79 Park Avenue

by Harold Robbins

  Gordon stepped from the shower, pulled a large towel from the rack, and began to rub himself briskly. He began to hum with satisfaction. Only one more day.

  He looked in the mirror as he combed his hair. It was thinning a little in the front, but still seemed heavy and luxuriant enough. He wondered how much heredity had to do with it. His father had been bald before thirty. He grinned into the mirror, pleased with himself.

  Slowly he began to dress. His physique was still good. The frame was not spare, but neither was he soft. He remembered what Mary had said. Less drinking. She was right about that. He had always known, but it hadn’t mattered. There had been nothing else to do.

  He walked into the bedroom and picked up his shirt from the pillow where Tom had placed it. A faint scent came from the pillow—the perfume she wore. A stirring of excitement echoed in him. She was like a tiger in her passion. Wild and clawing and demanding. There had never been anyone like her for him, so perfect they were together.

  He could hear her muted voice echoing harshly in his ear: “Fill me, lover, drown me.” His flesh tingled as if he could still feel her fingers tearing into his skin. He had never felt so much a man.

  “Mr. Gordon.” Tom’s voice floated up from downstairs.

  He tore himself from his memories. “Yes, Tom?”

  “They’s a gen’mun here to see you.”

  “Who is it?” Gordon was annoyed. He had told him many times to get names.

  “He won’ say,” Tom answered. “He says it’s privut an’ confidential. About Miss Flood.”

  Gordon’s brow knitted. He wondered what the man wanted. It was probably a reporter, they always acted mysteriously. “Ask him to wait,” he called. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  A few seconds later he walked into the living-room, A heavy-set, florid man got out of a chair and stood up. “Mr. Paynter?” he asked.

  Gordon nodded, waiting for the man to introduce himself.

  “My name is Joe,” the man said nervously. “Last name doesn’t matter. I’m only here to do you a favour. What d’yuh know about this girl Mary Flood?”

  Gordon felt an instinctive anger begin to rise in him. “Get out!” he snapped, jerking his finger at the door.

  The man didn’t move. “Yuh should know somethin’ about her if yuh’re goin’ to marry her,” he said.

  “I know all I need to know,” Gordon answered, moving threateningly toward the man. “Get out!”

  The man shifted nervously. His hand reached into a pocket and came out with a few pieces of paper. “Before yuh lose your temper,” he said quickly, “Maybe yuh better look at these.” He thrust them into Gordon’s hand.

  Automatically Gordon glanced at them. They were photographs. Two girls. Nude. He could feel a chill running in his blood. One of them was Mary. He looked up at the man. His voice was shaking. “Where did you get these?”

  The man didn’t answer his question. “Her real name is Marja Fluudjincki. She was released from a reform school in New York less than a year ago. I know where I can get the negatives of these pictures if yuh want them.”

  Gordon’s lips tightened. Blackmail. He walked across the room and picked up the telephone. “Police headquarters,” he said to the operator.

  The man stared at him. “That won’t do yuh no good,” he said. “I’m givin yuh the pictures as a favour. All it will do is get into the papers an’ everybody will have a laugh on yuh.”

  Slowly Gordon put down the phone and sank into a chair. She should have told him. It wasn’t right. He looked up at the man. “How do I know they’re not fakes?” he asked, a faint hope inside him.

  “I’ll show yuh,” the man said. He went to the door and opened it. “Evelyn!” he called. “Come in here!”

  A moment later he came back into the room with a girl. She had short dark hair. Gordon looked down at the pictures. She was the other girl with Mary.

  “Tell him the story,” the man said.

  The girl looked at him nervously. “But, Joe—”

  The man’s voice was harsh. “Tell him. We didn’t drive all night from New Orleans for nothin’. Tell him!”

  The girl looked down at Gordon. “I met Marja in the Geyer Home for Girls. We worked up an act and came down here. We worked stags and private clubs and parties. When the cops got hot, Joe an’ me left town. Mary stayed here. We heard that—”

  Gordon got out of his chair and crossed the room quickly. Her voice faded out as she looked at him, startled. He opened the rolling bar and took out a bottle of whisky. He poured himself a glass and turned back to them. There was a heavy, aching pain inside him. “How about a drink?” he asked.

