Vice Cop

by Deming, Richard

  I ordered more drinks. When we had worked our way through these, Sharon whispered another secret little suggestion in my ear. She suggested we leave and find some place to have dinner. But from the speculative expression which appeared on Mrs. Arlington’s face when we excused ourselves, I knew the girl had gotten across the impression that she was urging me to take her somewhere we could be alone, such as motel room. Sharon drove the impression home by tenderly clasping my hand and walking close to me as we crossed the room to the bar exit.

  Once outside, I reverted to visiting-relative status again. Dropping my hand, she said matter-of-factly, “Let’s not bother with dressing for dinner, Matt. You’d have to run me home, then come all the way back out to get me. We’ll go somewhere less formal than the Embers.”

  That suited me. Sharon wore a plain knit dress suitable for any restaurant where dinner dress wasn’t the custom; I wore my new sport coat and slacks. It was about as formal as I ever dressed when not in the undercover role of a wealthy playboy and she was dressed better than most of the women I customarily took to dinner.

  Just to test her reaction, I attempted to take her hand again as we stepped off the country club’s porch, so that we could walk hand-in-hand to the parking lot. Pulling it away, she looked at me as though she thought I was being juvenile.

  I gave her a grin. “I don’t think he cared,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Howard Farrell.”

  In an offended voice she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Forget it.”

  She did forget it, which led me to believe she knew very well what I was talking about, and was a little embarrassed to learn I had detected her childish attempt to make Farrell jealous. To make up for her outrageous use of me as a foil, she tried to be exceptionally pleasant during dinner.

  She steered us to a little Italian restaurant downtowm, where we had spaghetti by candlelight. Afterward we moved into the place’s barroom, which was separate from the restaurant, and had a few drinks. Despite her attempt to atone for her use of me by being unusually nice, Sharon wasn’t very scintillating at first. As the previous night, she was a bit withdrawn until the alcohol started to get to her. Then she began to come alive.

  In St. Cecilia bars close at ten P.M. on Sunday. Sharon looked disappointed when the barkeep announced last call.

  “I don’t feel like going home yet,” I said “Do you?”

  “No. I’m just beginning to enjoy myself.” She added quickly, in case her words gave me the wrong impression, “I mean I’ve been having fun all day, but just now I’m starting to have lots of fun.”

  I said, “I know where we can get an after-hours nightcap.”

  “Where?”

  “I have a bottle in my room.”

  “All right,” she agreed with a smile, not even putting up a token argument.

  At the Leland I felt a little self-conscious walking across the lobby to the elevator with a stunning redhead on my arm. I kept wondering if the desk clerk would notice us and recall that I was registered in a single room. I also wondered if the elevator operator would notice that Sharon wore no wedding ring. Sharon seemed perfectly at ease, however, as though accompanying men to their hotel rooms was an ancient experience for her.

  Considering her remark on the porch last night, coupled with her easy acceptance of my invitation, I suspected that it was.

  When I closed the door of my room behind us, I said, “I’ll phone down for ice and soda.”

  “Why bother?” Sharon asked. “Let’s drink out of the bottle and chase it with water.”

  Placing her handbag on the dresser, she walked past me and bolted the door.

  I got the bottle out of my suitcase and set it on the dresser. I went into the bathroom and ran two glasses full of water. When I returned, Sharon stood in front of the open closet door in a black slip, hanging up her knitted dress.

  A little unsteadily I set down the water glasses and uncapped the bourbon bottle. Sharon pushed the closet door shut, picked up the bottle and took a solid jolt. Making a face, she chased it with water. Then she kicked off her shoes, pulled her slip off over her head and neatly folded it over the back of a chair. As she started to undo a garter belt, I lifted the bottle and let a couple of ounces of bourbon flow down my throat.

  When the tears faded from my eyes enough for me to see, her stockings were draped over the slip and she wore nothing but the briefest of black lace panties and a black brassiere.

