by Ed Lacy
“I understand, sir. The phone is right in the other room. Just take me a second, Mr. Brown.”
He stepped across the hallway into what must have been the bedroom—it was too dark to see for sure—dialed a wall phone. Peering into one of the tanks, I touched the water with my finger—it was almost ice-cold. Lund called out. “Careful, mister. For eleven months now I keep the water free of any impurities and...”
“Don't worry, Mr. Lund.”
He began talking over the phone, voice so low I couldn't make out what he was saying, but I heard him mention “apartment” and “leak” a few times. I was examining a faded and corny photo of FDR framed on the wall near the hallway. There was a thick silence: Lund was listening and nodding his head. Then I heard him mutter, “Yes, Lieutenant, I phoned like you...”
I didn't wait to hear any more—the sly bastard was phoning the cops! I pulled one of the tanks off the bench—it hit the floor with a crash of glass, water, and his scummy pearl-raisers. With a shrill cry of horror, the janitor dropped the phone, ran to kneel among the oysters as I raced out of the place.
I headed down West End Avenue fast as I could, without running, sweating with fear. Expecting to hear the sad wail of a police siren any second, I crossed to Broadway and the subway. Opening the locker, I grabbed my duffel bag, ran down the steps to the platform. Taking off my coat, rolling up my shirt sleeves and opening the dumb tie, I leaned against a post, wiped my sweating face— and damn near fainted—a subway cop was smiling at me! This tall, young, freckled-puss cop came over, said, “Another lousy hot day. This summer's a dog. You have the right idea, heading for the beach. Reis Park?”
“Yeah.”
“Flatbush Avenue train be along next. Ride it to the last stop, then a bus to the beach. Working the subways in the summer is rugged. If I was off, be swimming myself.”
I mumbled something about just finishing work and when the train pulled in, I sat down, so frightened I didn't know what to do. Sitting on a beach didn't seem a bad idea—with my duffel bag and towel, I'd at least look the part. Would this young cop remember me, if the other police came asking? With my coat off, the duffel bag—might call that a form of disguise. At least I was on the move— the cops probably would be searching the 72nd Street area.
Sitting directly under a fan I cooled off a bit, tried to think. I needed eating and room money. Racking my mind for the names of any old friends I could touch, the address of my first wife... I gave it all up, merely sat there in a daze: be stupid seeing anybody who knew me—with the papers full of my name.
At Flatbush Avenue I got off, looking much like the other beach-bound jokers, but a bit uneasy at the number of queers around. It was a couple of minutes past noon when I came up and out on the sunny street, saw a long fine of people and kids waiting for the Reis Park bus. Standing in fine —I smelt this heavy perfume odor, turned to see Lucille smiling at me—with slightly puffed lips. She said, “Knowing you're a beach bug, figured I might find you here, Tony. I've been waiting over...”
I glanced around frantically, waiting for the police to close in. Taking my hand, Lucille said, “It's okay, Tony, I'm with you. Listen...” her voice dropped to a whisper... “I don't give a damn about you knocking off Gus. I didn't think he'd cross you like... Oh, why he it up: we were going to take you, but hon, that's over! I'll do anything you say, Tony, I swear it. Or I wouldn't be here now! Tony, you must believe me—I have to do what you want, you have the bag. Honey, we've nothing to worry about.”
“What... what did you do with... Gus?” I asked, whispering in a nightmare.
“Stuffed his body into a camphor bag. Nobody come to the apartment until next month, when the rent's due. Even if Gus starts to stink, he'll take time coming through the camphor bag. Look, we can get a room, I'll make money for us... we'll have a couple weeks to work out something. Tony, I'll never cross you again, believe me!”
I didn't believe her, kept looking around wildly, almost expecting to see Gus' smirking face. About a half a block away, over the heads of the other people, I sure saw somebody—Mr. Ping coming toward me.
I started walking in the opposite direction, pushing people out of my way. Lucille ran after me. “Tony, please! Please! For the love of God... don't leave me! I need... At least give me some...!”
