squirt in the motel at Albuquerqu
e, but Pete felt in the mood for it.
“You got a vacancy,” he said, measuring the big man through narrowed eyes.
Lefty looked at him uneasily. “Take it easy,” he muttered.
“Yes, we’ve still got a unit,” the big man said. “Twin beds.”
Pete looked thoughtfully at the register on the counter. “Maybe one of us should take a look at it, see if it’s okay.”
The man nodded agreeably. “Sure,” he said.
He picked up a key from a row of hooks behind him and came out through an opening in the counter. Lefty was watching Pete, puzzled. Pete jerked his head toward the door.
“Take a look,” he said. “I’ll wait here.”
The rangy guy hesitated at the door, his glance flicking from Pete toward the desk and back. Pete put on what he thought was an amiable grin.
“I’m not going to steal your jewels,” he said.
The man smiled. “No, you’re not,” he said quietly.
Pete didn’t like the way he said it, but before he could think of an answer the guy went out with Lefty. Pete stepped to the door and watched them cross the courtyard. When they disappeared into a unit across the way, Pete stepped back to the counter. He turned the register around and studied it.
There were two entries from California: Mr. and Mrs. Horace Stockwell of San Francisco—Horace, for God’s sake—and a Philip Nelson from Los Angeles. Pete checked the other entries before his gaze returned to Nelson’s signature. His was the only single entry. All the others were couples or families, and Pete was sure that Cutter was alone. Registering from Los Angeles didn’t seem very bright, but often a guy would do just that kind of thing—take a phony name but use his own first name, or give the actual place he was from. Philip Nelson. It sounded phony.
Pete stared at the name, and he had a cold, tight feeling in his head, as if everything was being compressed. This could be Cutter, he thought. It could be him.
The phone rang. Startled, Pete looked toward the door. He turned the register around the way it had been before. The phone kept ringing. It began to get on his nerves.
He picked it up.
“This is Albert Harrison,” a voice said. “I wonder if I could have some sandwiches sent across from that café.”
“The guy is out,” Pete said. “He’ll be back in a couple minutes.”
Something stirred in the back of his mind and he frowned. There was something about the voice on the phone that was familiar.
“Oh,” Albert Harrison said. “Well, I’ll call again.”
“Just a minute,” Pete said quickly. He was trying to remember what it was about the voice that seemed familiar. A suspicion crossed his mind. “How many sandwiches do you want? Maybe I can tell him.”
“Fine,” the voice said. “Just make it four hamburgers, two cups of coffee, one black, and two bottles of orange soda pop.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Pete said, disappointed. “I’ll tell him.”
He hung up. Footsteps grated on the gravel outside, and the rangy man came in with Lefty behind him.
Lefty hesitated, looking puzzled at Pete. “I didn’t see anything special,” Lefty said carefully. “But—”
The place look clean?” Pete asked, making the question sound important.
“Yeah, sure.”
Pete gave Lefty a little nod that the big buy couldn’t see. “Okay,” Pete said. “We’ll take it.”
He signed his own and Lefty’s names as Richard Brown and Horace Smith from Los Angeles, smiling at the Horace when he thought of using it. He paid the big man five dollars. As he was starting toward the door he remembered the phone call.
“Some guy called,” Pete said. “Harrison his name was. Want four hamburgers, a couple of coffees and two bottles of pop.”
The big guy smiled. “Thanks for taking the call.”
The guy had a slow, easy, confident way of talking, Pete thought as he went out, like one of those cowboys in the movies.
When they were back in the car, Lefty turned toward him irritably. “For Christ’s sake,” he said, “what was all that crap about?”
“I wanted to see the register,” Pete said. “And maybe we’re in luck. There’s one single guy booked in from Los Angeles. It could be Cutter.”
15
Marina turned the MG around in a tight circle and headed back to Daro, driving slowly, the car’s mutter a lonely, isolated sound in the quiet night. For once she was not conscious of the pleasure she found in driving the little car, handling it easily, feeling the cool wind against her face. She felt tired and empty. All the emotion had drained out of her.
That’s right, she thought. Quit. Give up without a fight.
The taunt brought no response. If Lucy had come back to Art, she didn’t have a chance. She didn’t even want to go back to the motel and face him, to see the embarrassment in Art’s face when he had to tell her. But the weak voice of pride, what pride she had left, a bruised and battered pride, told her that she had to go back.