  Turning her back to me, she said matter-of-factly, “Unhook me, please.”

  I was all thumbs, but I managed to get it done. Putting the brassiere on the dresser, she turned to face me again. If the brassiere had been for support, she didn’t need one. Her plump breasts thrust their pink tips upward as firmly as though held up by invisible hands.

  “Are you going to stand there like a voyeur with all your clothes on?” she inquired. “Or do you want to join in the game?”

  Stiff-legged I marched over to the closet and pulled open the door. As I started to hang up my coat, she moved toward the bed.

  I ought to feel guilty as hell, I thought, letting Manners foot the bill for me to squire his daughter around, then rolling her in the hay. She was too young for a guy my age anyway, I thought. She was just Julie’s age, and I’d clobber any man who took her to a hotel room.

  On the other hand, it was hardly like seducing a virgin, I told myself. Obviously sex didn’t mean anything to Sharon. It was just another form of amusement, no more important to her than tennis or bridge or dancing in her bare feet. Besides, it was in line of duty. If I turned her down now, it would blow the whole operation.

  I would have taken her anyway, of course, but it eased my conscience to have some rational excuses.

  When I started for the bed, she had slipped from the brief panties and lay there naked, her flaming red hair spread across the pillow.

  “Leave the light on,” she instructed me casually. “It’s more fun when you can see, don’t you think?’’

  I didn’t answer. I just tumbled next to her and gathered her in my arms.

  During the next few hours I crossed off another possible reason that Howard Farrell had grown tired of Sharon. Previously I had decided it couldn’t be because of her looks, because she could have competed in the Miss America contest. Now I decided it couldn’t be because she wasn’t warm enough to suit him. She may have been casual in her approach to love-making, but there was nothing casual about her performance when the preliminaries were over. She loved every second of it, and she uninhibitedly made no pretense that she didn’t.

  Maybe that was it, I thought. Maybe Farrell liked his women more sedate, even in bed. Some men are offended if a woman exhibits too much passion. I don’t know why. Probably our sex training has too many remnants of Puritanism in it.

  I didn’t get her home until six in the morning. And until we finally left the hotel, I was completely derelict in my duty as an undercover officer. I not only made no attempt to bring the conversation around to sex orgies, I never once even thought of Isobel Whittier.

  It wasn’t until I was driving Sharon home that I came back to earth enough to realize this was a perfect opportunity to get across to her that I had the warped sort of philosophy which would make me a perfect addition to the Whittier clique.

  In bed Sharon had been a bundle of exploding passion. But now that we had our clothes on again, she acted as though nothing at all had happened between us. She didn’t cuddle against me on the way home. She just sat there making small talk as though our relationship were entirely platonie.

  I said, “You’re not a very affectionate person, are you, Sharon?”

  She gave me a surprised look. “I thought I demonstrated about as much affection as a woman can tonight.”

  “That was just lust,” I said. “There’s a differen
ce. I think you like me, but you’re really not overwhelmingly fond of me, are you?”

  She emitted a mocking little laugh. “Are you going stuffy on me, Matt?”

  “I’m just curious,” I assured her. “I’m no prude. Tonight was an interlude to me, just as it obviously was to you. But most women at least pretend afterward that there was more behind it than hot pants. You don’t.”

  “Maybe I’m more honest than most women,” she said breezily. “I get hot pants often. If I insisted on being in love before I let a man touch me, they’d stay hot. Tonight you were convenient, but I have no desire ever to marry you, so why pretend I feel something I don’t? Now I suppose you think I’m a tramp.”

  “I’m not in any position to cast stones,” I said. “I don’t regard the sex act as any more sacred than you do. I belonged to a key club for a while back home.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Those aren’t much fun. You have to take the man who draws your key out of the hat. I prefer to have freedom of choice.”

