In a Lonely Place

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  It couldn’t have been Terriss. Terriss would have bragged about her. At least he’d have mentioned her. It wasn’t Terriss. But doubts were worms crawling in his mind. She could twist a man about those taloned fingers, a man like Terriss. She could have excuses to keep her name out of it. Her career. A jealous ex. A divorce not quite complete.

  She hadn’t been talking. She’d been having her drink, eyeing him. Nor had his thoughts run across his face. It was trained to remain emotionless.

  He finished his drink. “I don’t like mornings either.” he said. “That’s why I’m a writer.”

  “Trying to break into pictures?”

  He laughed at her. “I write books. Lady. When I try to break into screen work, it will be because I need the money.” He’d said the right thing, some of the speculation about him went out of her that quickly. There was an imperceptible relaxing of her muscular tension. He watched her over the edge of his glass as he tilted it, finished his drink. “Another?”

  “Not now—”

  He broke in. “I know, you’re hungry. Wait’ll I get a jacket and we’ll be on our way.” He didn’t take a minute, catching up the heavy tweed jacket, a fuzzy, wiry tweed, rich brown, rich stuff. He slipped into the coat—he had about twenty dollars, enough for a Sunday-night dinner. Not a dress-up dinner, not in slacks.

  She had retouched her lips, combed out her hair, resettled the white coat over the yellow sweater. She looked as fresh as if she’d just tubbed. She turned from the mirror as he reentered, the mirror near the desk. Her bag was on the desk. Good thing he’d mailed Uncle Fergus’ letter. She was the kind who wouldn’t care how she got her information on a man.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded and she walked towards the door. He came up behind her. In time to open the door. She looked up at him. “Do you have Mel’s address in Rio?” The question was sudden. Why the hell couldn’t she forget Mel Terriss?

  “I’ll give it to you when we get back.” he told her. He opened the door. They went together into the night.

  He touched her then for the first time, his hand against her elbow, escorting her into the blue courtyard.

  He asked. “How would you like to drive up to Malibu?”

  Chapter Three

  She wasn’t afraid. She rested herself carelessly against the seat of the car, her left knee half-turned towards his thigh In the rounding of a corner she would touch him. She knew it; she curled herself deliberately in this fashion. It was one of her tricks. Yet, even knowing it was a trick, he was stimulated, waiting for that pressure.

  This was the beginning of something good, so good that he was enjoying its immediacy without thought, without plan. She was beside him, that was enough. He had needed her for so long a time. He had always needed her.

  It was a dream. A dream he had not dared dream, a woman like this. A tawny-haired woman; a high-breasted, smooth-hipped, scented woman; a wise woman. He didn’t want to go to Malibu, he wanted to swing the car around, return to the apartment. He could wait. It was better to wait. She knew that.

  The traffic lanes were quieter at this early evening hour. He followed Wilshire to the eucalyptus grove of San Vicente. The spice of eucalyptus scented the darkness. San Vicente was a dark street, he hadn’t noticed before. And the smell of the sea came in to meet them long before they reached the hill that dropped into the canyon, long before they reached the sound of the sea.

  She was quiet on the drive. He was grateful for her quietness. He wondered if she were feeling for knowledge of him in her quietness or if she were only tired. She didn’t speak until he turned into the canyon.

  She remarked then, “You know the back roads.”

  “You recognize them,” he smiled.

  The touch of her knee on his thigh was more deliberate. She tossed back her hair. “I’ve driven them often enough.” she said in that slow, husky way which gave words meaning. She laughed. “I’ve friends in Malibu.”

  “The particular friend?”

  “Which one?” she countered.

  “Isn’t there a particular one?” Curiosity nagged him. He wanted to know about her. But he couldn’t ask questions, not open questions. She was like him; she’d lie.

  “There usually is,” she said. They had reached the ocean road, turn right to Malibu. “Where will we eat?”

  “Any place you say. You know Malibu.”

  “I don’t want to go to Malibu.”

