As soon as I got onto the Palmetto Expressway, she had taken off her derby, unzipped my fly, and started to go down on me. It was so unexpected I had laughed, of course, and then I began to wonder about the time. To get her to the airport on time I had to maintain a speed of at least fifty-five miles per hour, I estimated, but at that speed I was covering the distance so quickly I wasn’t sure that I would be able to have an orgasm by the time we got to the terminal. The other traffic was distracting, too, and on the Palmetto you have to pay close attention to your driving. There are a lot of crazy people on the Palmetto, and that included, I decided, Bernice Kaplan and myself. As it worked out, however, my orgasm and arrival at the terminal coincided. I rezipped my fly in the yellow loading zone in front of Concourse Nine. Bernice had fewer than three minutes to make her flight, so all I could do was give her my card, with hasty note scrawled on it, and ask her to call me when she got back into town. She took the card and fled. But I never saw her again, and she never called me.
The point is, I couldn’t have made her pregnant, but I couldn’t tell Jannaire the truth about our brief encounter. To do so would be too cruel.
Besides, Jannaire wouldn’t believe me anyway.
“Jannaire,” I said. “I didn’t impregnate your sister. I only met her once, and that was at a party with a dozen or more people around. I drove her to the airport and dropped her off at the terminal. There was just enough time to get her there, and we didn’t stop on the way. That’s the truth of it.”
Jannaire jumped up, and started toward her purse on the couch. It was a leather pouch—a drawstring type bag—and huge. I left my seat hurriedly and managed to beat her to the purse. The thought hit me that there might be a pistol in the leather bag. I opened it, looked inside, and then handed it to her.
Her upper lip curled. “Did you think I had a gun in my bag?”
“Of course not. I was merely getting it for you, that’s all.”
She sat on the couch, rummaged around in the bag, and took out a wallet. She opened the wallet, removed a card, and handed it to me. It was my business card. On the back I had written: “You’re the greatest!—Hank.” I shrugged and returned the card to Jannaire.
“You admitted knowing Bernice, Hank,” Jannaire said flatly, “and that isn’t the kind of message a satyr like you would write to a young woman of twenty-two you only saw once, and on a short ride to the airport at that.”
“It wasn’t a short ride,” I said defensively, “it was at least nine miles.”
“I found this card in her purse when they sent me her effects from Atlanta. She didn’t leave a suicide note, but she was four—or almost five—months pregnant. It had to be you, Hank. I wasn’t sure until I met you and saw how you acted—like some sex-starved maniac—and then I knew damned well it was you. If there was any doubt before—which there wasn’t—the fact that you’ve admitted that you knew Bernice cinches it once and for all.”
“If you were interested in meeting me all along, why did you date my friend, Larry Dolman?”
“Your name was on his application as a reference. And you both had the same apartment house address. I thought, and I was right, that through meeting Larry I would meet you. And I wanted a natural meeting, to study you, before I made my move.”
“All right, that worked. I was taken in. I certainly wouldn’t suspect a woman who was dating through a dating service of being married.”
“I’m not married.”
“I know that, too. Mr. Wright told me. That also bothers me. I’ve been around the city a long time, but I sure as hell wouldn’t know how to go about hiring a professional murderer. How did you go about it?”
Jannaire looked at me with surprise, arching her brows. “I asked my lawyer. How else?”
“And he told you? Just like that?”
“No. He said he would send me someone, and later on—about two weeks later—he sent me Mr. Wright. Why wouldn’t he? I pay him a damned good retainer, and if he can’t give me the services I need, I can always take my business to another lawyer. Do you know how many lawyers there are in Miami?”
I nodded. “Yes, strangely enough, I do. There are about twenty thousand lawyers in Dade County.”
“There you are.”
“There we are. I’m innocent, and yet, nothing I’ve said has made you change your mind about me—has it?”
“No. I know, we both know, that you’re the indirect cause of my sister’s suicide. And I think I’m letting you off lightly by banishing you from Miami instead of having you killed. Besides, it’s better this way. If you didn’t know why you were killed, it wouldn’t have been enough punishment. This way, every time you think about Miami—wherever you are or happen to be—you’ll be forced to think about that poor kid and what you did to her!”
