by Ed Lacy
“Nope.”
Staring up at me with bold dark eyes, she shrugged. “You're big... but not cop-beefy. You're not packing a gun and I never saw a dick with hair pretty as yours. You a user, too?”
“No.” Pulling a chair over, I sat down, blocking the door.
She suddenly giggled. “What's the matter, no hot hurry-hurry to bed now?” Turning on a table radio she began dancing, the robe billowing out to show solid thighs. Lucille moved with heavyweight grace. “Tony, I must have the money in front. You understand?”
“Relax. I've a business proposition for you...”
“Fat stuff, what the hell you think you're pulling? I want my sixty bucks—now!” Her badly painted face was an angry mask.
“Get me a saucer and stop the lip. I may give you a hundred times sixty dollars.”
“A saucer? If you think you can con me into a freebee...”
“Get it and shut your goddamn mouth!”
While she did a hippy walk to the sink, took a saucer from the shelf above it, I dug down into the duffel bag, under the towel. Opening the plastic pillow case, I removed a pinch of heroin. Dropping the white powder on the white saucer she held out, I zipped the bag shut, punched the towel firmly on top of it. Lucille's big eyes traveled from the plate to my duffel bag. “Great God, that full of horse?”
“Uncut stuff.”
Taking a single grain on her red pinky nail, she shoved it up her nose and sniffed. For a number of long seconds nothing happened: then her face flushed, the inside of the nostril turned a raw red, Lucille sighed with complete happiness. Putting the plate on the table she grabbed my hand, held the two fingers I'd pinched the dope with under her nose—whole body shaking.
When I yanked my fingers away, she gasped, “Strong... oooh strong! Tony, honey! Honey, I'll be so good to you... in a moment. Don't dare waste this!”
She raced to the bathroom, returned with a shaving mirror, a razor blade, and two pill boxes. Sitting at the table with all the concentration of a dedicated scientist, she pulled a long white pill from one of the boxes, delicately shaved the pill with the razor blade—the tiny shavings falling on the mirror.
“What's that?”
“Quinine,” she mumbled.
With the edge of the razor, Lucille took coarse white powder from the other box (milk sugar I later learned), added it to the quinine on the mirror. Lucille began chopping up the minute grains with the razor—added the pinch of dope to the mixture, carefully herding it off the saucer with her razor. Then putting her big nose on the plate—like a miniature vacuum cleaner—her chunky body trembling with each sniff. As she started chopping at the white mixture again, I asked, “Why the mirror bit?”
“See every grain on a mirror—can't lose none. Tony, this will be a bomb, maybe two of 'em! But I'm going to wait, those sniffs charged me just fine.”
Pulling wax paper from a roll in the kitchen, Lucille tilted the mirror so the fine powder fell on the paper, did the sniffing routine again with the white dust, and when she stopped trembling... folded the wax paper into a tiny 'deck,' which she hid in the bedroom. She quickly put the pill boxes, the razor, back in the bathroom, washed the mirror. Then standing in the bedroom doorway, Lucille blew a corny kiss my way, quickly dropped her robe.
Fleshy, but well proportioned and strong, the nipples on the moon breasts a most delicate shade of rose-red. With a sickening yelp of real joy, she came across the room... heavy-footed... jumped on my lap, placed my free hand on her breast. There was a sharp, and interesting, odor of perfume and sweat about her.
“Tony, I love your hair. Women would fight over a wave like yours.” She began unbuttoning my shirt. “Said I'll show you a whale of a time—always keep my word.”
“Later.”
“Why later? I see the sex heat in your eyes now.”
“Really?” I asked, almost interested until I realized it was a whore's standard sales pitch. “First, let me tell you the deal I have for...”
“We can talk later. As- the wiseman said, enjoy yourself—what else is there in life? Tony, I go for you—honest, I do.”
“I bet.”
“You're the greatest, carrying a lifetime supply of Cloud 9 around like it's so much sand.” Lucille opened my shirt more, put her hand on my belt. “Honey, have you trouble below, like a complex?”
“What made you ask that?”
“Tony, I'm no Miss America but I'm stacked. When I put it down for free, guys don't hesitate.”
“You're very attractive, Lucille,” I said, squeezing her nipple and gently pushing her off my lap, “but let's stop playing it dumb: no woman's as beautiful as a bundle of quiet money.”
“Okay, maybe you know what you're doing.” She picked up her robe, slipped it on. Lighting a cigarette she sat opposite me, blew a corny cloud of smoke my way. “What's your deal? How much horse you got in there—where did you cop it?”
“Don't reach, honey—all that matters is I have it. A pound of pure stuff, get more whenever I want to. I need a buyer.”
“You think I'm big enough to handle the deal?”
“Talk sense, babe: I picked you because you look like an intelligent chick. Without asking any questions, I know you must get your stuff from a pusher —in turn, your pusher can reach somebody up the line big enough to buy all I can get. Naturally, this can't be shouted from the window. All I want you to do is—quietly put out a feeler, bring the right joker to me and you're in for ten per cent. Bring the wrong guy and you'll kick the habit—permanently!” I added, trying to put a growl in my voice. “We understand each other?”