I shook her hand off mine but she grabbed my shirt. I said, “Damn you, shut your face and let go of me! You brought the killers!”
“What?” She looked around.
“Mutt and Jeff down there!” I said, nodding toward Ping—and his runty buddy—who were pushing through the people waiting for the bus. I kept shoving down the street, even looking for a cop. Lucille ran after me, panting, “I don't know them! Tony, really, I don't!”
There wasn't time to argue, people were staring at us with cynical amusement. Reaching the other end of the block, I turned the corner, Lucille after me. It was a street of smaller stores, few people shopping in all the heat. I'd been a fool to run—people were my only shield from the silencer—the tall punk wouldn't dare use his gun in a crowd. There was no going back now, I half-ran down the street, Lucille's high heels clicking behind me. The damn duffel bag seemed to weigh a ton.
The stores stopped at the end of the block—then came a row of small apartment houses with even less people on the street. I stood there, not knowing what to do. Lucille was shoving her purse at me, panting, “Tony—take this.” I kept turning away from her. A small crowd of plump women shoppers stopped to stare at us—sure they were seeing a man-and-wife fight. Crowds... Digging into my coat pockets I finally found the piece of chalk. Kneeling on the hot sidewalk I feverishly began to sketch a copy of Goya's “Naked Maja, but actually getting down the way Lucille had looked in bed last night.
More people surrounded us, snickering at the breasts I was drawing. Through the fleshy forest of heavy bare legs and slacks I saw Ping and Shorty round the corner. I worked faster on the thick curves of the hips as the crowd grew. A high feminine voice said, “What gall—drawing a dirty picture right on the sidewalk!”
“He's good,” a mild voice added.
Ping's sharp slacks, the shoddy pants of his squat partner reached the edge of the crowd. When they came through the people, I'd put up a hell of a brawl, no matter... Sketching like mad, through the many legs I suddenly saw those of the two goons pull back, abruptly turn, walk away very rapidly.
Still on my hands and knees I watched them go —until a hand pushed my shoulder. I glanced up at blue pants, the red face of an old cop asking, “Whatcha think you're doing here, Mac?”
Standing, I brushed my hands against each other. Ping and his knife buddy were turning the far corner. Lucille was giggling down at the sketch. A man in the crowd said, “Hey, it's her—her!” Even with chalk and working fast, there was a certain lush, sensuous quality to the lines. All factors considered, it was probably one of the best things I'd ever done. Not that I was thinking about that as I said gaily, “Nothing officer. I had that sudden artistic urge—couldn't hold it down.”
He put his hot face next to mine. “You smell sober and I don't see you begging. Come on, folks, break it up. Too hot to crowd around.” He scowled at me. “You—you're on the wrong street, get around the corner with the rest of them Village nuts and fairies waiting for the beach bus. Move on—before I work up a sweat running you in—man your size drawing on the sidewalk!” He called to one of the storekeepers standing in the doorway of his shop: “Artie, get me a pail of water, I'll wash this pin-up off.”
Ping and Shorty were not to be seen as I slowly started walking back up the street—Lucille at my side. I stopped a cab and she got in with me, handed me her purse. She said, “Told you to take this.”
I had the cabbie drive downtown as I opened the purse—there was a roll of bills and the .32 which had belonged to Gus. The sight of the gun made me trust Lucille—a little.
She wiped her nose, which was starting to run, whispered, “Let's get to someplace where I can use... soon! I
'm starting to get sick.”
“Take it easy. You ever see the long and short guys before?”
“Once. Now wait, don't get me wrong, Tony, only time I saw them was when I was leaving my place—couple hours ago. They were coming into the building. Only noticed them because they are so short and long. That's the truth. I didn't bring them or...”
“Okay, okay.” There was a twitch in her right cheek, under the eye, and her face seemed to be aging by the second, the lips turning a cracked, dry red. Gus had said something about giving 'them' a feeler—it was possible Ping and Shorty had come for Gus, found the door locked—figured the girl passing them on the stairs was Gus'... tailed her on the chance she'd bring them to me. It made as much sense as everything else I'd stepped into. Now, Ping and the runt knew what I looked like...
