Gradually, day by day, he took increasingly sexier pictures of her. He taught her to bring her body into harmony with the camera. He photographed her in a skimpy bathing suit, with the sun glistening on her flawless skin. He posed her in a low-cut gown that he bought just for that purpose, and with her blouse open part way down the front, so that it barely hid her breasts. That time he could barely stand it, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
Saralee took it all in stride. She never faltered, accepting it all as part of the job of becoming a model. She showed more and more of her legs and breasts, and never so much as blushed.
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” he’d asked one day.
“I used to go with Tom Larson, but not anymore. He’s too young for me. Maybe you met him,” she’d added. “He works at the drugstore.”
Falch remembered the boy—thin, with pimples on his face. He would be no problem at all.
And then one day, when the curves of her breasts and belly and thighs filled him with a desire he couldn’t suppress, he knew that the time had come. “Saralee,” he said, “I think we ought to try something a little bit different. Unless you’d rather not.”
She looked at him. “Nudes? Is that what you mean, Jake?”
“Well…”
“I think that would be nice,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I mean, all the top models did nude shots first, didn’t they?”
He nodded, breathing heavily. “I’d love to,” she said. “But we can’t do that here, Jake. Somebody might see, and besides, there’s a law against it.”
“Maybe at my room, in the hotel.”
“Wait,” she said. “I have a better idea. How about my house?”
He stared at her incredulously. “Your house? But your folks…”
“They’re out of town for the weekend. Could you come up about nine?”
It was better than he’d dared to hope for. The clerk might be nosy at the hotel, and if she got rough it might be noisy. But at her house there’d be no worries. “Nine,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
He was there early, and when she stood nude before him he felt that he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. There was not a hint of shyness about her, just pride and pleasure in her own loveliness. He began taking pictures.
After he’d shot a roll of film, he took a pint of whiskey from his camera bag. “This calls for a celebration,” he explained. “Your first nude shots. We have to have a few drinks.”
She protested weakly that she had never had whiskey before, but gave in without much argument. They had a drink each, then shot another roll, and then had another round of drinks.
It was easy to see that she was unaccustomed to alcohol. A glow came into her cheeks and her eyes became even brighter than usual. They went on drinking and taking pictures, and he knew that he was almost ready to take her.
When he posed her, he let his hands linger longer than necessary upon her smooth skin, and he felt the heat building up within her. She breathed faster, deeper. It was time.
He said nothing; he didn’t have to. He set down the camera, switched off the lights, and took her by the hand. His right arm encircled her waist, his hand stroking the soft flesh of her belly. He led her down the hall, to the darkened bedroom, and disrobed swiftly. His hands raced over her body, he pressed a long hard kiss upon her lips, and then he took her.
When the morning sunlight filtered through the venetian blinds, Falch rolled over and swore softly. His mind filled with memories of the night and he chuckled to himself. God, she had been good! Fresh and new and hot as a stove. And she had enjoyed it as much as he had.
He turned over to look at her, but the bed was empty. Must be cooking up some breakfast, he thought, chuckling. Breakfast in bed.
It had taken a lot of hard work, but you didn’t get things like that easily. And she had been worth it. He had a good life to look forward to now, with no more fooling around. He’d have her whenever he wanted.
“Saralee!” he called. “Saralee!”
Seconds later the door opened. But it was not Saralee. It was a boy.
“Who the hell are you?” Falch demanded. Then he took a closer look, and he recognized him. It was Tom Larson, the boy from the drugstore.
The boy smiled, and it was a smile very much like Falch’s. “Shut up,” he said. “You just keep quiet there, Mr. Falch.”
Falch gaped at him, unable to utter a sound.
“Got a surprise for you,” said Tom. He reached into a pocket of his jeans and pulled out a picture, passing it to Falch.
Falch stared at the picture and his mouth fell open. “Got lots more like that,” the boy said. “Took ’em last night, a whole mess of pictures. They’re going to cost you, Mr. Falch.”
The boy tapped the picture significantly. “Nice and clear, huh? Saralee’s a good little model, Mr. Falch. And only seventeen, too. A nice respectable girl like that, it’s going to cost you plenty. They’re rough on guys like you in this state.”
He pulled the picture from Falch’s hand and studied it, grinning with satisfaction.
“Came out perfect, the whole batch of ’em. Used infra-red film and a fast shutter. Just stood in the closet and snapped ’em off. Didn’t need a drop of light.”
The boy laughed. “But I don’t need to explain all that to you, Mr. Falch. Hell, I bet you’re an old hand at this sort of thing!”
MURDER IS MY BUSINESS
I LIVE IN A POORLY FURNISHED ROOM a block off the Bowery. I used to live there because I couldn’t afford anything better. But times have changed. I live there now because I like it. It’s almost cozy, once you get used to it. The smells stop bothering you after the first week or so, and the people down there never bother anybody. The other tenants are upper-caste prostitutes. The winos are always drunk and the prostitutes are always available. I like the setup.
