The Exquisite Nudes

by Adam Chase

  The arm across her shoulder tightened. The hand came down. Soft, dreamy words were breathed in her hair. Lips found hers and clung there. . . .

  She pulled away and stood up. "Larry, now really. I hardly know you."

  "I feel as if I had known you all my life. And yet, and yet, Sandra my dear, as if — if indeed I had known you all my life — you would be something new and mysterious to me with every passing moment."

  The record came to an end. The needle slid along the soundless but scratchy mid-record grooves. And the spell, all at once, was broken. The gamelan music, the party, the films, the darkness, Larry's strange way of speaking — all suddenly fell into place as part of an elaborate and worldly line. Even the liquor buzz in her head was part of the plan, Sandra knew. To put it bluntly, Larry Chenault was on the make.

  Sandra walked stiffly from the sofa, across the high-pile carpet. "I'm going now," she said. "You needn't take me home. I'll find a cab. Thanks for — for an interesting evening."

  "Wait!" Larry stood up dramatically, but did not come after her. "Your lips — your lips have seared their memory eternally on my heart."

  From anyone else, those words would have sounded ludicrous. Only Larry Chenault could have put them across, but she wasn't going to admit that to him. She thought — she was wrong, of course, but did not know that — that if she could somehow deflate him at this point their relationship might become one of Platonic friendship. She said, "Oh, come off it Larry. We both know that's a line."

  She smiled. "But I'll bet all the girls in Bali fell for it."

  "We're not in Bali now,"

  Larry said. "We're right here, and you're very beautiful." Two quick strides brought him to her. He tried to kiss her a second time and now she fought him off. She was strong, but he was infinitely stronger —

  She sobbed as his arms embraced her again. The sob became a small scream. Somewhere in the background, there was a discreet knocking sound. The discreet knocking became more insistent. She sobbed again. The knocking became a pounding. Someone — the voice was muffled — called her name.

  The door burst open abruptly. Alabaster white figures filed in. Statues. And someone else, familiar face. . . .

  Sandra fainted.

  Albert ran to her quickly and caught her before she could fall. He carried her carefully to Chenault's sofa, letting her limp body settle there. He chafed her wrists, her ankles. She stirred, but her eyes remained shut. She was breathing easily, though, and her color was good.

  "Who are all these, er, people ?" Chenault demanded.

  Because Albert had not entered his apartment alone. With him were two boxes, one containing statuary repair equipment, including, for some odd reason, a man-sized sledge hammer, and the other containing the now sectioned Ay-rab. With him also were Javeliner, Gladiator, Gray Flannel and Helen II.

  "We'll get to that later," Albert snapped. "You must feel like hot stuff, trying a stunt like that on an innocent girl who — "

  "Really, Sprayregan. That is the name, isn't it?" sneered Chenault. "I don't see where it's any of your business."

  Albert squared off in front of him. "Is that so! It is my business because — because — "

  Arrogantly, Chenault held a well-manicured hand in front of an artificial yawn. "You see, there is no reason. And, as the expression goes, Miss Lewis is free and twenty-one. So, will you kindly take your convoy with you and get the big H out of here?"

  "Not without Sandra."

  "Oh, you can take her. With my good wishes."

  "And not without you apologizing to her."

  "Really, Sprayregan," Chenault said again. "That is something between Miss Lewis and myself, don't you think? You do think, don't you?"

  Perhaps it was, Albert thought. Perhaps he had no business butting in. He certainly did have other things to do tonight, important things, more important things. But — were they? He could not quite put into words what he had in mind, but vaguely he could sense that this argument with Larry Chenault was the most important thing that had ever happened to him.

  Why? He was not prepared to say why, not even to himself. Later on he could think about it, could crystallize it. Now it was enough to know that while he, Albert Sprayregan, could play man of the world to a bunch of naive newly-brought-to-life statues, that did not mean he could assume the role of worldly man among worldly men. Men such as Larry Chenault, the Sprayregan-styled new Lawrence of Arabia. In short, all the fantastic doings of this fantastic night would end in failure unless Albert Sprayregan could assert himself.

  And besides, there was Sandra. Yes, there was Sandra. Indeed, there was Sandra. Even now, while the thoughts ran ramble-scramble through Albert's brain, she sat up and looked about herself in bewilderment.

  She looked at Larry Chenault. And— and Albert! "Albert!" she said. "Oh, Albert, you're here."

  "Making a fool of himself as usual," Chenault said.

  "I want you to apologize to the lady," Albert said.

  Chenault laughed in his face.

  Awkwardly, Albert tried to turn Chenault around and steer him in Sandra's direction. But the explorer balked and stood his ground and finally, when Albert seemed on the verge of surrendering to a stronger will and a stronger man, Chenault hit him.

  It was, Sandra observed with the small part of her mind that could remain completely objective under the circumstances, not a very hard blow. But it was, coming as a complete surprise, hard enough. It upended Albert and deposited him on the floor.

  "That's all right, Albert," Sandra said. "I know — I know you meant well."

