Strip For Violence

by Ed Lacy

  “I'm quite comfortable as I am.”

  “Okay, okay, I'll see if I can get any outraged-virtue music on the radio to go with your act. But your dress will get a little messy on the boat.”

  “I'll chance that.”

  “It's your dress. Go down into the cabin and under the bunk on the port side—that's the left side, you'll see several drawers. In the top one is a metal box with some fishing tackle. Bring that up—we'll have to fish for our supper.”

  She cautiously stepped down into the cabin, then called out, “Say, this is all very cute. I have the box, but where's the rods?”

  “I'm a hand-line man.”

  We were running against the tide and I headed for the New Jersey shore; the tide is always stronger in the center of the Hudson. Laurie was sitting near me, the fishing box beside her. When we passed under the George Washington Bridge, its string of lights like a fantastic pearl necklace in I the clear night she said, “Bridge looks so clean and beautiful from underneath. What's that bridge over there?”

  “The Henry Hudson, and there's Spuyten Duyvil, where we left our friend.”

  “I wonder what's become of him.”

  “Devil probably has him.”

  “The what?”

  “That's how Spuyten Duyvil is said to have gotten its handle. Way back in the days of the Dutch, some character made a bet he could swim it during a storm— 'in spite of the devil'. Although some people think it's named after a 'spitting devil' because of a spouting spring there. See, I'm just full of folk-lore tonight, no seduction in me.”

  “Yak-yak, very funny. Spuyten Duyvil's not very much of a swim—about a hundred yards. Kids swim it all the time.”

  “Maybe they were scared of water in the old days. When we get a little farther up, we'll anchor, see if we eat or not. Ever fish?”

  “Sure. Father and I often went fishing. Think we'll catch any shad or a tommy cod?”

  “I'm so hungry anything gets on my line ends up in the frying pan—and I don't care what it is. I'm here to eat 'em, not to call their name. Glad you're wearing low-heeled shoes.”

  “Now what has my shoes got to do with fishing?”

  “Nothing, except high heels are murder on a boat. Also, I like the idea that you're not trying to be any taller.”

  “Told you once before, I'm not interested in what you like or dislike.”

  17

  n another hour we passed Yonkers and I threw out the anchor. There wasn't another boat in sight... except for a few big cruisers passing in the middle of the Hudson. We were a bit north of Nyack and could see the lights of some houses in the woods near the shore. I took two hand lines, baited them with some bottled junk that was advertised as making the fish bite like stupid, told Laurie, “Try your luck. I'll get the vegetables going.”

  “Perhaps you'd better fish and I cook.”

  “With the temperamental stove I have, a man's place is the kitchen. You get the fish—I hope.” I cleaned out the pots and dishes, put a can of spinach on to boil, fried some spuds, and set the table—on the deck.

  Laurie had both lines out and laughed like a kid when she brought in a fish that looked like a yellow perch—dark olive in color with patches of bright gold—and at least a pound. While I cleaned that, she hooked a small eel and took off the line without screaming—and threw it back. While I was telling her eels were good eating, she lost a nibble on one line, but landed a striped mullet that was big enough to eat.

  “Now will you shut up?” she asked, taking in her lines.

  Seeing the sinkers reminded me of Anita, gave me the shivers for a second, as I cleaned the fish, tossed the both of them into the hot frying pan.

  Within a few minutes we were eating fresh fried fish, potatoes, and spinach, and sipping two fairly cold highballs. I had the radio going—and not only for the music, but the news—although finding Louise's body might not make the radio news.

  It was all very quiet and peaceful and I forgot Anita and Louise as we lit cigarettes, had another drink. For some reason I thought of Mrs. Brody, wondered if being married to Laurie would give us the life the Brodys had, and whether I wanted it or not. “This Mrs. Brody, was she happy, I mean, she and Brody?”

  “What makes you ask that? Guess she was happy—or beaten down by boredom. You know, Hal, this isn't bad, the boat and all, be a lot of fun under different circumstances.”

  “Lot of fun now. I believe in taking your fun when you can—don't get too many opportunities these days.”

  “Hal, please don't spoil things, don't start pitching.”

