by Diane Munier
Until Lou recovered, that money was his. The wisdom of war. To the victor go the spoils. The strong took. Ask Officer Blaise.
When he got back in the Buick, Jules relayed, “I didn’t see him.”
“Where to?” Audie asked.
“Where you think, Sarge? I stutter or something?”
Audie hooted, and Bobby joined in.
“What about tomorrow? We still gonna fight?” Bobby asked.
Jules turned in the seat and looked at that baboon. “We’re gonna fight. And we’re gonna win. You think you can’t—then let me know. I’m betting Lou’s farm on you.” “What?” Audie said loud.
“You too,” Jules said. “You’ll do the same on me. You think you can’t win—now’s the time. But the three I bet on are right here in this Buick. We’re gonna do this the old way—three-way split. We win back Lou’s money, and anything over the top is ours.”
“Fooker,” Audie told Jules with a kind of goosed-up wonder.
“What if one of us loses?” Baboon asked, with someone else’s foresight.
“Damn that Dorie; she’s changing you, brother,” Audie said.
“One of us loses—the other two cover the whole amount. We all three win, it’s gravy. Unless we plan on losing. Then we bet on the other guys. That’s a surer thing. Losing. You each decide, then no turning back. Now we need an uncle who makes book, and will go to those fights to bet our dough.”
“I ain’t throwin’ a fight like some punk,” Audie said. “And my uncle’s out. He could do it, but we’d never see a dime; then he’d kill us afterward.” Audie meant Cabhan, of course.
“My uncle would fire my ass and tear up my chance to get in the union,” Bobby said. “And I ain’t throwin’ either.”
“Yeah, shit, I ain’t throwin’. And my Uncle Lou—no, it wouldn’t work out,” Jules said. Lou wasn’t his uncle, but still—it was a no.
It was the monkey house, then. And when they had Lou’s money, and Jules counted twelve thousand American smackeroos…it was the whole fooking zoo after that. Now they needed someone to place their bets, and they had twenty-four hours to figure it out.
Chapter 25
Dorie was feeding the clothes between the rollers of the washing machine once they’d been sufficiently pummeled in the warm, soapy water. They were coming through the squeeze wrinkled and ready to be dropped in a cold rinse.
Isbe worked the double tubs that held the rinse water, plunging the clothes up and down in the first tub, then running each piece through a hand-cranked wringer that separated the tubs. Then she let the still wet but no longer dripping items fall into that second tub until Francis shook them out and hung them each on one of the six lines that ran along the unfinished ceiling of their shared basement.
“Listen,” Isbe said, and they all froze as they listened to the noise that never was.
“They’re not coming,” Francis said. She’d already set her hair in pin curls and covered it with a scarf. This was akin to putting dirt over a coffin. Francis had buried any notion that the men had not stood them up.
“If they do show,” Francis continued, always ready to recover quickly from disappointment that proved once again what she already knew—men were slated to break your heart eventually, even very handsome ones you were nuts about—“and you girls let them in, you’re crazy. They’ll never respect you.”
Francis smoothed over one of Isbe’s summer dresses and pinned it on the line. They were behind in their washing, their ironing too; well, everything was done with a lick and a promise these days. Dorie liked to say they were socialites now, but Francis scoffed at that. They were man-hungry sluts with no sense of responsibility, is how Francis put it.
“Going to Shiney’s a couple times a week hardly puts us on the society page,” Francis said, tugging on the ends of the blouse she’d tied under her bust.
Isbe was tired of Francis working so hard to put their time with the fellas down as if she were somehow suffering all the time. She was obviously ga-ga about Audie, and well she should be. That kid treated Francis like pure gold. Why couldn’t she give Audie a break and admit she was head over heels?
Dorie had no problem in that department. And Isbe was the one who’d declared love. At least she was honest. She felt ready to pop apart over Jules not showing up.
But Dorie cracked first. “I don’t want to do the laundry,” she said over the grind of the agitator, throwing a pair of pink underpants back in the water.
