Strange Embrace

by Block, Lawrence

  “Which means nowhere.”

  Ito nodded. “There’s one aspect that intrigues me,” he said. “Both the girl and the man were found nude in bed. They were both nude when they were killed.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “No?”

  “The killer could have stripped them after they were dead.”

  Ito thought it over. “There were no bloody clothes around,” he said. “And there was blood on their bodies. This seems somehow significant. At least to the Oriental mind.”

  Johnny stared at him.

  “They were killed nude,” Ito said. “True?” Johnny closed his eyes. He remembered Elaine James, saw once more the blood that had flowed into the valley between her young breasts. He saw Carter Tracy, with blood matting the hairs on his chest.

  Johnny nodded slowly. “I guess so.”

  “If both were killed nude,” Ito said, “and if both were killed by the same person—”

  “Yeah,” Johnny said. “Yeah, I see what you’re getting at. But it doesn’t add up. It—”

  He broke off suddenly and stood up. He plunged both hands into his pockets and began to pace the floor, covering the living room in long firm strides, his mind buzzing.

  Patterns were emerging.

  “It couldn’t be,” he said softly. “It couldn’t be. It’s too far-fetched. It’s impossible.”

  Ito wisely said nothing.

  Johnny grabbed a cigarette, snapped a match into flame. He crossed the room again, this time to the door that led to the balcony. He opened the door and stepped out to the small balcony. He looked down at the traffic on Fifth Avenue, gazed across at the park. He leaned against the railing and smoked the cigarette until only a small butt was left. He stepped on the butt and went inside again, closing the balcony door behind him. The telephone directory was on the lower shelf of the table where the phone itself rested. He picked up the book, thumbed through it quickly, and cursed.

  Lennie Schwerner was not listed. Well, Johnny thought, it almost figured. When you lived in a hole in the wall and paid thirty-five bucks or so a month for rent, you didn’t have a phone. On the other hand, if your father was in the insurance business…

  On a hunch he dialed Information. And, happily, Lennie Schwerner did have a phone, a new listing. Johnny dialed the number and the boy answered on the second ring.

  “Johnny Lane, here. I’ve got a question for you.”

  “About a job? I been thinking, man. And—”

  “Forget that for now. This is more important.”

  “Lay it on me,” Lennie said.

  And Johnny fired his question.

  “Yeah,” Lenny said. “Yeah, that’s the way it was. I suppose I should have told you before.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you?”

  Johnny could picture the boy shrugging his shoulders. “De mortuis,” Lennie said. “And I didn’t think it was important. Why scream on a corpse? De mortuis and de gustibus. It was her scene.”

  Johnny thanked him and hung up. That filled everything in, he thought. That tied all the knots neatly.

  Too neatly?

  Now, he supposed, he should go to Haig and lay the whole thing in his lap. But that would not work, damn it! It was not that he was trying to play policeman, not at all. But, Haig would never be able to get anywhere with this one, not now. Johnny had to handle this one by himself.

  If it blew up in his face, too bad. But this would not be another Ernie Buell fiasco. It couldn’t be. And Johnny would handle it smoothly, easily, with the softest of kid gloves. If by some chance he turned out wrong, the world would not fall in. He would be covered, if he played it right.

  He did not want to be right, though. He hoped he would be proved wrong.

  “I’ve got another bright idea,” he told Ito. “I’m going to think about it for a few minutes. Think it over under a hot shower. If anybody calls, I’m not home.”

  “Not to anyone?”

  “Not to anyone,” Johnny said firmly. He went to his bedroom, undressed, then ran the shower and stepped tinder it. It was too hot, which was fine with him. He let the jet of water blast into the back of his neck. His muscles relaxed. His bandages—the ones that were supposed to be holding his chest together—got wet. He had forgotten them during all that concentrated thought. Which proved that thinking was dangerous, probably. Which was something he had been discovering all night long.

  He grabbed a cake of soap and worked up a lather. Suppose he took his ideas to Haig? What would the cop do? Tell him to go chase himself, probably. Or try to run down the theory and run, instead, into a stone wall. So he had to play it all by himself; he had to make a Lane Production out of it.

