Women Crime Writers

by Sarah Weinman

  After a minute in a low tone Eddie said, “Look, Skip, I’ve told you I didn’t——”

  “You mean they took those two years for nothing?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s kind of expensive nothing. Don’t you think you might have some change coming?” The waitress came and put down the food and the coffee, and there was silence while they dug out the money to pay her. “Now look. Afterwards, when we’re swamping dirty crockery, we can’t say we never had a chance. We had a big one. We had four cherries and a bell going bong-bong-bong and everybody screaming jackpot. We just pushed it away, that’s all.”

  “Who’s pushing it away? I’m not,” Eddie said humbly.

  “You’re not?”

  They began to eat. Eddie wondered why Skip had the recurring urge to test and torment him. He ate and thought. Under the uneasiness he knew that Skip was right; there were freakish circumstances here which wouldn’t be apt to happen again. How often did you run into a girl like Karen, an odd ball, trusting Skip and telling him all that stuff about the old woman and the guy from Las Vegas and the money? In some ways Karen must be a dope, because what did she know about Skip? If she had known the truth, she wouldn’t have told Skip a word about anything bigger than a nickel.

  Skip chewed slowly and then he said, “What we ought to do now is to go back to the house and scout around. It’ll be dark. With lights on inside we might see something.”

  Eddie looked at him. Skip was all right again, friendly, sure of himself. “What about classes?”

  “So we’re fifteen minutes late.” Skip shrugged.

  Eddie didn’t argue because he wouldn’t admit even to himself the squeamish dismay in his own vitals. He had to measure up and quit being a drag on Skip. He and Skip had been friends for years, ever since grammar school, with Skip the leader and organizer and Eddie the follower. Even the separations, while one or the other served time in reformatories and jails, hadn’t broken the pattern. “What do you think you’ll see? The money?” he asked finally.

  They went out to the car again. Skip said, “I’ve got to make sure it’s on the up-and-up and Karen isn’t just handing me a line. I want to see the old woman and the inside of the house, and check what Karen told me. If I see the relative counting his dough, all the better.”

  Eddie sensed that Skip, in spite of what he said about Karen, was pretty sure of her. Skip had never had any trouble with women lying to him. Something in his face and manner discouraged it.

  They drove back the way they had come. The last of the twilight had faded and the street lamps had a yellow brightness against the night. In the block next to the Havermann property a thin grove of young eucalyptus trees straggled down from the hilly rising almost to the curb. Here and there were a few wild and neglected lantana thickets almost as high as a man’s head. Eddie parked, got out, looked around. He nodded toward the hills. “Up there. Get it?”

  Eddie could make out only the line of hills against the sky, the thicket dark among the trees. “What do you mean?”

  “High ground. We go on up there and circle around, we can look down. Down into the house.” Skip shuffled his shoes. “Anything looks interesting, we’ll creep in close.”

  He started off with Eddie following in his tracks. Dead leaves crackled underfoot and occasionally out of the dark the lantana brushed them with a thorny prickle. When they came to a clear spot Eddie paused and looked back and was surprised at how far they’d climbed above the road. The lights of Pasadena across the Arroyo Seco made a great glow to the east and south. To the right, far away, downtown L.A. lit up the horizon.

  “Come on,” Skip muttered. He circled east toward the upper end of the Havermann place. There was lawn here, glimmers of light through the thick old trees. “Well, let’s try a little closer.”

  There was a sudden loud crashing and bounding through the shrubs and Eddie turned hot with fright. He knew at once what it must be and that Karen hadn’t said a word about a dog. Skip was cursing, and then the dog jumped on him out of the dark and Skip thrashed to the ground. There was a lot of racket and Eddie stood frozen, expecting someone to follow, a light to shine on them, a gun pointed, anything. Instead the dog leaped off Skip and bounded around playfully, letting out little yelps. He wanted Skip to chase him.

  Skip got up, still cursing, and brushed at his clothes. There was enough light for him and Eddie to see the dog, still leaping around and wagging his tail. “Hell,” Skip said, “the damn dog didn’t even bark.”

