Pulp Ink

by Eric Beetner; Chris F. Holm; Matthew C. Funk; Richard Godwin; Reed Farrel Coleman; Allan Guthrie; Hilary Davidson; Gary Phillips; Nigel Bird; Chris Rhatigan

  Anyhow, I was sitting in my suite at The Plaza, drinking a complimentary bottle of champagne between wedding events, when I knocked my pen down into the upholstery. I don’t know why I even took a pen out of my pocket with the laptop perched in front of me, but life wasn’t so paperless then. I reached down into the deep space between the cushion and the chair’s frame and instead of coming up with the pen, I came up with an address book.

  It was an expensive and thick address book, the buttery kind of leather you don’t often come across in such a trivial item. And a name was embossed on the cover. A famous name. You’d know it in a flash. I’d no doubt who the book belonged to and sat with it unopened in my hands for a minute, wondering if merely opening the book would get me into trouble. Was this a test I was set up to fail?

  Oh, those names and addresses. I still get a chill remembering that moment. And phone numbers: both landline and cell in those days. Also noted in various colors of ink were personal facts – information such as where each family summered and their birth dates. The names of their housekeepers, their children, their brokers. What schools those kids attended. It was more than an address book; it was a journal of a social circle.

  In some cases, directions to the house were penned into the margins. Codes on how to open their iron gates or garages. This coterie lived across the country, across the world. There were villas in Europe, summer houses on the Vineyard, condos in Aspen, Palm Springs, Lake Tahoe, Manhattan. The handwriting was faded in places – shakier but newer in others; this book had to have been around since the sixties. The names inside numbered in the hundreds. Many were familiar to me. A former vice-president, a CEO of an oil company, a baron, an actress, a renowned architect, the owner of a Preakness winner, a hotel magnate. Hundreds more. I was suddenly privy to a world I’d only dreamt about. I shook off my state of near ecstasy and began to think.

  It was certain my suite had undergone a thorough cleaning before my arrival so it was miraculous the address book had been overlooked. Instinct told me it was time to check out. The only event remaining was the post-nuptial breakfast, which I could easily skip. The hotel could still track me down when the book’s owner missed it, but if I wasn’t on hand to debate its location, things would go easier. A hotel maid would probably take the blame. I put a message on the groom’s cell and took off.

  “Hope there was nothing wrong with your suite, Mr. Bell?” the desk clerk inquired when he saw I was leaving early. (Was I still using my true surname then?)

  “Not a thing. Lovely room, but I need to get back to my office.”

  “Duty calls, huh?”

  I nodded.

  For the next five years, I used the information in that address book to help me insinuate myself into the lives of the upper echelons: to cheat, to rob, to pilfer. I quit my job and created a less humble past for myself. But my intersection with a current quarry lasted only for a day or two, or even an hour. Just long enough to lift a piece of jewelry, a wallet, a painting. Now and then I’d use my entrée to get onto their computers and move money from their accounts into the dummy ones I’d set up. I changed my routine enough not to set a pattern. I also varied my appearance, my name, everything.

  When it came down to it, I was a cat burglar who learned his trade through practice, instinct and the helpful ruminations in books by a few of my fellow feline felons. I was nimble and quick, willing to do a little research to reap bigger rewards. The Stanford education, as cursory as it’d been, was an asset. Much as their brochure had promised me a decade earlier. But I’d learned more about the behavior of the very rich on the West Coast than of chemistry or French history.

  At a cocktail party in Chicago, I met Leila, a college friend of the host’s daughter – someone I’d met at an opera gala earlier that week. No indication Leila was anything more than a middle-class woman in her late twenties. Off-the-rack clothing, shoes from a few years back. No one I’d follow home to rob.

  But I found myself unable to do my usual research, my usual stealing, because I couldn’t take my eyes off her. This was a wholly new phenomenon – and one that made me uneasy.

  “David,” the host’s daughter said, “this is Leila Olson. We were at Northwestern together.” She saw me staring at her friend and I could see her fumbling for my last name.

