“Now relax, you guys,” the bartender said. “What’s the sense of getting yourselves all stirred up?”
“Let him throw one,” the soldier said, swinging his arms out from his body and going down in a little crouch. “Go ahead, let him!”
A good kid, Earl thought; he didn’t scare worth a damn. He felt suddenly warm and protective toward him; this one would be okay, he thought. He was worth teaching… Grinning tightly, he said, “When you fight for real, you don’t play by the Book—always remember that.”
He dropped his left shoulder and snapped a hook at the boy’s head. But he stopped the punch instantly, as the soldier moved to block it. For an instant Earl checked himself, seeing the sudden fear and comprehension in the boy’s face. He was wide open and he knew it, suckered out of position by the feint. Earl didn’t mean to hit him; a token tap would have proved his point. But the confusing anger shook him suddenly, and he pulled the trigger on the punch, snapping it into the boy’s unguarded stomach with the power of a mule kick behind it.
The soldier went down, gasping in pain, his feet kicking spasmodically, his mouth opening and closing as he gulped for air.
“For Christ’s sake,” one of the men said hoarsely.
“He’s not hurt,” Earl said, wetting his lips. “He’s just out of wind.” His hands hung limply at his sides, and a hot shame ran through him; the three men were staring at him as if he were something dirty. “Look, he’s all right,” he said, as the soldier worked himself up to a sitting position. “Here, I’ll give you a hand, kid. Just walk a little, that’ll help.”
But the man in the suede jacket pushed him away. “Never mind, you helped him enough.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“Okay, okay,” the man said. “Why don’t you go back and finish your drink?”
“I was just showing him something for his own good.”
“Go finish your drink. Forget it.”
The three men helped the boy into a booth. He put his head on his arms, and cried in a low, strangling voice, “Tell him not to go away, hear? Tell him, will you? I’ll be okay in a second. I’ll fix him.”
“Sure,” one of his friends said, rubbing his shoulders gently with the palm of his hand. “He caught you with a low one. Don’t you worry, kid.”
Earl walked slowly back to his stool, his whole body burning with shame. Why had he done it? Why had he hit him like that? He picked up his change with fingers that trembled helplessly, and then got into his old black overcoat. “I was just trying to show him something,” he said to the bartender.
Mac looked at him steadily. “You showed him,” he said.
“I just wanted to show him, that’s all. It’s something he should know, damn it.”
“Sure,” Mac nodded slowly. “He’s nineteen years old. A big hero on his furlough. You showed him all right, Earl.”
“Well, for Christ’s sake,” Earl said helplessly. “Tell him—tell him I’m sorry. Okay? Tell him, will you?”
“Sure, Earl. I’ll tell him.”
Outside Earl walked quickly through the darkness, the wind bitterly cold against his hot cheeks. Halfway down the block he stopped and looked back at the warm red neon sign that hung above the tavern. He stared at it for a few seconds, his arms limp at his sides, and then he rubbed the back of his hand roughly over his mouth and started for home.
CHAPTER THREE
IN THE APARTMENT Earl snapped on the lights and the television set, and then walked up and down the floor for a while, rubbing his big hands together slowly. Well, to hell with it, he thought. That was all you could say sometimes—to hell with it. He didn’t know why things went wrong with him, but worrying about it didn’t help any; he knew that much at least.
Shrugging, he settled himself on the couch, lighted a cigarette and put his feet up on the coffee table. The apartment as usual was neat as a pin; Lorraine whipped everything into shape before she left for work. Against one wall stood a small white bar decorated with drink recipes in crooked black letters, and topped with cocktail glasses on wicker coasters. A coffee table and ottoman faced the television set during the day but at night these were moved aside to make room for their pull-out sofa. Lorraine had installed a small light over her side of the bed so that she could work nights on her figures and reports; this was a compromise for his benefit because he liked to watch the late TV shows in the drowsy semidarkness. They spent a lot of evenings that way, Lorraine working with cream shining on her face, and Earl smoking and watching the old movies flickering across the screen.
