by Ed McBain
“I never do that,” Lena said.
“You sure you don’t want some of this?”
“Thanks,” Jessica said, and shook her head.
“Have you ever tried it?”
“Yes, I have.”
“She’s afraid she might lose control,” Lena said, and shrugged.
“Where’s your son, Jess?” Alex asked. “Isn’t your son here?”
“He’s with my mother-in-law. She picked him up this afternoon.”
“Come back here, find us flying around the room,” Paul said.
“He won’t be back till tomorrow afternoon. She’s keeping him till then. I get along very well with my mother-in-law.”
“Who said you didn’t?” Lena asked.
“It’s Michael who’s the prick,” Jessica said. “I don’t want to divorce my mother-in-law, just Michael.”
“I like Michael,” Paul said. “He’s a nice man.”
“Make up your mind,” Lena said. “You just said he was a prick.”
“Jessica said he was a prick.”
“Who said it, Alex?”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening,” Alex said, and looked at his watch.
“Trains are all running on time, don’t worry,” Lena said.
“You have to catch a train, Alex?”
“No, no. I live right upstairs.”
“Very convenient,” Lena said.
“What do you do, Alex?” Paul asked. “Besides smoke dope all the time?”
“I’m a theater electrician,” he said, and thought Here we go with the fuckin theater electrician again.
“I’m a lawyer,” Paul said. “You ever electrocute anyone in the theater, just look me up.”
“I’ll do that,” Alex said.
“This stuff doesn’t affect me at all,” Lena said.
“She’s stoned out of her mind,” Paul said.
“Shall I freshen that for you?” Jessica asked.
“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Alex said.
“Things get very clear for me,” Paul said. “Very sharp outlines. When I’m smoking grass, I mean. Very sharp details. I can see you very clearly right now, Alex.”
“How do I look?”
“Very clear.”
“You said that already,” Lena said. “I don’t see things any differently, this stuff has no effect on me whatsoever.”
“Getting down to a roach here,” Paul said. “The good stuff burns very fast.”
“The good stuff burns slow,” Lena said.
“This is good stuff, and it’s burning fast.”
“You said the good stuff burns fast.”
“We’d better get out of here,” Paul said. “It’s almost six-thirty, we’re supposed to be there at seven.”
“We walk out of here this way,” Lena said, “we’ll get arrested.”
“No, cops don’t make pot busts anymore.”
“That’s what I said. Isn’t that what I said?”
“Come on, come on,” Paul said, and closed the lid on the Sucrets tin, and then rose from the couch and carried the tin to where Jessica was sitting. He dropped the tin into her lap, and said, “A present, Jessica.”
“Take it with you, Paul. I don’t use the stuff,” she said.
“Where are we going, anyway?” Lena asked.
“The Keelings.”
“Whose idea was that?”
“You’re the one who made the date.”
“Who said I didn’t?” Lena asked. She bent over to kiss Jessica on the forehead and picked up the Sucrets tin from where it was resting in her lap. “It’s a shame about your dope habit,” she said, and giggled, and then looped her hand through Paul’s arm. Jessica let them out of the apartment and then came back into the living room.
“Whoo,” she said, “I’m glad that’s over. I’m sorry, Alex, they used to be such nice people. Let me freshen that for you. Or are you in a hurry? Do you have other plans?”
“No, no.”
“I thought we’d talk a while,” she said, taking the glass from his hand and walking to the bar with it. “Now that the pothead contingent is gone.”
“Sure,” he said. “What’d you want to talk about?”
“You’re still angry about Saturday night, aren’t you?”
“Why should I be angry?”,
“Well … because I left so early.”
“Girl has to leave, she has to leave,” Alex said, and shrugged.
“I was worried about the sitter.”
“Yes, I know that.”
