‘Thank you, Mr. Carr.’ She stared me over. ‘We can manage very well.’
‘I just thought I’d look in.’ I backed towards the door. ‘I’m at the Bendix Hotel. If you want help, just call me.’
‘We won’t trouble you, Mr. Carr.’ Then with a sour grimace, she added, ‘Miss Baxter was always calling on amateurs. That’s not my method.’
‘That I can imagine,’ I said and stepped into the passage and closed the door.
I would have liked to have done it legally, but if the old cow was this way, then I would have to do it illegally. I still had the key Jenny had given me to the office.
So I walked down the six flights of stairs and out on to the cement-dusty street. The time was 17.00 and I walked to a bar opposite and sat in a corner where I could survey the entrance to the office block. I ordered beer, lit a cigarette and waited.
Time moved on. People came and went. A barfly tried to get talking with me, but I brushed him off.
After a second beer, taken slowly, I saw Hatchetface and the teenager emerge and walk together down the street. Hatchetface held the teenager’s arm in a possessive grip as if she expected some man would leap out and rape the girl.
I was in no hurry. I had a third beer, smoked yet another cigarette, then getting to my feet, I walked out on to the street. By now it was 18.15. Two giggling girls, in miniskirts, came out of the office block as I entered. In another hour it would be dark. I didn’t want to turn on the lights in the office. That could be a giveaway. I walked up the six flights of stairs. The owners of the one-room offices were going home.
They brushed by me as I climbed: little men, tall men, fat men, thin men: some with their typists. They didn’t notice me. They were too eager to get back to the discomfort of their homes, to eat, to watch television and then go to bed with their dreary wives.
As I reached the sixth floor, a woman with a face like a wrinkled prune came out of an office, slammed the door shut and edged by me as if I were the Boston Strangler. I unlocked Jenny’s door, slid into the tiny office, shut the door and turned the key.
It took me some ten minutes to find Rhea Morgan’s file. I sat at the desk and read her case history the way I would have read my own case history.
Jenny had done a good job. The report was written in her sprawling handwriting. She must have felt it was too personal for a helper to type.
Rhea Morgan, I learned, was now twenty-eight years of age. At the age of eight, she had come before the law as uncontrollable. She had been sent to a home. At the age of ten she had been caught stealing lipstick and perfume from a self-service store. She had been sent back to the home. At the age of thirteen, she had had sexual relations with one of the executives of the home. They had been caught in the act and a few hours later, before the police arrived, the executive had cut his throat. She had been moved to a stricter home. After a year, she had run away. A year later, she had been picked up while prostituting herself to truck drivers on a freeway to New York. She had come before the law again and had been sent for psychiatric treatment. No success there for she had slipped away and had gone missing for two years.
She had then been picked up in Jacksonville with three men who were attempting a bank robbery. There had been a plea for her age and she drew a year. By this time, she would be around seventeen years of age. After serving the sentence, she dropped out of sight, then she reappeared three years later. This time she was involved with two men in a jewel robbery. She was handling the getaway car. The two men, armed with toy pistols, had walked into a cheap jewellery store in Miami. They were amateurs and came apart at the seams when a guard appeared with a .45 automatic in his fist. Rhea could have driven away, but she stuck and was arrested. With her past record, she drew four years. Out again, she was involved with three men in a gas station holdup. This time the judge threw the book at her and she went away for another four years, and that was her life up-to-date.
I dropped the report on the desk and lit a cigarette. I now knew her background and I was now curious about her brother. I searched through the files, but came up with nothing. It looked as if Jenny had had no dealings with him, but I was sure he was in Rhea’s league.
As the light began to fade, I sat on the desk and thought of Rhea. I thought of the life she had led and I found I was envying her. I thought of my own dull home life, and my mother, kind, who had died when I was fifteen years old, and my father who had slaved in a diamond mine, had made a lot of money, had invested badly and had been defeated when he had died. Rhea had lived a vicious life, but she hadn’t been defeated. The moment she had got out of prison, she had followed her destiny of crime. At least she had purpose and drive. The purpose was bad, but she had set her signals and had driven ahead.