Now, as the set cleared, he sat up expectantly; he liked the children’s shows that came on at this hour. The crazy antics of the little animated figures usually prodded him out of a depression that settled on him as night approached; for some reason he disliked the look of darkness pressing against the windows. The lights in nearby houses and the silhouettes of people against drawn curtains always filled him with a restless and bitter loneliness.
Usually the cartoons were an antidote against this mood. He had a warm feeling toward the announcer on the show, a brash and boyish-looking young man, who wore bow ties and chattered in a silly, funny way to his audience. His name was Danny Doodle, and he pretended to get mixed up during the commercials, saying things such as, “Use your doodle, and listen to your old friend, Danny Noodle, I mean Danny Doodle, and tell your nice moodle, I mean your nice mother, to use her doodle, her noodle, for Heaven’s sakes, and buy some of those doodley delicious oatmeal wafers the first doodle in the morning…” Earl usually found the program good for a lot of laughs. But tonight was different; there was a black patch of anxiety in his mind that refused to be driven away by Danny Doodle’s lighthearted nonsense. Finally he got up irritably and snapped off the set. As he watched blackness spread over the screen he realized that a similar thing was happening in his mind; the black patch of anxiety on the edge of his thoughts grew larger and larger until it finally flooded everything else from his consciousness. Novak, he thought, pacing the floor slowly, his body coiling and tense—that was the heart of the blackness. What to do about the offer? How to figure the deal…
He couldn’t pin down precisely what was bothering him; but this was a familiar frustration, this inability to isolate and analyze his problems. He was caught in a welter of vague, confusing fears, and the struggle to fight his way free tightened the bonds; his nerves strained and the pressure grew within him as he attempted to think himself toward a logical decision.
It wasn’t the money. Fifty thousand dollars. It was an abstract, meaningless sum to him. He had no need for it. So why take a chance? He lived here for nothing. Everything taken care of. Clothes, food, even spending money, ten bucks on the dot every Monday morning. You never had it so good, he thought. You found a home… The old Army taunts stung him. He had to get out; he’d always known that. He couldn’t live here like a pet cat. It was time for him to do something for Lorraine. Marry her, get a regular job and make a regular home. But it wasn’t just getting out of this deal. It was more than that. It was being important again…
Why in the hell was he thinking about the Army so much, he wondered, his eyes flicking to the uniformed picture of himself that Lorraine had hung on the wall. The Army was no bargain. He frowned at the picture, a tinted, blownup snapshot a buddy of his had taken near Antwerp. Not much change over the years. Same weight, same shape. Lorraine liked the picture, he figured, or she wouldn’t have spent eighteen dollars for a fancy silver frame. She was funny about money; she’d complain about a light bill or something, and then turn around and spend ten or twelve bucks for dinner and a few drinks at some fancy restaurant on Saturday night.
He wandered into the kitchen and looked at the clock. She should be along pretty soon. Unless something came up, of course. And trust Mr. Poole to think of something. Poole, the boss, treated the store as if it was some fabulous dame, hanging around as if he couldn’t get enough of the place. Always stewing and worrying about it: why wasn’t the
tuna-fish sandwich special selling, and who forgot to put up the new display cards, and why the drug business was off… yakkity-yak, Earl thought, grinning a little as he thought of how Lorraine mimicked Poole sometimes.
On the chance that she’d be on time, he began to get dinner ready, taking three fat pork chops from the icebox, and then peeling a half-dozen potatoes and dropping them into a saucepan of salted water. She would bring the things for salad. Salad was her department. She was always quoting the stuff she got from promotion booklets sent to the store by food growers. “It’s the best nourishment there is for your hair and skin,” she told him frequently. To him it was just rabbit food.