  He turned his head, puzzled at her abruptness. Afraid for the moment that this was to be the end of it, that she would put him off as she had the other man. Afraid that he’d said the wrong thing or done the wrong thing although he didn’t know where he’d gone wrong. But she was still relaxed. She said, “I’m too hungry to drive that far. Let’s stop at Carl’s.”

  Anything that she said. The neon sign of Carl’s slatted over the road ahead. He remembered the Nicolais and their friends had mentioned a Carl’s or Joe’s or Sam’s. He wouldn’t want to run into them. He wanted Laurel alone, unshared. Not touched by the anger and terror which entangled the Nicolais. He didn’t ever want her touched by ugly things.

  Yet he had no reason to reject Carl’s. No reason to instil controversy in what had been between them, quiet, uncluttered. If Carl’s had been the Nicolais’ dinner choice, they would be gone by now. It had been more than two hours since he left them; they were planning to eat at that time. A car was pulling out from the front of the restaurant. Instinct avoided the lights. He drew up in the road at the side of the building, parked there.

  She said, “I’ll slide through.” He stood there watching her come to him, taking her hand, touching her waist as he helped her from the car. The sea was a surge and a hush in the darkness across the road. She stood close to him for a moment, too close, before he removed his hand. She said “You don’t mind stopping here? The shrimp’s good.”

  She led him around to the steps and they went up into the dining room. There were few in it, his quick look saw that he knew no one. Nor did she. Her look was quick as his own.

  It was a spacious room, warm with light, circled with windows overlooking the dark sea. They sat facing each other and it was good. To be with a woman. To be opposite her, to have his fill of her face, the shape of it, the texture of it, the bone structure beneath the amber flesh. The set of her eyes and the shape of her mouth . . . her fire-tipped mouth.

  “You think you’ll know me the next time you see me?”

  He returned to her actuality. He laughed but his words weren’t made of laughter. “I knew you before I ever saw you.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “And you knew me.”

  She let her lashes fall. They curved long as a child’s, russet against her cheeks. She said, “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, Dix?”

  “Never before.”

  Her eyes opened full again and laughter echoed through her. “Oh, brother!” she breathed.

  He didn’t answer her, only with the look in his eyes. He hadn’t been sure-footed with her before. He was now. He knew how to play it. She was brittle only on the surface. Underneath she too was seeking. Exhilaration heightened him. He knew then the rightness of this; she was for him.

  The waitress came to the table before he could further it. He said, “You order. Laurel. I’ll double it. Drink first?” He was irritated by the interruption. The waitress was a little chit, too much hair and flat face.

  ”No drinks.” Laurel ordered for both, competently, without fuss. “Bring the coffee now, will you?”

  The waitress went away but she was back too quickly. She poured the coffee. This time she’d be away longer.

  Laurel said, “If you don’t want your coffee now, I’ll drink both, Princeton.”

  “You’re out of luck.” She knew what a man wanted, coffee, now, not later. He lighted her cigarette, realizing her as he leaned across the table. She was real, not a begging dream in his loneness. She was a woman.

  She settled herself in comfort. “How lon
g have you been living at Mel’s place?” She was deliberately veering from intimacy. It didn’t matter; postponement added zest.

  He tried to remember. “About two months—six weeks, I guess.”

  “Funny I haven’t run into you.”

  “Yes.” Yet it wasn’t. He’d used the back door, short cut to the garage. He hadn’t been in the blue patio half a dozen times. “I thought you were a visitor when I bumped into you last night. Have you been away?”

  “No.”

  “Guess our hours didn’t coincide. They will now.”

  “They might,” she admitted.

  “They will,” he said with certainty.

  Again she veered. “When did Mel leave?”

  He Figured it in his mind. “August. Around about the first. Before I moved in.”

  The waitress divided them again. She wasn’t too long about it, and she was agreeable despite her flat face. The shrimp looked good and she poured more coffee without request.