She brought him his drink and then went to sit on the couch, leaning over to take a cigarette from the box on the coffee table, lighting it, and letting out a stream of smoke. She looked fresh and young and beautiful, and he thought suddenly of the old lady in White Plains—had there been a long white hair sprouting from her cheek, just above where he’d clamped his hand over her mouth? Or had he imagined it? The stink of her, the stink of medicine and old age … no, death. Death was what he had smelled on her. He looked at Jessica now as she shifted her body on the couch, and wanted to reach out to touch her, believing if he could touch her face, touch the smooth skin of her face, he would forget in an instant the old lady’s parched and wrinkled flesh, and the stink of her. But he sat where he was, on a chair across the room from her, remembering again that she’d walked out on him last Saturday night, and resenting her for it, and wondering again just what the hell he was doing here.
There was no way of understanding squares. What right did squares have to smoke pot, or to make jokes about cops, what the hell did any of them know about what it was really like? Ask Kitty what it was really like, he thought, Kitty who’d been hooked clear through the bag and back again, and who just got busted for narcotics, a serious bust at that, an A-III felony, shit, ask Kitty. Ask me about cops, you want to ask somebody, ask me, and don’t come around telling me jokes in your dumb square way about cops smoking dope. Cops stole dope, if you wanted to know. They arrested pushers and sent them to prison, and they stole the dope from the pushers and then they sold it on the street to junkie burglars, that’s what cops did, and don’t get me started on cops.
“… only invited them as an excuse to get you down here,” Jessica said. “The Epsteins think they’re very hip, but …”
“Why’d you need an excuse?” Alex asked.
“Well … because of Saturday night. I really was worried about the sitter, you know, but that’s not the only reason I left.”
“What were the other reasons?”
“One. Just one other reason. What I thought was that my husband might have put a detective on me. That occurred to me while I was in the bathroom. Do you remember, after we were dancing, when I went to the bathroom …?”
“Yes,” Alex said, “I remember.”
“That’s when it occurred to me. That he might have put a detective on me. That maybe all the while we were eating in that Chinese restaurant, a detective was watching us. And followed us back here. Because I was afraid of losing Peter, you see. My son. If a detective was watching me. Of losing custody, you see, if it ever got to push and shove. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, I just wouldn’t put it past Michael to claim I’m an unfit mother or some such shit, and try to take Peter away from me. Do you understand?”
“No,” Alex said.
“Well, let me see how I can put this,” she said, and looked up at the ceiling, and then sighed and said, “If a detective had followed us back here from the restaurant, and if he’d seen me go into your apartment instead of my own … and if we were in there together for any substantial period of time, then he might possibly come to the conclusion that, well, we weren’t in there just listening to jazz or playing chess, do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I think I know what you mean,” Alex said.
“He might draw the inference, you know, that something was going on in there. And if Michael wanted to get nast
y about it, why then he could say I was an unfit mother, and take my son away from me. Which I couldn’t let happen. So it occurred to me, while we were dancing, that things were getting, well, a little out of hand, you know, so when I went to the bathroom I started thinking what if there’s a detective out there in the hall. But my lawyer said in today’s climate it’s very difficult to prove a mother is unfit. He knows of a case where a woman was an actual prostitute, would you believe it, and the courts wouldn’t take the child away from her. That’s what he told me. When I called him.”
“You called your lawyer?” Alex said.
“Yes. To ask him if I could have men friends without jeopardizing my position.”
“And what did he say?”
“He told me about the prostitute. And he said he didn’t think there was really too much to worry about in this day and age. As concerns custody.”
“When did you call him?” Alex asked.
“Yesterday morning. I would have called him sooner, but it was the weekend. So there we are,” she said, and shrugged, and put out her cigarette.
“Where’s that, Jess?”
“I love it when you call me Jess.”
“Where, exactly, are we?”
“I think you know where we are,” she said. “I don’t think I have to spell it out for you.”
It started in anger.