  Would it work?

  Mentally, he ran through it—not like a cop but like a producer and writer and director rolled into one. He saw it all in terms of lines of dialogue and tricks of lighting and subtle stage directions. He let the blocking work itself out, and by the time he stepped out of the shower the entire show had taken form in his mind.

  It would work.

  In the matter of Ernie Buell, Johnny had allowed himself to be carried away. The set-up had been too perfect and so Johnny had allowed himself to be convinced that it could not miss. So he had sent Lennie after Buell with a straightforward and rather meaningless accusation that had backfired horribly. But this time Johnny would be protected.

  The pitch would be a curve, breaking away from the outside corner of the theatrical plate. If the batter were innocent it would go wide for a ball. If the batter were guilty there would be a swing and a miss and the ball game would be over.

  He had managed to inject a baseball metaphor into a theatrical approach to crime, he thought. Which was ridiculous. But at least he knew what he meant.

  He dried himself, noting that most of his bandages had come off—the shower had finished the job his perspiration had started. To hell with it, he thought. He tore off the remaining bandages, dressed quickly but carefully, selecting a television-blue shirt with a spread collar and a wool challis tie with a navy-blue background. He put on a blue blazer with gleaming brass buttons and a pair of light gray slacks. He inspected himself in the mirror and grinned wryly.

  Dashing, he told himself. Magnificent.

  Ito told him that nobody had called, and handed him another small shot of bourbon which quickly joined the others. Johnny grabbed a hat and a coat, told Ito he’d be back eventually, and left the apartment.

  Good old Lennie Schwerner, Johnny thought. Beat, bearded, and bug-headed. A good kid, a bright kid, but a kid who had managed to save the really important information for last. The useless stuff had come to light right away. The one little chunk of information putting everything in a new light had been given a back seat. “I didn’t think it was important, man,” Lennie had said.

  Johnny crossed Fifth Avenue and stepped out from the curb to hail a cab. A bus stopped for him and he waved it away impatiently. The bus opened its doors, hesitated, closed them and drove off into the night. Buses in New York stopped only when you did not want them to, he thought. And he wondered if there were a Zen maxim to cover that. What had Lennie Schwerner called them. Koans, he remembered. Anyway, now he was preparing to set up Lennie Schwerner in the production end of the theater business. Make him a third assistant curtain puller or something. Well, the kid had a natural bent for it. A clear-cut sense of the dramatic. Save the punch for the end, and hit ’em hard with it.

  Sure.

  A cab stopped. Johnny got into it, spoke an address. He pulled the rear door shut behind him and the cab took off. He lit a cigarette.

  Two maxims. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, meaning speak well of the dead. De gustibus non disputandum est, meaning you couldn’t argue with matters of taste.

  Sure.

  Johnny sighed heavily. Those two little scraps of Latin had kept a rather crucial fact hidden in the shrubbery. Elaine James, God rest her soul, had had an abnormal approach to sex. A mystic attitude, Sondra Barr had called it.
And then Sonny had broken up in laughter and tears.

  Sure.

  Mystic? Johnny supposed that was a word for it, if not a particularly good word. There was a better word for it.

  Elaine James had been not mystic, but lesbian.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE METER READ ninety-five cents. He took a single from his wallet and looked through his pockets for change.

  There was none. He found another single in his wallet, gave them both to the driver, and received a puzzled stare in return. “It’s only ninety-five,” the driver said. “What’s with two bucks?”

  Johnny took one back.

  “Only a nickel tip?”

  Johnny closed his eyes for a moment, then returned the second bill to the driver. “Give half of it to the Red Cross,” he said.

  The man was stunned. Johnny told him pleasantly to go to hell and watched him drive away.

  Johnny lit another cigarette. He was smoking too heavily, he decided. Eventually he would have to cut down. But not now. Not just yet.

