The Sixth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Take off. But don’t come back.”

  This was during a time when the last thing in the world I wanted was to lose her. We were just in the process of working out a sweet, easy, take-it-as-it-comes relationship, and I thought I could be completely honest with her.

  “I can’t believe you,” I said. “One night—one night; the first time—I don’t want to rub the bacon, and you’re ready to call it quits.”

  She looked at me narrowly.

  “It’s been more than one time for me, kiddo,” she said.

  Then she may have seen in my face what that did to my ego, because she came over to sit beside me and slid a cool arm around my neck.

  “Look, Todd,” she said, “there have been times when I’ve climbed between the sheets with you when I didn’t feel like it. Because you wanted to. Because I love you. And doing something you wanted to do, and I didn’t want to, was a sacrifice that proved that love. More important, it turned out to be the best sex we’ve ever had—for me. Because I was proving my love. And in addition to the physical thing, I was feeling so warm and tender and giving. Try it; you’ll like it.”

  She was right. It was the best sex we ever had—for me. I told you she taught me a lot.

  But I didn’t think it would work that way with Julie Thorndecker. There was no love between us; I wasn’t ready to make a willing sacrifice so she could be happy. And something else kept me away from her. Maybe she was right; I was a prig. Maybe I was just a hopeless romantic. It had to do with Thorndecker. Screwing his wife would be like throwing mud at a statue.

  Just to complicate matters further, there was an additional factor involved in my rejection of Julie Thorndecker.

  As you’ve probably gathered by now, I’m a fantasist. I could get twenty years in the pokey for what I dream in one day. For instance, I’ve had a lot of sexual daydreams about Joan Powell. Some I told her about; some I didn’t. I even had some recent fantasies about Millie Goodfellow.

  But I found myself totally incapable of fantasizing about Julie Thorndecker. God knows I tried. But the dreams just slid away and dissolved. It wasn’t all due to the fact that she was married to a man I admired. It was that she was so beautiful, the body so young and tender, that I couldn’t dream about her.

  Fantasies, to be pleasurable, must have some relation to reality. Even daydreams must be possible to be stirring. You can’t, for instance, successfully fantasize about hitting the sheets with Cleopatra because a part of your brain keeps telling you that she was smooched by an asp centuries ago, and any fantasy involving her would be a waste of time.

  I could fantasize about Joan Powell and Millie Goodfellow because those daydreams were possible. But when I attempted a sexual fancy involving Julie Thorndecker … nothing. I told myself it was because of her husband and her superbeauty.

  But there was another reason. Powell and Goodfellow were living, breathing, warm, eager women. Julie Thorndecker was not. She was, I thought, a dead lady.

  After all that heavy thinking, I decided that if I didn’t get a drink immediately I might shuffle off to Buffalo from a hyperactive cerebellum. So I got out of the car, locked up, stomped over to Red Dog Betty’s.

  Inside, the place looked like it had originally been a private home: a dozen connecting rooms. The doors had been removed, but the hinge butt plates were still there, painted over. The wall between what I guessed were the original living room and parlor had been knocked down to make a long barroom. The other rooms, smaller, were used for dining. It was an attractive arrangement: a lot of intimate nooks; you didn’t feel like you were eating in a barn, and the jukebox in the barroom was muffled to an endurable decibel level.

  The barroom itself wasn’t fake English pub, or fake fishermen’s shanty, or fake anything. The decorations didn’t look planned; just accumulated. A few Tiffany lamps shed a pleasantly mellow glow. The long, scarred mahogany bar was set with stools upholstered in black vinyl. There were a few battered oak tables with captain’s chairs. A wall of booths had table candles stuck in empty whiskey bottles covered with wax drippings.

  The light was dim, the air redolent of stale beer. There was no chrome or plastic. A snug place, with no cutesy signs. In fact, the only sign I saw bore the stern admonition: BE GOOD OR BE GONE. There was a big array of liquor bottles behind the bar—much larger than the selection at the Coburn Inn—and I was happy to see they kept their “garbage” on the bar, in plain view.

