Body For Sale

by Deming, Richard

  Even in the dim light I could tell that Mathews and Gertie weren’t at either of the two tables. So I wandered along the wall, casually glancing into booths as I passed.

  There was a dim, shaded lamp on the wall in each booth, which cast just enough glow for you to see your drink in front of you. Even this was more than some couples wanted, apparently, for a number of them had switched the lamps off. It was impossible to make out who was in these booths, and I was beginning to wonder if I had gone by Mathews and his date when the booth I was just passing suddenly went dark.

  It darkened an instant too late. Just before the lamp flicked out, I caught a glimpse of a dark pony tail.

  The booth immediately behind was empty and I swung into it. This put my back to Gertie on the other side of the partition.

  A waitress instantly materialized out of the gloom and said, “Yes, sir?”

  “Bourbon and water,” I said in a low voice.

  “Are you alone, sir?”

  I looked up at her. “Do you see anyone else?”

  “Well, I thought your lady friend might have stopped by the powder room on the way in.”

  “I’m alone,” I assured her.

  She went away and I tried to hear what was being said in the next booth. It was impossible over the music, even though it was muted, because they were speaking in murmurs.

  But as the piece ended, I did manage to hear one small exchange. Gertie Drake’s voice inquired, “Do you love me tonight?”

  Mathews said in a rather preoccupied tone, “Every night and every day, honey.”

  The tone struck me as not quite sincere, as though it were merely part of a line he used by rote. But it may have been my imagination, or he may simply have been uneasy about being in a place such as the Flying Swan. Gertie seemed satisfied by the words, for she emitted a contented little sigh. Then the music started again and I couldn’t hear any more.

  My drink came and I paid for it, also giving the waitress a tip. It wasn’t the kind of place where you could run a tab and pay for the evening all at once. Probably they figured that in the darkness too many patrons would sneak out without paying, and because visibility was so poor, the waitresses wouldn’t even be able to describe who had stiffed them.

  The waitress had hardly moved away when a girl slid opposite me into the booth. She was a platinum blond in a low-cut gown that exposed most of an oversized bosom that sagged just a little because she wasn’t wearing any brassiere. She had an attractive face heavily coated with makeup. In the dim light it was hard to judge her age, but I guessed that she was somewhere past twenty and somewhere under thirty.

  She gave me a theatrical smile that disclosed even teeth, one of them gold-capped. “Like some company, honey?”

  I shrugged. I usually brush off B-girls, but having a female companion would make me less noticeable here.

  The girl raised a hand in signal and the same waitress as before reappeared. The waitress already had a drink in her hand. She set it before the platinum blond.

  “Dollar eighty,” she said.

  I looked at her. “What in the devil is it? Imported mead?”

  “Triple rum and Coke,” she said. “Dollar eighty.”

  I doubted that there was any rum in the drink, but at least it looked like Coke. I was in no position to create a scene, so I gave her two one-dollar bills and told her to keep the change.

  When the waitress left, the platinum blond said, “I’m Peggy, honey.”

  “I’m Tom,” I told her.

  “Want me to move over on your side of the booth and we’ll switch the light out?”

  It was the ancient B-girl pitch. In exchange for a little petting, you were supposed to continue to pay an extortionate price for plain Coke. If you managed to get drunk enough, she might ease out your wallet, empty it of bills and ease it back in your pocket again. If you stayed sober, after a while she’d suggest a trip upstairs for some inflated fee.

  “I don’t feel very sexy tonight,” I said. “I just came from a funeral.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said with fake concern. “Anyone close?”

  “My parakeet.”

  She stared at me for a minute, then gave an obedient laugh. “You got some sense of humor, honey.”

  “I kill the boys down at the poolroom,” I told her. “Want to do me a favor, Peggy?”

  “Sure, honey. What?”

  “Just sit there quietly and sip your nonalcoholic Coke and keep your mouth shut. After a while you can order another. Or, if you prefer, I’ll just slip you the two bucks and you won’t have to split with the house.”

  She said suspiciously, “What kind of a gag is this?”

  “No gag. I just feel like some uninterrupted thought. And I like to look at a pretty face while I think. You can sit there and earn a couple of bucks just by keeping your pretty little trap shut, or you can walk away. It’s up to you.”

  She decided to earn the couple of bucks. “You’re a funny one,” she said. “Go ahead and think if you want to. But give me a cigarette first.”

  We sat and smoked and sipped our drinks and looked at each other while I strained my ears to hear what was going on the other side of the partition. I might as well have saved myself the effort. All I could make out above the music was a low murmur.

  Finally I did manage to make out one phrase. Gertie said in a normal tone, “Let’s dance once before we go up, darling.”

  The shuffle of feet indicated they were rising from the booth, so I reached up and flicked out our wall lamp.

  Peggy said inquiringly, “What now? Change your mind, honey?”

  I didn’t answer her. I watched as the dim figures of Gertie Drake and George Mathews moved onto the dance floor. Since only two other couples were dancing, it wasn’t hard to keep track of them despite the low visibility.

