Marilyn K - The House Next Door

by Lionel White

  So if you really want to help me,” she said, “please do what I ask you. Take me to a motel. I could be Mrs.—”

  Again she squeezed my hand and giggled a little.

  I don’t even know your name,” she said shyly.

  Sam Russell, I said. “Samuel James Russell. You mean, you want me to register you as Mrs. Sam Russell?”

  She looked up at me and this time I did take my eyes off the road. I swear I never saw a more completely naive and innocent expression on anyone’s face. A look of sheer guilelessness. A look of pure faith in my own goodness and generosity.

  “Yes,” she said. “That is what I want. That is, if you don’t think your wife would object. Anyway, maybe we shouldn’t use your real name.”

  I was quick to tell her that she would be the one and original Mrs. Sam Russell.

  “But I still don’t understand why—”

  “I have to have time to think,” she said. "Just trust me and take care of me. I must rest and I must think and then I have to get in touch with Suzy, you know.”

  I didn’t know.

  “Suzy?”

  “Suzy is my sister and she always takes care of me and tells me what to do. We can check into the motel and then I’ll have Suzy come down from New York after I have rested and then you won’t have to worry about me any more.”

  “I don’t mind at all—worrying about you,” I said. “And if that is what you want, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll be coming to the motel any minute now. You’re sure—”

  “Oh yes, I’m sure.”

  It was a full ten minutes before we came to the sprawling, newly built motel and during those ten minutes I had plenty of time to think.

  It didn’t make any sense at all.

  I tried to remember what I knew of Aurelio Marcus. As I mentioned earlier, I had spent some time working for one of the big gambling outfits in Havana. A famous hotel was the location of the gambling operation, but the hotel merely leased out the gambling rights. I had no idea who actually ran the operation, but one thing I did know: It was controlled by mobs and the mobs, in turn, were controlled by the Syndicate.

  Marcus worked for the Syndicate, was rumored to be one of its top men. He had a reputation as a bagman—the guy who carts the dough around, collecting and making the pay-offs.

  If you crossed up Marcus, you were crossing up the Syndicate itself and that was just about the same thing as signing your own death warrant. Marcus was rumored to be plenty tough himself, but that didn’t worry me. Marcus was dead. I had seen him and there was no doubt in my mind about that. And this girl, who looked like a college kid or the spoiled daughter of a rich family, had been Marcus’ traveling companion. Coming up from Florida with him.

  There was just about only one conclusion I could draw. She certainly was-n’t any run-of-the-mill hooker. But she must have been his mistress. And yet, somehow, looking at her and listening to her, I simply couldn’t believe it. It just didn’t make sense.

  For a second I vaguely wondered if she might be his daughter, using another name to avoid notoriety. But this theory made even less sense than the first one. A guy like Marcus simply couldn’t have had a daughter like Marilyn K.

  Then who—and what—was she? Why had she been traveling with him and why was she so anxious to avoid any connection with him now that he was dead?

  I shrugged helplessly.

  Anyway, what the hell was the difference? What did it matter? Who cared?

  After all, the important thing was that I had come along when I did, that I had stopped and that she had asked me to help her. That she wanted me to take her to the motel and register her as my wife.

  It made less and less sense. Things like this just plain don't happen. That’s what I started out by saying and that is what I still—

  Once more she cut in, interrupting my thoughts.

  “You won’t leave me until Suzy comes, will you?” she asked.

  I gulped, blushing because of what was just then going through my mind.

  “No,” I said, “I won’t leave you. I promise.”

  “I knew the minute you stopped back there on the road for me, and I saw your face, that I could trust you to help me,” she said.

  Common decency made me blush. Seeing the long low silhouette of the motel looming up, I began to slow down to turn into the curving driveway leading past the outdoor heated swimming pool. I remember thinking that tourist spots sure had changed in the last ten years. The owners of this one must have laid out a cool million, building and landscaping their little roadside rest. They had named it the Whispering Willows.