Passing a street of modern and ugly ranch houses, empty except for a few kids playing, I stopped the taxi. We walked through the street, turned a corner to another quiet block, over to a business street. I waited on the corner, to see if we were being followed.
Lucille begged, “Please, Tony, give me a sniff!”
“No. I'll give you some—soon.” I stopped another cab, and we drove downtown. Passing a cheap hotel, we left the cab at a movie house two blocks away. I bought two tickets and walked in with Lucille, turning as we reached the ticket-taker to make certain the taxi had driven off. In the darkness of the theatre, Lucille pressed her hands into her stomach, groaned, “Tony, I have the works in my bag... give me some stuff and in the ladies' room...”
“Too risky. Only be a few minutes more.”
“I can't...!”
“You have to!” I snapped, holding her arm firmly and walking out of the theatre. I registered at the flea-bag hotel as a Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Mason of Riverbays, rented a small room which was not only hot and stunk of strong insecticide, but on top of a record shop blaring out the same idiotic rock-and-roll song over and over. The moment the door closed, Lucille pulled a needle and bent spoon from her purse, reached for my blue duffel bag. Pushing her away, I opened it, let her take a very small pinch of the white powder. I had to help her down the hall to the John, couldn't bare to watch her make a fix. I returned to our stinking room, keeping the door open, an eye on the John. The gun in her bag was loaded and working. I slipped it into my back pocket. Counting Lucille's money—we had twenty-three dollars: I'd already spent seven of her bills for the room.
Minutes later she came down the hallway, actually looking fresh and bright. Locking the door, she bent over to kick off her high-heels. I watched the curve of solid hips under the dress. She said, “Now on, it's you and me, Tony.”
“Seems that way.”
“Tomorrow I'll find us a better pad.” She began to undress. “Honey, well make it just fine. I'll hustle us some money, and you have the bag of dreams. Plus, I go for you. Too bad you had to cut off all that swell, curly hair.”
She stood before me, naked and sweaty, symbolic of the farce and cruelty of sex the world over. The male always has to prove himself to the female, and I knew she was waiting—for me to prove Gus had been crazy calling me a swish. But the thought that I wasn't dependent upon her, her habit made her need me, in a sense forced her to prove herself to me... sent desire pounding through my body—my own type of cruel junk.
Throwing her on the bed, I tore off my clothes. Now that I was a murderer, there was little point in worrying about getting sick.
CHAPTER 10
For the next five days Lucille and I settled into a convenient, and not entirely uncomfortable routine. We moved the following morning to another sleazy hotel in Brooklyn, still perfumed with sharp anti-bug odors, but the room was large and light, with a one-plate burner for cooking, and after the rock-and-roll racket of living over the record shop —seemed restfully quiet. Lucille made an arrangement with the lump-faced desk man, who was also the porter, and probably the owner, to turn a “few tricks” per day without having to walk the streets or solicit. As she happily explained, “Tony, all I have to do is knock off two guys a day—one for us and one for him. He'll send the tricks up, keep it quiet. It couldn't be better.”
But the desk man complained to me.; 'What's the matter with your broad? She's built to take it, and I can send her a dozen hot pants a day without attracting too much noise. No sense in her sitting on all that money.”
“She was in an accident, lost a lot of blood, has to rest up,” I told him, resisting the temptation to break his fat jaw.
Lucille seemed positively content. With ease and in a comparative few minutes she earned enough for our food, and a bottle, and of course I had 'stuff' to last her lifetime. Actually, she rarely left our room. Early in the morning I'd go out—never more than a block from the hotel—buy the papers, food, a bottle, and whatever paperback she wanted to read. We'd spend the rest of the day in the room, sleeping a lot, eating, drinking a good deal. At night, or whenever Lucille was with “clients,” I went up on the roof, to shadow-box and exercise —for some unknown reason.
