by Ed Lacy
Across from the Grover there's an old drugstore which I give all the hotel business. I dropped in there and Sam said, “Marty, don't tell me you need a new supply so soon.”
“I want to buy a small bottle of perfume. Something going for about three bucks. Wrap it up nice.”
“What kind?”
“How would I know? Anything that smells strong.”
Sam showed me a bottle that was all glass with about four drops of yellow liquid that looked like a doctor's sample. “This is the real stuff, from Paris and no lie.”
“All right. By the way, Sam, I get calls for sleeping pills now and then. Let me have a box of goof balls.”
Sam reached under the counter, then showed me a tiny box. “These are the newest thing on the market. Put you to sleep but no drugs, no chance of anything going wrong.”
“I want the old kind, the strong ones.”
“Marty, you don't understand, these are safe. You can take the whole box and your heart won't burst, or your lungs get paralyzed.”
“Sam, I want goof balls.”
He had heavy lids and when he got excited the lids seemed to droop, giving him an evil expression. “Marty, you need a doctor's prescription for those.”
“Stop horsing around. Sam, you know me. When a guy asks for a pill, pays for it, I have to give him what he wants. Don't worry, I won't give him more than two. Think I want to get into trouble?”
“But they're damn strict these days. I can lose my license, my store, maybe worse.”
“You put them in a plain box—I found them in one of the rooms when a guest checked out.”
“Marty, you have no idea how tight they are on sleeping pills and sedatives. I can't take the chance.” His fat face was troubled, his eyes nearly shut.
“All right, if you want me to start dealing with another ...”
“Marty, be reasonable!”
“I'm asking you for a simple favor and you're making a production out of it. What's wrong with you, Sam? You think I'd be nuts, giving some clown too many?”
The lids opened a little and after a moment he whispered, “Okay, but remember, if anything happens, I'll swear you never got them here.”
Sam went behind the clouded glass partition in the rear of his store, returned in a few minutes with a plain pillbox which he crudely palmed in my hand as we shook hands— although we were alone in the store. He said, “No charge. Just pay for the perfume. You can have that wholesale—a dollar seventy-three.”
“How many pills are in here?”
“A dozen. I'll cover it in my inventory—somehow.”
“To be on the safe side, what's a fatal dose?”
“Marty, don't talk like that!”
“Hell, Sam, I got to know.”
“Well, never give more than two during a twelve-hour period. Maybe three if the party looks young, but not even one if the party is old and looks like his ticker is shot.”
“Would five or six taken at one time kill?”
“Marty, what are you saying? Suppose somebody overheard us! Any time you give a party five or six at one time, leave town fast.”
“All right, and thanks. Don't worry, Sam.”
I took the subway uptown and got myself in the rush hour, so I was all sweaty when I shoved my way out at Ninety-sixth Street. I took a three-buck room in a large hotel on One Hundredth Street, but not big enough to sport a house dick. I registered under my own name, said I came from Jersey City, paid in advance for two days.
It was a better room than any we had at the Grover. My stomach started rumbling and when that was over I sat on the bed and stared at the light brown walls—there's nothing as lonely as a hotel room. I wanted to see Flo. I went down to the lobby and tried looking her up in the phone book, but she might have married half a dozen times since I last saw her.
I walked along Broadway, considered going up to see Lilly and getting my dough, only what did I need dough for now? Still, I didn't like for people to put something over on me. The neighborhood had changed. When I worked out of the precinct on One Hundredth Street, it used to be all micks with a lot of Jews. Now it was full of spicks.
I was walking around like a damn tourist, so I took a cab down to the Fifty-second Street night club. It was near seven and a porter was sweeping up, taking the chairs off the tables. A roly-poly bartender was washing glasses, getting ready for the night. He looked at me nervously, asked, “What can I do for you?” He had a fat face and an even fatter mouth. When he talked, it looked like his head was coming off.
“I want the home address of Flo Harris,” I said, the proper growl in my voice.
“Flo? Flo who?”
“Come on, fatso, the 'Divine Flame,' one of your strippers.”
“She'll be here about ten and you can...”
“I want to see her now.”
“You a cop?” His voice was a bull whisper.
“What do I look like?”
“A cop.” He sighed. “If she's in a jam we'll cancel her act right...”
“She ain't in trouble. But I need to see her—now.”
“I'll see if I can locate her.”
He waddled from behind the bar over to a door and a second later some drip who looked like a younger Mr. King stuck his sharp puss out of the office and gave me the eye. When the barkeep returned a moment later he told me she was living in a Forty-sixth Street hotel and her name was Mrs. Flo York.
I told him, “All right. Don't phone her Fm coming, or I'll close you up.”
“You got us wrong—we always co-operate with the police. We have to. Care for a shot?”
“No. But I'll take a mint leaf.”
“A mint leaf?”