  “David Greenlaw,” I said, pausing a moment. I was too gob-smacked to remember it immediately.

  “Greenlawn?” Leila asked.

  For a second, I wondered too. “Greenlaw,” I finally said.

  Leila stood before me, the picture of perfection. I won’t describe her: Insert your own idea of flawlessness. A second later, she laughed at something our hostess said, and I was completely undone.

  “Can I get you a drink?” I asked as our hostess drifted away.

  “White wine?”

  We spent two hours comparing histories. Of course, mine was completely fictitious. But for Leila’s sake, I stuck as close as possible to what my life would’ve been if I hadn’t found the address book. To what would approximate a normal life.

  Leila was a buyer for a chain of children’s clothing stores. “I spend a lot of time in France, Italy, places like that. Our clients prefer clothes not made in China. And not in the U.S. for that matter.” She laughed, embarrassed at the superficiality of the rich.

  A trait I shared, of course. I decided then that it was on Leila’s buying trips that I’d peddle my trade. Once we were married, that is. And six months later, we were.

  Three months after our nuptials, Leila went to London on a buying trip. I’d prepared myself for two quick jobs over her five-day absence. Both went well, and I quickly disposed of an emerald-studded watch and an antique clock, dating from the 1800s. I’d used an exclusive fence, specializing in high-end items for years.

  Leila arrived home on Tuesday and she wasn’t inside the house fifteen minutes when I noticed she’d chipped a tooth.

  “It’s just the tiniest chip,” she said, peering into the magnifying glass I held in front of her face. “Must’ve been when I bumped heads on the tube.”

  “You were on the underground?” I asked. “Don’t you have an expense account?”

  I was more than a little agitated at both the chipped tooth and her dismissal of it. Hadn’t she looked at herself since the collision? Didn’t her bathroom in London have a mirror?

  “The tube’s the fastest way to travel.” She put down the mirror and began to unpack. “I never take taxis. You know how I feel about things like that.”

  I shook my head. “You’d better call your dentist. See if he can fit you in.”

  I was having trouble looking Leila straight in the face because it was quite a large chip despite what she thought. Funny how such a small thing can disturb a beauty like hers. On a normal face, it might be inconsequential.

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “I need some sleep. Jet-lag.” A large yawn ended our discussion.

  While she slept, I called the dentist and arranged for an early morning appointment. Leaving a note about the time of the appointment, I disappeared and didn’t see her again until the next evening.

  “The dentist said he could hardly see it either,” she told me when I came in. “But he filed it down.”

  She opened her mouth and I was relieved to see it was gone. Almost. “Where have you been anyway? Your cell was turned off. ”

  “Perfect,” I said, anxious to be done with it. “Oh, you know – work.”

  I could tell from her tone that in some inchoate way, she was disappointed in me. That I’d shown her a side of me she hadn’t seen before. But in a few weeks, it was forgotten. I was the adoring husband; she the adored wife. I worked hard to keep my adulation under wraps though. Worked hard not to shower her with the things I wanted her to have – things she would’ve despised me for giving her.

  Her trip to Milan came six weeks later. I was anxious for her to go because a rare opportunity had presented itself. A valuable painting was going to be “available” for my acquisi
tion. A piece of art that would allow me to stop scrambling for cash for a few months. Even with declining prices, the painting would fetch a hefty sum.

  “Stay off the tube,” I said as I dropped her at the Delta Airlines door. I hopped out of the car and removed her bags.

  She started to smile and then realized I wasn’t joking. “My hotel is very near the places I need to go. I’ll probably walk.”

  The porter was loading her bag onto his trolley and she hurried after him without even a goodbye kiss. I called her a few minutes later, assuring her it’d been a joke. It took some convincing and I wondered, not for the first time, why I chose a woman who fled from all the things I craved. Perhaps I harbored a desire to please the parents who’d cast me aside. They’d have adored her if they ever met.