  He stood on the sidewalk for a minute or two, getting his bearings, silently rehearsing his lines. Then he went into the building and climbed a flight of stairs. He stood in front of the door and looked at the gleaming brass knocker on it. He took a deep breath.

  He had a part to play, a part to live. It was more than a matter of committing lines to memory. He had to let himself fall into the proper mood, had to slide into the role headfirst. And his audience would be a most exacting one. There would be no warm-up in New Haven or Philly, no dress rehearsal, no opportunity to rework the script if it looked a little ragged around the edges the first time through. Because the first time was the only time there was going to be. It was opening night already, with all the critics on the aisle and not an empty seat in the house.

  He looked at his watch. It was wrong, he decided. Because the real time was 8:40. Curtain time. And the show had to go on.

  He raised the knocker, banged on the door firmly. He waited, trying hard to be calm as the part demanded that he be, trying to play the role perfectly.

  Then Jan Vernon opened the door and the curtain went up.

  “Johnny—”

  “I wanted to see you,” he said. “And I didn’t feel like calling first.”

  “You should have called. I look like hell.”

  “You look fine to me.”

  She did look fine, although obviously she had not been expecting company. She was wearing a wrapper and a pair of broken-down house slippers. Her lipstick had mostly worn off and her hair needed combing. But she still exuded sex and a wholesome, fetching attractiveness. He was not sure how she managed it. It was more earthiness than prettiness, he knew. And that wonderful, fiery body giving out its own symbols.

  “I look like hell,” she told him again. “But how come you’re here? Did you find out something?”

  “I haven’t even been trying,” he said.

  “Then—”

  He pushed the door closed with one hand. Then he reached for her and took her into his arms. She came willingly enough but he sensed a slight stiffening of muscles, a certain amount of tension. Stiffness and tension both disappeared quickly and her mouth met his for a kiss.

  He held her close. Her body was warm under the wrapper, her skin smooth. He knew how that skin felt, how warm and fresh it was. He knew that body. He had made love to it twice in as many days. It was a magnificent body.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  “I missed you, too. I was hoping you would call.”

  “I’m here. Isn’t that just as good?”

  “It’s better, Johnny. I—can I get you a drink? Are you hungry? I could scramble a few eggs or toss some sandwiches together or something.”

  “No, Jan.”

  “Then what can I give you?”

  He answered her with a kiss. Again he thought he detected a trace of subtle resistance before she melted into the embrace. Her back muscles were slightly stiff, her body a bit distant, until her mouth opened and she relaxed against him, relaxed into passion. He wondered whether the stiffness, the detachment, had always been present. Probably, he decided. Probably he had failed to notice them before only because he had not been looking for them.

  And because she was an actress.

  “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “Uh-huh.” She was a kitten now, a sexy kitten with deep smoky eyes and moist lips. It was a role that suited her.

  “I see now,” she went on. “Somebody came over because somebody wants to make love. I see it all now.”

  He kissed her neck. Her hands rubbed the back of his neck and played with his hair.

  “You need a haircut, Johnny.”

  “I know.”

  “And that’s not all you need, is it? You need more than a haircut. You need me.”

  He kissed her again. This time there was no tension at all—none he could detect, at any rate. This time there was passion and a low-burning flame.

  Her voice was husky when she spoke. The husky purr of a sexy kitten.

  “Come on, Johnny. You know where the bedroom is. Let’s go there. Let’s go from the living room to the loving room, Johnny. Let’s go.”

  They walked to the bedroom and he closed the door. She turned to him, kissed him. Then she reached for the light switch. He took her hand.

  “Leave it on, Jan.”

  “You want to watch?”

  “I want to watch.”

  I want to watch your face, he thought. I want to see your eyes and your mouth when I feed you the right line. I want to see how good an actress you are, Jan.

  She kissed him again. She stepped away, watched while he took off his jacket. He hung it on the knob of the closet door. Then she snuggled close to him and undid his tie.

  “You just stand there,” she told him. “I’m going to undress you. I can be a better servant than Ito, Johnny. Just stand there while I take your clothes off.”