  The man answered first. “Don’t mind if we do,” he said with a forced laugh. “Do we, Evelyn?”

  Chapter Twelve

  THE JITNEY DROPPED her at the house, and she went up the walk to the door and rang the bell. Gordon opened it.

  The whisky on his breath hit her as she entered. She turned toward him. “You’ve been drinking,” she said reproachfully. “And you promised you wouldn’t.”

  He laughed nervously. “Jus’ celebratin’, honey. It isn’t every day that old friends stop in for a visit.”

  “Old friends?” she questioned.

  He nodded and led the way into the living-room. She stopped in the doorway, frozen with shock. Evelyn was sprawled on the couch, clad only in a brassiere and panties. Her clothing was strewn all over the room. She waved drunkenly at Mary.

  Joe lumbered toward her. “My ol’ girl Mary,” he cried. “Got a kiss for ol’ Joe?” Abruptly he began to sing. “Here comes the bride—here comes the bride.”

  “What’re you doin’ here?” she asked angrily.

  Joe laughed. “We came to help our girl celebrate the weddin’, that’s all, honey.”

  She turned to Gordon. “When did they get here?”

  “Thish—thish afternoon.” He tried to concentrate his gaze on her, but there was too much pain in his head. He needed another drink. He picked up the bottle and held it toward her. “Drink?”

  She shook her head.

  He drank from the bottle. The whisky felt good in his throat. It was warm and reassuring. He lowered the bottle and looked at her. “I needed that,” he said. “Sure you won’t have one?”

  “No thanks,” she said dryly. She took out a cigarette and lit it. The smoke curled slowly from her lips.

  Joe stood in front of her. “C’mon, have a drink,” he urged. “It’ll put yuh in the mood for the show.”

  Her voice was cold. “What show?”

  Evelyn staggered from the couch. “We was tellin’ your boy-frien’ about our act. Joe thought it would be fun to put it on for him.”

  She turned to Gordon, ignoring the girl. “They told you.” It was more statement than question.

  He nodded.

  Her voice was calm. “You listened without giving me a chance to tell you?” This was more question than statement.

  He held the photographs toward her. “The pictures did all the talking. I didn’t have to hear anything.”

  She glanced at them briefly, then silently handed them back to him. He threw them on the table and turned away from her, unable to meet her gaze. “You should have told me,” he muttered.

  “You wouldn’t let me,” she answered. “Every time I wanted to, you said you didn’t care what I had been. You said you knew enough about me.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She turned to Joe, her voice cutting. “Same old Joe. Anything to grab a buck. Hope you made out real good this time.”

  “Don’t be sore, honey,” he said, coming toward her. “The heat’s off. We can put on the ol’ act again.” He tried to take her arm.

  Her hand moved so swiftly that his eye couldn’t follow. There was just the sharp shock, then the red-and-white stain on his face where her open palm had struck.

  “Why, you bitch!” he exclaimed, taking an angry step toward her. “I’ll learn yuh!”

  A taunting
smile came to her lips. “Learn me,” she said softly.

  He stopped, his eyes focused on her hand. The blade gleamed in the light. He stepped back quickly.

  Gordon stared at them. “Mary!” he cried.

  She turned to him. There was a hurt, angry sound in her voice. “Yuh’re just as bad as they are. Yuh wouldn’t listen to me, but yuh’d listen to anyone who came to yuh with a story. Did they tell yuh how they ran out an’ stuck me without money an’ clothes in an apartment? I bet yuh got a big yak outta that, too!”

  He didn’t speak, but his eyes stared into hers.

  “They didn’t tell yuh all of it, they didn’t know,” she continued angrily. “After they left, I hit the turf. I had to. To pay off the rent an’ live. I did real good. Forty bucks a day. That’s what I was doin’ the day yuh picked me up!”