  “I won't. Those clouds over the moon ruined my seduction scene. Hope we don't have rain.”

  Laurie was silent for a moment. I put some water on—to wash the dishes—and she said, “Can't quite make you out. This morning, when I first saw you, I didn't trust you. And when you hit that man, I almost hated you because you seemed so... so... brutal. Now, I find myself liking you, your boat. And you suddenly ask about Mrs. Brody's happiness, and sometimes I think you're making fun of me.”

  “Never make fun of anybody. Being a half-pint I know how cruel such 'fun' can be. Couple things I don't understand about you.... How come no boyfriends?”

  “Tennis kept me busy.”

  “That

  busy?”

  “Oh, what spare time I had was spent with Father, and he was rather strict and old-fashioned... about boys. I want romance, some day, but frankly, so far it's never bothered me. In high school, even around the courts, I'd hear girls talk about kissing and dating, and it never made my heart beat faster, or any junk like that. Or, at dances, I never let a fellow kiss me. I really had no desire for...

  We were sitting side by side and I turned and kissed her full on the lips, held her tightly. For a second she was stiff with surprise, then her lips answered the pressure of mine, her hand circled my neck, the nails digging into my skin. Then—she pulled away and when I still held her she placed her thumb under my left ear and began to press. I let go damn fast. She jumped to her feet.

  “I told you...!”

  “Relax, Laurie, a minor turn has been made in the history of Laurie Shelton—you've been kissed. Now don't fly off the handle, it was pleasant and...”

  “Pleasant? You conceited fool, I hated it!”

  “Don't shout—sound carries over water. And if you hated it, how do you account for this?” I turned my back to show her the blood on the back of my neck.

  “That was only a... a...”

  “Only a little passion. Look, grow up, admit you like being kissed, that you have passion. Doesn't mean you go for me, but there's no point in hiding things, pretending you're made of ice. All I do around you is apologize, explain....”

  “If you'd stop this stupid pawing and...”

  “Okay, let's wash the dishes and skip the East Lynne bunko.”

  She helped with the dishes, acting mad and sullen. It was after eleven and I tossed a couple of sheets on her bunk, told her, “You'll sleep here. I'll be on the other bunk and you can have a gun, every knife on the boat, to protect yourself.”

  “So funny! Ha! Ha! I'll sleep on the deck.”

  “It's all yours, but I'll make up the bunk—in case you change your mind.”

  We went back on deck and it was windy and cloudy. I started the engine, gave her the wheel while I pulled up anchor. We headed down the Hudson. I told her, “To be on the safe side, we'll head for the bay, anchor off Staten island. Here, somebody could swim out from the shore, take a pot shot at us.”

  Still sulking, she didn't say a mumbling word, made herself another highball, got an old sweater of mine out of the cabin, and put that on and sipped her drink. It was slack tide and we made good time. I kept to the New Jersey shore, stopped at a gas station near Edgewater, filled the tank, got some water and ice.

  18

  The RAIN BEGAN as we passed the Battery and it was really coming down so hard I could barely make out the Statue of Liberty. The wind had picked up and we bounced a
round on long, gliding waves. It would be calm for an ocean liner, but my thirty-four-foot boat was rocking like a cork.

  Laurie was so quiet I didn't realize at first that she was seasick. When the rain started I sent her into the cabin, but she soon came dashing out, her face a sweaty, dirty, pale green, and gave up—happily not against the wind. I told her, “Get inside. No point in both of us getting wet.”

  She shook her head, said in a far-off voice, “Lord, feel awful. Never felt this sick before. Can't stand it in the cabin—too muggy.”

  “Be better off if you lie down,” I said, but she only shook her wet head; stood there staring off into the dark watery night, moaning now and then. The boat was going up and down each wave and I knew how she felt—being seasick is a worse feeling than being real sick. But I couldn't leave the wheel, get her into the cabin.