  Her words implied that at some time or other she had dabbled with a key club. But whether this had been with Isobel Whittier’s clique or with some other group, it was impossible to tell, because she didn’t elaborate. I didn’t push it. It had been a perfect opening for her to mention the parties at Isobel Whittier’s, but she didn’t rise to the bait. She might have become offended if I continued the subject, and I didn’t want that. For the moment it was enough to have implanted in her mind that I wouldn’t be shocked by being invited to any sort of party.

  CHAPTER VI

  MONDAY AFTERNOON I phoned Carl Lincoln at headquarters.

  “I think I’m making progress,” I told him. “There hasn’t been any mention of Isobel Whittier yet, but I think I’m in well enough with Sharon so that if Isobel throws another party and invites her, the girl will drag me along.”

  Carl emitted a snicker. “That sounds as though you’ve been getting in a little homework. How is she?”

  “None of your business,” I said coldly. “We have a date to attend the races tonight, and I’m supposed to be a horse expert. Any new dope on Ethyl’s Boy?”

  “The smart money is laying off him. They think he’ll be held back a few races to build odds. I’m going to be there myself tonight, so if there’s any change, I’ll try to pass you the word.”

  “We’ll be in the club house,” I said.

  “You would. You’re a wealthy playboy. I’ll be in the grandstand with the working people. If I hear anything, I’ll drift over to the club-house fence. Keep an eye out for me.”

  “Check,” I said, and hung up.

  The first race at Everglade started at eight-thrity, but you had to get daily double bets in by eight-fifteen. Sharon and I got there at eight so as to have time to look over the form. I had never been in the club house before, but as I was supposed to be from out of town, I didn’t have to pretend familiarity.

  I was surprised to learn Sharon had never before attended the races. I would have assumed that they would be old stuff to her. But it seemed that her particular social set wasn’t horse conscious, and she was the sort of person who went along with the crowd. I had to show her how to read a racing form.

  The club house was at the south end of the track, where there was a good view of the finish line. It was separated from the grandstand section by a shoulder-high wire fence. There was a restaurant and cocktail lounge with each row of tables elevated above the previous row, so that you could sit and have dinner, or merely drink, while you watched the races through the plate-glass front wall of the room. Or, if you preferred, you could sit at one of the outside tables at ground level and watch the races from closer to the track. They kept the hoi polloi out of the club house by charging an additional two dollars and a half per person above the grandstand entrance fee.

  Since we had dined before coming to the track, Sharon and I decided on an outside table. A waiter brought us a drink while we went over the form sheet.

  I had decided in advance that any two-dollar bets I made, which was my normal bet when I went to the track, would come out of my own pocket instead of beings charged to Manners. But I knew that in my role of wealthy playboy, Sharon would think it peculiar if I didn’t place at least a few sizable bets, since it would be unlikely for a man interested enough in racing to come all the way from New York to stick to the two-dollar window. Any large bets I made, I resolved Manners would pay for.

  Conversely, any wins I hit on my own money I planned to keep. Anything Manners’ money earned, it would be only fair to stick back into the expense fund he had given me.

  Ethyl’s Boy was scheduled for the fifth race. I told Sharon I didn’t see anything I particularly liked in the first, so I planned to buy only a two-dollar daily double ticket. I picked the numbers 1-4 out of the air.

  Sharon decided to reverse it and played 4-1.

  In the first race number four came in. When I suggested she back up her second horse, she risked ten dollars on number one in the second. Thinking it was time to demonstrate I was a big-time horse player, I put fifty dollars on one’s nose.

  Number one came in, but he was the favorite and paid only three-twenty, which returned me eighty dollars, or a net profit of thirty. Sharon collected sixteen dollars for her ten, plus thirty dollars and twenty cents on the daily double.

  She was as excited as a small girl at her first carnival. “This is fun,” she said. “How long has this easy money been lying around waiting to be picked up?”

  “Don’t get too enthusiastic,” I counselled. “You probably won’t pick another winner all evening.”

  She refuted me by picking an eight-to-one shot in the third race and collecting ninety dollars on a ten-dollar bet. I played thirty across the board on the favorite and he came in seventh.