Bad?
I crushed out my cigarette and lit another.
I had been taught that stealing was bad, but was it in this modern world in which I lived? Wasn’t it rather the survival of the fittest? Wasn’t it a brave, private war waged by one individual against the police? Wasn’t that better than living the dreary life the people lived who scrounged on Jenny?
Half my mind told me I was wrong, but the other half argued. I knew Rhea had suddenly become the most important person in my life. The fascination was sexual, but also there was this envy that she could have more courage than I had. I wanted suddenly to experience what she had experienced. She had been hunted by the police. This was an experience that I found myself wanting. I thought of how she must have felt when the pressure was on and yet she hadn’t panicked and driven away from the jewellery store. I envied her that experience. I felt the urge to find out if I had the guts, under pressure that she had.
It was getting dark now so I returned the report to the filing cabinet, emptied my ash and two cigarette butts into an envelope which I put in my pocket. I didn’t want Hatchetface to know someone had been in the office, then I left.
As I walked down the stairs, I kept thinking of Rhea, with her brother in the sordid bungalow, and I envied them.
Judy?
I continued to walk down the stairs.
Judy was dead, I told myself, but Rhea was alive.
* * *
What I should have done was to have checked out of the Bendix Hotel and driven back to Paradise City. I should have talked to Dr. Melish and put myself in his hands. I should have told him I had met a woman with a vicious criminal record and had become sexually obsessed with her. I should have confessed to him that I now had an overpowering urge to do what she had done, trying to explain that when I had her, she and I had to be on equal terms: I as bad as she was, and she as bad as I was. I should have admitted that, because I was male and she was female, I had this thought now hammering in my mind that whatever she could do, I could do better. Maybe it would have helped me. I don’t know because I never gave him the chance. I didn’t check out of the hotel, nor did I run away to Paradise City.
I sat in a dreary bar and toyed with a stale sandwich and a beer and thought about Rhea. Finally, I got in the Buick and drove out to her place.
She was pulling me with such magnetic force I was powerless to resist.
At the top of the dirt road, I parked the car, turned off the lights and walked the rest of the way. As I approached the bungalow I could hear strident jazz from a transistor, blaring across the debris. Then I came around the slight bend in the lane and saw the lighted windows.
I went as far as the broken down fence and I stood in the shadow of a tree, looking at the windows the way a man lost in a sun-scorched desert looks at an oasis without knowing it is a mirage.
It was a hot night and the air was close. The windows were open. The time was 22.00. I saw a figure move across the light - the brother. So he was there! I moved cautiously forward, picking my way through the empty cans, the oil drums, stepping carefully to make no noise, but I need not have taken this precaution. With the transistor going at full blast I could have made any noise and still not have been heard.
With m
y heart thumping, I got close enough to be able to see through the window and yet still not be seen.
Now, I could see the brother clearly. He was stomping around the room in time with the music, an open can in one hand, a spoon in the other. While he stomped, he kept shovelling some gooey looking mess into his mouth. I looked beyond him and found Rhea. She lolled in a beat-up chair, the leather split, the dirty stuffing showing. She had on a red smock and pants that could have been painted on her. I felt my heartbeat quicken at the sight of her long legs and slim thighs. A cigarette dangled from her thin hard lips. She was staring up at the ceiling, her face an expressionless marble mask, while he continued to jerk, weave and stomp to the music as he fed himself.
As I stood there watching, I wondered what was going on in her mind. What a couple! Part of my sane mind said this, but the other half was envious. Then suddenly she leaned forward and snapped off the transistor that stood on a chair by her side. The silence that descended over the bungalow and around me was like a physical blow.
‘Cut it out!’ she yelled at him. ‘Must you always act like a goddamn moron?’