Lucille nodded, eyes over-bright.
“Play it smart and you make five or ten grand. Cross me and you'll never live to be more than a few hours older!”
She smiled. “Tony, you're not a goon, stop playing the hard guy. It isn't necessary—I'm for money. I can't do a thing until eight p.m. Let's go to bed.”
“Why not start working on it now?”
“Because whenever I want to make a buy, I call this guy at eight and set it up.” She stood up and stretched, showing me all her solid curves. “I'm hungry. How about some supper? I'm an all-around gal, shaking a mean frying pan.”
“Okay. Any other... customers... come here?”
“No. Told you this is my own place, only for all night Johns.”
She had steaks and a salad in the refrigerator. While she broiled the meat, Lucille lectured on “organically grown” foods and the dangers of chemical preservatives. Using a blender, she made a weird, mushy drink of alfalfa and shelled sunflower seeds, yeast flakes, natural Lecithin granules, and raw carrots. I didn't ask how she jelled being a food nut with taking junk.
She set up a bridge table, complete with neatly folded napkins and a spotless table cloth. It was kicks to watch her eat; Lucille attacked the food with fierce delight, holding the steak in her hands and tearing at it with her teeth—thoroughly enjoying the meal. The steak was rare and tender, the salad and the mush not bad at all. I helped her wash the dishes and then we sat around listening to the radio, while she lectured on the evils of TV —how it was ruining the reading habit. We made a most domestic scene.
Lucille talked about herself, proudly mentioned she was a member of “two of the largest book clubs out—I'm well read, been through every best seller published in the last five years.” Then, rather pointedly, tried to pump me for information until I told her to cut it.
A few minutes before eight she put on the same sweaty dress, brushed her black hair. From the front window I had an angle view of the corner drugstore. I told her, “Make your phone call at the drugstore across the street. But don't try anything cute—it won't work.”
She came over and pressed against me. “Tony, how wrong can a guy be? I go for you.”
I patted her hips. “Don't go too far.”
The moment she left, I locked the door, raced to the window with a bad case of jitters. She walked leisurely across to the drugstore. Some teenage boys on a st
oop whistled, made a few cracks, but Lucille didn't pay them the smallest attention. She was in the store for at least ten minutes and I had this strong hunch I ought to take off, was being trapped. When she finally came out, Lucille walked away from the house, out of sight! In a panic, I ran to the door, down to the street to see Lucille leaving a liquor shop, carrying a small paper bag. I raced back upstairs.
I pretended to be reading one of her books when she came in. She put a pint of gin on the table, started to undress. “This gin distilled from organically grown juniper berries?” I asked.
The dress over her face—she wiggled her naked hips at me.
“What's cooking on our deal?”
“My connection wasn't in. That's happened before. I left a message I had to see him first thing in the morning, to wait for my call...”
“Morning? Why can't you see him sooner?”
“He's busy. I'm not his only customer.” She stuck a very red tongue at me. “You wanted to spend the night with me.”
I grabbed her wrist. “What you handing me? When you need a fix, I know damn well you don't wait all night!”
“This guy ain't running a store! You buy in advance or you're in hell all night. Tony, tomorrow I'll see him for sure—he has contacts right to the top. Let go of my wrist, there's more exciting things on me to grab.”
I dropped her hand. I had no other move, or any other place to sleep. This was as good a 'hideout' as any.
Lucille returned to the crummy uniform—her dirty negligee—which easily removed any sex ideas I may have had. The unwashed robe reminded me of the great fear of sickness whores always gave me. Turning on the radio, she opened the gin, actually mixed it with a powder called Tiger's Milk. It didn't taste bad. I took one drink and let her finish the rest.
She went off on some slop about the gin reminding her of a time ”... Before I was on junk. I was going with this simple character. One night we drove down to a wild and deserted beach way out on Long Island—near Bridgehampton. Spooky beach, but kind of grand having it all to ourselves, with the sound of waves, salt spray—the rest of the scene. We built a fire of driftwood, cooked corn and hot dogs, and I nipped on a bottle of this same brand gin while he stood in the water to his ass, surf-casted. He didn't catch any fish, and he was your kind of jerk—didn't make love to me. Yet I've remembered that night. Maybe one of the best nights I ever had.”
“Stop talking about 'love' like a cliche machine.”
After a couple of drinks she started to read her latest book-of-the-month, day, or week. But she was becoming jumpy. Going into the bathroom— for some reason she left the door open. I watched her tie a rubber garter tightly over her left arm, heat up a 'cap' of heroin in a spoon with a match, slide the hypo needle into her arm, and finally— calmly squirt some blood down the sink, expertly clean the needle.
She did it in such an off-hand manner, it seemed the height of crude obscenity. I wished to heaven she'd at least shut the door... that I wasn't mixed up in this horrible mess... I stopped kidding myself: I could have gone to the police and didn't, so I was in—perhaps over my fat head—but in it.