  That left Manners even and me two dollars out.

  Meantime I had been watching the fence between the club house and the grandstand section, but I failed to spot Carl Lincoln. Just before the fourth race, while Sharon was at the ten-dollar window placing another bet, I strolled over to the fence to take a closer look at the crowd. People were packed five deep along the fence edging the track in the other section, but I couldn’t see Carl in the crowd.

  Sharon’s voice behind me said, “Aren’t you betting this race?”

  Turning, I said, “There isn’t any horse I like.”

  “Number seven,” she said confidently. “Little Isadore.”

  Glancing at the board, I saw that number seven was fifty-to-one. Obviously even his owner wasn’t betting him.

  I said dryly, “You have one chance. Maybe all the other horses will fall down.”

  Behind me, on the other side of the fence, a voice said clearly, “Hey, Matt!”

  I recognized the voice and wanted no part of it at this particular moment, but I couldn’t ignore it because Sharon had heard the hail too and was looking that way. Slowly I turned around.

  Young Jimmy Whitemore, my sister’s current boy friend, stood the other side of the wire grinning at me. Julie was with him, also grinning at me, but with one eye on Sharon in womanly curiosity.

  I did the only thing I could do. In a formal tone I said, “Hi, there,” then glanced toward the track and said urgently to Sharon, “They’re almost at the post.”

  Taking her arm, I steered her toward our table.

  “I thought you didn’t know anybody in town,” she said. “Who was that?”

  “Bellhop at the hotel,” I said. “Jimmy something-or-other.”

  She looked surprised. “Bellhops call you by your first name?”

  “This one does,” I said. “I’ve kidded around with him a little.”

  “Oh? And who was the cute little blonde?”

  “His girl, I suppose,” I said with a shrug. “How would I know?”

  Sharon started to say, “She seemed to know—” but at that instant the loud speaker boomed, “They’re off!”

  Sharon forgot the young couple in favor of watching the ra
ce.

  The remote chance I told Sharon she had miraculously developed. All the other horses fell down. On the far turn of the second lap the second horse tried to pass the lead horse behind, had insufficient room either to pull in or veer around the crackup. All at once there was a milling scramble of horses and men and broken sulkies all over the track.

  Little Isadore, ambling along a dozen lengths in the rear, skirted the shambles and trotted home alone. Eventually a couple of other drivers untangled their rigs and quieted their horses enough to finish second and third.

  Little Isadore paid ninety-eight-fifty. Sharon collected four hundred and ninety-two dollars and fifty cents.

  I felt like cutting my throat.

  When Sharon ecstatically ran off toward the cashier windows, I moved over to the fence again. Julie and Jimmy Whitemore were standing in the corner right by the track fence.

  “Hey!” I called to them.

  They both turned to look at me. Julie said in a hurt voice, “I didn’t know you were ashamed of me, Matt.”

  “What did I tell you I’d be doing for the next couple of weeks?” I demanded.

  Her eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “You’re on that undercover assignment,” she said contritely. “Did we spoil things?”

  “You excited a little curiosity,” I said grimly. “Do me a favor, kids, and move on down the track. Maybe she’ll forget you if she doesn’t see you again.”

  “Sure, Matt,” Jimmy said in an abashed voice.

  “What is she?” Julie asked. “A big-time gangster’s moll, or just a confidence woman?”

  “Get moving, brat,” I growled at her.

  She made a face at me, then took Jimmy’s hand and led him away into the crowd. As they moved off, I imagined what the old man’s reaction would be when Julie told at home where she had seen me.

  “Undercover, hah!” he would say. “Sporting fancy-dressed redheads at a race track. That’s how policemen work in danger?”

  I was looking around for Sharon when another voice from beyond the fence called, “Matt!”

  Turning, I saw Carl Lincoln working his way through the crowd. When he got to the fence, he said, “Look at the board.”