  “Garbage” is what bartenders call their little containers of cherries, olives, onions, lemon peel, lime wedges, and orange slices. Keeping these garnishes atop the bar is a tip-off to a quality joint; you know you’re getting fresh fixings in your drinks. When the “garbage” is kept below the bar, out of sight, that olive in your martini was probably the property of a previous martini drinker who either forgot to eat it, ignored it, or tasted it and spit it back into his empty glass. A schlock bar can keep one olive going a week that way.

  I hung up my coat and hat on a brass tree, gratified to note the absence of a hatcheck attendant. I swung onto one of the barstools and looked around. Sitting near me were three guys who looked like traveling salesmen. They were working on double martinis and exchanging business cards. Down the other end were two truckers in windbreakers, wearing caps decorated with all kinds of metal badges. They had boilermakers on the bar in front of them, and were already shaking dice in a cup to see who’d pay for the next round.

  There were no other customers in the barroom; all the action was in the dining areas. They were crowded, and there was a crew of young, fresh-faced waitresses serving drinks, taking orders, lugging in trays of food from the kitchen in the rear.

  There was one black bartender doing nothing but working the service section of the bar, preparing drinks for the diners as the waitresses rushed up with their orders. The other bartender, the one who waited on me, was a heavy woman of 50-55, around there. She was comfortably upholstered, wearing a black silk dress two sizes too tight for her. She had a ring on every finger—and she hadn’t found those in Crackerjack boxes. Her face was at once doughy and tough. A lot of good beef and bourbon had gone into that complexion.

  She flashed diamond earrings, and a doubled strand of pearls. A brooch of what looked to me like rubies in the shape of a rose bloomed on her awesome bosom. Her black wig went up two feet into the air, and was pierced with long, jeweled pins. As the ad says: if you got it, flaunt it.

  Like a lot of heavy people, she was light on her feet, and worked with a skillful economy of movement that was a joy to watch. When I ordered Cutty and soda, she slid a napkin in front of me, poured an honest shotglass to the brim, uncapped a nip of soda, placed a clean twelve-ounce glass on the napkin, and half-filled it with ice from a little scoop. All this in one continuous, flowing motion. If I owned a bar, I’d like to have her working for me.

  “Mix?” she asked, looking at me.

  “Please,” I said.

  She dumped the Scotch into the tall glass without spilling a drop, added an inch of soda, then waited until I took a sip.

  “Okay?” she asked. Her voice was a growl, low and burred.

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” I said.

  “What doctor is that?” she said. “I’d like to send him a few of my customers. You passing through?”

  “Staying a few days in Coburn,” I told her.

  “We all got troubles,” she said philosophically, then went down the bar to the truckers to pour them another round. A chubby little waitress came up to the bar to whisper something to her. She walked back to the three salesmen. “Your table’s ready, boys,” she rasped. “The waitress will bring your drinks.”

  “Thanks, Betty,” one of them said.

  I waited until they disappeared into one of the dining rooms. The diamond-studded barmaid began washing and rinsing glasses near me.

  “Your name’s Betty?” I asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “The Betty? You own the place
?”

  “Me and the bank,” she growled. She dried her hand carefully and stuck it over the bar. I shook a fistful of silver, gold, and assorted stones. And not, I bet, a hunk of glass in the lot. “Betty Hanrahan,” she said. “You?”

  “Samuel Todd.”

  “A pleasure. I don’t want to hustle you, Mr. Todd, take your time, but I just wanted you to know that if you’re alone and thinking of eating, we can serve you right here at the bar.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I might do that. But maybe I’ll have another first.”

  “Sure,” she said, and refilled the shotglass with one swift, precise motion. She also gave me a fresh highball glass and fresh ice. I was beginning to like this place.

  “What’s with the red dog?” I asked her.

  “I had a poodle once,” she said. “Reddish brown. A mean, miserable bitch. When I took this place over, I thought it would be like a trademark. Something different.”

  “Looks like it worked out just fine,” I said, nodding toward the crowded dining rooms.

