by Dane Hartman
Wendy sauntered in. She wasn’t a woman who walked anywhere. Her legs were too long for just plain walking. She had exchanged the provocative caftan for a blue blouse and white skirt that was slit way up the thigh and provided more than just a view. It was something like a spectacle.
She perched gracefully on the stool next to Harry’s, addressed the bartender whom she knew by name, and ordered a gin and tonic. “You look lousy, you know that,” she said to Harry. “Nothing personal.”
“I don’t take anything too personal, Mrs. Keepnews.”
She caught the trace of sarcasm in the unexpected formality, but didn’t remark upon it.
Her attention was directed elsewhere in any case. Her eyes were concentrating on the crowd that was collecting near the bar. Finally she saw who it was she was looking for. She waved. “Over here, Max! Over here!”
The man she called to was a straight-shouldered, handsome man barely past twenty. He had sandy hair and eyes of coral blue and the sullen disposition of a dog left out in the rain for too long. All he wore was a clean white T-shirt and ragged fading jeans that clung to him like it would take a knife to get them off.
“Max, meet Harry. Harry, Max.”
Harry nodded in acknowledgment, growing progressively impatient the longer he sat here. He may have owed Wendy his life, but being forced to sit here among these mingling veterans of the singles scene and listen to taped rock music and meet Max was a painful way of paying off his debt.
Max didn’t seem too pleased to be introduced to Harry. He lowered his eyes and inspected the floor for a while. Then Wendy whispered something to him, and he withdrew into the crowd from which he’d just emerged.
“What did you want me to meet him for?”
“Simple. I’d like you to save his life.”
“He looks like he’s doing well enough on his own. Who do you think I am, Jesus Christ?”
She laughed, finding this very funny. “Christ saves souls. Or he’s supposed to. I’m talking about his flesh and blood. He’s in danger of being killed.”
“That’s his perogative.”
“You don’t understand, Harry.” She took hold of his hand and held onto it for a moment longer than necessary. “It’s Harold who wants to kill him.”
“Oh shit.”
“That’s what I said. You see, Max was my lover.”
“Was?”
“Was. Definitely past tense. Harold thinks that if Max’s out of the way I won’t have any reason for divorce. That’s how he thinks.”
“Revenge.”
“That’s right. Just like the Hyacinth. No one takes his boats or his woman and gets away with it. A positively medieval attitude but there it is.” She looked around again, not for Max, for somebody else. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s sent somebody here to watch me. But when it comes time for the killing Harold will want to do it.”
“How long were you—uh, involved with Max?”
“A few months, not long. He doesn’t look like someone who’d wear long, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“There were a few others, I have to confess. But it was Max Harold found out about.”
“Tell me, why don’t you move out? Wouldn’t it make life a bit easier for both of you?”
“Emotionally maybe it would. I’ve thought of it. But legally it gets sticky. You see, I want the house. So does Harold. If I leave I might surrender my title to it. The situation is fine with Harold because that means I’m still around. We don’t share the same bed or even the same part of the house, but to the outside world we’re living together and that counts a lot with Harold.”
“You rich people have a shitload of problems, don’t you?”
“You put it so nicely.” The dangerous smile came back to her lips.
“Now you mind telling me how I’m supposed to save your precious Max’s life?”
“Take him with you.”
“And where am I going?”
“Mexico.” She had everything figured out just like her husband. No wonder they couldn’t get along, Harry thought, they were too much alike.
“Mexico?”
“You’re going, aren’t you? Max can come with you. We’ll give him another name. He’ll come on as one of the crew. He won’t be any problem. He’s an experienced sailor. He used to sail on the Hyacinth every time Harold went on one of his fishing expeditions. He knows the waters there like the back of his hand. How do you think I met him in the first place?”
“Won’t Harold find out?”