  In the darkness Peggy’s voice said, “You still thinking, honey?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “It’s about time for another drink.”

  “In a minute,” I said.

  She lapsed into silence. When the piece ended Mathews and Gertie didn’t return to their booth. They drifted to a curtained doorway on the far side of the room and pushed through the curtain. I knew what was beyond the curtain, though I’d never made use of the facility. Having my own apartment, I didn’t have to. The door led to a stairway, which in turn led to an upstairs desk where you could rent rooms by the hour.

  Switching the lamp back on, I took out my wallet and tossed two ones across the table. Then I climbed out of the booth.

  “Good-night, Peggy,” I said. “It’s been very pleasant.”

  Her hand closed over the bills. “You gotta leave so soon, honey?”

  “I’m all thought out,” I said. “I couldn’t think another thought.”

  I walked out, climbed in my car and waited. I couldn’t see the Lincoln from where I was parked, for it was on the opposite side of the building. But the exit from the parking area was in my range of vision, so Mathews couldn’t drive away without my knowing.

  After five cigarettes I looked at my watch. It was ten thirty p.m., which meant they had been upstairs about forty-five minutes.

  At eleven fifteen I ran out of cigarettes. Getting out of the car, I walked around the rear of the building to look at the cars parked on the other side. The red Lincoln convertible was still there. I returned to my car and waited some more.

  At midnight, just as I was about to have a nicotine fit, I finally saw the Lincoln’s taillights moving through the exit.

  I followed them back to Gertie’s rooming house, waited while Mathews escorted her to the door and gave her a passionate kiss. I admired him for being able to summon the energy for such a passionate kiss after the length of time he had spent upstairs at the Flying Swan. Knowing Gertie, I doubted that he had gotten much rest. When I used to take her home, I always gave her a good-night kiss, too, of course. But I never managed to put so much feeling into it. If it wouldn’t have offended her, I
would have preferred just to shake hands.

  Mathews drove straight home from the rooming house and put the car away. I called it an evening and went home.

  10

  ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON MATHEWS LED ME TO THE HILLBROOK Country Club again, where he played another eighteen holes of golf. He went home for dinner, but reappeared alone about eight thirty. I tailed him to Gertie Drake’s rooming house for the second night in a row.

  The evening followed the same pattern as the previous one. They drove to the Flying Swan, had a couple of drinks, danced once and then disappeared upstairs. This time I made no attempt to get the booth next to them. I took one near the curtained doorway, where I could watch them go upstairs and come down again.

  Peggy kept me company again and cost me fourteen dollars because I stayed in the booth the full two hours they were upstairs. When they finally came down, they had a nightcap at the bar and went home.

  On Friday something interesting finally happened during my daytime tailing of Mathews. He left the plant at noon, met Gertie Drake at a quiet back-street restaurant on the East Side at twelve thirty and kept her there in a booth until two, when presumably she returned to the office.

  Mathews himself spent the rest of the afternoon playing golf again. I returned to the office as soon as I saw him heading for the first tee.

  Just before five I stopped by Esther’s desk and asked for the record she had been keeping of Gertie Drake’s visits to Mathews’ office. After looking it over, I gave a low whistle.

  “He must be an iron man,” I said.

  “Why do you say that?” Esther asked with raised brows. “During all three days they couldn’t have run up the record we did Tuesday night.”

  “This is only part of the story,” I told her. “You don’t know what they’ve been doing nights.”

  “He sees her then, too?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Has your plan developed enough yet to tell me about it?” she asked.

  “Not quite. Maybe by Monday.”

  “Are we going to be able to get together over the weekend?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll phone you if I can. I don’t know yet.”

  “I wish you’d hurry up and finish whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish,” she grumbled. “I’m tired of never seeing you and having you never answer your phone.”

  “Are you still trying to call me every night?” I demanded.

  “Sure. I get lonesome.”

  “Well, cut it out. I’ll do the phoning when I want to talk to you.”

  She pouted and said, “You certainly know how to be blunt.”

  “Some women require it,” I said, and walked away.

  I got back to the country club about six, checked to make sure the Lincoln was still on the lot and took my usual position down the highway in sight of the stone pillars. Apparently Mathews dined there, for he didn’t drive away until after eight.

  He didn’t go home. Again I followed him to the rooming house, then to the Flying Swan. This time I didn’t bother to go inside. I merely waited in the car until they came out again at midnight and drove home.

  I spent all of Saturday morning sitting in my car down the street from the Mathews home, but the Lincoln didn’t emerge from the driveway. At noon I risked driving as far as the nearest restaurant for a couple of take-out sandwiches and some coffee in a paper cup, then rushed back to park again and eat my lunch.

  At one the red Lincoln finally nosed out of the driveway with Mathews at the wheel. I followed him to the yacht club and watched him sail off in his boat with the same male companion he had gone fishing with before.

  I drove to a drugstore and phoned Helen Mathews.

  When she came to the phone, I said, “This is Tom Cavanaugh. Your husband’s out fishing in his boat. It seems like a good time to get together so I can make a report, if you have the time.”

