Masters of Noir: Volume One

by Ed McBain

  Mr. Baldy was two stools further from her. She named him easily since his baldness was his outstanding feature in a face that had no other memorable features. His head was bare except for a very thin fringe around the edges and the light from the ceiling shined on it.

  Next, of course, she noticed his eyes. They were hungry eyes, too—but hungry in a way that was different from Mr. Dark Suit. Mr. Baldy was a good twenty-five years older, and he was probably used to getting his passes tossed back into his lap. He wanted her, all right; there was no mistaking the intensity of his gaze. But the possibility of a refusal might scare him away.

  For a half-second she considered flashing him a smile. No, she decided, that wouldn't be fair. Let them work it out themselves. Let the hungriest assert himself and the others forever hold their peace.

  And there was no hurry. It was rather a pleasant feeling to be caressed simultaneously by three pairs of eyes, and though the sensation was hardly a new one, it was one she never tired of.

  And the third man. He was seated at the far end of the bar, seated so that he could study her without turning at all. But, strangely, his eyes were not glued to her body the way Mr. Dark Suit's and Mr. Baldy's were. Instead he was relaxing, biding his time, and occasionally letting his eyes wander from his beer glass to her and back to his beer.

  He was somewhere in his thirties, with a strong and vaguely handsome face and jet-black hair. Mr. Bright-Eyes, she named him, laughing inwardly at the glow of assurance and confidence in his eyes.

  Mr. Bright-Eyes wouldn't be afraid or stumbling about it. At the same time, she wondered whether or not he would care enough to make an approach. He wanted her; that much she knew. But he might need a little shove in the right direction.

  A rock-and-roll tune was playing noisily on the jukebox. Not yet, she thought. Wait until everything is just right, with soft music and all the trimmings. Let the eyes stay hungry for a few minutes.

  She studied them again, the three of them. Mr. Dark Suit's eyes, she noticed, were brown. Mr. Baldy's eyes were a watery blue, a bit bloodshot and sick-looking. But Mr. Bright-Eyes had, happily, bright blue eyes. They seemed to gleam in his powerful face.

  She wondered who it would be. Another night, another pair of eyes—but who would it be tonight? Which eyes were the hungriest? Which eyes wanted her, wanted her enough to hurry up and make a pass?

  Mr. Dark Suit finished his drink and signaled the bartender for another. He sipped at it nervously when it arrived, then set it down on the bar and stole another glance at her, drumming his fingers on the bar all the while.

  He's so nervous, she thought. If I made the first move he'd come running. But he's scared silly.

  Mr. Baldy, his drink forgotten, stared at her quite openly. He didn't seem shy at all, and the watery blue eyes moved up and down her body without the slightest embarrassment.

  He can watch, she thought. A looker, but not much for action. What's the matter, Mr. Baldy?

  Mr. Bright-Eyes looked up from his beer and saw her studying him. For a moment a shadow of a smile passed over his face; then it was gone, and he was gazing once again into the glass of beer.

  Although she wanted to be perfectly fair, she felt herself hoping that it would be Mr. Bright-Eyes. She always played perfectly fair, always went with the first one, but this time she felt a decided preference. There was something about those eyes, something about the way they looked at her so openly....

  The rock-and-roll tune came to a noisy finish. She waited on her stool, fluffing her hair into place and taking another short sip of her drink.

  The next record was a slow one.

  Now, she thought. First she stretched a little, throwing her shoulders back so that her two perfect breasts stood out in bold relief as they pressed against the thin fabric of her blouse. Then she crossed one leg over the other, letting her skirt fall away as she did so and giving Mr. Dark Suit and Mr. Baldy a quick glimpse of milk-white skin.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Bright-Eyes couldn't see her legs from where he sat. It was a pity.

  Then, with her breasts jutting and her legs crossed, she tossed off the rest of her drink and leaned forward on her stool, hesitating a moment before ordering a refill. This was the crucial moment, the time when one of the three had to be ready for a game of drop-the-handkerchief. Somebody had to pick up the cue.

  "Another beer for me, and one more for the lady."