  The theft went well. I had impeccable contacts at every point of the heist. My fence promised me a considerable sum within the month. I spent the rest of our time apart, thinking of ways to please Leila. I stared at our wedding pictures, at our honeymoon snapshots, hardly believing this woman was mine.

  A few days later, Leila returned. She was barely inside the house when I swooped down on her, showering her with kisses. I stood back to take her in and noticed the left side of her face seemed to droop. Her eye and mouth were definitely at odds with their counterparts.

  “A touch of Bell’s palsy,” she said before I could open my mouth. “The doctor in Milan said I was lucky to get off this easily. He gave me an injection of corticosteroids and said I should look normal within a week or two.”

  I felt she was watching me closely to gauge my reaction. I managed to smile and pat her arm. “I’m sure you’ll be as right as rain soon. Lie down and I’ll get dinner started.”

  I turned on my heel and escaped to the kitchen. In a minute, I heard her climbing the stairs. I poured a stiff drink and turned on my laptop. The articles I googled told me she probably would be her usual self within a short amount of time. But it wasn’t certain. I was horrified at that drooping mouth and eye. She looked like the old crone at the cash register in a place where I sometimes took coffee. Pitiful.

  Was it my imagination or did she still have a slight droop three months later? But at this point I could not suggest future medical attention and truthfully, no one else seemed to notice it. Was it all in my mind?

  Reluctant for her to travel alone, I went with her to Paris in the spring, dogging her every step, wondering what mishap might happen. Nothing did and she returned home unharmed. On some level, I think she intuited the reason for my coming and we didn’t have the pleasant getaway I’d anticipated.

  An extremely valuable collection of stamps was being transported from a dealer to a customer in the fall. It was a chance for me to net as much as $50,000 for a few hours of work. Leila was set to fly to New York for two days. Surely she knew that terrain as well as any. She flew out in the morning and I went to work an hour later. The job was complete by the seven o’clock news.

  Leila was in the shower when I came home the next day. Through the glass I could see a bald patch on the back of her head but thought it was probably an optical illusion. I stepped back into the bedroom after motioning my arrival home to her through the glass. When she came out of the steamy room, her hair was up in a towel. I was on pins and needles waiting for her to remove it and dry her hair. But she returned to the bathroom, closed the door and blew it dry. Then she put it up in some sort of twist.

  “I don’t remember you wearing your hair like that before, Leila.”

  “Don’t you like it?” She patted it gingerly.

  “I do, but I prefer your usual style.”

  “This is the newest do in New York.” Her voice had an edge to it, a nervous tremor.

  “Let me see what you’ve done now,” I said with a sigh, pulling out the clip holding it up.

  On the back of her head, there was a patch the size of a golf ball without a strand of hair. It looked like an eye staring at me. I turned away.

  “I think it’s a condition called… alopecia. Or it could be something else. Thyroid, diabetes, or something psychological.”

  “You’ve already been to a doctor?” I asked.

  “The Internet. I have an appointment later today.” She was already pinning her hair back up. “I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Actually, your hair is very pretty with your long neck. Audrey Hepburnish.” I certainly didn’t want to discourage her from hiding that eye.

  She nodded and began unpacking her things. Leila grew quite adept at hiding the bald spot in the next few weeks, but it didn’t go away. No amount of cream, vitamins or other treatments put an end to it. I found new dermatologists, endocrinologists, psychologists, but none had any cure. I grew used to her new hair style and ended my suggestions.

  An opportunity for the theft of a valuable collection of diamonds presented itself. There was no buying trip for Leila in sight. I debated the job for several days, but since Leila and I were not on particularly good terms I was not as diligent in separating my lives.

  And for the first time ever, something went very wrong. The elderly man who owned the jewels came home from a trip unexpectedly (was I becoming more careless?) and I had to knock him out. He looked amazed for a second, amazed that such a thing could happen to a man of his means. I made sure his heartbeat was steady before I left, having no desire to add murder to my resume. But I also had no wish to go to jail.