He wanted only to punish her and humiliate her, make her realize how deeply she had hurt him last Saturday night, even though he could understand her reason for walking out on him, in fact considered it a good and valid reason—if a stupid one. Any moron in the world knew they couldn’t pin anything on you without pictures and witnesses, but Little Miss Farm Girl here, Little Miss Dairy Queen had to call her lawyer to find out about it, wonder she didn’t call the Mayor, too. Good morning, your Honor, is it okay to … you see, there’s this terribly attractive young man lives in my building, just two flights up, your Honor, and I was wondering … I’m in the middle of a divorce, you see, and I just thought I’d check to see if it’s all right, if he makes advances or anything, if it’s all right to … well, you know, get to know him a little better than I know him now, would that be all right, your Honor, sir?
He was angered by her stupidity, and angered too that she hadn’t shared her fears with him on Saturday night, right after she’d come out of the bathroom, told him straight out what was bothering her instead of giving him all that bullshit about the sitter, though she’d probably been worried about that, too, that part of it was probably true, too—and yet he was angry. In his anger, he forgot that it was she who’d made the first painful approach that day in the park, forgot that she had blushed immediately afterward, forgot how well everything had been going on Saturday night, how much they’d been enjoying each other, how really special everything had been—until she walked out. That was it, of course. She should not have walked out on him. Whatever the hell she’d thought, she should have told him about it, trusted him enough to have said Look, Alex, this is where it’s at, this is what’s bugging me, it’s got nothing to do with how much I want you or don’t, it’s just this. Instead, she walked out. Left him standing there like a fool. Good night, Jess. Good night, Alex. Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are, she should not have left him standing there like a fool. He was no punk you could do whatever you wanted to. He was a man in his own right, and he was entitled to respect.
So it started in anger, there was not the slightest thought of making love. “Love” had nothing to do with it in the beginning, not for him, anyway. He stripped her in anger, pulling the blue T-shirt up over her naked breasts, and then unbuckling the belt at her waist, and taking off her sandals, and lowering the slacks over her thighs and the long length of her legs, and pulling them free of her feet, and tossing them across the room. She was wearing pale blue bikini panties, and he pulled them down, and she lifted herself to help him, and he was suddenly excited. In haste, he lowered the panties over her thighs, and down below her knees, and she worked them past her shins and kicked them free, and spread beneath him on the couch, and opened her arms to embrace him.
His anger became threaded with doubt as he lowered the zipper on his pants—he did not want to take off his clothes, he wanted her naked and open beneath him but he wanted to be fully dressed—doubt about his size, doubt about whether she would consider him adequate, he had told Daisy he’d read a book and Daisy had said the book was full of shit. He hesitated a moment, remembering the showers at Sing Sing, the cons going into the showers, the different sizes of the other men, he had not looked at them except from the corners of his eyes, he did not want any of them thinking he was on the make, thinking he was ready to be turned out as a penitentiary punk. You showed them you were weak, that was the end of it, that was what Tommy had told him.
The doubt and fear all but smothered his anger. Her eyes were closed, she lay beneath him with her arms wide and her legs wide, waiting for him to fall upon her, and at last he dared release himself from the prison of his pants, fearful that she might open her eyes and belittle him, make some kind of wise remark. Oh is that a cock, I thought it was a cockroach, something smart-ass like that, you could not trust squares. The whores he’d fucked, the whores were always pro enough to look at a man and roll their eyes in appreciation and say Oh, baby, you’re not going to stick that fuckin engine in me, are you? That monster’s gonna rip me in half, have mercy on a poor working girl, the hookers knew what they were doing. But Jessica lay back with her eyes closed, her arms still waiting to enfold him in embrace, he was afraid she would open her eyes if he did not do it soon.
He crouched on his knees above her, he did not want to soil his expensive trousers, but neither did he want to take off his clothes, she had to know who was the daddy here, who was the jock, who was the fuckin stud! He would not take off his clothes, it was different with a whore, a whore knew what she was doing. He was afraid he’d go soft, afraid that once he was inside her she would open her eyes and look up at him and ask Is it in?, afraid that he would come too soon, before he even got inside her, afraid of all these things that shattered the anger and caused him to tremble. He told himself he was trembling in excitement, and then became more afraid he would come too soon and began trembling more violently.