  “No, Mary,” he groaned.

  “But it wasn’t enough that I left yuh alone,” she said. “You had to come after me. You had to make it a big thing.” Her voice broke suddenly and became very small. “I was the sucker, not you. I thought this was the McCoy, the genuine article. I thought that for once there was somethin’ in this world for me. I was wrong.”

  She turned and started for the door.

  Gordon caught her arm. There was a curious guilt in him. “Mary.”

  She looked up into his face, a faint flicker of hope coming into her eyes. “Yuh stopping me, Gordon?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer. He saw the light fade suddenly from her eyes.

  She shook his hand from her arm, and the door closed quickly behind her. He stood there staring at it for a moment, then turned to the others.

  Joe forced a laugh to his lips. “Yuh’re better off without her, buddy.”

  Gordon didn’t answer for a moment. When he spoke, he didn’t recognise his own voice. It was harsh and filled with hatred. “Get out!” he said. “Get out, the two of you, before I kill you both!”

  She staggered blindly down the walk. Tears filled her eyes and silently spilled down her cheeks.

  A gentle voice spoke next to her. “Kin I git you a jitney, Miss Mary?”

  She looked up. The old coloured man was standing there, a world of understanding in his eyes. She shook her head. “No, thank you, Tom,” Her voice was cracked and husky. “I—I think I’ll walk a bit.”

  “I’ll walk a ways with yuh if you allows me, Miss Mary,” he said in his gentle, polite voice. “It’s lonely out this way at night.”

  “I’ll be all right,” she said. “I’m not afraid.”

  He nodded slowly. “You sho’ ain’t, Miss Mary. You the mos’ woman I seen in a long time.”

  She stared at him without speaking. Suddenly she understood. “You knew all the time.” she said in a wondering voice.

  He nodded.

  “Yet you never told him. Why?”

  His eyes looked right into hers. “Because what I said. You a real woman. But Mr. Gordon, he’s nothin’ but a boy. I was hopin’ you would be his makin’. Not no more. Not ever.”

  She took a deep breath. “Thank you, Tom.” She began to walk away.

  He hurried after her. “I got some money, Miss Mary,” he said quickly, “in case you is a little short.”

  For the first time that evening a real warmth seeped through her. Instinctively she took the old man’s hand. “I can manage, Tom.”

  The old man dropped his eyes. “I’m sorry, pow’ful sorry, Miss Mary.”

  She looked at him for a moment, and a warm, friendly look came into her face. “I’ve changed my mind, Tom, There is something you can do for me.”

  He looked up quickly. “Yes, Miss Mary?”

  “I’m goin’ to ride home. Get me a jitney,” she said.

  “Yes, Miss Mary.”

  She watched him hurry down the street toward the main avenue, where cars would be running. She took out another cigarette and lit it. She dragged deeply on the cigarette and looked up at the sky.

  The stars were bright and shining and the moon hung heavy in the sky. The faint roar of the surf came to her ears and a warm, soft breeze came from the ocean. Suddenly she snapped the cigarette out into the gutter. Her mind was made up.

  She had enough of Florida. She was going back to New York. The stars were too bright down here.

  Chapter Thirteen

  MIKE LIFTED HIS eyes from the book in front of him and rubbed them wearily. They felt red and raw and burning. He looked out the window. It was still snowing. In the next room the telephone began to ring. He could hear his mother’s voice answering it.

  Slowly he closed the books. It was almost time for him to go to work. He had the night-beat this month. He got out of the chair and went into the bathroom. His shaving-gear was already spread out on the sink.

  He was working the lather into his face when his mother came to the door behind him. “I’m gettin’ your breakfast ready, son,” she said.

  “Thanks, Mom,” he answered, taking the razor and beginning to shave.

  She stood there watching him. After a few moments he became conscious of her gaze. “What is it, Mom?” he asked.

  She shook her head and began to turn away, then turned back to him. “You didn’t sleep much,” she said. “I heard you up around three o’clock.”