  When I arrived home, Leila was fast asleep and I slipped in beside her, trying not to wake her up. She gave a cry of pain.

  “What is it darling?”

  She sat up. “I can’t tell you, Greg. You won’t like it.” Recent tears made her voice hoarse.

  I tried to take her in my arms, but she pushed me away, and reaching over to the bedside table, turned on the lamp. Light flooded the room.

  “What is it?” I repeated. She looked like herself.

  Slowly she unbuttoned the top of her gown. Her chest was bright red; a row of boils, cysts, something awful had sprung up in the hours I’d been gone. Pus oozed out of them. There were five of them, like buttons between her breasts.

  “When did this start?”

  I was transfixed. It looked like something biblical, preternatural. It was so far beyond her normal ivory perfection, her usual smooth soft skin, I didn’t even see it as her.

  “A few hours ago.” She rubbed a hand across her eyes, not used to the light. “I was reading in bed and suddenly felt something oozing. My nightgown stuck and when I took it off, I found this. And it’s getting worse by the minute.” Covering herself up, she got out of bed.

  “It must be an allergic reaction, Darling. Did you have anything unusual to eat?”

  “I didn’t eat at all.” She waited for a response and when I couldn’t provide one said, “I’ll go to the doctor first thing. It must be an infection.”

  “A new detergent perhaps?”

  She shook her head. “He’s going to think I am mad, insane. He’s already suggested a new therapist. And now this. Just one more thing that could be psychological in origin.”

  “I’ll find a new doctor. One who doesn’t know about your earlier… problems.”

  Around three that morning, it occurred to me that all of Leila’s problems had occurred not just when she was traveling but when I was on a job. That the cosmos or God or something was perhaps punishing her for my evil deeds. Or punishing me through her. Was I mad to think this? Was she to be the vessel of my castigation?

  I didn’t know how long I could go without plying my craft. Two weeks passed, then four, finally three months. I grew itchy, addicted to the profession as much as its rewards. As for Leila, the cysts improved somewhat but remained. Love-making was a dicey task. The eye on her scalp did not grow larger but neither did it go away. She still had a certain slant to her face. Only the repaired tooth was resolved.

  I convinced myself I’d jumped to a conclusion. That Leila’s little flaws had nothing to do
with me or my work. It was happenstance. So after fourteen weeks, I lifted an antique chest from a dealer downtown. It went smoothly but I can’t say my trip home was worry free. If some new mishap had befallen my wife, I would have to take more drastic action. The wait shouldn’t be long, I thought, as I pulled into the garage. All of her former accidents occurred within hours of my evil deeds.

  I found her in the bathtub. The water was red with blood. Both arms had deep knife cuts from elbow to wrist. She was still warm from the water perhaps, but her pulse was still. I put the antique chest down to think a minute, shaking in a way I hadn’t since my father sent me away.

  She’d taken her own life because of me. Because of whatever curse was hanging over us. Either forced to kill herself by some macabre spell or sick to death of the life I’d pulled her into. I was the source of all her trouble. I took the knife from her limp hand and plunged it into my chest.

  As the last breaths of life deserted me, I heard her calling my name. Was it the equivalent of the white light said to accompany death? But no, she rose up from the bloody water beside me: her wrists healing, her cysts gone, her hair as full as ever, her face – flawless. Even a dying man could see that.

  “What have you done, my darling?” she cried, stepping out the bath. “How will I live without you?”

  Better than you lived with me, I thought as I died.

  -

  Patricia Abbott is the author of more than seventy-five stories published in literary and crime fiction outlets. Her story "My Hero" won a Derringer in 2008. She is currently putting together an ebook collection. She is the co-author (with Steve Weddle) of Discount Noir from Untreed Reads. Forthcoming stories will appear in All Due Respect, BEAT to a PULP: Round Two, Deadly Treats, Crimefactory, First Shift, D*cked, and Grim Stories. You can find her blogging at Pattinase or working in Detroit.