“I’ve half a mind to go to Jules’s room so I can see if he’s all right,” Isbe said.
“No pride,” Francis said, sternly snapping a pair of jeans board-straight and angrily pinning them to the line.
“I don’t care about pride,” Isbe said hotly, “I care about Jules.”
“You’re not his mother,” Francis said.
“And you’re not mine!” Isbe yelled.
Francis stared at her. “Wow,” she whispered.
They finished the clothes in silence then, pinning up the last and emptying and rinsing the machines.
Back upstairs they parted ways, Francis on her side, Dorie in her room, Isbe upstairs. After a few minutes in which Isbe stood at her window, shade up, watching dusk settle over the woods behind her house, then letting her eyes linger on the pool, the yard, she started to think about all the good times she’d shared there with Jules. She heard someone on the stairs, then Dorie’s distinctive knock on her shut door.
“Bisbe?”
Isbe knew Dorie was as flustered as she was, as unable to ignore the fact that the guys had stood them up. Isbe could see it happening to one of them, but all three at once? Something had to be wrong.
Dorie wanted her to come back downstairs. She’d opened two cans of soup and had the contents heating on the stove.
The two turned on the radio while they ate. Francis burst in the back door. “Have you heard?” she asked, scaring Isbe so much that she dropped her spoon and splattered soup on the front of the apron she’d worn while doing laundry.
Francis cranked their radio, but they’d missed the news. Francis said they had to wait for it to come around again. Meanwhile, she told them what she’d heard. Jules had been in a terrible stick-up at Lou’s. He might have been killed. Instead, he was hailed as a hero. He’d killed three men, bandits, and saved the lives of the fellas he worked with. Those two were taken to the hospital. One had been shot.
Her Jules. She’d always known he was a hero, but now the whole world knew—or most of Chicago.
When the news came on again, a familiar voice spoke about Jules’s quiet heroics. It was her father. He said that Jules had only been home from the European campaign for a few months. Her father said Jules was one soldier still willing to lay down his life for another. “They call that ‘no greater love,’” the reporter said as he signed off.
“Holy smokes,” Isbe said, turning the volume back to low.
“Audie and Bobby are with him, Isbe,” Dorie reassured her. “Jules is probably worn out. I’ll bet they’re having a beer right now. “
There was relief—then more worry. “Why wouldn’t he come to me? He could have died! Why wouldn’t he have wanted to be with me? He even met my father! Doesn’t he imagine I’d hear this and be worried sick! Why hasn’t he called at least? Am I that low on his list that he can’t call me when he’s gone through something like this?” Isbe went on and on. Thinking of Jules’s rejection was better than dwelling on how things could have been worse. The other two survivors were in critical condition. It was still uncertain if they’d live. And Jules hadn’t been injured. So where was he? Maybe he held vigil at the hospital.
She needed to hold him; she needed to run her hands over him and see for herself.
Didn’t he know that? Had she been mistaken about the depth of his feelings for her? He’d never said it, wouldn’t be rushed—that he loved her. Of course, she hadn’t wanted to push, and he’d told her he hadn’t said he did, or he didn’t, but the way he looked at her, to
uched her, she’d been certain he felt it too. But to treat her this way, not even a call—maybe it was meeting her father. He’d been favorable on the radio, but had he done something or said something to upset Jules? Had Jules told him about them?
“I’m going to Jules’s boarding house,” Isbe said, already tearing off her soiled clothing.
“You’re not,” Francis said, shying back for the first time when Isbe glared at her. “Wait for him, Isbe. If he truly wanted to reach out right this minute, don’t you think he would?” she added almost sheepishly.
“Francis…I’m not you,” Isbe said, pulling the net off her hair and untying the rags that held her curls.
“What’s that mean?” Francis said, not shying away now.
“You handle things your way; I’ll handle things with Jules my way,” Isbe said hotly.
“You meant something more. Just say it,” Francis said, arms folded.
“I don’t have time to fight with you,” Isbe said, as Dorie retrieved her brush and had Isbe sit.