  “I do all right,” she acknowledged. “You should stop in some night, if you’re looking for action.”

  “What kind of action?” I said cautiously.

  She polished glasses for a few moments.

  “Nothing heavy,” she said. “Nothing rough. I run a clean joint. But at night, after the dinner crowd clears out, we get a real friendly drinking bunch. A lot of local girls from the farms and small towns around here. Not hookers; nothing like that. Just out for a good time. Have a few drinks, dance a little. Like that.”

  “And sometimes a trio on Saturday nights?” I asked.

  She stopped polishing glasses long enough to look up at me.

  “Who told you that?” she asked curiously.

  “A loyal customer of yours,” I said. “Millie Goodfellow. Know her?”

  “Oh hell yes, I know her. Millie’s a lot of woman. Life of the party.”

  “I figured,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Not till the sun goes down,” she said.

  “It’s been down for the past five days,” I said.

  She considered that thoughtfully.

  “You got something there,” she said. “I’ll have a short beer, and thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She drew herself a small brew from the Michelob tap. She planted herself in front of me and lifted her glass.

  “Health,” she said, drained off the glass, and went back to her washing, drying, and polishing chores.

  “How well do you know Millie?” she asked casually.

  “Not very well. Just to talk to. I’m staying at the Coburn Inn.”

  She nodded.

  “I know she’s married to a cop,” I added. “Ronnie Goodfellow.”

  Betty Hanrahan looked relieved.

  “Good,” she said. “As long as you know it.”

  “I’m not likely to forget it.”

  “Millie does,” she said. “Frequently.”

  “It doesn’t seem to bother him,” I said.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “Now I’ll tell you a story. The same story I told Millie Goodfellow. Thirty years ago I was married—for the first and last time. His name was Patrick Hanrahan. My unmarried name is Dubcek, Betty Dubcek from Hamtramck, Michigan. Anyway, Pat turned out to be a lush, and I turned out to be Miss Roundheels of Detroit. I was a wild one in those days; I admit it. Pat knew about it, and didn’t seem to mind. It went on like that for almost two years, with him trying to drink the breweries dry, and me making it with anyone who had a Tootsie Roll between his legs. I thought Pat just didn’t care. Then one night he came home stone-cold sober and gave me this …”

  She lifted a corner of that heavy wig. I saw a deep, angry scar that seemed to run across the top of her skull down to her left ear.

  “He damned near killed me,” she said. “After two years of taking it, and telling himself it didn’t matter, and he couldn’t care less, he blew up and damned near killed me. I should have known it would get to him eventually; he was a prideful man. They’re like that. It may bubble along inside them for a long while, but sooner or later …”

  “What happened to him?” I asked.

  “Pat? He just took off. I didn’t try to find him. Didn’t even make a complaint to the cops; I had it coming. After ten years I got a legal divorce. But the reason I’m telling you this is because that Ronnie Goodfellow is the same kind of prideful man as Pat was. Millie thinks he doesn’t care. Maybe he doesn’t—now. Some day he will, mark my words, and then biff, bam, and pow.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said. “Maybe I’ll have some lunch now. What’s good?”

  “Try the broiled liver and bacon,” she said. “Home fries on the side.”

  It was served to me right there on the bar, with slices of pumpernickel and sweet butter, and a small bowl of salad. It wasn’t a great meal, but for a roadhouse like that, in the middle of nowhere, it was a pleasant surprise. I had a Ballantine ale, and that helped. And Betty Hanrahan mixed me some fresh Colman’s mustard to smear on the liver. It was hot enough to bring the sweat popping out on my scalp. That’s the way to eat broiled liver, all right.

  I was on my second black coffee, wondering if I wanted a brandy or something else. Betty Hanrahan was down at the end of the bar near the door, checking her bottled beer supply. A guy came in wearing a fleece-collared trucker’s jacket. He was still wearing his gloves, and didn’t bother removing his badge-encrusted cap. He spoke to Betty for a few minutes, and I could see him gesturing toward the outside, toward the parking lot. Then the owner turned and stared at me. She came slowly down the bar.