Jannaire started to cry, and it made her angry because she cried in front of me. She tried to stop, but she couldn’t, even though she kept throwing her head back and shaking it, and wiping the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands.
“I’ll get Mr. Wright’s suitcase and go,” I said. “I promised to mail it to him.”
I went into the guest bedroom, put the suit jacket into the suitcase, and then got Wright’s toilet articles from the small guest bathroom. I packed these, and closed the suitcase.
In the living room, before reaching the door, I put the suitcase down and turned toward Jannaire. She had regained control of herself, and she held a crumpled Kleenex in her hand.
“Dark Passage,” I said.
“What?”
“Dark Passage. That’s the name of that Bogart film where he had the plastic surgery and turned out to be Bogart.”
“No.” She shook her head. “That wasn’t the tide.”
“Maybe not. But in the movie, Bogey cleared himself, and didn’t have to go back to prison.”
“You aren’t cleared. When are you leaving, Hank?”
“In about three, maybe four, days.”
“I’ll check, you know.”
“Why don’t you let your lawyer do it?”
“That’s what I intend to do.”
I left the apartment without saying good-bye.
I walked back to my car, and put the suitcase in the trunk. I would drop the suitcase into a Salvation Army collection box on the way home. Then, after I slept for about four hours, I would call Tom Davies in San Juan and tell him that I would accept the midwest district managership. He would be pleased. I would go to the New Jersey home offices for a one-week briefing—and then—Chicago, cold freezing, miserable Chicago.
I broke off with a short laugh that was a half-sob. But I didn’t cry. Not yet. There would be plenty of time to cry during the long, cold, winter nights in Chicago.
Part 3
Eddie Miller:
You can count on me, Don.
Don Luchessi:
You’re ten years old, baby, and you’re old enough
to understand…
24
3624 1/4 Kelly Blvd. AA
Schiller Park, Ill.
Dear Eddie,
The reason you’ve only had a few postcards from me instead of a decent ltr is that I’ve been as busy as a cat covering shit on a marble floor. Also, I wanted to work out the report (inadequate as it is, I’ve enclosed it) on the contents of Gladys’ handbag.
I’ve only got two of the three ltrs you said you wrote me, but I’m lucky to have that many. Notice my address above. First, there is the 3624 and one-fourth! There are four apts in each bldg, and if you leave off the 1/4th, the postman takes the ltr back to the PO or throws it in the dumpster or gives it to someone else. Nobody ever knows anybody else in these buildings, because the turnover is about every six weeks or so. After almost three months, I’m probably the oldest resident in these apts. Also, notice, after Kelly Blvd, the “AA.” On the other side of Kelly, all the apts are listed with a single capital letter A. The same alphabetical double-talk goes for the other lines of quadriplexes on the streets beyond Kel
ly Blvd. What happened is that the first row on Kelly was called A through Z as they built them, and then when they build the second identical line-up adjoining across the street, they started with AA and went up through ZZ. The quadriplexes all look alike, the same shit-tone of dun, and they go on like that block after block through the alphabet. I would never ask anyone to meet me at my apt. To find me, you would have to be shown, as I was shown by the realtor. Anyway, I’ve put in for a PO box at the Schiller Park Branch PO, and I’m on the waiting list. Until I get the box, and the reason I have to wait is that everybody else who lives here also wants one, I can expect to miss about half of my mail unless it’s addressed exactly, with the “1/4th” and the “AA” added after Kelly Blvd. (I even missed one of my paychecks and it was clearly marked because it was computer addressed from New Jersey. Somebody stole it probably and it will be cashed somewhere in Chicago.)
It’s frustrating to know that you are usually in Chicago Tues and Wed nights before heading back to Miami, while I am out of town. When are you going to get your schedule changed so you can be here on a weekend and we can get together? I’ve got a duplicate apt. key made for you, and it’s enclosed. So if you want to stay in my apt instead of the hotel during your layover go ahead (if you can find it). It’s only a five-minute drive from my apt to O’Hare. In fact, every 30 seconds the windows shake as the jets take off. I moved in here because it’s convenient to the airport, but that’s the only advantage. Because I’m only here on Friday and Sat nights, I haven’t done anything about getting a better pad. Besides, on wkends, I’m exhausted.
