The Bitch

by Gil Brewer

  “There’s still nothing conclusive,” I told him. I looked around the room, at the heavy blue drapes, the high-posted mahogany bed, the old pictures of Dutch kitchens, European flower gardens, castles in Spain that hung on the walls. Nothing helped. The odor of dead flowers was strong. “She has many friends,” I said. “Men and women friends.”

  “I’m not concerned with the women,” he said. “You know what I want, Morgan. That’s your job, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

  “Sure—but, I—”

  “Well, if you know your job, you should be able to come up with something.” He hauled himself up a little in the bed and flung one hand out, pointing toward the door, and downward. “I know that woman, you hear? I know her. Don’t tell me she’s fooling you, tool”

  “She’s not fooling anybody, sir.”

  “I’m a sick man.” He lay back, panting a little, watching the ceiling, blinking the little intelligent black eyes. You couldn’t tell what this boy was thinking. Not a bit. “I’m a sick man.”

  “Easy. You’re doing all right.”

  “I’m not doing all right. I’m doing damned well lousy, Morgan—for your information, I’m a mess. I’m old and sick, and she’s young and healthy and she’s in heat.” He groaned a little, down in his chest someplace. Lying on his back, his stomach swelled enormously. When he stood up, he didn’t appear to have that much front. But it was there, all right. “She’s young. You know?”

  “Sure. I know.”

  “We’ve levelled with each other pretty well, haven’t we, Morgan?”

  “Yes-sir. We have.”

  He sighed and groaned again. “My young wife,” he said softly. Then his face began to take on that same purple tinge as his lips. “What I can’t stand,” he said, gargling a little, “is knowing she’s out there laying them. Christ, I can’t stand that. Maybe it sounds crazy, but I loved her. You hear that?”

  “Yes.”

  “It would be all right if she weren’t my wife. Then I could stand it.” He rolled slightly on the bed, blinking at me. “I tell you, I want grounds for divorce, Morgan. I want you to find those grounds.” He hunched up on one elbow. “Trail her every minute, Morgan. Every minute!”

  “Do what I can.”

  He flopped back and stared at the ceiling, panting.

  “Why won’t she just simply divorce me?” he said softly. “Why—why—why?”

  “You know why, Mr. Halquist.”

  “Yes. Money.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “She’s not going to have it,” he said. “Never.”

  I still said nothing.

  “Haven’t you found out a thing?”

  “Look, Mr. Halquist. Grounds can be manufactured, like your bottles of soda pop. Only thing is—I can’t do it that way. We don’t work that way. If she’s out with—if she has any—if there’s another man in her life, then we’ll find him. She can’t shield him forever—if there is one.”

  “If—another man …” He began to laugh. It was really something—not to look at, not even to hear, for that matter. I looked away. He panted and spewed and choked for a while, the bed jouncing. Pretty soon it quieted down. Little noises kept coming from his throat. I sneaked a look at him. He’d been crying, not laughing.

  “The way I thought,” he said, speaking quietly, holding himself under control as if he were hanging on the edge of a cliff by his fingertips, “it would be the thing to do. I mean, not just do it—not up and find one like Thelma—not that. It was when my wife died. No family left, you see? My boy was killed in Italy, you see? Machine-gunned, and the shock did something to my wife. So, in a little while she died.” He turned his head away from me and I watched the clutching fingers of his right hand, the nails biting into the sheet.

  “That’s all right, now,” I said.

  “So she died and there I was—here, in this house, with everything and nothing, you see?”

  I nodded, only he couldn’t see me, so I said, “Yes.”

  “A fool,” he said. “I was a fool. I’m a fool right now. But I was a fool and I knew it and I didn’t care. It didn’t seem to matter.”

  “Does it matter now?”

  “No.”

  “Then quit worrying.”

  “And when I saw Thelma, I wanted her.”

  “Plenty men would feel the same. It’s human.”

  “Yes. I knew that, too. I know it now. Maybe even you would like—”

  “Maybe so.”

  “Anyway, we’re levelling, aren’t we?” I waited.

  “I thought it would be the thing to do. She seemed to like me. She seemed to have sense, and her share of honesty. There are a lot of good things about Thelma—oh, I don’t blame her. How could I blame her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I can’t. Not in my heart of hearts.”

  “Well, sir. I think I’d better be on my way.”

  “Wait. I want to tell you. It’s not just the port wine. I’ve always drunk too much port wine, I admit that. The doctors always warned me. My blood pressure was always too high, anyway—but it wasn’t that. So I asked her to marry me and she did. I wanted somebody around the house, somebody like Thelma.”

  “Noble desire,” I said.

  “If I didn’t know you, I’d think you were making fun of me.”

  “I’m not.”

  He turned and blinked at me and held his hand up, held up three fingers. “In three days,” he said quietly. “In three days, I knew what she was—what she was doing.”

  “Funny you never caught her.”

  “Well,” he said. “You haven’t either, have you? She’s smart. She knows what she wants. She’s having her cake and she’s gorging herself on it at the same time.”