  She took off the tie, then unbuttoned the shirt. “No bandages,” she said. “Doctor take them off?”

  “I took them off.”

  “Then I’d better not hug you,” she said. “That’s going to be rough. I like to hug you.”

  She finished removing his clothes, placed them neatly on the chair. He kicked off shoes and socks. She stepped back a stride or two and regarded him thoughtfully.

  “Lovely,” she said.

  He gazed at her, his eyes properly passionate, as she unbelted her wrapper with casual grace, slipped it off and tossed it at the chair. She turned to face him, posed her ivory body for him, smiled at him.

  “Do you like the merchandise, Mr. Lane?”

  He moistened his lips with his tongue. He swallowed. He nodded.

  All the proper gestures, he thought. All the right moves. All perfectly natural, all completely calculated to convey a certain erroneous, not to say erogenous, impression.

  She came to him. He took her in his arms and felt her nude body against his. Her breasts pressed against his chest and her mouth kissed his mouth. He found a breast with a hand and held it gently, tenderly.

  “Let’s go to bed,” she murmured.

  And they went to bed. Only it wasn’t a bed at all, he realized. It looked like a bed, but it was something else entirely, something quite different.

  It was a stage.

  It began.

  It went on.

  It ended.

  He held her for a moment afterward, held her warmth against him, and he wished that he did not have to do it, that he did not have to pile false tenderness on top of false passion. He felt like a prostitute and he felt like an actor—felt like almost anything save a decent human being.

  Then he rolled away from her. The overhead light glared now. He heard the sound of a match striking. Then she was passing him a cigarette. He dragged on it and sucked the smoke into his lungs. He needed it.

  Badly.

  It had been weird, frightening. Love-making with a
ll the trappings of love present and none of them meaning a thing. There was no desire on his part, no emotional attachment, nothing but the physical manifestation of excitement necessary for the accomplishment of his role.

  He had gone through all the motions, all the kissing and stroking and nuzzling and fondling. And then the scene had reached its climax, and so had they.

  And it meant less than nothing.

  “Johnny—”

  The denouement, he thought. The beginning of the end. The conversation afterward.

  “Johnny—”

  “I needed that,” he murmured.

  “Me, too.”

  “You’re good, Jan. You’re wonderful.”

  “Am I?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re good, too.”

  He hesitated, but just for the merest shadow of a second. Then, his voice the same level, the same pitch, he read his line.

  His eyes were on her face. He watched her eyes, watched her mouth, and he read his line perfectly.

  He said: “As good as Elaine?”

  The reaction was there. It was small and quick because she was a professional actress, but it was there because the line had taken her completely by surprise. She had been unprepared, totally unprepared. He saw her eyes widen instinctively, saw her mouth go weak. Her muscles tightened involuntarily.

  “I don’t get it,” she said.

  But she was lying. She got it, got it completely. He wished he had been wrong, but he had not been.

  “I’ll spell it out,” he said. “You’re a lesbian, Jan. Not a typical one. Not a swaggering type wearing pants and a tie. But then, neither was Elaine.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Like hell I am. You met Elaine through the play. One of you made a pass at the other. God knows who threw the first pass. It hardly matters. It was what you both wanted, so you went to bed.”

  Jan was staring at him and he watched her eyes. Fury had joined the shock. But there was something else present, something that was a combination of fear and calculation. He could almost see the wheels turning within her brain.

  “But Elaine had big ideas,” he went on. “Maybe she got a look at your apartment and saw what a hole she was living in by comparison. Maybe she was planning a blackmail pitch from the first. She was a mercenary little minx, according to what I’ve heard from her East Side friends.” Johnny butted his cigarette. “So she set it up,” he went on. “With a tape recorder? Photographs? Whatever she got on you could hurt. All the rumors drifting in from California had helped rather than harmed. The Sex Goddess image was fine—letting the great American public think that little Jan Vernon had a streak of nymphomania under her soft skin, that kind of thing paid off at the box office. But the public wouldn’t come running to watch a dyke play heterosexual love scenes…”