  She started, turned her head, and discovered happily that it was Mr. Bright-Eyes. He certainly was smooth, she marveled, the way he was right at her side the minute she was ready for another drink.

  A moment later the beer was poured, the drink made, and Mr. Bright-Eyes seated on the stool beside her. She noticed the sad looks in the eyes of Mr. Baldy and Mr. Dark Suit, sad because they realized the chance they had missed.

  Too bad, she thought. You had your chances. Why, you had a better chance than Mr. Bright-Eyes, what with looking at my legs and all.

  "You're a lovely woman,” Mr. Bright-Eyes was saying, and she was pleased to note that he had a fine manner of speaking, spacing his words nicely and pronouncing all the consonants the way they belonged. Why, that man a few nights ago didn't talk very well at all, mumbling the way he did. Of course it was partly the drinking, but she was glad Mr. Bright-Eyes could speak so clearly and nicely.

  But she didn't pay much attention to what he was saying. It wasn't too important, and besides she was far too busy looking into his blue eyes and enjoying the way they traveled so gently over her body. She could feel them on her, and when his gaze traveled down her body and caressed her hips she almost shivered.

  He continued to talk to her and she continued to answer him and the jukebox continued to play, but she spent most of her time looking into his eyes and loving the feeling they gave her. He told her his name, which she promptly forgot because Mr. Bright-Eyes suited him so much better, and she told him that her name wasn't especially important, since it really wasn't.

  Mr. Bright-Eyes said something about a rose by another name and she laughed politely, but it was his eyes that really held her interest. Even when his hand moved down to rest gently on her thigh, she was more aware of the hunger in his eyes than the gradually more insistent pressure of his hand.

  Slowly his hand moved up and down her thigh, gently caressing her flesh, and all the while Mr. Bright-Eyes was talking earnestly, his voice just a little louder than a whisper and his eyes deliciously lustful and hungry.

  But it wouldn't do to ignore the hand. Keeping her gaze rooted to Mr. Bright-Eye's face, she gently placed her own hand on top of his. At first he seemed taken aback, thinking that she wished him to remove his hand from her thigh. That, of course, was not what she intended at all.

  Reassuringly, she moved his hand over her thigh, pressing it gently and tenderly. She was pleased to notice Mr. Bright-Eyes get an even hungrier gleam in his eyes and begin to breathe a slight bit heavier than before. It was all part of the game, but the game could be very pleasant for her.

  "... one of the most exciting women I've ever met,” he was saying, and as he spoke the words his hand closed possessively around her knee. His eyes were glued to her breasts. She knew that they would leave any moment now, that he was almost ready and almost convinced that she would now follow him to the ends of the earth if he were only to ask.

  And indeed she would.

  "Honey?"

  She smiled expectantly.

  "Would you like to have the next one up at my place?"

  "Of course,” she said.

  His bright blue eyes gleamed more than ever. How bright they were! She was actually in love with him now, in love with his eyes and the hunger and beauty in them.

  As they stood up, she saw Mr. Baldy shake his head sadly. Mr. Dark Suit's jaw fell slightly and he looked quite awkward, sitting precariously on his stool with his mouth half-open. Then Mr. Bright-Eyes slipped his arm easily around her waist and walked her to the door. She could feel their eyes watching her every step of the w
ay, and it wasn't hard at all to imagine the regret in their eyes—regret mixed with admiration for Mr. Bright-Eye's technique.

  He was smooth, all right. So very smooth, and while it was a shame that Mr. Dark Suit and Mr. Baldy were doomed to sadness for the evening, it simply couldn't be helped.

  And besides, wasn't there a book about survival of the fittest or something? If they had Mr. Bright-Eyes’ finish they wouldn't be sitting by themselves, with their eyes all afraid and beaten.

  It was dark out, and Mr. Bright-Eyes seemed to be in a hurry, and as a consequence they were walking very swiftly toward his apartment. He said something about wasn't it dark out, and she agreed that it was, and his arm tightened around her waist.

  She leaned a little against him and rubbed her body against his. Walking as they were and with the night as dark as it was, it was hard for her to see his eyes. Each time when they passed a streetlamp she leaned forward a bit and glanced into his face, as if to reassure herself that his eyes still wanted her as much as they had.