Her brother stood motionless, his shoulders hunched, his hands held forward. His attitude was threatening.
‘What the stinking hell do you mean?’ he bellowed. ‘Turn it on!’
She picked up the transistor, got to her feet and with vicious violence, threw it against the wall. The case broke open and the batteries fell out.
He was across the room and his open hand slapped her across the face, sending her reeling. In four letter words, he yelled at her and then hit her again.
I was already on the move, the forest fire of rage blazing inside me. I charged into the room as he was raising his hand to slap her again. I caught his wrist, swung him around and drove my fist into his face.
He went staggering away. I jumped after him and while he was still off balance, and half dazed, I hit him in the groin.
He gave a low moan as he dropped to his knees. I stood over him, laced my fingers together and hit down on his neck with both hands. I didn’t give a goddamn if I killed him as I hadn’t cared if I had killed Spooky Jinx. He stretched out, unconscious, at my feet.
I turned and looked at Rhea, who was leaning against the wall. Her left cheek showed a bruise. She was still a little dazed from the slaps she had had, but her eyes were on the still body of her brother.
‘He’s all right,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about him. Are you all right?’ The fire of rage inside me was now dying. ‘I just happened by.’
She knelt beside her brother and turned him over. Blood leaked from his nose, but he was breathing.
She looked up at me, her green eyes glittering.
‘Get out! You’re not wanted here!’ Her voice was vicious. ‘Get out and stay out!’
We stared at each other for a long moment.
‘When you’re ready,’ I said, ‘you’ll find me at the Bendix Hotel. I’ll wait.’
I went out into the hot, dark night, aware my knuckles were aching from the punch I had rammed into his face but not caring.
I drove back to Luceville. I had made a step forward, I told myself. I had shown her I was a better man than her brother. But that wasn’t enough. I had to prove to myself that I had more guts than she had.
The telephone in my dreary little hotel bedroom was ringing as I walked in. I hesitated for a brief moment, then I lifted the receiver.
‘Larry my dear, sweet boy!’
My mind crawled back into the past. No one else could talk like this except Sydney Fremlin.
I dropped on the bed.
‘Hi, Sydney.’
He told me he had been trying to reach me. He didn’t know how many times he had called the hotel, but I was always out. The reproach in his voice made no impact on me.
‘How are you, Larry? When are you coming back? I need you!’
My mind shifted away from his burbling voice and I thought of Rhea with her bruised face.
‘Larry! Are you listening?’
‘I’ll be back,’ I said. ‘Give me a little more time. Maybe in a month how’s that?’
‘A month?’ His voice shot up. ‘But, Larry, I need you here now! People keep asking for you. Tell me how you are. Couldn’t you come back next week?’
‘Isn’t Terry doing a job?’
‘Terry?’ His voice rose a notch. ‘Don’t mention him to me! He’s quite unspeakable! Come back, Larry, and I’ll throw him out!’
I was bored with him and cut him short.
‘I’ll be back but not for a month.’
‘A month?’ Sydney’s voice rose to a squeak.
‘That’s it,’ and I hung up.
I went to the bathroom and let cold water run over my aching hand. The telephone started up again.
That would be Sydney. I ignored the bell. After a long, desperate try, it stopped ringing.
I stretched out on the bed.
My thoughts made me feel ten feet tall.
I was quite a man, I told myself. Spooky - seven of his thugs - now I had taken care of Rhea’s brother.
Soon she would come to me. I was sure of this and that was the way I wanted it. For her to come to me and give herself. I was prepared to wait.
But first, I had to get on parity with her.
The usual incentive for most crimes is money, but I had plenty of money so long as Sydney paid me $60,000 a year. Thinking about crime, I realised I was in a unique position. I now wanted to commit a crime so as to experience the same tension, the same danger, the same excitement as Rhea must have experienced, yet I would have no use for whatever I stole. It would be the act of stealing that would give me satisfaction: the end product was of no importance.