And Art had to tell her. She couldn’t let him off without making him put his rejection of her into words. Her lips tightened with reviving spirit. All right. So he had never told her he loved her. He owed her nothing. But at least she would make him tell her that he didn’t love her.
And maybe he wouldn’t be able to say it.
She drove through the quiet town, left its sprawling Spanish and ranch homes behind, its small cluster of shops and gas stations and bars. A few minutes later she reached the motel and pulled into her usual spot next to the office. There was a red Packard parked in front, and as she came around to the door two men stepped out of the office and got into the Packard. One of them whispered urgently to the other one, and then the Packard wheeled in a half circle and pulled up before Unit 5.
The motel was almost full, she thought, and then she smothered the sense of satisfaction the knowledge brought. What concern was it of hers now?
Art was on the phone when she entered. He glanced at her quickly and looked away, studying the top of the desk.
“That’s it,” Art said into the phone. “One of us will be across to pick them up in a few minutes.”
He hung up and they stared at each other across the counter. After a moment Marina couldn’t stand it any longer, and she forgot her resolution to make him do the talking.
“She’s come back, hasn’t she? Lucy.” She was surprised and pleased to hear her voice coming out cool and composed.
“Not to me,” Art said. “She and her husband, the latest one, are in number three.”
Elation leaped in Marina’s chest and was quickly checked.
“Aren’t you taking liberties?” she asked quietly. “Or doesn’t her husband care who kisses her? Or maybe this was just kissing the bride for luck?”
“It … it just happened.”
“And no harm done.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
She felt the anger rising again, and the warning presence of tears. Oh, you cheap fool, she told herself savagely. She couldn’t look at him then, and she pushed blindly through the counter and went to the desk, turning her back on him.
I’m sorry,” Art said.
She turned to face him. His eyes looked sad and beaten, like a cocker spaniel’s. Poor thing. What am I supposed to do, pat you on the head because you’re sorry? Nice doggy?
What you want is a bitch in heat, she thought angrily. Just like all the other dogs running around panting. All right, she thought, glaring at him furiously. I’m a bitch and I’m in heat, if that’s what you want….
“What are you sorry about?” she said sweetly, sidling up to him, lowering her eyes coyly and then looking up into his face. “We’re all only human.”
“Cut it out, Marina.”
“It’s just a natural urge,” she said, edging closer. Her fingers toyed with a button on his shirt. She arched her back deliberately, throwing out her chest. “We mustn’t repress a natural urge,” she murmured. Her face was close to his, her lips
parted, and she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “We don’t want any frustrations to build up inside….”
“Stop it!” he said angrily. “This isn’t like you!”
“Why not?” she demanded. The tears stung her eyes. She felt humiliated by them, but she couldn’t stop the tears or the words. “Don’t you think I’m made right? Don’t you think I have all the right parts?”
Art stared at her silently, his jaw tight. “You’ve got them,” he said flatly. “Save them for somebody who’s worth it. You don’t have to compete with Lucy, Marina. You’re in another class.”
He turned away, and she wanted to cry, “Then why? Why?” But she only watched him and no words came.
“Harrison called, in number eight. He wanted some food sent over.” Art’s voice was expressionless and unemotional. “I called Jeff. Told him one of us would be over to get the order.”
“You want me to go over?”
“Yes.”
She couldn’t stop herself. “You want me out of the way, is that it? Is Lucy coming back for the second round? Maybe you’d like me to entertain her husband for you, so you won’t be interrupted?”
He whirled. “For God’s sake, Marina, stop tormenting yourself! I told you, I’m not worth it!”
“Oh, Art, you are, you are! You’re better than this!”
“That’s just it,” he said. “I’m not. Now will you go and get Harrison’s order?”
She ran out of the office, not knowing how she got through the counter and out the door, because she couldn’t see anything.
16
Art watched Marina go out, stumbling, her hand brushing blindly at her eyes. He walked to the door and watched her cross the highway, just as he had watched her earlier that evening, just a short while before. He thought of Lucy now, not with desire but with savage anger. Damn her! Why couldn’t she have stayed away?
Night of Violence Page 6