  In his apartment everything went very well. He told her how beautiful she was and she thanked him quite modestly, and they went to the bedroom and he took her in his arms and kissed her very expertly.

  Then, after she had been expertly kissed, he bent over to remove the spread from the bed. It was at just that moment that she took the knife from her purse and plunged it into his back, right between the shoulder blades. One jab was enough; he crumpled up on the bed and lay very still, without a scream or a moan or any sound at all.

  Afterwards, back in her own apartment, she put his eyes in the box with the others.

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  ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON by GIL BREWER

  Dell Harper and his wife Julia left their pew and shoved through the nervously subdued congregation. Everyone somehow held themselves back enough to keep from running and shoving in an effort to get home for dinner, make that show, meet Marge or Suzie, reach the car before Dad. The organ continued to moan softly and the Reverend Holdsby appeared at the hall door, perspiring lightly, a fixed smile on his pale lips.

  "Better carry Linda,” Harper said to his wife. “She'll get herself stomped on. And for gosh sakes, get past Holdsby before he nails us about Christian Endeavor, or we'll never get out to the glen."

  Julia Harper looked at her husband and scowled, but she said nothing. She grabbed three year old Linda, who at the moment was interested in the choir loft, picked her up, rested her on her hip.

  They escaped to the main entrance hall, and headed for the door. Noon sunlight glared on the brick steps.

  "There's Tom Martin,” Julia said. She held Linda with one arm, jabbed at her hair with her other hand, and looked as if she wanted to smile.

  "Now, for cripes’ sake,” Harper said. “Don't start gabbing."

  Julia didn't seem to hear him. Linda said something about, “Wanna fickle do, Mommy! Fickle do naw!"

  "All right,” Julia Harper said. “We'll be home in a little while. Then you can."

  Martin pinned them in a small bottleneck on the steps. “Only got a minute,” he said. “Nan's waiting in the car. Why don't you folks stop over this afternoon?” He paused, stripping cellophane from a cigar. “We could have some coffee and sandwiches later on—maybe play a few hands of bridge.” He bit off the end of the cigar, spat it across the church steps, and grinned at Julia.

  Julia smiled back brightly, glanced at her husband.

  Martin snatched the cigar from his mouth and motioned toward Linda. “Bring her along, too—of course."

  Harper checked his wrist watch. “Sorry as the deuce, Tom. We planned something else. Thanks, though—for asking."

  Julia patted Linda's bottom, frowned, and chewed the edge of her lower lip.

  "Oh?” Martin said.

  "Little picnic—out to the glen."

  Julia spoke suddenly, a shade too loudly. “Why don't you and Nan come along?” She said it to Martin, but she looked at her husband as she spoke.

  Martin found a match, looked at it. “No—we can't,” he said. “Feel kind of tired. Just want to lay around, anyways."

  "We'd better get moving,” Harper said.

  "Maybe next Sunday?” Martin called.

  Harper said nothing. Julia turned and flashed another smile back across Linda's shoulder. They moved slowly through the sun-dappled church crowds into the parking area, located their Ford sedan.

  "Wow,” Harper said. “Like an oven. Wait'll I roll the windows down."

  Julia waited, holding Linda, looking at the bustle of the crowded parking area.

  "Come on, will you?” Harper called with a trace of irritation. “You're the one wanted to get out to the God damned glen. We'll no more'n get there, we'll have to come back. Get the lead out. It's my only day off—you know that."

  Julia ignored his whining tone, slipped into the front seat with Linda, then allowed the three year old to climb over into the back.

  Harper savagely started the engine and backed out, heading for the street. Julia adjusted her pale blue skirt over her round knees, patted the small and wilted corsage of flowers she'd made that morning.

  "There's Brady,” Julia said. “He's waving, Dell."

  "Oh,” Harper said, flapping his hand without looking. “I'm hungry as a bear. You?"

  "I suppose so."

  "What the hell's the matter with you?"

  "Nothing."

  "Something's the matter. I can tell."

  Julia said nothing. She looked out the window and closed her eyes.

  Linda was bubbling about something in the back seat, her round face mashed against the side window, the fingers of one hand curled into her pale yellow hair.