  “Let’s go back,” Eddie said suddenly.

  “No, look, this is important. Karen never said a word about a dog, and I kind of hinted, too. She’s holding out on me. Who does she think she is?” Under his breath he cursed the girl fiercely. “The thing is, the important thing, he’s no good for a watchdog.” Skip squatted and whistled softly, and the big collie came over and tried to lick his face. The dog made whining sounds and Skip patted his head.

  “You don’t know what he’ll do next,” Eddie argued. “I’ll bet he’s used to people hiking along up here, kids playing hooky or hunting jackrabbits. If we try to go near the house, he’ll raise hell.”

  “Well, let’s test him.” Skip jumped to his feet and strode off downhill through the trees toward the lights of the house. Eddie stood rooted in the dark. The dog whined a couple of times, circling Eddie as if asking a question about what to do next, then suddenly sat down on his haunches. Eddie moved into a still darker spot, then clucked to the dog; and the collie ran to him, frisking.

  “Hey, boy. Nice boy.” Eddie rubbed the dog’s warm silky head, feeling the hard bones of the collie’s skull under the fine fur. He liked dogs generally, most especially big golden dogs with a friendly way.

  Skip whistled a summons, an eerie killdeer kind of noise, but Eddie hung back, telling himself he and Skip would be better off if he stayed to keep the dog from the house. He didn’t move until Skip returned, which must have been more than ten minutes later. Skip was walking lightly, confidently, hissing the killdeer cry between his teeth. He came up to Eddie, and Eddie sensed the grin.

  Skip patted the dog. “The mutt likes us.”

  “He’s a good dog.”

  Skip said, “I was right down there, real close, looking in the windows. Chrissakes it’s big, but it’s old—old furniture and high ceilings and regular granny shelves full of knickknacks. I didn’t see the old lady. There’s a man inside, though. He’s in a room, must be a library, looking at something on a desk. I thought maybe account books, but I couldn’t be sure.” Skip cuffed the dog playfully, and the dog growled and pretended to chew his hand. “The guy from Vegas. He’s brought more dough.”

  “That’s a crazy place to keep money!” Eddie blurted.

  “You trying to knock this thing?” Skip cried in sudden anger.

  “No, of course not.”

  “I got a good look at the guy,” Skip boasted, “real good. I’d know him anywhere. You know what I’m going to do? Before we pull this, that is? I’m going to hitchhike to Vegas and look him up.”

  Eddie felt his heart lurch against his ribs. “That’d be crazy!”

  “Oh, I’m not going to charge in and let on I’m itching for his green stuff. What this’ll be—making sure. Karen thinks he’s big in Nevada, has a chunk of one of the clubs on the Strip, but she could be wrong. He could be tinhorn, full of wind, maybe even making a play for the chick. One thing more, is he really old lady Havermann’s ex-son-in-law? I’ll need to check on it.”

  “He’ll have you thrown out,” Eddie said.

  “You think I’m dumb enough to speak to him, let him get a look at me?” Skip was outraged, on the verge of violence. “The thing is, if he’s who Karen thinks he is, and he’s coming here every few weeks, staying overnight, why not, if not to stash some winnings?”

  “And why should Karen tell you about it?” Eddie cried from his own uncertainty.

  “Because.” Skip leaned toward him in the dark beneath the trees. “She’s mine
any time I want her. Just any time, anywhere, anyhow. Want me to prove it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll come back here when classes are out, I’ll show you. Right here on the ground under these trees.”

  “Ah, can it.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  They started to walk west, then downhill out of the trees. They had forgotten the dog, and he rushed by them suddenly, scattering leaves and dirt, and Eddie stumbled with fright. Skip whirled to look back, as if someone might have sent the dog after them: but there was only the bank of towering evergreens and the glimmer from the house.

  The dog jumped around, wanting to play, but Skip ignored him.

  Finally they started off again. Skip didn’t say anything until they got to the car. The dog frisked off home, and Skip faced the street light and said, “If anything goes wrong on this thing, someone’s going to get hurt. Bad hurt.” His tone was sharp and mean.