After everything was set out for their dinner, he took a long shower, standing limp under the needle spray and letting the water drive against his shoulders and rush down his lean body. Drying himself he looked critically at his arms and waist; still in good shape, he thought, though his only exercise was trotting down to the corner delicatessen for late sandwiches and beer. He didn’t look old—not much older than the young soldier at the bar, he decided. With water glinting in his coarse black hair, and his eyes dark against his tanned face, he could pass for a guy in his middle or late twenties maybe. An athlete, that’s what you’d take him for… His body was brown and hard, padded with springy and deceptively flat muscles. The bullet wound in his shoulder and the shrapnel scar on his leg had faded over the years; they had been angry-looking for a long time, but now they were almost lost in the surrounding flesh.
He put on faded khaki slacks and loafers, his mood cheerful and confident again; even counting delays, she’d be along any minute. With a drink and a cigarette he stretched out on the couch, savoring the cleanness of his bare arms and shoulders and the interacting pleasures of alcohol and nicotine. But as the minutes dragged on and on, he began to get restless; damn Poole, he thought furiously.
He got up and looked at the clock, trying to banish the fears and worries that picked at his composure. It was nine thirty then; but still she didn’t come. It wasn’t until after ten that he heard her key in the door, and by then his mood had sunk to a level of flat and bitter indifference.
When she came in he looked at her and said, “What the hell kept you? It’s after ten, do you realize that?”
“I know, I know,” she said a bit breathlessly. She gave him a quick hug, and then hurried into the kitchen without bothering to take off her coat. “It was a rat race all day long. Big shots from the home office snooping around, a row with Eddie over his wisecracking with customers, and then a session with Poole on the Friday menus.” Her eyes flicked around the kitchen as she talked, checking the pork chops, the two neatly set trays, the saucepan full of peeled potatoes. “You must be starved, honey.”
“I could eat,” he said, as he freshened his drink at the bar. “I had a pretty busy day, too, you know.”
She turned and looked at him for an instant in silence, her eyes wide and dark. “I’m sure you did,” she said, speaking in a careful voice. “What did Mr. Novak want?”
“Novak?” Earl lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “He’s got a job for me, that’s all.”
“What kind of a job?”
“Well, we just talked things over in general terms. Feeling each other out, I guess you’d call it.”
She took a tentative step toward him, one hand moving to her throat. “Earl,” she said, watching his face anxiously. “Novak—he’s a friend of Lefty Bowers, isn’t he?”
“I told you that this morning.”
“And you knew Bowers in jail, didn’t you?”
“Look, cut out the Mr. District Attorney routine,” he said, smiling a little. “Yeah, I knew Bowers in jail. He told Novak about me. That’s all.” Earl shrugged and took a sip from his drink. “It’s how things work sometimes. You know, contacts; a guy puts in a good word for a friend. It’s the way the business world operates.”
“What did Novak want with you? Why did he call you?”
“Lory, you’re getting yourself worked up about nothing. I told you, he offered me a job. If I was taking it I’d tell you all about it, naturally. But I’m thinking it over. So there’s nothing to talk about.”
She turned away, sighing. “Would you fix me a drink?” she said.
“Come on. Cheer up. What do you want?”
“Something on the rocks. With a little water.” She sighed again but this time she smiled faintly. “It’s nice to be home, anyway. I’ll freshen up a bit while you fix the drinks. We can talk about everything after dinner.”
“Sure, that’s the ticket.”
She hurried off, but called back from the bathroom, “Earl! Did you pick up my gray dress from the cleaners? I left you a note about it on the television.”
He glanced at the set; there was a note there all right, propped up against a cigarette box. “I didn’t see it,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Oh, damn! Well, there’ll be time in the morning.” The bathroom closed on the last of the sentence, and the shower began to run. Earl shrugged and went about making her drink. She always needed something to worry about, he thought. There was a sense of urgency about everything she did, a kind of high physical tension that charged her with mettlesome excitement. That had been the thing that attracted him at first, the reason he had made himself start a conversation with her at the drug store… When was that? A year or so ago, anyway. She was just average-looking, with a wide, pale face and black shoulder-length hair, but her high-strung, responsive-looking body had been a real challenge; he had wanted to know her tensions directly and intimately, to calm her down, and gentle her with his own hard needs.