“No, he’s not interested in details. You and Slater—that’s Slater Bodkin, the skipper Harold always hires—he’ll leave you two to do the picking and choosing. I’m on good terms with Slater so there’ll be no problem there either.”
“Let me get this straight. You want me to take your lover—”
“Ex-lover.”
“Anyone you know who isn’t ex?”
“Sure. You.”
“Great.” Harry went back to looking at his drink. It was easier on the blood pressure than maintaining eye contact with Wendy. “Between you and me, aren’t there simpler ways of getting Max out of harm’s way? There are other boats owned by other millionaires he could ship out on.”
“It wouldn’t be the same.”
“Of course not, this way you could do a number on your husband.”
“It’s more than that. What happens if Max ships out on another boat? He’ll come back and still be faced with the same situation. My husband doesn’t forgive or forget, honey. But if he proves himself, goes down to Mexico, and shows that he’s equal to the task . . .”
“You mean if he wastes a couple of pushers instead of the other way around?”
“Well, I guess you could put it that way.”
“You people are really fucking nuts, you don’t mind my saying.”
“Oh, I agree with you there. But you got to understand Harold. What eats at him is that I should find somebody like Max attractive. It’s an insult. But if Max turns out to be well, courageous, if he has some balls, he might not be so resentful.”
“I love your kind of logic, Wendy.”
“So you’ll do it for me?”
There was no doubt in her voice. She was convinced Harry would agree.
“Hey, I haven’t even agreed to your husband’s proposal, let alone yours.”
“You owe me one. Considering it was your life I saved I think maybe you owe me more than one. Don’t get me wrong, I’d do it again. I don’t like calling in debts like this. But . . .”
“But? But what?”
“You know how it is.”
“Save my ass so you can save Max’s.”
“Don’t be mad. I did it because of you, not Max.”
“Shit, lady, I don’t think I want to understand you. Let’s get out of this joint.”
“Absolutely.”
For all his irritation, Harry couldn’t help observing what an impression Wendy was making. As soon as she got up from her stool she drew the attention of half the men in the place. She would have gotten the other half too if they could have seen beyond the ferns and the plants and the people.
As soon as they got out on Polk Street they heard a confusion of loud voices halfway up the block. From the sound of them, Harry was reasonably certain a fight was brewing. Well, it was to be expected with the heat, and he for one had no intention of investigating further to see what the trouble was.
But Wendy tensed suddenly, clutching Harry’s arm. “It’s Max.”
“What’s Max?”
“There with those men up ahead. That’s his voice.”
“So that’s his voice, what of it?”
“Look, they’re attacking him.”
Harry looked and just as Wendy said, they were attacking all right, four men advancing in on him, no telling why.
Though Harry was tempted to let Max’s assailants finish him off and spare Harold the obligation of killing him and himself the obligation of saving
him, he knew Wendy was counting on his help.
“I’ll go see what the matter is,” he said, thinking that a man in his shabby condition should not get himself involved.
“Fags! All a bunch of fucking queers!” Max was shouting, apparently undaunted even though he confronted four blades which nicely caught the westering sun.
Whatever the sexual proclivities of the quartet facing down Max, they weren’t taking too kindly to his abuse. Harry had no doubt that it was Max who’d provoked this altercation, thinking he could bust some ass and triumphantly walk away. Just because these four young men might have gone in for ostentatious dress, bright glossy shirts, tight pants, and bracelets, and just because they didn’t look especially strong didn’t mean they couldn’t take Max on and make mincemeat of him.
Max kicked out at one, smacking him in his arm so hard that the man was forced to release the knife grasped in his hand. This was enough to trigger the others. They rushed him all at once. One lunged forward with his blade, scraping a bit of T-shirt and flesh off of Max, causing blood to appear, a red cloud against the background of white fabric. Max evidently didn’t register the pain. He was too busy trying to knock another attacker on his ass. A third man seemed anxious to plunge his knife straight into one of Max’s kidneys.