  Eddie thought, Skip’s thinking about Karen. But he couldn’t be sure. Skip might be thinking about him, too. It was right at that moment, stepping into the car, that Eddie realized how utterly intent Skip was on getting the money.

  Chapter Two

  KAREN MILLER laid her coat across the back of the chair and looked with a touch of shyness around the room. A few students were already at their typewriters, one or two pecking desultorily at the keys, but most were still in the hall, smoking a last cigarette or lingering to finish a conversation. Karen sat down, adjusted her skirt across her knees. Her motions were deft and graceful. She put out her hands, settling her fingers on the keys of the typewriter. She ticked off a few imaginary phrases.

  A buzzer sounded in the hall. There was a bustle of entry, chairs scraping, a last whisper of talk. The teacher, a tall thin man with a storklike gait, came in from the hall and smiled at the assembled class. He laid a couple of books on the desk. “Good evening, students.”

  The chorus answered as usual, “Good evening, Mr. Pryde.”

  Karen opened the exercise book on the desk beside the machine, and the memory of a whole series of nights like this, Mr. Pryde and his greeting, the waiting, hopeful, or indifferent ones around her, ticked off in her mind. The faces, the figures were familiar, and Karen thought of them as friends, though in some way she was not able to comprehend she seemed unable to make the opening overtures which might lead to actual acquaintance. It was part shyness but mostly a lack of practice in social give-and-take. She felt awkward in the presence of strangers. It seemed to Karen a sort of miracle that Skip had sought her out and forced her to talk to him.

  She knew that Skip must be in his place behind her now. A feeling of warm awareness stole through her; she could almost feel his gaze on her. She wanted to glance back at him, afraid at the same time that this glance would betray all that she felt.

  Mr. Pryde left his desk and stalked over to the old phonograph in the corner. He wound the old machine. “Time for an exercise in rhythm. You ain’t got a thing, you know——” He paused for effect. “—if you ain’t got that swing.”

  Titters answered the sally, not because of any humor in it, but because poor old Mr. Pryde had worn the remark to death. Karen felt a surge of sympathy for him. Mr. Pryde glanced at his watch. “Page twenty-two. Keep in time to the music. Now. Dum dum de dum.” A Sousa march, hoarse and brassy, roared from the machine. Karen began to type rapidly.

  When the exercise was finished she took a quick glance behind her and was surprised to find Skip’s place vacant. He didn’t come in until the first period was almost over. He crowded close to Karen as the class poured out into the hall for the break. “Hiya.”

  She looked at him shyly, pink color coming into her face. “How are you?”

  “Really want to know?” He made it sound as if he kept a dangerous secret, teasing her.

  “Oh, tell me.” They were in the hall now, strolling away from the others. She noted a certain real excitement in Skip’s manner. “You must have had a good reason to miss the rhythm exercise.”

  He caught her elbow and took her through the door, out upon the terrace which overlooked the grounds. Lights bloomed across the campus lawns; a sprinkler sent a shower of silver over the dark shrubbery. “I feel like cutting class—period. Never coming back.” With his fist he chucked up her chin, put his mouth on hers, pressed hard. Finally she drew away, gasping. “What do you mean?”

  “Ah, I’m disgusted, I’m not getting anywhere.” He took out a cigarette and snapped flame to it from a match, all with an elaborate air of anger.

  “Oh no, Skip! You mustn’t get discouraged!”

  He leaned on the railing, smoking moodily. Karen stood close, as if her nearness might soothe him. “Is anything the matter? More than usual?”

  “Does it have to be more than usual? Isn’t the regular grind enough?”

  “You’re bored, Skip? Is that it?”

  “Aren’t you, babe?”

  “No. Mrs. Havermann wants me to learn something to make a living at. She thought nursing, but I couldn’t stand that. I was sick a couple of years ago, I had to have my appendix out, and I saw how those nurses worked and what they had to do. I know I’d never be a success at it. I’m not patient enough, kind enough. Why, a woman in our ward used to——” She broke off suddenly.

  Skip was interested. “Used to what?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t a nice thing, the thing she did.”