He had been prepared for an explosion; that was the way she looked, desperate for some kind of release. But he learned that she never hit very high peaks of emotion; the sense of quivering excitement wasn’t an act, but it was fed by any damned thing that came along. A world war or a World Series, it wouldn’t make any difference to Lorraine, he thought, grinning a little.
When she came out of the bathroom she frowned at her drink and said, “This looks pretty strong. Did you put any water in it?”
“A little.”
“It looks strong. Do we need any whisky, by the way? I saw some bourbon today that looked like a real buy. Six years old, four dollars and nine cents a fifth. That’s pretty good, isn’t it?”
“You can’t go wrong at that price.”
“I’ll get a couple of bottles tomorrow.” She had put on slacks and a blue cashmere sweater, and tied her long hair back in a pony tail; in the soft and flattering light she might have passed for a young girl. “Do you want some cheese and crackers?” she said. “It’s going to take some time for the potatoes to cook.”
“No, I’m fine.”
She talked to him as she puttered in the kitchen. “Did you see the story about those high-school boys in the auto wreck? I can’t imagine why they give driving licenses to lunatics like that. Two of them were killed—one of the boys’ fathers is president of the Atlas Packing Company. I don’t suppose his money is any comfort to him tonight.”
“I guess not,” Earl said.
He stretched out on the sofa, as Lory flitted irrelevantly from topic to topic, her voice holding no more significance for him than the clink of utensils and the crackling of the heating frying pan. Finally she came in with her drink and sat beside him on the sofa. He was staring at the ceiling, thinking of his own problems; he was hardly conscious of the light weight of her hips against his side.
She rubbed the palm of her hand slowly over his bare chest. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked him.
“Nothing. I’m okay.”
“How’s your drink?”
“It’s okay. Everything’s fine, Lory.” He saw that she was all tightened up; a pulse was pounding in her throat, and her hands were unsteady as she lighted a cigarette. “Tell me what Novak wanted,” she demanded suddenly. “Please tell me, Earl. Please. It isn’t fair to make me worry like this.”
�
��There’s nothing to tell,” he said, his voice sharpening with irritation. “He offered me a job. I don’t know whether I want any part of it. So relax, for God’s sake.”
“It’s something crooked, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be acting like this if it weren’t.” She shook her head quickly, her eyes bright and cold with fear. “Don’t do this to me, Earl. Please. I feel you’re heading for trouble. It’s like a weight crushing me so I can’t breathe. I can’t think of anything else.”
“Except Friday’s menu and Eddie’s wisecracking with customers,” he said impatiently. “Stop working yourself up, Lory. This thing can’t hurt you, no matter which way it goes. You got nothing to worry about.”
She looked at him for a moment in silence, and then stood and went quietly into the kitchen. He heard her take the frying pan from the stove and switch off the burner. When she returned and turned out the lights in the living room he knew from the sound of her footsteps that she had slipped off her loafers. “How could you say that?” she said; her voice was trembling, and when she snuggled down beside him he felt her tears on his bare shoulders. “I’d die if anything happened to you—don’t you know that?”
“Sure, Lory,” he said, sighing. “Sure.”
“We don’t need anything from anybody,” she said. “We’ve got all we need, a home for just you and me. Don’t do what Novak wants, Earl. Promise me that, honey!” She was whispering the words against his chest, but a thread of fierce and desperate determination ran through her soft voice. “Will you promise me, Earl?”
He felt a faint desire for her; the darkness and the whisky, and the soft fragrance of her body wrapped themselves around him warmly and excitingly, tempting him to forget Novak, to forget everything but the easy, convenient pleasure she was offering him. But his need wasn’t enough to counterbalance his irritation; he knew she was just using her body as part of the locks and bars of her quilted little prison. Forget Novak, forget everything and sink back into oblivion with her—that’s all she wanted. But he couldn’t work up any anger, either; he understood her needs, and there was pity mixed with his exasperation.
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