  “I wasn’t tired,” he answered. “Besides, I had those books to read. The police examinations come up in a couple of months. You wouldn’t want me to be a rookie all my life, would you?”

  “No,” she answered. “But I would like it better if you were more like other lads. It would do you good to go out once in a while instead of all the time burying your nose in them books. Now there’s that Gallagher girl, the druggist’s daughter. I see her on the street every day, and every time she asks about you—”

  “Ma, I told yuh a dozen times I ain’t got no time for girls,” he said impatiently. “There’ll be time enough for that later. Right now I got too much to do.”

  She met his eyes steadily in the mirror. “If it was that Marja, you would have time.”

  He could feel his face flush. “Forget her, Mom. I told yuh that was over.”

  His mother’s eyes were suddenly gentle. “I can forget her, son,” she said, turning away. “But can you?”

  He listened to her footsteps go down the hall, then looked at his face in the mirror. Absently he took a stroke with the razor. A tingling, burning sensation caught his cheek. “Damn!” he said aloud, lowering the razor. He reached for the styptic pencil to stanch the blood.

  Quickly he held the white pencil to the cut in his cheek. Its caustic edge burned deeply. Marja, he thought. Marja. He wondered if his mother was right. He dried his face and walked over to the window. It was still snowing.

  He wondered what Marja was doing.

  The big clock in the lobby said eight o’clock when Mary came out of the hotel. The snow had covered the streets with a white blanket and muffled all the traffic noises. She turned up 49th Street toward Sixth Avenue. There would be more action around Rockefeller Centre.

  Altogether, there was a better class of trade. The tourists and the white-collar workers from that area had more to spend. Broadway and Seventh and Eighth Avenue were nothing but two-dollar tricks. A girl had a chance for a five-or ten-dollar trick on Sixth Avenue.

  She looked up at the sky. It was still snowing heavily. There wouldn’t be much doing tonight, but she couldn’t afford to stay in. She had no money left, and rent was due in a few days. She walked along slowly, her face turned away from the street toward the store windows as if she were interested in what they had to offer.

  Actually, she was looking at the windows as if they were mirrors. Each man who came by was carefully scrutinised and, by instinct alone, appraised. She turned left on Sixth and walked to the corner of 50th. Almost no one was out. She went into the cafeteria on the corner and ordered a cup of coffee.

  She took it to a seat near the window, where she could watch the entrance to the Music Hall across the street. There would be a show
break in about twenty minutes. Crowds would pour out then, and very often there was some action in them. The yokel sports made the early show so they could have the night free.

  Her cup was almost empty when the theatre began to empty. Quickly she finished the coffee and walked across the street. She stood in a corner of the lobby as if waiting for an appointment.

  An usher walked by. She glanced at her watch impatiently as if tired of waiting. People pushed by, but they were nothing but faces. The crowd was thinning now. A few minutes more and she would go out into the snow again. It looked as if there was nothing here tonight.

  She was about to leave when an instinct made her look up. A man standing across the lobby was watching her. Quickly she looked at his shoes. They were brown. Automatically that made him safe. Cops wore black shoes. Slowly she looked up into his face again, her eyes carefully blank, then turned and sauntered out into the street.

  She waited on the corner for the traffic light. Without turning around, she knew that the man had followed her. When the light changed she crossed the street and entered the R.C.A. building. She went down a small flight of stairs into the arcade and stopped in front of a window.

  In its reflection she could see the man pass behind her. He stopped at a window a few doors away. She walked slowly past him, through the revolving door, and up the steps. She went past the post office and stopped in front of a restaurant that had the lower half of its windows painted black so that you could not see into it. Here she opened her pocketbook and took out a cigarette. She was about to light it when a flame sprang up next to her.

  The man’s hand was trembling slightly as she looked up at him. He had a round, smooth face and dark eyes. He seemed okay. “Thank you,” she said, lighting her cigarette.

  He smiled. “Can I buy you a drink?” His voice was guttural and heavy.

  She raised an inquiring eyebrow. Her voice was friendly and devoid of insult. “Is that all you want?”