I had to break the ice, I told myself. After some thought, I decided the first thing I would steal would be a car. That shouldn’t be difficult. I would drive the car around the town, then leave it not too far from where I had stolen it. Once I had done that, I would be a thief. and this I wanted to be as Rhea was a thief. The chances of getting caught were remote, but the steal would provide a certain amount of tension, and this was what I wanted.
Why think about it? Why not do it?
I looked at my watch. It was eight minutes after midnight.
Still feeling ten feet tall, I put on my jacket, turned off the light and left the room. I didn’t use the elevator, but walked silently down the stairs, through the lobby where the nightman was dozing and out into the hot night.
* * *
Stealing a car proved more complicated than I had imagined. I walked to the nearest parking lot, but found a guard patrolling, and he looked suspiciously at me, fingering his club as I lingered at the entrance.
‘You want something?’ he demanded in a cop voice.
‘Not you,’ I said and moved on.
I tramped down a number of side streets where cars were parked, bumper to bumper. Whenever I paused to see if a car door was unlocked, someone would appear out of the darkness, stare at me, before walking on. I found I was sweating and my heart was thumping. This certainly was tension and I had to admit I didn’t like it.
It wasn’t until 01.00 when my nerves were wilting, that I finally found a car, unlocked and the ignition key in place.
Here I go, I thought and wiped my sweating hands on the seat of my jeans. I looked up and down the deserted street, then with my heart pounding, I opened the car door and slid into the driving seat.
With an unsteady hand, I turned on the ignition and pressed down on the gas pedal. There was a faint growling sound which petered out into a whimper. Sweat running down my face, I stared into the car’s darkness. I fumbled for the switch to turn on the parkers, found it and the parkers came on: a faint yellow glow which faded into nothing.
I was trying to steal a car with a flat battery!
My nerve cracked. I had had enough tension for one night. I got out of the car, eased the door shut, then started down the street. I had a raging thirst and my thigh muscles were flu
ttering as if I had run, flat out, a mile.
So this is tension, I thought, and yet, what had I done? I had tried to steal a car - something thousands of teenagers did every day of the week - and I hadn’t succeeded. Some thief! I thought. How Rhea would have jeered had she known of this gutless performance!
I began to realise that stepping from honesty which had been my background for thirty odd years into dishonesty presented an obstacle that needed more nerve and more courage than I had at this moment.
At the corner, at the end of the street, was an all-night bar. I went in for a beer. There were only three people in the bar: the usual drunk, a fat middle-aged whore and a homosexual: a boy of around eighteen, in a cherry-coloured suit, his hair to his shoulders and around his slim wrist an expensive gold watch. He simpered at me, then seeing his watch, I had a sudden idea. I carried my beer to a distant table, then looked directly at him. He was at my side in an instant.
‘Can we be friends?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I’m sure you’re as lonely as I am.’
I stared him over.
‘The price?’
‘Ten dollars. I’ll give you a wonderful time.’
‘Have you a pad?’
‘There’s a hotel up the street. they know me.’
I finished the beer and got to my feet.
‘So what are we waiting for?’
We went out into the hot darkness and started down the street. He smiled anxiously at me from time to time, keeping close to me as if he was afraid of losing me. He drew away from me as we passed a cop who stared at us and then spat in the gutter.
‘It’s not far, dear,’ the boy said, ‘just at the end of the street.’
I looked back. The cop was out of sight and there was no one to be seen. We were passing an alley lined with stinking trash bins. I caught hold of him and shoved him into the alley.
He gave a startled squeak of protest, but it was no more than a squeak. I took pleasure in hitting him because his kind wasn’t my kind. My fist thudded against his jaw and I eased him down into the muck, letting his head fall on a pile of mouldy potato peelings. Then bending over him, I took off his gold watch - probably a present from an infatuated client. With a quick look up and down the street, I walked away.
1973 - Have a Change of Scene Page 7