“I don’t care,” Dorie said. “I’ll be quick.” She parted Isbe’s hair to the side and combed through it, curling the waves around her fingers, pinning the top back a little.
Francis turned toward the door and put her hand on the knob. “I’m only trying to help,” she said quietly before going out.
Francis needed time alone when she was upset. Isbe had no inclination to go after her now anyway. She wanted—needed—to get to Jules.
“I’ll go with you,” Dorie said.
“No. I have to go alone,” Isbe said, but it was Dorie who explained where Jules’s building was. Isbe knew the neighborhood from her date with Jules, but he hadn’t shown her his building. Unlike Jules, Bobby had been very easy and forthcoming about where he lived and where Jules lived.
Isbe fumbled to get presentable. When her nerves threatened to overtake her, she reminded herself, again and again, it was Jules. Her Jules. And he could be in trouble. She had this terrible feeling. There was something. If she were wrong, wonderful, she’d come back home a fool. But Jules would be all right, and she had every hope he’d forgive her for jumping the gun.
But if something were wrong, she’d see for herself. She’d be there when he might need her the most.
She put on what she’d worn to work, a straight navy blue skirt that fell just below her knees and a white blouse. She wore flats because some of those buildings had a lot of stairs. Her legs were bare.
When she was presentable, she went downstairs to call a cab. Dorie was in the hall talking to someone at the door. If it was Bobby, she wouldn’t hold him out that way. Then he spoke. It was Jerry.
Jerry was a good fella. He worked at his father Redver’s gas station in the middle of the city. He’d gone to school with Isbe and tended to show up between girlfriends. For a good meal, he’d fix anything. She hadn’t seen him in a while. Last time she had, she’d told him to stop coming around so much.
Francis swore he was in love with Isbe, and while she knew he had a crush, he was a year younger, and he’d never let on or made a move that might ruin things. Anyway, his dad depended on him. That always seemed to her to be where his focus was. He had girlfriends, a string of them, but he never got serious. About anything.
“Jerry—I need a favor.” That’s what she told him. There he was, the big red pickup sitting at the curb. It would be faster than a cab.
She was soon tooling down the road in the truck’s front seat. Jerry thought he knew where to go. He was good that way. He was also a talker. He talked the whole time, but it was a blessing. His chatter kept her from popping apart.
When they figured out which building belonged to Jules, she realized Jerry had every intention of escorting her.
“No—Jerry—I’m going in alone.”
“You say this is a friend? He’ll understand. What kind of man would I be to let you go in there alone?”
“The kind I need right now,” she answered. “Jerry…”
“I’ll wait here. But if you’re not out in fifteen minutes, I’m coming in.”
She didn’t like that but was frantic to get inside. Anyway, if Jules wasn’t home, she would need more of Jerry’s assistance as she tried to track him down. She knew his diner—she could try Bobby’s. If she found Baboon, he would know about Jules.
And there was Shiney’s. Push came to shove, she’d do it—have Jerry drive her to Shiney’s.
A couple of men sat on a ledge that ran along the stoop of Jules’s building. It was a big square brick bulwark, like so many in this part of the city. The men were crude, and they made some remarks, but she was good at ignoring that. In the lobby, an old smell hit, bad lighting, a desk with smudged glass separating the man sitting there from the population. She went to that window to get Jules’s room number. But when she asked, the weirdo just stared.
“Buster? The number?” she said impatiently.
“None of your business,” he said. “Jules don’t want no one to come up.” The heavy-set guy fingered his puffy lip a little when he said that.
“I’m…a friend. You could call him down then.”
“I don’t do that. He don’t want to see nobody, so scram.”
“I’m his sister. There’s…been a death. Now either you go get him or…I’ll stand here and scream.”
He pulled off his glasses and stared at her. “Screaming ain’t so unusual around here, sister. You go up there, it’s at your own risk. You hear me?”
She nodded. “What room?”