Outside it’s colder than hell, as you know, with the damned black snow drifted up to about three feet along the sidewalks. And my car, which sits on the street (minus hubcaps, now) during the five days I’m out of town, has given me a lot of trouble. There are no garages within walking distance to park it in, and it seems stupid to have a car in a garage where you have to call a cab in order to get to it.
All in all, this is a miserable situation I’m in, and despite the money that keeps piling up in the bank, I’d rather be back in Miami at half the salary. But that goes w/out saying.
I did see Larry Dolman one Saturday night, two weeks ago, and we went out to have dinner and a few beers. He had—guess?—a club sandwich, and I had a steak, but he was so preoccupied about his new job that was all he could talk about. He is a Peter Principle textbook case, I think, at his terminal level of incompetency, but his superiors are crazy about him. Now that he’s Director of Security Personnel for Cook County, one of the big jobs in the Nat. Sec. Pvt. Eye agency, anything he does in the way of recreation comes out of his sleep. He has to hire security guards for all of the building projects in Cook County, and when you can only pay a top of $2.20 an hour, you can imagine the kinds of men he’s hiring!
Larry told me about one weirdo he hired. They issued the man a gun and a uniform, but before he reached the warehouse he was supposed to guard, he held up a man in the street (wearing his N.S. uniform, Larry said), and was arrested by the cops. But here’s what’s funny. Larry was worried, and thought he might get reprimanded for hiring the guy. They called him into the office after this incident, and all the top brass fell all over Larry to keep him from quitting! In other words, they thought Larry might get disgusted and quit because the hiring of people is so fucking hard. Larry has supervisors for his security guards, of course, but they’re even harder to recruit, he said, or to keep once he hires them. If one of his men doesn’t show up, you see, the supervisor has to take the shift until another guard is found, and sometimes a supervisor will be on duty 36 hours or so filling in for absentees. I suppose Larry has written to you about his new job, or will, eventually. If he hasn’t yet, he is busy
Except for two salesmen I’ve got—one in St. Louis and one in Detroit—who are really dogging it, the other men in the field seem to be okay. I’m going to fire the man in Detroit as soon as I can find a Negro with a B.A. degree to replace him with, but they are almost impossible to find. I’ve been running an ad in the Tribune for three weekends now, and haven’t had a single response. But you can’t blame them. A black man with a B.A. isn’t anxious to move to Detroit, unless he’s crazy—not when I can only offer him $10,000 to start (and a free car).
My love-life here for some reason has turned kind of nightmarish. You might find it hard to believe, but I haven’t had a single piece of ass since I came to Chicago. It might be the cold, the wind, the atmosphere, the fact that I’m tired all the time, depressed—I don’t know what. Anyway, about a month ago I went down to this bar about two miles away—The Shill—where a lot of stewardae hang out, picked up a neat Italian girl with short legs, brought her to my apt, and couldn’t get it up. It never happened to me before. The girl took it pretty well, and said that because I hadn’t screwed her at least she could take communion at Mass the next morning, so she didn’t really mind, but it could’ve been a nasty scene. You know how some stewardae are when they get the upper hand. Since then I haven’t bothered, and haven’t thought too much about it, being so busy anyway. But I imagine the urge will come zooming back when Spring comes in and the snow leaves and I’ve got used to the grind of flying and going with so damned little sleep. It’s hard to sleep in hotels on the road, and I usually just watch a lot of TV and drink a few scotch and waters in my room. My TV here in Schiller Park, thanks to the jets and O’Hare, has snow for 10 seconds out of every 30 seconds because of the vibrating antenna on the roof, and there doesn’t seem to be any way it can be fixed.