It’s also a good business location. I live in my room, and I run my business from the bar a few doors down the street. Some of my clients don’t like the neighborhood, but they manage to come here anyhow. They need me more than I need them. Business has been good this year.
I was sitting in the bar at my usual table in the back looking at a beer and watching it get warm. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I never drink before dinner. Eddie doesn’t like me to sit without drinking, so I usually buy a beer or two during the afternoon and watch it go flat. I was reading a book of Spanish poetry when she came in.
I knew right off she was a prospective client. Women like her don’t hang out in Skid Row bars. They were either kept in penthouses or married to Scarsdale millionaires. You could tell from one look at her.
It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, but that was a part of it. The women who live here have used up their best years on Eighth Avenue, and all the flavor has gone out of them. They all drank too much, and most of them have scars on their faces from men who drank too much. And they walk with a what-the-hell shuffle. The women on the Bowery aren’t beautiful, and this one was.
She had blond hair, and not the kind that comes out of a bottle. It was cut short, and curled around a very passable face. She was wearing a suit, but it couldn’t hide her body. It was a more than passable body.
But as I said, it was more than her beauty. She had class, and that is something which never winds its way to the Bowery. It’s something you can’t pin down, but it’s the visible difference between Nashua and the horse that pulls Benny’s peanut wagon. This babe had class.
She walked in as though she had every right to be there, and every eye in the place turned to her. They didn’t watch her for long, though. The people who hang out in Eddie’s Bar are only interested in wine, and a woman is something which just stirs up memories.
She looked around for a minute, and finally met my stare. She came over and I pointed to a chair. She sat down, and we stared at each other for a while.
“Are you the man?”
It was a hell of an opener, so I played it cool and asked h
er just what man she was talking about.
“The man who…does jobs for people.”
“That depends,” I said. “What kind of job?” I was enjoying this.
“Couldn’t we go someplace more private?”
I shook my head. “Nobody listens here,” I said. “And if they do, they won’t remember. And if they remember, they won’t care. So speak up.”
“A man told me you…killed people.” It was an effort for her to get the words out.
I asked her what man, and she described Al. That meant a quick ten percent for Al, and it also meant that the chick was an honest customer.
“Did he tell you my fee?”
“He said five hundred dollars.”
I nodded. “Do you have it?” This time she nodded. “Well,” I said, “whom do you want taken care of?”
“My husband,” she said. “He found out I was playing around and he’s cutting me out of his will.”
That was standard enough. “Okay,” I said. “When do you want the job done?”
“Is tonight too soon?”
“Tonight is fine,” I said. “Give me the address.” She did and it wasn’t Scarsdale, but Riverside Drive came to about the same thing. I memorized it quickly.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be up about nine-thirty.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll go out.”
I shook my head. “Stay home. What do you usually do nights?”
She nearly blushed. “Watch television,” she said. “My husband is old.”
I could see why she wanted to kill him. A woman like her needed to be loved plenty. She was wasted on an old guy.
I got back to business. “Stay home tonight,” I said. “Watch television. I’ll make like a burglar and take care of him, then you give me time to get away and call the cops. That way if I should get picked up, you can say I wasn’t the murderer. Get it?”
She nodded. I asked for the cash, and she passed it to me under the table. I gave it a quick count and pocketed it.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll see you tonight.” I waited for her to get up and leave, but she didn’t move.
“You’re young for this business, aren’t you?” I almost broke out laughing.
“Not that young,” I said. “It beats petty larceny.”
She kept looking at me. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“I haven’t got one,” I said. It was the truth. I had had ten names in the past year and a half, and I was between aliases at the moment.
She was still staring at me. “Do you live around here?”
“Yes.”
“Take me to your room.”
I hadn’t expected it, but it wasn’t a shock. I stood up, threw a dime on the table for the beer, and led the way. She didn’t say a word.
When we reached my room I discovered I had been right—the suit couldn’t hide her perfection.
When she left, still without a word, I lay on my back staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Tonight would be a pleasure. Bodies like that should not be wasted on rich old men. I felt like a public servant.
I dressed again and went back to the bar, reclaiming my table and watching another beer get flat. I read some more of the Spanish poetry, but it was anticlimactic. I had made love to a poem, and the printed page cannot compete with that.
Then he came in, and I saw he was another client. He looked no more at home in Eddie’s Bar than she had. He looked a little like my uncle Charlie, and I liked him right off. He didn’t hesitate, but came right over and sat down.
“I have a job for you,” he said. “Al sent me. Here’s your fee and the address of the party in question.” He slipped an envelope under the table, and I pocketed it.
“I’ll be home,” he said. “In case they ever pick you up, I’ll refuse to identify you. Force an entrance, do your job, and leave.”
He was one hell of a guy, businessman right down the line. I don’t normally enjoy people telling me the way to operate, but I didn’t mind it coming from him. He was sharp.
I nodded, and asked him when he wanted the job done.
“Tonight,” he said.
I shook my head. “I can’t make it,” I said. “How’s tomorrow?”