  A colored boy showed as I pulled the Pontiac to a stop in front of the office. I got out and opened the trunk, taking out a bag. I helped her out of the car and started to reach for her small suitcase, but she shook her head, smiling. She wanted to carry it herself.

  The kid on the desk was about twenty and he had wide, knowing eyes and a rather snotty leer.

  I signed the register Mr. and Mrs. George Mason and added New York City after the name.

  The clerk said, speaking with a phony Harvard accent, “Twin beds, I suppose.”

  ‘‘You have something with a sitting room?”

  We have two-room suites. Twenty dollars,” he said.

  It would be worth it, every cent of it.

  “There’s a carport in back of your suite,” he volunteered.

  She still carried her bag as the colored boy took a key from the room clerk, who stared after us. My God, you would have thought we were the first couple ever to register before breakfast. I could see the wheels turning in his head. Aboutfour hours outofNew York, he was thinking. He probably figured we had driven right on through after closing up some night club or other. I knew what was going through his mind all right. And I’ll admit something of the same idea was going through my own.

  It was a nice suite, even at twenty bucks a day.

  I saw that she gave a quick glance at the large couch in the living room as we passed through to the bedroom.

  I waited until the colored boy had fumbled around opening the window a crack, putting the bags on stands and sort of patting the bed as he passed. I handed him a dollar bill and asked if he could bring some ice and soda.

  He said he could.

  “Would you like me to order some breakfast, dear?” I asked, turning to Marilyn K.

  She looked just a little surprised at the “dear” and then, catching on, smiled sweetly and said no.

  “I think a cold drink,” she said.

  “Is there a place to get a bottle of Scotch,” I asked, as the boy was about to turn away. I didn’t think I had more than a couple of ounces or so left in the flask.

  “No, sir,” he said. “You’d have to go into town. However,” he hesitated, smiling and showing a set of the prettiest teeth this side of a museum, “however, I just happen to have a fifth of Haig and Haig, if you can drink that brand.”

  “I just happen to have a ten-dollar bill,” I said, handing it to him.

  He wasn’t gone three minutes and while he was out of the room, Marilyn walked over and sat on the edge of one of the twin beds and then suddenly fell back, stretching out and opening her mouth wide in a yawn. She had her long slender arms above her head and lay back with her knees bent and her feet on the floor and I swear to God as I looked at her breasts, rising up in twin peaks as she yawned, I could understand why men commit rape.

  I shook my head and deliberately turned away, reaching for a cigarette with a shaking hand.

  The colored boy came back with the bottle and the ice and the soda and asked if there was anything else. I could tell by the way he asked that he knew damned well I had everything right there that I could ever possibly want.

  I snapped the lock on the outside door after him and turned back into the room.

  She was on her feet now, standing by the dressing table and looking at the bottle.

  "I want you to make me a pretty strong one, ” she said. “But somethin
g else, before you do.’’

  I stopped a foot away from her.

  "Yes?”

  "Just this,” she said, “for being so nice to me.”

  And before I even guessed what she was going to do she stepped forward and her arms came out and went around my waist and she leaned against me, lifting her head. Her eyes closed and her lips half opened.

  I have kissed at least a couple of hundred girls in my day. Every kind and every description. But none of them, none at all, were anything like this.

  I could feel her lips against mine, sweet and tasting like wild strawberries.

  Her body contoured into my own, pressing hard against me; it was soft and as pliable as a baby’s. I could feel the hard nipples of her breasts pressing into my shirt, felt the quiver go through her slender frame as her delicate tongue forced its way into my mouth.

  I damned near swooned and if she hadn’t pulled away when she did, pushing her tiny hands against my chest and leaning her head far back, I think I would have flipped right then.

  “No,” she said, as I tried to hold her and pull her back. “No, please, not just now.”