He told her then, and she looked around, pointed to the big staircase at her right. “You tell him it wasn’t me!” he yelled after her.
Up she went, passing three or four men on the stairs, all of them curious, whistles and comments, and she kept going. She reached his floor, a long hall, four bulbs hanging from the ceiling at intervals. Same doors marking every room, same beat-to-heck smudges, numbers painted crude. She found his door, end of the hall, and she knocked. “Jules?” she said up close.
The door across the hall opened then, just a crack, and she knew she was watched. She’d had enough, enough for one night. It was all she could do not to try the knob. She knocked again, more quickly. Please let him be here.
He pulled the door and stood there in all his glory, naked except for his shorts. He’d looked ready for a fight, like hadn’t expected her, at all. The anger was quickly leaving…shock now. “Isbe.”
His eyes full of green surprise, his mouth, her name on his lips, his hand on her arm, the dark tattoo, three soldiers on his arm, light sheen on his chest, and her face against his skin and her arms around him, the salty, sweaty smell of him, and all the want in her, the relief…and anger.
“You didn’t call,” she said, and she was crying from the relief.
He pushed her into the hall and told her to wait. He closed the door, closed her out, and she was blinking at the slab of wood nearly touching her nose. He’d pushed her out.
The door opened again. She’d thought he’d have put on his pants, but no, he pulled her inside. “You came here alone? Isbe…what?”
“You didn’t call,” she said again, and he had his arms around her. “And I heard—they said—you could have been killed. And you killed those men…”
He was comforting her, shushing her as he held her against him. All-out crying now, and strangled words, “You could have been…”
He was stroking her hair against her back, telling her it was all right. “How did you get here?”
Jerry. He could leave now—go home—go away. She had to tell Jerry.
“You smell so clean—like soap,” Jules said. It was from the laundry, but she couldn’t speak now; all the words had run out.
“You shouldn’t have come. You hear me?”
There was no strength in his words, but she wasn’t so detached she didn’t hear the regret in his voice. He held her with his own relief, but he’d meant it when he shoved that door closed in her face. He wished she hadn’t come.
She lifted her head then, to look in his eyes. Her own love slammed her. It always did. Maybe she was letting it rule her, blind her, to where she only imagined he returned it as much…as completely.
“How did you get here?” he asked again. She knew he wanted to blame someone—not thank them. Jerry would be perfect for that.
He had his hands on her arms, holding her a length away now. She had her arms folded against her chest as if protecting herself. He was angry.
“Do you ever think?” he said.
“All the time,” she whispered, finding her voice. She pulled free of him. He followed her with a step. There was nowhere to go. She’d moved to the window, put her hand on the paint-mottled sill. “You killed those men.”
She could see that. There was something on him, the way he stood. He’d softened for her, but not like she knew him.
He was searching for his clothes, grabbing at pants and stepping into them.
“You don’t have to do that. I have a friend…waiting.”
“Who?” he slowed in his movements, working his fly.
“It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to know you were all right. That’s all I needed.” She moved toward the door, but something in his look made her falter.
He was on her in a moment, shoving her to the door, against it. He looked down her, looked up, and she was putty now. “Jules…”
“You…” he said, and he pressed his mouth to hers, and it was a kiss that might earn him a slap across the face. She wasn’t a whore, but she lifted her chin a little, and he came in more, pressed right against her, and she was taking it, would take whatever he dished out; that was the truth.
He pulled back enough to let them breathe, and his hand was on her neck, her throat, the other over her head. She turned her face to the side. He was almost too much…and still not enough.
Just the sounds of their breathing and the traffic below. She had to tell…she had to tell…that fella who brought her…
He moved his long fingers to her chin and turned her face back to him. He kissed her more gently, and she raised her dead arms and reached up to grab his hair and hold his face to hers, and his tongue pushed into her mouth again, and she loved, craved, the taste of his mouth like this; it made her lose herself in him. She moved against him, was barely aware they were moving, then onto his bed, the crunch underneath the scratchy cover, and she didn’t know if she was up or down.