  I stood up. “Well,” I said. “I just dropped around to tell you I’ve got a line on something. It should break in a couple days. I can’t promise anything. I’ve got to get along, now—setting something up for tonight.”

  “For her?” he whispered.

  I leaned across the bed. “For her,” I whispered.

  He lay back and grinned, nodding. He was still nodding as I turned away and left the room.

  I came along the thickly carpeted balcony until I stood above the stairs, looking down into the first floor hall. For her? That was a laugh. I was doing it because I had to. Janet had said she would leave me if I didn’t do something soon.

  “On your own,” she said. “You hear me, Tate? Not with Sam’s help—nobody’s help. How long do you think I’ll stand it, knowing I’m married to a leaner—a freeloader—a parasite, living off his own brother’s backbone?”

  Maybe it would help remedy all the sour and hellish dreams gone dead. Right or wrong, it no longer mattered.

  “Hey—you up there!”

  It was Thelma, down there in the hall calling in a whisper. She stuck her tongue out at me.

  I waved back to her and started down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 3

  By the time I reached the foot of the stairs, Thelma was gone. I stood there for a moment with the worry of tonight crowding in on me. There wasn’t much you could do about that. It was there to stay. I would have to learn to live with that. There was the knowing it was wrong, the fear of being caught, and the positive not-caring—the conscious not-caring, because it had to be that way….

  It had taken a long time to come to this. It was the chance, and I was taking it.

  “Tate?”

  Her whispered call came from another room. I moved through an archway into a dimly shadowed cove. The carpeting hissed under my feet as I moved between large, low, soggy pieces of furniture toward a foot-high ten-foot square couch at the far end of the room beside a glistening black unlighted fireplace. Thick yellow drapes sprawled from the windows, and curled upon themselves on the floor. The walls were midnight blue and hung with immense abstractions, framed in white, red and yellows.

  The couch was covered with gold brocade and leather with streaks of gold running through
milk-white. The leather looked so rich and thick and obtrusive that I suspected if you cut it with a knife, it would heal itself. There were several wine-colored pillows, with Thelma lying among them in a tired, wanton knot, half on her side, one knee in the air, the other leg twisted beneath her, watching me. She wore some kind of a pink, smoky-looking get-up with little white and red bows along the edges. Her tanned flesh shadowed through the silken cloth. Her ash-blonde hair fell in a molten sheath across the winey pillows. She had her palms together, under her head, like a. little girl ready for an afternoon’s snooze.

  “Thought you said you’d be by the pool.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “I see.”

  “How’s the old boy doing?”

  “Watch it, how you talk,” I said. “He’s got a side, too—you know?”

  She laughed, rolling her head back on the pillow now, stretching her arms. She watched me all this time through her fuzzy blue eyes. She reached back and clenched her hands around her hair and sort of milked it backwards. It was so alive you could see it spring between her fingers. She had on a pair of golden sandals, the straps between pink-nailed toes.

  I turned around and started walking from the room.

  “Oh, Tate! Come back here.”

  I kept on walking. It seemed a mile.

  “Tate!”

  I stopped. Her laughter rippled across the room, muted by heavy things, choked in soft shadow. What sunlight wormed its way between the drapes fell in golden strands and the carpet drank it up like nectar.

  “I just talked with Johnny on the phone,” she said.

  “I see,” I said, keeping my back to her.

  “He said Gunnison’s ready and waiting.”

  I didn’t say anything. Finally I turned and walked back there and stood above the couch, looking down at her.

  “If you only weren’t such a fool,” she said. “We could turn this into all kinds of fun.”

  “What else did Morrell say?”

  She shrugged and writhed a little on the couch, making tiny grunts of satisfaction.

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “What did he say?”

  She smiled up at me and lifted her other knee. The soft cloth fell back slowly and she kept smiling and I watched her eyes steadily. A small, distant look of brooding animalism came into her eyes and twisted at the corners of her mouth. Her neat, tiny white chips of teeth showed between her lips, and there was something trance-like about her.

  “What else did he say, Thelma?”

  She sucked in a soft, shuddering breath. She shook her head and turned her eyes away from me, staring at the far wall.

  “Just that everything’s ready, so on—like that. He did seem a little worried, strained.”

  “About what?”

  “You, I guess. You being a detective—all that. He claims it’s playing with fire.”

  I looked across at the wall, remembering how she had come to me that day and told me she knew I was working for her husband, that she got a kick out of that—would I mind coming for a ride with her to meet a friend? The friend was Johnny Morrell, gambler, dipper-into-this-and-that of crime.

  Morrell, young, alert, dark and hot-eyed, wearing one of his neat blue suits—ready for anything that looked good. She had already told him I was the man they needed.

  “We know a lot about you, Morgan. How you stole money from your brother, took his car, had yourself a time. How that same brother forgave you and loaned you ten grand, and you set yourself up in a small business, and failed—because you couldn’t keep your hand out of your own cash register. A few other really shady things, Morgan—with your brother always covering for you. How’d you like to make some real cash?” And after my fumbling, he explained about a hypothetical payroll robbery. I laughed at him. But I wanted to know more, because these things had been in my mind. He finally named Halquist, bold as hell. I told him, “No.” And he told me what a small part I would play—the key man, but perfectly covered. He said, “Think it over.” I did. All I had to do was leave a lock unlocked, take a crack in the head. I thought myself right into it. It took time—but not much time, because he’d struck when I was ripe. With Thelma smiling lazily, her eyes taunting.