  I could see suddenly how she had managed to fight those great fish to a standstill and land them. She was surprisingly, almost unbelievably, strong.

  I released her, reluctantly. She smiled up at me.

  “You kiss nice,” she said.

  I reached for the whiskey bottle. I needed a drink, myself, now.

  “Strong,” she said. “Plenty of ice, little soda.”

  I mixed two drinks. As I did, she crossed the room and took the bag which she had carried in, laid it on the bed and snapped open the twin latches.

  Clive me a drink,” she said, “and then I will show you something.”

  I handed her the drink, watching her curiously.

  She took about half of it and put the glass down.

  Drink yours,” she said.

  I drank mine.

  “Look!”

  I looked.

  I swear to God I never saw so much money before in my life. And remem-r, d been working in a gambling casino.

  j--packed full of greenbacks. All in nice, neat bundles, in pe ectly, as though the bag had been made for the sole purpose of

  holding them, which it probably had.

  I shook my head a couple of times to clear it.

  “Holy Jesus!”

  “Please don’t swear,” she said.

  I stared at that money and then I stared at her.

  “Holy Je—. Good Lord,” I said. "Good God Almighty! Where did you ever—

  She stood up and walked over and put her finger against my lips, shaking her head a little.

  “I don’t like swearing,” she said. Then she turned and went back to the bed and almost carelessly flipped the lid closed.

  “If you are nice to me and help me,” she said, “I will give you some of it. You will help me, won’t you?”

  I swallowed about half of the air in the room before I was able to open my mouth.

  “Baby,” I said. “Baby, I’ll help you. I’ll be nice to you and I will help you and I will be your complete slave if you want me to be. ”

  “I don’t want you to be my slave,” she said. “I just want you to be nice to me.”

  She reached for her drink and finished it and then sat on the bed beside the suitcase.

  “You go into the other room now for a while,” she said. “I want to just lie down and rest for a few minutes. You go into the other room and sit and have another drink.”

  I pointed to the suitcase, fumbling for words.

  “But that,” I said. “That money. Where...”

  “Do what I say, Sam,” she said. “Please. Just let me rest for a few minutes and then we can talk and I will tell you all about it. Later we can have some breakfast and I will call my sister. But right now all I want is a few minutes rest.”

  I nodded.

  “Please,” she said. “Just for a little while.” She hesitated a moment, probably seeing the look on my face. She smiled just slightly and said, “After all, we may be here for several days. We’ll have a lot of time.”

  I staggered into the other room, still in a fog.

  I hoped that she meant what I hope she meant.

  I sat on the edge of the couch in the living room of the suite and I tried to put my thoughts together. The more I thought about things, the surer I was that the smartest move I could possibly make was to quietly open the door, walk out into the sunshine, and get in my car, turn on the ignition, put the

  Pontiac into gear and start going. Keep right on going.

  Instead, I waited about twenty minutes and then, walking softly, went to the

  bedroom door. I put my ear to the door and heard nothing. My hand reached for the knob and I slowly turned it. I moved the door in and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  I opened the door about halfway and put my head inside the room.

  She was lying on the bed, fully dressed, the suitcase held in her arms.

  She was sound asleep!

  Carefully I closed the door. Two minutes later I left the motel. The desk clerk was standing outside, watching a yard man moving garbage cans, and he looked at me but said nothing.

  I got into the car and started west. I had decided it was time I made a telephone call. And I didn't want to make it from the Whispering Willows.

  I found the glass-enclosed booth about four miles down the road, in front of a broken-down tourist camp. This place was a far cry from the spot where I had checked in with Marilyn K.; a ten-room cabin affair, dying on its feet. I parked and entered the outside, glass-enclosed phone booth.

  I didn't find Mel Mitchell at the newspaper but fortunately I still had his private number in my little blue book.

  Mel Mitchell is one of those bright young men around Manhattan who, even in his early thirties, was a dead cinch to be a success. When he got out of the Marines, he took a job on a New York tabloid and within a year or so had been moved up from the police beat to doing a column on night life.