You say that Don is pretty depressed. He has been, as you know, ever since that night, but at least you’re there to keep an eye on him. He’s really in an untenable situation with Clara, and perhaps if you could get him a sexy girl he could see a couple of times a week on the side, it might change his attitude. He can afford it, for Xst sake, and if he isn’t getting it at home he should be getting it someplace. He told me once that he gets a rim job once in awhile from his secretary, Nita Peralta, but he only takes advantage of it when he’s desperate. But he’s worried that she’ll tell the priest about it some time. They go to the same church, you know, and besides, Don should get more out of his life than a fat-assed broad like Nita. When we finally get together up here, you and I, we’re going to have to work out some plan or other for Don to make him happier. He’s a beautiful guy to be in such a terrible marital situation. Anyway, see him when you can, and call him once in awhile. I’ll call him myself over the weekend if I can. The last time I called, Clara answered, and said he wasn’t there, which was probably a lie. So if I can’t get him at home, I’ll call him at his office from St. Louis next week.
You didn’t say much about your situation with Gladys, and I don’t know if the short report I’ve enclosed will help you any, but don’t forget that I’m your buddy, old buddy, and please call me or write soon. It’s a lonely place up here, man.
Schiller Park sucks, Chicago sucks, Cook County sucks, and Illinois sucks.
—Yrs. HANK
Encls. The Bag Report
Apt Key - 3624 1/4, Kelly Blvd AA
GLADYS WILSON’S BAG
In this report I’ve disregarded some obvious things, Eddie, and I’ve drawn partially on my memory of Gladys, plus using some of the info you told me about her to reach my conclusions. So in some respects the report is not precisely objective. Because of Freud, Sullivan, Sykes, Gestalt, and some of the other holistic approaches to personality theories (including knotty old Laing, poor misguided soul) it’s considered possible to construct a personality profile from objects; and Glady’s profile, as drawn, is I aver, as valid as a horoscope, a phrenology chart, and every bit as meaningful as the cryptic message of a cock as decoded by a highly skilled alectromancer. But—combined with your personal knowledge of Gladys, you can extrapolate, man—extrapolate!
1. Tangee lipstick. God only knows where she found this, man. This orangey-pinky concoction was popular several years ago, advertised on full pages, etc., but it’s fairly ha
rd to find nowadays. It’s dimestore lipstick for the very, very young; for adults it usually doesn’t go with anything unless the woman has red hair, and a certain shade of red at that. Gladys has black hair, but because of the Tangee I maintain that it’s dyed black hair, and she simply doesn’t want to give up her favorite lipstick. From her use of Tangee I say that she was once a redhead, liked the color of Tangee, and did not switch lipsticks when she dyed her hair.
Unless she also dyes her pubic hair, it’s a dark shade of orange, because pubic hair is usually one or two shades darker than the hair on your head. If her pubic hair is black, check the stubble under Gladys’ arms, and you will find that it is red when it occasionally surfaces. In my opinion, Gladys will dye her pubic hair because redheads (at 47-50?) readily show gray, and it would defeat her efforts to look younger than her age to have red-and-gray pubic hair. Check underarm stubble for confirmation.
2. Driver’s license. Technically, eyes are only blue, brown, or red (albinos). Gladys, on her license, you say, claims “hazel.” Ah, she is a vain woman to claim hazel—but a confirming footnote to the possibility of red hair. Also, with hazel eyes, it’s still possible to wear Tangee and get away with it—if the face is pale enough and unfreckled. And Gladys does have a pale complexion. To get off this minor point—a redhead averages 50,000 hairs on her head compared to an average of 100,000 for a blonde. So if Gladys has coarse hair, very coarse, and dyed black, the tines of her comb will be set well apart because she cannot use a fine-toothed comb. (To be positive on this point, you would have to count every hair on her head.)
3. Pills. Dexamyl (46), Elavil (120), and hormone pills. This is an incredibly small selection of drugs for a woman to carry in her purse—you don’t even list aspirin. The chances are she has a lot more pills than this, but takes them at home on a regular basis. If she carries Dexamyl around, she probably pops more than one a day (I’d guess three). That’s because the usual prescription for Elavil is 3 per day, which makes one sleepy, being an anti-depressant-tranquilizer of no uncertain strength. So the Dexamyl will clash and counteract with the Elavil, providing Gladys with mercurial turns of mood. Talky as all get-out and then a gloomy lapse into a deep brooding silence. She will also be a little jumpy. The sudden slamming of a door will make her jump, squeal, bite her nails, which will be followed by a smile, a shake of the head, and an apology for over-reacting.
The Shark-Infested Custard Page 17