  He waited only until she was out of hearing. “Why the interest in Mel? I thought you’d only been in his place a couple of times.” It wasn’t jealousy but she’d think there was a twinge of it in him. She was thinking it now, maybe that was why she kept harping on Mel. Just another trick, not actual curiosity. “You weren’t carrying the torch there?”

  “Good Lord. Princeton!” That ended that. She needn’t try that trick again.

  He smiled slightly. “I was beginning to think he might have been the jeweler.” His forefinger touched the mass of gold and ruby.

  Her lip curled. “Mel was more careful of his money than that. Liquor was the only thing he could bear to spend it on.” Her eyes touched the ring. “My ex.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “It’s a nice piece.”

  She said suddenly, “Don’t ever marry money. It isn’t worth it.” She began to eat as if her hunger had reawakened.

  “I’ve always thought it might be a good racket.” He added, “For a woman.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the money. It’s what goes with it.” Her face was stony. “Bastards.”

  “Ex’es?”

  “Rich men. And women. They believe the earth was created for them. They don’t have to think or feel—all they have to do is buy it. God, how I hate them!” She shook her head. “Shut up, Laurel.”

  He smiled patiently. “I don’t believe that’s true of all of them.” As if he were a rich guy himself, one of the dirty bastards himself.

  She said, “I can smell them a mile off. They’re all alike.”

  “They aren’t all like Mel—or your ex.”

  She went on eating. As if she hadn’t heard him. And he had to know. If Mel had been in on the rent. He seized it. “After all they pay the rent. And the jeweler.”

  “They don’t pay mine,” she said savagely. Then she smiled. “I said shut up, Laurel. But I’m surprised Mel went off without saying goodbye. He was always in my hair.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t take you with him,” Dix said.

  She grimaced. “I told you I’d learned my lesson. Don’t marry money.”

  No one was paying her rent. She was on her own; the ex, the rich one, must have settled up. She’d see to that; she and a battery of expensive lawyers. He said lightly, “It’s the man who pays and pays. It couldn’t have been too bad. You can sleep mornings and not have to worry about the roof over your head.”

  She said, “Yes,” and the hardness came about her mouth. “As long as I don’t marry again.”

  He understood her bitterness, but, understanding, he was disturbed. There could be someone she wanted, the way he was going to want her. She wouldn’t have the hatred of the ex if there weren’t a reason; she had his money to live on and free of him. Dix couldn’t go on asking questions; he’d asked too many now. He was prying and she’d know it when the anger went out of her. He smiled at her again. “I’m glad that’s the way it is,” he said.

  “Why?” She flashed at him.

  “Because I wouldn’t have found you in time—if it hadn’t been that way.”

  Because she was desired, she softened. Giving him the look and the dare. She said, “Why, Princeton!”

  “Or am I in time?”

  She smiled, the inscrutable smile of a woman who knew the ways of a woman. She didn’t answer him. There could be someone else. But at the moment, here with her, he was sure of his own prowess. Because he knew this was intended; that he and she should meet and in meeting become enmeshed. It was to be; it was.

  They were the last guests to leave the restaurant. Again in the dark, sea-scented night, he was filled with power and excitement and rhythm. But tonight it was good. Because he was with her.

  He didn’t want to turn back to the city. He wanted to go on with her into this darkness, with the sound of water echoing the beat of his heart. He wanted to keep her with him always in this oneness of the two. He wanted to lift her with him into the vastness of the night sky. He said “Shall we drive on up to Malibu?”

  But he didn’t want to drive, he didn’t want to be occupied with the mechanics of a car. He was relieved when she refused.

  “Let’s keep away from Malibu.”

  He turned back, but driving without plan, he found the place where he could silence the car. An open stretch overlooking the dark beach and the sea. He said, “Do you mind? I just want to smell the salt.”

  Her eyebrows quirked. She’d thought he was parking the way a kid parked with his girl. She liked it that he hadn’t meant it for that. She said suddenly, “Let’s go down where we can really smell it.”