  He sounded sleepy and a little irritated when I finally reached him. It took him a second or so to realize who I was.

  “Why Sam, you old bastard,” he said, when I ultimately got through. “Sam, where are you? What’s up? And what the hell are you getting me out of bed at this time of night for?”

  "It’s not night,” I said. “It’s morning. Anyway I am in a phone booth some damned place in Maryland and I’m paying cash for this call so I don’t want to waste time chattering. I’ll write and let you know the latest jazz. In the meantime, a favor, if you will?”

  A favor, boy? Sure. How much and where do I wire it?”

  Not money, Mel,” I said. “But God bless you anyway for the thought. What I need is a little private info. I want to know something about a girl named Marilyn K. Ever hear of her? A good-looking dish with—”

  Are you kidding?” he cut in.

  i Hell no, I said. “I just want to know.”

  “Boy you really have been out in tho woods ” Mol said “Marilyn K., eh?

  trying to tell me you ’ ve never heard of the

  “Right. I never have.”

  "You better catch up on your rock ‘n’ roll,” Mel said. “Although I still think you are kidding. Why the Kelley sisters are the biggest thing on the platters. They have recently cut Dream Song and it will go over a million for sure. The girls are really red hot. What’s the pitch?”

  “Just curious,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m so square. Ran into Marilyn and got sort of curious.”

  “Listen, Sam,” Mel said, his voice suddenly serious. “Don’t get curious. There's something you should know. The story around town is that mob money is in back of the girls. That the juke-box combine is personally interested and that is one reason they have come up so fast. The idea seems to be that Marilyn is Aurelio Marcus’ private stock, and brother, if it is true, you want no part of any of that. ”

  “Aurelio Mar
cus?”

  “Right,” Mel said. “Aurelio Marcus, the bagman for the Syndicate. He’s supposed to be down in either Miami or Havana now picking up the loot which was on hand when Castro closed up the casinos. Marilyn is probably with him. She’s his traveling piece.”

  “Well, I just was curious—”

  "Listen, Sam,” Mel interrupted me, quick alarm in his voice. “Don’t tell me you are mixed up—”

  “Forget it, Mel,” I said. “I just happened to run into her and sort of wondered.”

  “Stop wondering,” Mel said. "If you have to wonder about anyone, wonder about her sister, Suzy. Suzy is safe. Or at least so far as anyone knows, she isn’t tied in with any of the racket boys. But Marilyn—brother, watch your step. She's dynamite. And so is Marcus, keed. Dynamite.”

  “He’s exploded dynamite,” I said, without thinking.

  “What did you say, Sam?” Mel yelled. “What are you trying to tell me about Aurelio Marcus? Have you run across something I should—”

  “I can’t talk now, Mel,” I quickly interrupted. “But thanks for the tip anyway. I’ll contact you as soon as I hit town. Again, thanks.”

  I hung up as he was sputtering over the wire.

  I

  Chapter Three

  I had the picture.

  What Mel had told me really wasn’t news. Instinctively I had known the setup. It was easy enough to fill in the blank spots.

  Marilyn K. had been Marcus’ girl and she was driving back to New York with him. The suitcase? There was only one way to add it up. The money represented the boodle which Marcus had been able to get out of Cuba. His money or the Syndicate’s money—it didn’t matter. It sure as hell wasn't Marilyn K. ’s money. But she had it.

  I could see why she wanted a little time to think, as she put it. And I knew what she was thinking about. She was thinking about how she was going to manage to hang on to that money.

  Yes, it was easy to figure.

  They had been riding along and then the accident had taken place. Marcus was killed and there she was, alone at the side of that road, holding what was probably the best part of a half million dollars, and not knowing quite what to do. The police would find the car, find his body. And his friends would know. They would know that he had been bringing the money back and that she was with him