  “Well, what was it?” When Karen remained abashedly silent he said, “For Chrissakes, what do you think I am? A baby? The woman wet the bed, I bet.”

  Karen looked embarrassedly back at the door. “Well, it was something like that, only worse. She’d use the bedpan, and then when the nurse came to take it she’d make it spill. Over and over. They must have known she did it on purpose. You could see she got a kick out of it. But those nurses just cleaned and cleaned—and I’d have blown my stack.”

  “So now you’re taking typing,” Skip put in.

  “It’s not exciting, but it’s something I can do,” Karen said.

  Skip turned to her and grinned. “You know what I’d have done? I’d have taken the nursing course like Mrs. Havermann wanted. And then I’d have looked around for some rich old geezer to nurse, some old bachelor or widower loaded with dough, not too bright, and I’d have married him.”

  Karen was disgusted. “Some sick old man? Oh, heavens!”

  “And then, being a nurse, I’d have helped him get sicker and sicker until finally he croaked and I had the dough for myself.”

  The thought shocked her. “That’s an awful thing to say.”

  He moved closer and put a hand behind her head and pushed her mouth against his own. All of Skip’s kisses had an experimental quality about them, as though the act of embracing contained some novelty he couldn’t get used to. “Now I’ve made you mad.”

  “Well, I’m getting over it.” She kissed him in return, solemnly, and as if humbly offering a gift. The buzzer sounded; he yanked her back.

  “I don’t think I’m going in there.”

  “Why not? You’re doing as well as anybody. Don’t quit just because tonight you’re bored and disgusted,” Karen begged. “They’ll give your place in class to someone else, and then you’ll have to start all over again next semester, just like a beginner.”

  “I don’t know——” He seemed to hesitate. “What about afterwards?”

  “You asked before; I told you how Mrs. Havermann gets nervous if I’m not there on time. She doesn’t like being alone.”

  “Yeah, yeah. She’s crazy about you.”

  “No, she’s not. I’m not her child. It’s because of her own feelings.”

  “Suppose there was a meeting after class, you had to stay for it?”

  “There never is.”

  “She knows there never is?”

  “Oh, Skip, I don’t want to worry her!”

  He nodded indifferently. “Sure. I see exactly how it is. Go on inside then. I’ll see you around sometime.
”

  She hesitated in the doorway, her expression harried and anxious. “You make it seem as if I’m letting you down.”

  He shrugged, turned to lean on the railing, lit a fresh cigarette, and expelled smoke into the dark. The stony eyes looked past her as he glanced into the hall. “They’re all inside. You’d better hurry.”

  She rushed back to him headlong. “What would we do? I couldn’t take time to eat, or go dancing, or anything like that.”

  He laughed shortly in surprise. “Who the hell said anything like that?”

  “Well, then . . .” She was confused.

  “I’ll drive out somewhere close to the house, a lonesome spot, we’ll sit in the car for a while.”

  She couldn’t help coloring a little. “I’m not supposed to do anything like that.”

  “Like that? Or like this?” He threw away the cigarette, put both hands against her waist, backed her against the wall. He kissed her. “We’ll leave a little early, give us plenty of leeway.” He put up a hand and touched her throat with his fingers, lazily.

  The idea he suggested, parking near the house in the car, the thought of the warm and dark interior and she and Skip enclosed in its privacy, filled Karen with a rush of almost dizzying sensations. A melting weakness poured through her. She nearly tottered, there against the wall with Skip’s fingers touching her throat.

  Then Skip muttered, “I’ve got to pick up a friend in metal class.”

  She was looking at him as if dazzled. “You mean someone’s coming with us?” It didn’t fit into the mental picture she had created; her thoughts whirled in confusion. But suddenly Skip moved off, taking her with him into the building. “Tell old man Pryde you’ve got a headache. I’ll just walk out as if getting a drink of water or something. Meet you outside that door in thirty minutes.”

  She stumbled to her place, began mechanically working on the machine, meanwhile trying to sort sense from what Skip had told her. Under the emotional uproar she was aware of something else, a kind of dread at what she might be willing to do for Skip.