“Sure, my mother was frightened by a cow.”
He put a few leaves on a plate and I walked out chewing them.
The hotel was one of these ratty dumps you find in the Times Square area, worse than the Grover because it suffered more daily wear and tear. Flo was in 417. As I knocked on the door I wondered if I'd have to throw “Mr. York” out.
Flo looked great when she opened the door. She was wearing a light print dress that sort of showed off the curves without bragging about them. Her face was minus make-up and except for a few lines around her eyes, she hadn't aged. She said, “Marty!” Said it big and her teeth showed her real age.
“Hello, Flo. Can I come in?”
She stepped aside and it was a seedy room, the walls with old dirty rose wallpaper—bedbug traps—and space enough for a crummy metal bed, a small dresser covered with bottles and jars of cosmetics, one skinny chair, a metal bed table, and clothing piled atop her two suitcases in the corner.
Flo had on low-heeled shoes, the way I always liked her best, and her long black hair hung off the back of her head in a horse's tail. She waved a hand at the room. “Not much, hey, Marty?”
I smiled, took some underthings off the chair and sat down. I tossed the things on the bed. Flo always was sloppy. I had a feeling I was home.
She stared at me with hard, suspicious eyes, said sarcastically, “Make yourself comfortable!”
“I did. You haven't changed a bit, not even the acid in your voice.”
“What's on your mind, Marty?” She looked around for a cigarette. I dug in my pockets, didn't have a pack. She finally found some on the dresser, lit one as she held out the pack to me.
oI shook my head.
Flo blew a cloud of smoke in my face. “Used to be a chain smoker, Marty. What's the matter, believe this lung-cancer stuff?”
“Lost my taste. Who's afraid of lung cancer?” I said, laughing—my own little joke I was stuck with.
She puffed a few more times, waiting, then asked, “What do you want?”
“Not a thing. Merely dropped in to see you. Saw your picture in front of the club and got your address. Where did you get the York handle?”
“Left that louse couple of years ago. Didn't I read about you being bounced from the force?”
“Aha. But they fixed
it so I retired on physical disability, said I was 'nervous.' I saw you in the movies a couple of times.”
She sat on the bed. Aside from a few tiny veins starting to show, her legs were as perfect as ever.
“Come up to see my legs, Marty?” she asked, raising her skirt.
“Don't think so. I could drop into the club if I wanted to see them.”
She ran her eyes over my clothes, my shoes. “If you came for a handout, you're wasting time.”
“I never held my hand out to you. Told you I'm on a pension. And I have a two-bit job. You need a couple of bills?”
“You giving me something? That's a twist. Come on, Marty, I have a show to make. What's this all about?”
“Nothing. Wanted to see you, talk to you. Lately I got to thinking about us, the way it was real fine—at the start.”
She puffed on her butt like an engine. “Selling something, Marty?”
“What's wrong with a joker getting a yen to see his ex-wife? Here.” I took out Barbara's perfume. “I brought you a little gift.”
Flo stared at the tiny package as if she expected it to snap at her, then slowly opened the gift wrapping, said, “Oh, it's some Clichy! This is real sweet of you.”
“Nothing much—ten bucks.”
“Ten bucks your ass but it's the nicest gift I ever got,” Flo said quickly, and for a moment I thought she was either going to cry or put on an act. Her hand hugged the bottle. “Marty, you really do want to see me.”
“Sure. What's the matter—don't guys chase you any more?”
“I don't mean that. Would you believe it, Marty, I was thinking about you recently, too.”
“No, I wouldn't believe it.”
She suddenly laughed and crushed the cigarette, came over and sat on my lap. “You're still the same mean sonofabitch, the only stud I ever knew who didn't bull me, took me as I was.”
“Sometimes you were quite a lot, Flo,” I said, opening the back of her dress, then giving up the idea. It felt swell having Flo on my lap, smelling her, talking to her.
“I know, sometimes we were real good, and then other times...” She nibbled at the lobe of my ear, the right one that used to be cauliflowered. “Marty, I'm sick of a lot of things. Lousy hotel rooms, stale night-club dressing rooms. I'm sick of climbing. I was foolish, never even knew exactly what I was aiming for.”
“You mean you're getting on. You were all right, Flo, except you never stopped bouncing.”
“And you, you never bounced at all, a big solid lump, proud of your fists, like a kid.”
“Guess so, ambition never bothered me.”
She took my hands and pressed them over her breasts. I remembered now how we used to joke in bed—I'd press her nipples and say, “Special delivery.” Flo put her head back on my shoulder, said, “I've had it, Marty, had it over my head.” She paused. “I have time, want to go to bed?”
“Maybe later. Let's talk.”
“Since when did you get to be a talker?”
“Since a few days ago.”
“Your hands are still so rough and strong, so good. Isn't it nutty, an ugly buzzard like you still sending me? Oh, Marty, I'm not bulling you, I have been thinking of you.”