Harry was watching this without making a move. To be truthful about it, he wouldn’t have minded seeing the knife hit home, but he felt a responsibility to Wendy and intervened, taking the man by surprise. He and one of his buddies turned all their attention on Harry, assuming he was an ally of Max’s. Harry swept his arm forward in a swift, harsh motion. He caught a man in the neck and sent him sprawling.
By sidestepping, he avoided the other assailant completely. When the man came at him again Harry had produced his present. He didn’t expect to have to use it. Usually the prospect of a .44 cartridge in one’s body was sufficient to immobilize even the bravest soul.
“Aw fuck,” one man said, recognizing how dramatically the odds had changed.
Max didn’t seem to notice the introduction of a Magnum into the fray and was busy expending his rage by stomping one of his antagonists into the sidewalk. The man looked bruised and battered, but certainly he appeared in no worse shape than Max himself. Blood was oozing copiously out of tears in his flesh and down his arms and chest. Where there wasn’t any blood there were patches of dirt and sweat. But he was so gone on adrenalin and his own particular brand of craziness that he didn’t seem to notice.
“Max, that’ll be all for today,” Harry said. “School’s over.”
Max didn’t seem to hear or else he decided he’d prefer to ignore Harry’s remark.
“Max!”
Max wasn’t paying any attention, so Harry strode over to him and put his gun to his head. This caused Max to listen more closely. Reluctantly, he did not complete the kick he had begun. His victim rolled gratefully away, clutching his damaged rib cage with his hands.
Harry turned back to the others. A small crowd had collected to watch this unexpected drama.
“Get the hell out of here!” he urged Max’s three standing antagonists.
Grabbing their prostrate friend, they did exactly that.
Max offered Harry a petulent look. He didn’t like being rescued.
“I could’ve handled them,” he muttered.
“Sure you could’ve, Max, sure you could’ve.”
“You don’t believe me?”
Anxious to be rid of him, Harry saw no point in arguing. “Oh, I believe you all right. Now why don’t you go do something about those stab wounds. We don’t want you bleeding to death.”
Max regarded the blood oozing down his shirt and pants legs with indifference; he was determined to show Harry how macho he was. Nothing can touch me was his attitude. Thinking like that, Harry concluded, would get him dead one day.
Wendy approached Max now. She did not, as Harry would have suspected, blanch at the sight of his partially perforated body.
“You’re going to have to get a cab because we’re not about to take you to the hospital, Max.”
Max glowered at her. He’d expected better. Maybe he’d had vision of walking off into the sunset with Wendy, leaving a spoor of blood behind him. Could be he’d provoked this fight just to attract her attention. Whatever his motive it wasn’t working.
He grunted and walked away from them. Harry wondered when he was going to start registering the pain.
“He’ll be all right,” Wendy said as though this was the sort of assurance Harry was seeking. “He’s always doing shit like this.”
“It seems I’m already getting into practice saving his life. The way it looks to me it could become a full-time occupation.”
“I do appreciate this, Harry.”
He stopped her. “Wendy, I haven’t said yes yet. You’re not paying attention.”
She shrugged, no longer interested in discussing the subject. “You hungry?”
Harry wasn’t. In fact, he’d just about run clear out of energy. Intervening on Max’s behalf had done him in. He felt shaky, his legs might just as well have turned into jelly for all the support they gave him.
“You’re looking very pale,” Wendy remarked. “Maybe you should’ve stayed in the hospital.”
“I’m not going back there. The food they serve you is shit. Doesn’t just taste bad, it’s positively unhealthy. Griddlecakes and bacon for breakfast? Make you sick all over again. Though I suppose it’s good for repeat business. No, all I need is just a good night’s sleep.”
“Where do you live?”
“I brought my car, no problem.”
“You’re in no condition to drive. I’ll take you home.” She held up her hand, unwilling to listen to any protests. “My car’s right here.” She gestured to the cocoa-colored BMW, which sparkled brilliantly in the dying sunlight.