  It took us a long time to cross the bay, finally reach Staten Island. It was rough in the dark, the great hulls of anchored freighters looming up around us, the ferry passing like a ghost, tugs making spooky, haunting sounds with their foghorns, and all the time the boat bouncing like a seesaw. I anchored off an unused pier near the Kill van Kull and the water was fairly calm. The Narrows probably smelled better, but would be rougher. I led Laurie down to her bunk as she kept moaning, “Lord, Lord, I never felt so awfully sick!”

  “Sleep will make everything okay. Going to give you some dramamine, quiet your guts, make you sleep.”

  “Let me... lie down. I feel... terrible.”

  I got half a dramamine pill and a little water and she refused to take it, but I shook her and she swallowed it, mumbled, “Please don't shake me. My... insides are rattling. Want to sleep.”

  She started to climb into her bunk but I pulled her up. “You can't sleep in those wet things. Get you some pajamas and...”

  “Let me... alone. Feel like I'm... dying.”

  “Take it slow, you're not the first person to be seasick. Undress, I'll turn my back and throw you a pair of pajamas.”

  She was leaning against the wall, her eyes shut. I turned and opened the chest of drawers under my bunk, heard her getting into bed. Grabbing her, I said, “Want it like this— then stand still.”

  She stood there in a daze as I unbuttoned her wet dress, let it drop to her feet. I unhooked her bra and her breasts were firm and small, but surprisingly full. She had on white panties and when I pulled at them, she pushed my hands away. I unrolled her stockings, ran a rough towel over her body, helped her into bed. When she was under the covers I said, “Give me your pants.”

  The dramamine had started to work, for she made an effort to get them off, but fell asleep. Reaching under the sheets, I pulled them down her legs and off.

  Hanging up her things as best I could, I went on deck to check my lights, see if the anchor was dragging. Then I washed up, went to the “head,” and got into my bunk.

  Laurie was breathing evenly but I couldn't doze off, although I was tired as hell. Something troubled me, pricked at my brain. Had the same sensation you get when entering a familiar room—have a vague feeling something is out of place. I'd overlooked something, a word, a gesture, that had great meaning.

  19

  And at the moment Laurie annoyed me. She was lying to me, holding out on the dough she must have, putting my life and hers in danger. Maybe she didn't realize that, but either she or Mrs. Brody had to have the dough and I had this strong hunch it was Laurie. I was getting the patsy treatment. Her damn smugness... me feeding her, doctoring her, putting her to bed, trying to protect her... and all the time she was treating me like I was about to rape her. And yet—well, I'd known her less than twenty-four hours and already I was in deep, even passed up Margrita because of her.

  Maybe my thinking was unfair to Laurie, confused, but I lay there full of a dull sort of anger... and back of every-thing was this thing jabbing at my mind, trying to make me recall whatever it was I'd skimmed over.

  I'd doze off for what seemed a few seconds, then wake with a violent start, trying hard to recall whatever it was worrying me. Listening to the steady rain, the quiet lapping of the waves, I'd glance over at Laurie, wondered if I'd gone off my rocker—loving a kid who wasn't leveling with me. All the time—the valuable time that was fast running out—she was stalling me, Louise's body was waiting to be found, maybe put my rear in the chair.

  Several hours passed like that when Laurie suddenly sat up, gathered the sheet about her, as she stepped off the bunk, swaying with the gentle ride of the boat. She looked around nervously in the dim light, opened the narrow closet door, started for the deck, shivered and stepped back as the rain wet her face and shoulders. She opened another closet—where I hung my clothes—poked around the galley, swore under her breath, then climbed back into her bunk.

  I knew what she was hunting for—the John, the “head” as real sailors call it. Of course she had no way of guessing that the “Blowfish Madonna” was not only a picture but the door to the bathroom. She hadn't gone to the can all the time she'd been aboard.

  I lay in my bunk, full of a strange, cruel satisfaction, almost amused. I wasn't going to make a move, till she came to me, asked me where the hell it was. Sure, it was petty and stupid on my part, but in some manner I didn't bother to figure out, it was important, a way of cracking that cock-eyed selfish pride of hers.

  She twisted and turned in her bunk and I felt like a monster. She sat up, she stretched out again... and finally jumped out of bed, buck naked, shook me and asked, “Hal. Where is... it?”