  Harper turned onto Central a bit too speedily, narrowly missing the side of a city bus. A yellow and chrome hot rod roared past them, loaded with young laughing faces. The driver flipped the cut-out on the muffler twice.

  "Juvenile delinquents,” Harper said. “My God, look how fast they're goin! They don't give a damn for anybody. The world's crazy—I tell you, it's crazy. Crazy kids. I'd just like to get close enough to one of them sharpies, by God."

  "What would you do, Dell?” Julia said, her eyes still closed, facing the window.

  "They need a lesson, that's what they need. A good lesson. Somebody show ‘em what for. Drunk, an’ taking dope—like they do.” He lifted one hand from the steering wheel and squeezed it into a fist. “A good lesson—the old-fashioned way."

  Julia said nothing. They drove on home.

  "Hurry up and change,” Harper said from the bathroom. “What you wearing?"

  His wife did not reply.

  Something thumped downstairs. “Hope she's not in the God damned lunch,” Harper said. “You got it all packed, didn't you?"

  "Yes, Dell."

  Harper came into the bedroom. “Guess I'll wear these old suntans."

  "Why don't you wear shorts?"

  He ignored her, climbing into the tan khaki trousers. He was tall and boney, with reddish-brown hair that was sparse across pink skull. Pale blue eyes regarded the world with suspicion from behind rimless glasses. He buttoned and belted his trousers, yanked a white T-shirt over his head, tucked it in partly, then glanced toward his wife.

  "Hurry up God damn it. Will you?"

  She stood in front of her closet, running her hands through the racked clothes. They had been married six years. They had both been eighteen at the time of the ceremony, and Dell had just landed the job with the paint supply house—a job which he still held, through two promotions and three raises. They had both been skinny kids at the time of their marriage, striking out for the mysterious something.

  Dell hadn't put on much weight since. Julia had. In brief white pants and brassiere, she was a lush and lovely woman. Thick black hair waved and massed across olive-skinned shoulders. Her waist was strikingly slim and firm, her hips sharply curving out and down to long-thighed, smoothly-rounded legs. Her breasts were large and high-peaked. Her face w
as sometimes piquant, sometimes sad—often both, the dark eyes a shade too thoughtful, the pouting, red-lipped mouth curiously immobile. She was possessed of a strange, almost electric nervousness that kept her forever on the go.

  "Well, by gosh, I'm going to be cool!” She snatched something from a hook in the closet. She stepped into a pair of white shorts that were high and tight when she got them fastened. She struck a pose, looked at her husband through half-lidded eyes, and grinned. He lit a cigarette, staring at her. She turned, pulled a thin yellow jersey over her head, glanced at the full length mirror on the back of the door, and said, “Let's go, then."

  Harper stomped toward the bedroom door. As he passed her, she touched his arm lightly, smiling up at him, a sudden and emphatic flash of crystal invitation. “Like my shorts, huh? You haven't seen ‘em."

  "Fine,” he said, leaving the room, stomping down the hall.

  She continued to smile for a moment. Then she forgot the smile and looked at herself in the closet mirror again. Her lips were parted and she breathed heavily, her eyes darker than they had been. There was a kind of viciousness in her fingers as she crimped the edges of the shorts still higher, until they bit into the soft swollen flesh of her thighs. She checked herself from the side, arching her back, yanking the jersey down tightly. “God damn,” she said. "God damn! God damn!"

  "We'll have to stop for gas,” Harper said. “Meant to fill her up this morning. Clean forgot. There's a place I know down the road. We'll stop there."

  Linda was standing on the back seat, staring out the rear window. She wore a blue playsuit, and was jumping up and down, softly chanting, “Hungy ... hungy ... hungy ... “

  "Why don't you give her a sandwich—shut her up?” Harper said. “You made plenty, didn't you?"

  "God damn right,” Julia said. “Better if she waits, though."

  Harper craned his neck, frowning at her. Then he turned his gaze ahead and said, “There's the station."

  Harper pulled the car off the main highway into a small country gas station with two red pumps. He stopped the car by the cement island and climbed out as the stocky, overalled attendant strolled out of the paint-peeled office.