Since she seemed so determined, and since he felt so drained, he did not offer any further resistence. He got in the BMW, settled back against the welcoming upholstery, and promptly fell asleep.
Day or night? No telling, not with the shades down and the curtains drawn. And hardly a noise from the street to indicate the hour: a car passing, a dog’s plaintive bark, that was it. Any other sounds were blotted out by the monotonous whirring of the fan that was planted in one of the far windows.
Though Harry had no recollection of getting out of Wendy’s BMW and mounting the stairs to his apartment and crawling into bed, it was obvious that he had done all these things. Because he was in bed, caught between oblivion and half-wakefulness. A weird pain was moving up his leg and settling into his thigh. The more awake he became the more of it there’d be.
Gradually, through the haze, he became aware that he was not alone in the room, and as soon as that thought impressed itself upon him, he reacted instinctively and groped for his gun. It was where he usually placed it—no matter how enfeebled he got he always knew enough to keep a weapon within reach of his bed.
His action only produced a fit of giggles. Standing at the door to the bathroom was Wendy, a disarming smile on her face and nothing on her body. In the partial darkness she was more shadow than flesh, a triumph of the human body. “Are you going to shoot me?”
Harry didn’t answer. Feeling foolish, he put the gun down.
Approaching the bed, she moved quietly, almost stealthily, as though she expected her husband or one of her husband’s spies to ambush her. Suddenly recalling Harold’s vendetta against Max, and all those who would steal Wendy away from him, Harry wondered if he hadn’t been right to grab hold of the gun before determining who there was available to use it on.
It was, however, enormously difficult keeping Harold or his vendetta in mind as he looked at Wendy. Truth was he didn’t just look at her, he studied her. Her skin, he saw now that she was closer to him, was dusky, tanned everywhere from her long afternoons of sunbathing. A trickle of perspiration was visible between her breasts which swayed slightly in response to the motion of her long legs as she drew
them onto the bed. Drops of moisture, like tiny jewels, glimmered on the dark triangle of hair between her legs.
“Hello, Harry,” she whispered, nestling down under the covers.
“I don’t think this is such a terrific idea,” was what he started to say, again thinking of Harold, but it wasn’t a sentence he was able to complete.
She pressed herself against him and in doing so inadvertently prodded some tender patches of flesh. But the pain was nothing compared to the pleasure she brought him. It was better than being fished out of the deep.
When he awoke again the sun was high enough in the sky to make its presence known inside Harry’s apartment. Shafts of hot July light streamed in through the drawn shades and the pulled curtains.
Opening his eyes, Harry blinked. Something needed doing today, he was sure, but couldn’t quite remember what it was. The other side of his bed was bare. He thought that maybe Wendy had slipped away during the night. Before he could ascertain this for certain the phone began ringing.
“Callahan,” he answered in a groggy voice.
“Did I awake you, Harry?”
It was Harold. Christ, it was Harold.
“It’s all right. What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty. I’ve been up for two hours now.”
Harry had every reason to believe Harold was going to ask him what had happened to Wendy. Wendy had gone shopping and left the door open for herself or else had found the key and used it to get herself back in because she was right now stepping into the apartment, a big brown bag hugged to her chest, calling, “Harry? Are you up?” in a voice loud enough (Harry was sure) for it to be heard on the other end of the wire.
“I got us breakfast,” she said before she realized he was on the phone, his hand over the mouthpiece to prevent Harold from hearing anything more incriminating. “Sorry.” She clearly had no idea whom he was talking to.
“Harry, are you still there?” Either Harold had not heard his wife or else he chose to ignore her.
“I’m still here.”
“I know you said you’d call me but frankly, I’m an impatient man, and I’m anxious to learn of what you decided.”
“What I decided,” Harry repeated dully, then remembered: the boat, the trip down to Mexico, Max. “Shit.” The imprecation came automatically.