  The wind caught at them as they left the car and descended to the beach. The wind and the deep sand pushed at them but they struggled on, down to the water’s edge. Waves were frost on the dark churning waters. Stars pricked through the curved sky. The rhythm pulsed, the crash and the slurring swish repeated endlessly, the smell of the sea was sharp. Spindrift salted their lips.

  He had taken her hand as they walked to the water, he held it now, and she didn’t withdraw it from his. She said, “I haven’t done this for a long, long time.” Her voice wasn’t brittle; she wasn’t playing a game with him. She was alone here, with him but alone. The wind swirled her hair across her face until he could see only the slant of her forehead and her cheek. Happiness rose like a spire within him. He hadn’t expected ever to know happiness again, his voice stirred, “Laurel—”She turned her head, slowly, as if surprised that he was there The wind blew her hair like mist across her face. She lifted her face and for the first time, there in the light of the sea and the stars, he knew the color of her eyes. The color of dusk and mist rising from the sea, with the amber of stars flecking them.

  “Laurel,” he said, and she came to him the way he had known from the beginning it must be. “Laurel,” he cried, as if the word were the act. And there became a silence around them, a silence more vast than the thunderous ecstasy of the hungry sea.

  2

  To sleep, perchance to dream and dreaming wake . . . To sleep and to wake. To sleep in peace, without the red evil of dreaming. To wake without need to struggle through fog to reach the sunlight. To find sleep good and waking more good. It was the ringing phone that woke him. He reached for it and he felt her stir beside him.

  He spoke into it quietly, not wishing to wake her. Yet he willed her to wake, to open her eyes as he had opened his, into the full sunshine. “Hello.”

  “Dix? Did I interrupt your work?”

  It was Brub Nicolai. For the instant there was a waning of the sun, as if a cold hand had pushed against it. Dix softened his voice to answer. “Not at all.”

  Brub didn’t sound depressed today; it could have been the old Brub speaking. “Who was that redhead I seen you with last night? Was that the redhead?”

  He couldn’t answer quickly. It was impossible for Brub to have seen him last night with Laurel. Unless Brub were having him followed. That was more impossible. That would be incredible. He asked, “What are you talking abo
ut?”

  “The redhead, Dickson. Not the blonde you were meeting in Hollywood. The redhead. Was that—”

  Dix said, “Hm, a peeping Tom. Where were you hiding Tom?”

  Brub laughed. As if he hadn’t a care in the world. “You didn’t see us. We were pulling out of Carl’s when you went in. It was Sylvia spotted you. I spotted the redhead.”

  The car he had avoided by parking at the side of the building. There were always eyes. A little tailor on his way home from a movie. A waitress in a drive-in. A butcher-boy on a bicycle. A room clerk with a wet pointed nose. A detective’s wife who was alert, too alert. Whose eyes saw too much.

  There were always eyes but they didn’t see. He had proved it. His hand relaxed on the phone. “You would. And what did the little woman say to that?”

  “I couldn’t repeat such language.” There was an imperceptible change in Brub’s voice. Back to business. “How about lunch with me? You bring the redhead.”

  He could hear the stir of her breath. She was awake but she was silent. “She’s tied up.” He wouldn’t put her and Brub together. She belonged in a different compartment from the Nicolais.

  “Then you’re not, I take it. How about lunch?”

  He could refuse. But he didn’t want to. Even to be with her. Because the game with Brub was important; it had to be played. There was renewed zest of the game in having Brub make the approach today.

  “Sure,” he agreed. “What time and where?” He noted the clock. It was past eleven.

  “Noon? I’m at the Beverly Hills station.”

  His pulse leaped. The game was growing better. To walk into the police station, to be the guest of Homicide for lunch But he didn’t want to hurry. He wanted to watch her rise from sleep, to see her woman-ways, the clothing of her the combing of her hair. He asked, “Can you make it one or do you punch a time clock?”