  “Mr. Todd,” she said, “you don’t, by any chance, drive a Grand Prix, do you?”

  “Sure, I do,” I said. “A dusty black job. Why?”

  “You got trouble,” she said. “Someone slashed your tires. All four tires.”

  “Son of a bitch!” I said bitterly.

  Betty Hanrahan said she’d call the cops. I walked out to the parking lot with the trucker, and he told me what had happened. He had pulled his semitrailer onto the lot, and parked three spaces from my Pontiac. He and his mate got down from the cab, locked up, started for the roadhouse. They had to walk by the Grand Prix, and the mate was the first to see the tires had been slashed.

  When we reached my car, the mate was hunkering down, examining one of the tires. He looked up at me.

  “Your car?”

  I nodded.

  “Someone did a job on you,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Looks to me like a hatchet, but it could have been a heavy hunting knife—something like that. One deep cut in every tire, except the left rear. That has two cuts, like the guy who did it started there, didn’t cut deep enough on the first slash and had to swing again.”

  “How long do you figure it took?” I asked him.

  The two truckers looked at each other.

  “A couple of minutes, Bernie?” the mate asked.

  “No more than that,” the other said. “Just walked around the car hacking. The balls of the guy! In broad daylight yet. You got any enemies, mister?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Haven’t been sleeping in any strange beds, have you?” Bernie asked, and they both laughed.

  I moved slowly around the Grand Prix. The car wasn’t exactly on its rims, but it had settled wearily and was listing.

  We heard the growl of a siren, and looked up. The Coburn constabulary cruiser, the same car I had seen thrice before, was pulling into the parking lot. One of the truckers waved his arms; the cruiser turned away from the roadhouse, came cutting across the lot toward us, pulled to a stop about ten feet away. The constable cut his flashing light and got out, tugging on his cap. He strutted toward us.

  “What have we got here?” he demanded.

  “Someone did a hatchet job on this man’s tires,” Bernie said. “All four of them.”

  The constable circled the Grand Prix. He was a short, hard
bantam with a slit mouth and eyes like licked stones. He came back to join us and stood staring at the car, hands on his hips.

  “Jesus,” he said disgustedly, “ain’t that a kick in the ass.”

  “I figure a hatchet,” the mate said. “Hell, maybe it was an ax.”

  The constable stooped, fingered one of the cuts.

  “Could be,” he said. “Or a heavy knife. But I’d say you’re right: a hatchet. No sign of sawing with a knife. Just one deep slash. Who discovered it?”

  “We did,” the mate said. “Pulled in, locked up, and started for the roadhouse. Then I seen it, and Bernie went on ahead to tell Betty, and I stayed here.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Not more’n ten minutes. Right, Bernie?”

  “About that. Fifteen tops.”

  The constable turned to me.

  “Your car?”

  “Yes, it’s mine.”

  “How long you been parked here?”

  I looked at my watch.

  “Two hours,” I said. “Give or take ten minutes.”

  “You were inside all that time? In the restaurant?”

  He stared at me, waiting. The son of a bitch, he had seen Julie Thorndecker and me.

  “Not all the time,” I said. “I smoked a cigarette out here first, then went in. I’d say I was in the bar about an hour and fifteen minutes. Something like that.”

  He kept staring at me, eyes squinted. But he didn’t ask why it took me forty-five minutes to smoke a cigarette or why I hadn’t gone into the roadhouse right after I parked.

  “See anyone hanging around?” he asked me. “Anyone acting suspicious?”

  “No,” I said. “No one.”

  “I came through here a little after noon,” he said, “just on routine patrol, you understand, and I didn’t see anyone either.” He paused thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, I don’t recollect seeing your car.”

  “I was here,” I said.

  “Well,” he said, “what the hell. A lot of cars here; I can’t be expected to remember everyone I seen.” He sighed deeply. “Crazy kids, I expect. Just doing something wild. We’ve had a lot of vandalism lately.” He paused again, looking at me without expression. “Unless you got some idea of who’d do a thing like this to you?”