  “That painting there, it's the door to the John,” I said, pointing.

  Laurie ran to the door, nearly falling, tried to push it open. “The food the blowfish is diving for—that's the knob,” I said, getting out of bed, opening the door. She ran by me and I shut the door for her.

  I sat on my bunk, not sure this wasn't all a silly dream. I didn't know exactly what I was waiting for, but there isn't too much room on a small boat, and I was damned if I was going out on the deck, in the rain.

  I heard the flush of water and then it was quiet for a long time. Finally she got tired of waiting, the door opened and she stood there, her body like a dream in the dim light.

  Even her face had lost that tense look—maybe she was still a bit high on the dramamine.

  She shook her head slowly, said—and it sounded like a deep sigh— “No.”

  I stood up but didn't move. She kept shaking her head, mumbling, “No. Oh I don't know... Oh... No.” We were about two feet apart and she slowly edged toward me. I still didn't move and when she was a few inches from me, I saw the sweat on her face, the troubled brightness in her eyes.

  “Hal... Hal, what shall I do? Oh, Hal...”

  She stepped closer, her hot breath on my face, the wonderful clean softness of her breasts touching my chest. I didn't move, say a word. This was something she had to decide for herself, for...

  With a savage cry she threw herself against me, our lips meeting in a hard kiss, her body eagerly pressing mine, her strong hands exploring my back, sweeping my body.

  20

  It was a night I never want to forget, and I never will: a night of passion and pain, of great tenderness and sheer desire; of whispered confidences and confessions. And out of it all, the tenderness and wonderful feeling, maybe love... one thing stuck out, a sentence, and it was neither tender nor sweet.

  We slept in a tight hug, awakening now and then to talk, say the intimate things we'd each have known if we'd spent the usual weeks and months before becoming lovers. And she said, curtly, bitterly, “My father—Pop, I hardly ever called him Pop—but Hal he did everything for me and I hated him!”

  “But you said...?”

  “He was a coward, afraid of the world, running from life. All my life I've lived by the strictest conventions, by banal slogans, by stupid penny-pinching. It was all an escape for him. He thought if he lived by the... the... rules, obeyed them to the letter, then he couldn't be blamed for being a failure. And he was a failur
e, for he was unhappy. There was always a fight over every cent, a cross-examination every time I wanted to do something on my own. That killed Mama. I wish I could make you see it, spending exactly so much for food, so much for rent, everything figured to the exact cent, little budget envelopes, for that and this... The model way to live according to some books he once read. Instead of a heart he had a penny-bank!”

  I didn't know what she expected me to say; what I wanted to say. The old man was dead, I never even knew him. I mumbled, “Guess he meant well.”

  “Sure he did,” she said, her cheek against mine, and I felt all the muscles moving in the side of her face, her damp lips as she spoke. “In a way I couldn't blame him. Is there anybody in this rich country of ours who isn't haunted by the fear of poverty? I don't blame him for that, but for crawling all his life. If he'd taken a chance, showed a tiny bit of fight... but all he did was worry and worry, stay strictly in line. I was like his money, his furniture, his patched underwear... I was something that belonged to him, a property he had to guide and protect every second, be with all the time because I was his. He was a stone around my neck, a... Oh no, I don't mean that... I was such an ungrateful little bitch! He was a good man by his standards, and who am I to say he was wrong? All the time he was lonely, and so was I... so... so terribly alone, wanting friends, to be with people, be a part of things. We were both lonely, and in his own way he tried his best for me. That's why it's so important I avenge him. I must! Must!”

  Her body stiffened, felt like a statue in my arms. “Laurie, honey, take it slow. No point in getting worked up now about...”

  “Worked up?” she repeated, her voice rising with hysteria. Then she let me have it, right in the gut. “You don't understand, Hal. I... I'm the one... I killed him!”

  BOOK FIVE

  I

  Her full sobs shook us both. For a moment I was so crazy about her, I didn't think—only felt heavy with a dull, sick, coldness. Then I snapped out of it—Laurie couldn't have killed him. I stroked her wet face, shook her gently, whispered, “Stop crying, you didn't kill him, you couldn't possibly have...”