“Tonight,” he said. “It has to be tonight.”
I thought for a minute. I didn’t relish the idea of two jobs in one night. It just doubled the chances of getting caught. But I could use the money, and I knew I couldn’t stall him. “All right,” I said. “I’m not sure on the time, but I’ll make it tonight.”
He didn’t waste any time. He stood up and left. The heads in the bar followed him until he reached the door, then returned to their glasses of port. I returned to the Spanish poetry.
I read for about an hour, threw another dime on the table, and left. I walked up to my room, placed the money in a strongbox, and put two hundred dollars into my wallet. I’d need two guns tonight, one for each job. I hoped that Sam had them on hand.
Then I glanced at the address and flushed the slip of paper and the envelope down the hall toilet. I walked downstairs, and I got all the way to Sam’s hockshop before it hit me.
I bought one gun. I bought a Luger with a silencer, and loaded it. It cost one hundred dollars across the counter, with no record of sale.
Sam was a good businessman himself. I could be sure that the gun would never be traced to me, and that was important. I made it back to my room and ate dinner.
Dinner was the usual—three fried eggs and two cups of black coffee. I live on eggs and coffee. It’s cheap and nourishing, and I like it. I suppose I could afford caviar if I wanted it, but I’d rather let the money accumulate in the strongbox.
You see, a real businessman never worries about the money. He doesn’t care about spending it, and he doesn’t count up the pennies. The money’s just the chips in the poker pot, just something to keep score with. A real businessman is interested in running a straight business, and he gets his kicks out of the business itself. A real businessman is along the lines of an artist. And I am a businessman. I do a clean job. It’s the way I like to live.
I finished the meal and washed up the dishes. I didn’t feel much like reading, so I sat around thinking. I had come a long way from the days when I used to steal food and swindle hockshops for a couple of bucks at a time. I was established in business, and the competition was nothing to speak of. I could raise my prices sky-high, and I’d still have more work than I could handle. There’s a remarkable shortage of free-lance gunmen in town.
I sat around till 8:30 and then caught the subway to Times Square. I transferred to the Broadway IRT train there, and got off at 96th Street. It was a short walk to Riverside Drive.
The elevator was a self-service one, which cut down the chances of an identification. I rode to the top floor and rang the bell.
He answered it with a smile on his face. I walked in, and noticed that the television was on good and loud. He hadn’t realized that I used a silencer.
I closed the door, took the gun from my pocket, and shot him. The bullet caught him in the side of the head and he didn’t have time to be surprised. He fell like an ox.
She jumped up and came to me. She was wearing a skirt and sweater this time, and I could see every bit of that body. She was the kind of woman I could fall in love with, if I believed in love. But in my business I can’t afford to.
I leveled the gun again and squeezed the trigger. Her eyes opened in horror before the bullet hit her, but she didn’t have time to scream. I shot her in the head, and she died immediately.
It was a shame I had to kill her. But I had made an agreement, and I stick to my word even if my client is a corpse. Business is business.
NOR IRON BARS A CAGE
THE FIRST ALTHEAN SAID, “Well, the tower is completed.”
The second Althean smiled. “Good. It is all ready for the prisoner, then?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure he’ll be quite comfortable? He won’t languish and die in su
ch a state?”
“No,” said the first Althean. “He’ll be all right. It’s taken a long time to build the tower, and I’ve had ample opportunity to study the creature. We’ve made his habitat as ideal for him as possible.”
“I suppose so.” The second Althean shuddered slightly. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose it’s nothing more than projection on my part, but the mere thought of a prison…” He broke off and shuddered again.
“I know,” said the other, sympathetically. “It’s something none of us have ever had to conceive of before. The whole notion of locking up a fellow being is an abominable one, I’ll admit. But for that matter, consider the creature itself!”
“It wouldn’t do for him to be loose.”
“Wouldn’t do! Why, it would be quite impossible. He actually murders. He killed three of our fellow beings before we were able to subdue him.”
The second Althean shuddered more violently than before, and it appeared for a moment as though he was about to become physically ill. “But why? What type of being is he, for goodness’ sake? Where does he come from? What’s he doing here?”
“Ah,” said the first, “now you’ve hit upon it. You see, there’s no way of knowing any of those answers. One morning he was discovered by a party of ten. They attempted to speak to him, and what do you think his rejoinder was?”
“He struck out at them, the way I heard it.”
“Precisely! Utterly unprovoked assault, with three of their number dead as a result. The first case of murder on record here in thirty generations. Incredible!”
“And since then…”
“He’s been a prisoner. No communication, no new insights, nothing. He eats whatever we feed him—he sleeps when the darkness comes and wakes when it goes. We have learned nothing about him, but I can tell you this for a fact. He is dangerous.”
“Yes,” said the second Althean.
“Very dangerous. He must be kept locked up. Of course, we wish him no harm—so we’ve made his prison as secure as possible, while keeping it as comfortable as possible. I daresay we’ve done a good job.”
One Night Stands; Lost weekends Page 12