  "Meant well!" gasped the seated Albert. "Meant well," he repeated the words. His face looked suddenly, unexpectedly — fierce. Fierce was the only word Sandra could think of. He sprang to his feet.

  Easily, effortlessly, Chenault knocked him down again.

  "Hey, Albert," Javelin called. "Whatsamatter, Albert?"

  Albert shook his head. And shook it again. He was seeing double, and it took several seconds for the annoying visual disturbance to subside. When it did, he became aware of Sandra looking at him. There was a tender expression on her face. Tender, yes. But full of— pity. Pity for him, for Albert Sprayregan, champion of the Clarepepper statuary, for Albert Sprayregan, a new man tonight. For Albert Sprayregan, who, if he continued in this uneven battle, would get the stuffings knocked out of himself.

  And there was Javeliner and the other statues — looking at him. Javeliner, thoughtful. Thinking — but what was Javeliner thinking? What would a statue think? Disappointment, of course. To Javeliner, Albert had been something special. Albert had been The Boss. And to Helen II — Albert sighed. The disappointment on Javeliner's face was mirrored and magnified on Helen II's lovely countenance.

  Albert got up a second time. Chenault knocked him down a third time.

  He had hooked his left hand at the base of Albert's jaw. He was very good at it. Albert hardly knew any defense. Albert was no expert boxer, and apparently Chenault listed that among his many accomplishments.

  "Hey, Albert," Javeliner almost groaned. "Jeez, I thought you would know how to handle yourself."

  "You know something, Gladiator," Helen II said slowly, "I might have been wrong about you. Maybe we can have some fun together at that. Not in the museum, of course. Who wants to go back to the stuffy old museum? I mean, out in the great big world. What do you say?"

  Gladiator eyed her lasciviously. "That, baby," he said, "suits me."

  "But you've got to return to the Clarepepper Gallery," Albert pleaded — not very convincingly from his location on the floor. "You — you're statues. I know how you must feel about being cooped up but I'm sure we can work out some kind of compromise."

  "Not with you, big shot," Gladiator said. Gray Flannel nodded firmly. Helen II avoided Albert's eyes. Javeliner looked befuddled.

  Albert got up on his knees.

  He looked up at Chenault. Cocky, arrogant, waiting for him with a cocksure smile, Chenault seemed gigantic. Albert wishe
d that somewhere along the line he had learned to box. Or to wrestle. Anything. Something. . . .

  From his knees, he launched himself at Chenault's legs. This new form of attack took the explorer by surprise, and Albert, as much to his surprise as anybody else's, succeeded in flooring his antagonist. As they rolled over and over on the floor, struggling, Albert heard a happy sigh from Sandra and heard Javeliner cry:

  "Attaboy, Boss!"

  "Aw, he was just lucky," Gladiator said.

  And it seemed that Gladiator was correct. Because Chenault fought his way clear and stood up. He was annoyed now. He looked angry. His suit had been mussed, and his hair, and there was a red bruise on his left cheek. "I'm going to teach you a lesson you won't forget," he said, waiting for Albert to climb to his feet.

  Albert got up slowly. The room was spinning, spinning. He lunged at Chenault. Then he sat down again. He had been hit again, he realized. But except for a certain numbness in his head and the fact that he was once more on the seat of his pants, he had hardly felt it. That was the thing about fighting, he thought. From a distance, it looked fearful. From a distance, it looked like the pain of jarring physical contact was itself enough to finish you off. But it did not work that way. You fought, and you were hardly aware of being hit. If, for example, you could protect the vulnerable spots, the spots that, physiologically, could beat you, you might actually make a fight of it.

  Albert climbed unsteadily to his feet. This time he guarded his jaw. This time he ducked his head, tucking his chin almost against his chest. This time he was ready — or, at least beginning to learn how to be ready.

  He picked off two left hooks with his forearms, but then Chenault changed his attack and drove his right fist at Albert's unprotected belly. Albert doubled over slowly and Chenault rabbit-punched him on the way down.

  This time he hit the floor with his face.

  Chenault prodded him with an expensive, hand-stitched shoe. Albert, who could barely breathe now, rolled over swiftly and grabbed the explorer's ankle, twisting. With an oath, Chenault came down on top of him. Albert kicked up with his legs, pretzel-bending his body and getting his heels locked over Chenault's shoulders. He lunged and Chenault fell over backwards, his head hitting the floor with a resounding thud. He got up. Albert got up. Both of them looked dazed and all but beaten. From this point, Albert told himself, we're about on even terms. They waded into one another, fists flailing. Albert knew how to protect himself now, face and gut. He took the best that Chenault could throw at him, and hardly felt the blows. That was it, he knew. That was the secret of fighting.

  It was more than the secret of fighting. It was the secret of facing a hard, often hostile world. You did not give up. You did not nurse your hurts. You fought back, and if you fought back hard enough and honestly enough, the hurts were nothing. You never felt them until the fighting was over, and it was time enough to worry about nursing them at that time — provided you won. If you did not win, then it hardly mattered.