Coming out of the bathroom Lucille stretched, dropped the negligee once more, rubbed her powerful breasts as she announced, “I feel so good I'm going to sleep. You can sit up all night, if you like, playing Little Lord Fauntleroy for...”
I slapped her mouth. Backing away, narrow eyes hot with anger, she said, “Don't ever lay a hand on me, Tony!”
I slapped her again, held her arms. “I won't, if you watch your big mouth. I'm offering you a good deal, don't need any cracks.”
She suddenly relaxed against me. “Okay, guess you're right.”
Turning abruptly, she went to the bathroom and washed her face, then fixed her bed, slipped in between the sheets and started reading again. Minus the make-up there really was a sort of harsh beauty to her face, the perfect eye-brows. I stood in the bedroom doorway for a moment. Looking up she asked coyly, “Like what you see?”
“Yeah. Your face is truly... beautiful.”
“Tony, you're a strange one.”
Making sure the front door was locked, I placed a chair under the knob, then went to the can and washed—drying myself with toilet paper. Lucille was sleeping when I came out. Undressing to my shorts, I tied the string of the duffel bag firmly around my right wrist, stretched out on the bed beside her—on top of the sheet—the bag and my hand resting on the floor. I was bushed.
Reaching up, I turned off the bed light. Lucille suddenly rubbed my chest, softly, “You've some tan, Tony, must really love the beach. Where do you go—Coney, Reis Park, Jones Beach?”
“Cote D'Azure,” I wanted to say, but merely patted her hand, told her to sleep. Within minutes she was snoring—a low, even and not entirely unpleasant sound. Without expecting to, I had a fairly good night's sleep myself, waking every few hours to lift the duffel bag tied to my right hand, listen to Lucille snore... then sink into a sound sleep.
I awoke at seven a.m. and took a fast shower. Afraid to use any of her towels, I dried myself with Arlene's hotel towel, stuffed it back into the duffel bag. When I came out Lucille was sitting up in bed, stretching, yawning—the sheet off, as if proving she slept in the raw. I wanted to sketch the chunky figure, was amazed she looked so rested—it had been at least ten hours since her last fix. “Any breakfast around?”
“In a moment, sir—Sir Wavy Hair.” She dashed to the can and ran a bath. A dozen minutes later she came out, in the same underthings she'd worn yesterday. “When do you make that phone call?”
“Too early now—after we eat,” she said, starting the coffee, putting a slew of sliced fruits and wheat germ in the blender, some sort of hard-tack crackers in the toaster.
The radio said it was going to be another muggy day. I eagerly ate the dizzy food, but wasn't able to match the savage delight with which Lucille tore into her breakfast. I helped her wash the few dishes, then she started to make-up her face, laying the stuff on with a heavy hand. When I asked why she used so much make-up, she astonished me by saying, “I find it very comforting. I read where a head doc said make-up gives one a sense of security —a mask to hide behind.” An educated, (outright) whore was novelty for me.
I saw her, from the window, cross to the drugstore, the same feeling of trapped panic welling up inside me. Sketching always calms my nerves and still watching the street, I ransacked the table drawer—looking for a pencil—my guts ready to burst with the tension.
I found a box of chalk and turning the frying pan over, tried roughing in the street scene below on the blackened pan bottom. The lines ended up a series of messy smudges—so much nothing—but I felt better. When I saw Lucille returning, the hippy walk, I ran water over the pan, left it in the sink.
She dropped the morning paper and a pack of butts on the table. “Hot out, already. My connection's coming right over.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I had a chance of making a good buy on a big white car, wanted him to look at the motor. Have to be careful over the phone—but he understood.”
“When he comes, I'll do the talking.”
“Of course. It's your stuff, Tony.” Lighting a cigarette, she began straightening up the bed.
I glanced at the newspaper. It was on the fifth page, a short item about:
POLICE SEEKING FOOTBALL PLAYER-ARTIST
Clayton Biner, a one-time professional footfall player who became an abstract painter, was being sought today by the police for questioning in the hotel room slaying of hoodlum Al Foster yesterday. The police refused to say what connection Mr. Biner had with the shooting, except that they thought Biner might have been a tenant of the hotel. Mr. Biner does not have any criminal record.
Al Foster, a known criminal, was killed in the room of one Stanley Collins, who registered at the hotel a few hours before the shooting, and who has not been seen since...
Lucille asked, “Curly, what you sweating about?”
“T
he humidity,” I told her, turning to the sports pages, then casually dropping the paper on the table. My guts were in a tight knot. How had the police learned my real name so damn fast? Goodbye to Syd and her Australian land, the last chance for...
“Tony, are you in a trance? Didn't you hear what I said?”
“What?”
Lucille grinned, the heavy lips truly inviting. “I was saying, if we get this settled, we both might go to the beach today. I haven't been swimming in years. Guess I could rent a suit. I like Jones Beach.”
“Good.” I was listening to steps in the hallway outside; steps of a man who walked carefully. My insides tightened harder at the sound of two mild knocks. Lucille made no move, and a split second later a key opened the door.