  I felt sorry for that man upstairs. I was sorry for what I had finally decided to do to him. The reason Halquist had hired me to help him with his wife, was because Sam and I had always given him such a good deal on our contract to guard and protect his plant. Some protection.

  It wasn’t until later I realized, what this would do to Sam.

  “What you thinking about?” Thelma said, touching the calf of my leg with her hand.

  I looked down at her again. “I don’t like this any better than Morrell. But I’m going through with it.”

  Her eyes dipped toward me, then away. “Why don’t you like it?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’ll be getting all you need.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way, Tate. You know what I mean. Johnny’s not a pig. He’s a gambler—this is just another deal for him. He helps set it up and he gets his share—like everybody else.”

  “I’m not kicking about that.”

  “We couldn’t swing it without you. Not right, that is,” she said. “There would be too much chance. We have to work together. Johnny wouldn’t work any other way. When I first told him about it, he laughed. He wouldn’t touch it. He said these things are set up all the time, but if you’re smart, you leave them alone. Some of the worry’s still hanging on him—but he says we can pull it off all right with your help. They won’t question you when you relieve the night-watch-man. That’s the key. Morgan Agency protection.” She laughed a little, shrugged. “Like you said, up till now it’s just been checking the locks on the gate—standing guard on small payrolls. This is the big one. Nothing can go wrong. Gunnison is a fast man with a safe, Johnny says he’s tops—worked all over the country.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “What about your brother?”

  “He doesn’t know a thing.”

  “I think he scares Johnny more than anything else.”

  “He has a right to be scared by Sam. I am, too.”

  She looked at me again and there was lazy fright in her eyes.

  “You do think it’ll work out all right, don’t you, Tate?”

  “It stinks to high heaven,” I said. “But I’m going through with it.”

  “Yes.” She sprang around and flopped on her stomach, the gown twisting and biting into her lush, tanned body. She beat at the golden brocade and the leather with small fists, her head buried in a pillow. She lifted her head slightly. “It’s got to work!” she said. “You hear me? I can’t stay here—not with him! I’m going to get something out of him. Damn him!”

  I stood there watching her.

  She ceased, rolled onto her back and looked up at me soberly.

  “You didn’t have to come in with us,” she said. “You know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I found out about that payroll, I couldn’t wait It’s all I could think of. And then I found out you were going to stand guard on it the one night it was there. It was so wonderful—so when I told Johnny, he at least said he’d look into it. Just for me. I’ve known Johnny a long time.”

  “How nice.”

  “He checked on you. ‘Way back. You’ve been an awful stinker, Tate—but you’ve never really done anything like this.” She pushed herself onto her elbows, leaning back, watching me. “Tate,” she said. “Tell me—why are you really doing this? I mean, I’ve got every reason in the world. And Johnny’s just cleaning up some money, like always. He’s not doing it for me, or anything like that. But you—why are you doing it, Tate?”

  ‘That’s personal,” I said.

  She flopped back, still watching me. “Personal,” she said. She said it like an obscene word. “I suppose it’s some woman, isn’t it?”

  �
�Maybe.”

  “What will you do?” she said. “I mean, after? You won’t want to hang around here. And it’s not a terrible lot of money—your share. Not really.”

  “Maybe not to you. To me it’s plenty.”

  We looked at each other. There was a kind of sneer on her lips now, the tips of her teeth showing just a little.

  “Where will you go?” she said. “Mexico?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re full of ‘maybes'. Not telling, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Mine’s a start,” she said. “A fresh start. I couldn’t do it any other way. I wouldn’t marry a man like Johnny. It’s got to be something solid.”

  “That’s what you’ve got right here.”

  She snapped a sharp, filthy expression.

  “Jesus, Tate,” she said, then. “It’s tonight.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Suppose something goes wrong.”

  “Nothing will.”

  “Tate?”

  “What?”

  “After tonight we won’t see each other, probably.”

  “Probably.”

  “You’ve been awfully nice, Tate. I like you a lot—I really do.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Tate? I can’t stand the waiting. It’s wrecking me.” I still said nothing.

  “Tate,” she whispered. “Please don’t make me say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Jesus, Tate.”

  We kept on looking into each other’s eyes.

  “Let me give you a going away present,” she whispered. “Please? Lie down here with me, Tate—I’m just being frank, that’s all. Please, Tate—don’t just stand there. I can’t bear it.” She reached toward me with one hand and her eyes shone like a cat’s eyes, her upper lip lifting above the gleaming white chips of teeth. “Please, Tate—we could go together. I mean it. We could—just let me show you—please!”

  I turned and started walking away. She didn’t say anything, didn’t make a sound. As I reached the archway, I looked back. I wanted to curse her for putting the thought in my head. I was breathing a little fast and I was shaking.