  And Albert was going to win. He knew that now. He knew that there was a basic difference between him and Chenault. He knew that Chenault was fast and flashy, but that he had lasting power, finishing power. Chenault was unbeatable — as long as he was on top. But hurt him, baffle him, damage him — and you had him on the ropes.

  Albert's entire head was numb from the blows it had taken. Numb, not painful. It might throb with pain later, but now there was no time for pain. Now it was only numb.

  "Go get him, Boss!" cried Javeliner.

  "Oh, Albert, Albert!" Helen II purred.

  Albert waded into the faltering Chenault now. Right and left, right and left. Chenault's face looked bruised and ugly. Perhaps Albert's did, too, but Albert was smiling through the blood. He swung his arms, his dead-weight arms. He felt the bone-jarring thud of contact as his fists connected, felt the hardness of Chenault's jaw and cheekbones. Then, finally, he was punching air.

  And Chenault, reduced to a battered, beaten hulk, lay at his feet.

  "Albert!" screamed Helen II in delight, running at him.

  He held her off at arm's length. "Keep away," he said.

  "No fraternization. I have a compromise worked out for you statues, and we'll talk about it later."

  "Later?" said Javeliner. "Aw, but boss. . . ."

  "Did you say statues?" gasped Sandra.

  "We'll talk about that later, too," Albert told her.

  "Oh, Albert. You're hurt. You're bleeding."

  "That can wait, too. Get some water."

  "Of course, Albert. Whatever you say, Albert." Sandra took the ice bucket, ran into the kitchen with it, returned sloshing water. "You want me to bathe your face, Albert? Poor Albert."

  "No. Of course not. Give me the water, please."

  Obediently, Sandra handed him the bucket. From his full height Albert poured the contents on Larry Chenault's face. Chenault spluttered, sat up.

  "I have a statue here," Albert said. "Damaged. It's of an Arab and I want to make sure I put it together properly. I want your help. I also want you to promise you won't tell anyone, ever, about what you see here in this room tonight."

  "You can take that statue," Chenault said, "and — "

  Albert reached down and grabbed his tie, yanking the top half of his body up. "Do we have to go all through what we went through, again?" he asked mildly but significantly.

  Chenault's bruised face blanched. "No," he said. "No, please."

  "Then you'll help us?" There was a pause. Then Chenault said: "Yes. Whatever you want." And he meant it. He was beaten. You could tell it from his voice.

  They worked on Ay-rab until the first gray dawn light was seeping into the room. Finally, the statue was complete once more. Albert looked at it and nudged the now haggard Chenault, "Well?"

  "He's perfect," Chenault said unhappily.

  "And you'll remember what you promised?"

  Chenault nodded. "Hell, what choice do I have, Sprayregan? Apparently you're determined to keep these — uh, living statues, a secret. If you're determined, you're determined. There's no stopping you."

  "Yes," Sandra said dreamily. "Isn't it wonderful?"

  "But what about us?" protested Javeliner. "You can't expect us to stay put on our pedestals all our lives, can you? We'll go nuts. Give us a break. ..."

  "I have it all figured out," he said. "At night you're free to rove the museum. But not outside. You saw what a tough time we had coming here. That's the compromise. Is it a deal?"

  "What about the rest of the world?" Gladiator demanded sulkily.

  "Your world will be the corridors and hallways of the museum. It has to be that way," said Albert. "You understand. With absolutely no exceptions."

  Ay-rab said, "I'm for Mr. Albert. Whatever he wants is plenty all right with me."

  "Be reasonable," Albert told the others. "It's more than any statues before you ever had. Isn't it?"

  "Yeah, but — " began Javeliner.

  "That's enough," Albert said. "Take it or leave it."

  Sandra smiled at him. "You bully," she said, teasing.

  Javeliner finally shrugged his marble shoulders. "We better play ball, Boss. But not because you convinced us. You want to know why?"

  Albert nodded.

  "Because we wouldn't want to cross a guy like you, that's why. We'd have to be crazy even to try it. Right, guys?"

  "Right," said Gladiator.

  "I guess so," said Helen II.

  Gray Flannel nodded.

  "Well, that wraps it up," Albert said. "Larry, go down and get your car. We'd better hurry back to the museum. There's a watchman we'll have to free and take into our confidence. Under the circumstances, he ought to play ball."

  "I'll get the car right now, Mr. Sprayregan," Chenault said, and took out a few minutes to clean his face, then left the apartment.

  "Mr. Sprayregan," Sandra said. "That's what he called you."

  Albert looked at her sternly. "As for you, young lady, don't get yourself into any more compromisi
ng situations. Understand?"

  "Yes, Albert. I understand. Whatever you say, Albert."

  "Maybe," Gladiator suggested, "you ought to keep her out of compromising situations."

  "That sounds like a great idea, Boss," said Javeliner.

  Albert looked at Sandra. She came close to him and snuggled against him. "Maybe it is a good idea," Albert said. But he only said maybe. Actually, he knew it was a great idea.

  the end