“What were you thinking?” I asked as a belch tore at my guts. I turned my head and let the gas out slowly.
“I'm done in show biz, I'm going no place but down now. Another year and I won't even be able to get these stinking dates. I got me a big house out on Long Island, way out, near Montauk. It can be fixed up so we have about thirty rooms. I have a couple living there now, keeping it up—and keeping me broke. That's why I'm living in this dumpy hotel.”
“How did you get the place?” I asked, stroking her long hair. It was very soft and her neck and shoulders were as firm as an athlete's.
“A fan of mine got pie-eyed one week end, gave it to me. Don't worry, it's all mine, I have the deed. I've been holding it over a year, waiting for somebody like you. Marty, the two of us could move out there, make it into a first-class hotel.”
“I've got a head start along those lines—I'm a hotel dick.”
She clapped her hands. “An omen! A sign we should be back together!”
“You still go in for star reading, palms, and all that other junk?”
“Seriously, Marty, we can make a go of it, live well. That's all I want out of life from now on, to live graciously. I've seen how some of these rich cats do it, and this hotel will be our meal ticket. We hire a man and wife to cook and clean the rooms. I have it all planned—it will be a kind of joint where people come to rest, take it easy. No kids, no drunks. Expensive but not ritzy. Get what I mean—fine food, quiet, lounging around the beach, fishing. And we'll live just like the guests. We won't get rich but nobody breaks their back either. Buy it?”
“Sounds great. I wouldn't mind a lot of sun and sleeping late.”
Flo squirmed on my lap. “Marty, all we need is a couple of grand worth of good furniture. I'll do the decorating and you be a handy-Andy. I'll make you a one-third partner.”
“Nope, not for me.”
Her voice rose. “You said it sounded great. What the hell you want—half? Okay, make it fifty-fifty. I know enough rich Johns and toney theatrical people we can get as a starter. Then in time, we build up the...”
“Honey, I can't do it.”
“Damn you, Marty, I'm not asking you for any dough. The joint is free and clear. I can raise a few grand on it from any bank. Hell, I can sell it any time I want for nearly forty thousand!”
“Flo, you don't understand. I'd go for the deal without any partnership, even put up the dough. The trouble is, it's too late for me.”
“What makes it...? Hey! Marty, you married, got kids?”
“Nope, you were the last Mrs. Bond. It's something else.”
“What else can it be?” Flo asked, making a bra out of my hands.
I didn't answer and she gave me a know-it-all smile, then reached over and picked up the perfume from the bed. She opened the bottle and put a few drops behind each ear, then pulled her dress off her shoulders. “I go with the house, too, Marty. You know that. This time it will be for keeps. I still have time to try for a kid, if you want.”
The damn perfume smelled like lilies of the valley, the flowers they have at funerals. I lifted Flo off my lap, sat her on the bed—the sure smile was still on her face.
The perfume stink gave me the creeps, like death was following me around. I felt the box of goof balls in my pocket, headed for the door. “So long, Flo, it was nice seeing you.”
“Marty!” She came running across the room, grabbed my coat. “Marty, what's the matter, what did I say wrong?”
“You said everything right. It's a good offer, so is your bed. And we'd make a go of the hotel, probably be very happy leading a nice slow life, grow old gracefully, and all that slop.”
“Why is that slop?”
“It isn't, it's great, only I can't make it.” Taking her hands off my sleeve, I opened the door. “I'll be dead by Saturday. 'Bye, Flo.”
Walking down the hall to the elevator I wondered why I had to be such a dramatic ham. I felt lousy. And it would be good out there with Flo, away from crummy hotels, the smell of insecticide, watching people. We'd have a station wagon and I'd meet the trains, maybe tend the desk, and knock off for a few hours of surf fishing anytime I wanted. It was a great buy—for a healthy joker.
I stood outside the hotel for a while. It was a bit cooler.
I walked over to Broadway, stared at all the cheap gaudy lights, the hicks—from out of town and in town—walking up and down the Stem, enjoying all this phony sparkle, the tough kids in jeans and black leather windbreakers who needed a belt in the slats—or something to do. At one time Broadway used to give me a bang, now it looked like a freak show.
I stopped and had a couple of hot dogs, a coconut drink, then walked uptown. I kept looking around like a stranger, feeling terribly dramatic and sorry for myself—and knowing I was enjoyi
ng every second of it. It was like there were two of me—one guy saying, “Look around, get a full whiff of this.” And the other saying, “Cut it, there's nothing left but to go to the hotel room, take the sleeping pills and you've had it.”
I stared into each passing face, hoping I'd see somebody I knew. Maybe a jerk from the army, a... I suddenly remembered Art. At least I ought to call him. I reached him at his home and he started bawling me out, adding, “He'll soak you double now for missing your appointment. What happened to you?”