He eased himself into her, and she gasped slightly as he entered and he felt a sudden thrill of accomplishment—it was all right, he wondered why he’d been fearful at all, he was certainly as big as any of the fuckin jocks soaping themselves in the shower, Hey, kid, how’d you like to suck my joint? He pushed deeper into her, and she moaned, he heard her moan, the moan encouraged him and at the same time made him fearful again of coming too soon. She raised her hips to meet him and he thought Don’t move, you’ll bring me off, and he thought of, tried to think of, forced himself to think of anything but what they were doing, thought of roller skates and tennis rackets, thought of Mr. Tennis Pro, and then suddenly and unbiddenly thought of him on top of his mother, and thought of doors, opening doors, doors opening, loiding them, picking them, punching them, jimmying them, doors opening on secret places, caskets revealing jewels he could pour through his fingers, rubies and diamonds, emeralds and pearls, he reached for her breasts, he clutched both breasts in his hands, free show she gave to every fuckin guy in the world, fuckin cunt parading without a bra like a cheap whore. The slopes of her breasts were dusted with freckles like the bridge of her nose, the nipples were pink, hed thought only virgins had pink nipples, you fuckin’ mother, don’t move!
Afterward, she lay watching him lazily from the couch as he took off his clothes and carefully draped them over the back of the chair near the piano. She asked him for a cigarette, and he took one from the box on the coffee table, and put it between her lips, and lit it for her, and she dragged on it deeply and exhaled the smoke on a sigh, and then smiled at him. He asked her something he had never asked any woman but Kitty, asked her if it had been all right, and she said Couldn’t you tell, Alex? and touched her fingers t
o his lips, and said You didn’t kiss me. Don’t you want to kiss me, Alex? He kissed her then. The anger was gone, he kissed her gently and lingeringly, exploring her lips with his own, touching her tongue with his, kissing the full lower lip and the tip of her nose, gliding his lips over her cheeks and onto her forehead, and then kissing the hair at her temple, damp with perspiration, and her closed eyes, and then lowering his mouth to her breasts, and kissing each nipple, and then the smooth round hill of her belly and then her navel. And then he did something he had never done with any other woman, not even Kitty, he kissed her there, he put his lips there, and became frightened for a moment because he wondered if he was queer, wondered if this was the same as going down on a jock. But her hands were at the back of his head, her slender fingers stroked the hair at the back of his head, gentling him, and he felt suddenly at ease.
Later, in her bedroom, they made love for the first time. And afterward, he cried. And afterward, he cried. He put his head on her breasts, and cried, and she said only Yes.
THREE
They were in Daisy’s apartment.
This was Thursday night, and she had just come back from Post Mills. The apartment was scrupulously clean, she told them she had a woman come in twice a week. Daisy was wearing a long nylon dressing gown, and when she was standing you couldn’t tell she had only one leg. Only when she sat, and the robe flattened out on one side, were you aware of it. She told them to help themselves to the booze, and then made herself comfortable on the couch. Archie was sitting opposite her, Alex beside her. She smelled of soap.
“First of all,” Archie said, “did you get in the house?”
“I got in,” Daisy said. “It wasn’t easy, but I got in.”
“What happened? The old guy raise a fuss?”
“He wanted to know why. I told him I’d never seen the inside of the house, was he ashamed of letting me in there? He said No, he wasn’t ashamed, why should he be ashamed? I said me being a one-legged whore and all. He said that had nothing to do with it, he just didn’t want his wife coming home and smelling me in the house. I wear this perfume, you know, when I go up to see him. He likes me to wear this fuckin cheap perfume, it makes me sick to my stomach. So I told him I could take a shower first, he’s got a shower out there in the studio where he paints, and that way she wouldn’t smell nothing, and he said Well, why don’t you take the shower, and we’ll see how the day goes, and maybe later we’ll run on over there, huh?”