  “You can’t come here,” she said quickly. “The cleaning maid will be here all day. I could meet you somewhere.”

  “Name it,” I said.

  She thought for a minute. Finally she said, “There is a small cocktail lounge named the Top Hat about a mile west of here on Sheridan Drive. I’ve never been in it and nobody I know goes there, so it should be safe. Could you meet me there about two?”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  I got to the place at five of two. Helen Mathews was already there, seated in the rearmost booth with a highball before her. Nobody else was in the place except a bartender. When I walked past the bar and slid into the booth opposite Mrs. Mathews, he came over and gave me an inquiring look.

  Helen’s glass was only about a quarter full when I sat down. She drained the rest of it.

  “Bourbon and water,” I told the bartender. “And a refill for the lady.”

  He carried her empty glass away.

  I offered her a cigarette and held a match to it. Neither of us said anything while waiting for the bartender to bring our drinks. I spent the time admiring her.

  Every time I saw the woman, she looked more beautiful. Today, in deference to a temperature in the eighties, she wore a simple sundress with light-green flowers against a white background. It tied around the neck in halter style, covering her torso clear to the neck but leaving her arms and shoulders bare. Her skin was so smooth and creamy, I had to resist an impulse to reach out and touch it.

  When the bartender brought our drinks and moved away again, she said, “Well, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  I said, “Friday at lunch was the only time they’ve met outside the plant during the day. But he saw her Wednesday, Thursday and Friday at night. Probably the only reason he missed Tuesday night was because he took you to that party on Sumner Place.”

  Her expression didn’t change. “You followed us to that?” she asked quietly.

  “I’ve followed him everywhere he’s gone since Tuesday afternoon. He played golf that day and took you to the party at night. Wednesday he went fishing with some male crony, dined at the yacht club and had a date with Gertie that night. Thursday afternoon he played golf again, went home for dinner, had another date with Gertie. Same routine yesterday, except he dined at the country club instead of going home for dinner. What explanation does he give for being out so much nights?”

  “He’s general chairman of this year’s United Fund drive,” she said in a tight voice. “He’s supposed to be meeting with the various sub-committees. Where did he take her on these dates?”

  “The same place every night. A roadhouse called the Flying Swan out on Route 60. You wouldn’t know the place.”

  She raised finely arched eyebrows. “Why do you say it in such a definite tone?”

  “It’s not the kind of place you’d ever hear about. They keep the lights so dim it’s too dark for wives to recognize their husbands in case they go looking for them, or for husbands to recognize their wives. They have rooms upstairs that they rent by the hour, and B-girls who will keep you company in them for a fee if you go stag.”

  She said in a distasteful tone, “He must not have much regard for her if he takes her to a place like that.”

  “That was my thought until I got to thinking about it. He’s a pretty prominent man. There aren’t a lot of places he could take a mistress without risking recognition.”

  She took a gulp of her drink and punched out her cigarette. “What do they do there?”

  “Have a few drinks, dance a little, then spend a couple of hours upstairs.”

  She flinched slightly. “Have you formed any opinion of how he feels about her?”

  I said dryly, “She must have an overpowering physical attraction for him. They also had ‘conferences’ in his private office on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. About an hour each time.”

  Red spots appeared in her cheeks. She drained her highball at a gulp.

  “May I have another drink, please?” she asked.

  I called the bartender over and ordered her a double. I didn’t order any for myself because I hadn’t
touched mine yet.

  While we were waiting for the order to be filled, she said, “What I meant was how he feels about her emotionally. Do you think he’s in love, or it’s just a temporary affair?”

  “I don’t know. He says he loves her.”

  Her face lost all color except for the red spot in each cheek. She said faintly, “You heard him say it?”

  “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” I said. “She asked if he loved her one night, and he came up with some corny line about loving her every night and every day. I got the impression he was responding automatically rather than speaking from the heart. Some men tell every woman they want to seduce that they love her. It’s a teen-age technique, but some men never outgrow it, even though it keeps getting them in trouble.”

  “You think he was just using a rather juvenile technique then?”

  I shrugged. “You know your husband better than I do.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if I know him at all,” she said in a low voice. “Until your visit the other night I never even suspected he was capable of cheating.”

  The bartender temporarily interrupted our conversation by bringing her drink.

  She drank half of it before saying, “I think he must plan to spend all of next weekend with her. He wants me to go up to our cottage on Weed Lake next Friday to get it ready for a few days’ vacation. He doesn’t plan to join me until Monday.”

  “Going?” I asked.

  “Why not?” she said bitterly. “I may as well speed this thing up by giving him all the rope he wants.”

  “What’s your plan if he takes it? Divorce?”

  She looked at me as though she thought I were nuts. “I love my husband, Mr. Cavanaugh. Until I’m certain he’s stopped loving me and is in love with this other woman, I intend to do nothing at all except hope he can get her out of his system.” She drank the other half of her drink.

  “Want another?” I inquired.

  She shook her head. “If you can manage to keep them under observation for another week, I’ll appreciate it. I have to know his ultimate intentions soon, or I’ll go crazy.”