I also worked-out often with Lucille. Being an untidy creature (her bra and panties were in worn shreds) she had this fetish about always being in the nude, ready with her corny, “As the wise man said, have fun: what else is there in life?” It was mostly clinical interest on my part, trying to decide if I really was arousing her, or if she was merely faking her passion. It's so damn much easier for the woman to fake it.
Although she still called me Tony, Lucille knew I was the artist the police were seeking and while she never mentioned it, we had some off-the-wall talks about art. I bought a cheap pad and a soft pencil, made dozens of sketches of every curve of her body, each feature in the wide face. She was a good model, rarely moving, but never very excited about the sketches. Of course I destroyed them the second they were finished. On Sunday, I made a collage with the colored comic pages and her nail polish—cutting out various shapes of colored paper, pasting them on a sheet of brown wrapping paper. I was trying to copy Nolde's Yellow and Red Sunflowers. The collage was a new form for me, a chance to use colors, and it all turned out pretty fair. When I showed it to Lucille she said. “The users call Sunday... death day: hard to get a fix. Tony, you ever exhibit in Washington Square? I went down last September to look at the pictures.”
“No real artist shows there.”
“I thought the pictures were good.”
I suddenly laughed, wondering why I was putting on an act now. “Sure, there's many damn fine artists showing there, along with the week-end dabblers. Tell you the truth, I never thought I was good enough to sell there, so I joined the sneerers.”
“You ever read Lust For Life? I got that as a free bonus when I joined the book club. That's about an artist and... You listening, Tony?”
Sometimes, half drunk, lazing around in bed with Lucille, I had a feeling of retirement: this effortless life would last forever. But whether or not I wanted it to continue, I was well aware of a number of definite reasons why our days were numbered.
Mr. Ping and Shorty certainly were still on their deadly hunt for the three million bucks of 'boy' I was carrying around. For this reason I was glad Lucille never left the hotel: in the efficient business set-up of organized crime it would only be a simple matter of checking minor employees to locate a free-lance prostitute.
Nor was I forgetting the police. Although there wasn't anything in the papers about Gus being found, and even my name and the Al Foster killing had drifted toward the back pages and then vanished... any day now the putrid odor which was Gus might escape the camphor bag tomb. Or in a few weeks the janitor would break in to evict Lucille. Once Gus's remains were found, a police dragnet would bag Lucille in short order.
Plus there was always the chance the police had my description by now, might collar me when I left the hotel for my brief shopping walks.
But there was a more important reason why it couldn't last—I didn't want it to! Being a pimp wasn't my idea of any last stop. Oh, I held no illusions about myself, knew
the art world would never miss me, but before I'd fed my ego a number of excuses—half believed them. I was merely 'borrowing' money from women for the sake of my 'art.' Or, seducing a few dollars from a babe was cushioned by the rational that she needed the bed work, I was but giving her therapy. Or, it could be as simple as thinking she could well afford to part with a few hundred.
But now, minus any possible self-delusion, I was a pimp. For Lucille it was a job. Once she told me, “Don't act so damn fussy... Suppose you worked at cleaning cesspools, or collecting garbage—when you finished for the day, the dirty work angle would be forgotten. Think of it like that, Tony.”
The sordid aspect was far too real for me to kid myself. Once, waiting out in the hallway I heard Lucille scream: her 'client' had the perverted idea one of her nipples was a cigarette, was trying to light it. I had to bust in, throw the bed bug out.
I still had hopes of making enough money to return to painting on some clean beach—but faced this contradiction: it wasn't safe for Lucille to leave the hotel, yet she was my only possible contact with any dope ring. The one time she left the place, at my urging to see if she could recognize local users—make a contact... Lucille returned with a package of wheat germ and other crap she'd purchased in a health store. When I accused her of not trying, certain if she had needed a fix, she would have made a connection—somehow—Lucille answered it was impossible without returning to her old “turf,” the hangouts where she knew the pushers, and was known.