The Eye of the Beholder

by Marc Behm

So did the Eye. He wore glasses now, and was plagued with rheumatism, sciatica, and a hernia. While she was working at the hotel, he spent all his days sitting in a comfortable armchair down in the lobby, doing crossword puzzles and gossiping with the house dick and bellhops. They thought he was a retired dentist from up north somewhere, in Richmond visiting his grandchildren. He was using his own name and credit card, so he had no reason to hide in corners. He enjoyed the repose. He always knew where she was, he had nothing to do but wait for her. She was going through one of her drying-out periods, and he knew she was saving her money, so there was no reason – for the moment, at least – to expect the worst.

  One morning he overheard two swashbuckling traveling salesmen discussing her over their breakfast coffee.

  ‘What do you think of that maid up on the tenth floor? That haircut of hers rouses me.’

  ‘She looks like a garbage man in drag.’

  ‘She’d be okay if she fixed herself up some, got good legs and a fine body.’

  ‘What’re you talking about!’

  ‘You take a close look at her the next time you see her. That’s rainy afternoon ass, boy. She came into my room yesterday just when I was climbing out of the bathtub and I let her get a good look at Moe the Mole. She didn’t mind.’

  ‘What’d she do?’

  ‘Nothing. But, you know, if a determined fellow sort of grabbed her and put her down on the bed and pulled off her panties …’

  ‘Hoo-hooo!’

  ‘She probably wouldn’t say nothing, eh? Probably too afraid of losing her job to make a noise about it.’

  ‘Probably even go for it.’

  ‘Right on. Want to give it a try?’

  ‘Sure. Round robin.’

  ‘Hoo-hooo!’

  The Eye went out and bought two sachets of horse from a pusher who operated around the Edgar Allan Poe shrine. He picked the lock of one of the salesmen’s rooms and hid the stuff in a shoe in the closet. Later he had a chat with his friend the house dick.

  ‘Say, you know those two drummers who are always cutting up in the bar?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re a pain in the ass. Elderly juvenile delinquents.’

  ‘What are they selling anyway?’

  ‘I dunno. Plastics or something.’

  ‘They’re not in the munitions business?’

  ‘The munitions business! What makes you think that?’

  ‘Well, I was eavesdropping on them in the coffee shop this morning – they didn’t know I was listening – and I wasn’t, actually, I just couldn’t help hearing what they said …’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘They were talking about dynamite and TNT, and one of them said it was too dangerous to keep all the powder in here in the hotel. God, I thought maybe they had bombs or something in their rooms.’

  ‘Yeah? Dynamite? TNT?’

  ‘That’s what I thought they said. I probably misunderstood.’

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t STP or DMT?’

  ‘Could be.’

  That evening the two salesmen were busted for possession of drugs.

  A few days later, the house dick came up to him in the lobby, quivering with excitement. ‘See that guy that just left?’

  The Eye was using a new aspirin, and his aches and pains bothered him only when he moved. He’d been sitting at the window, watching the rain and dozing blissfully, dreaming of the corridor. He woke, annoyed. ‘No. What guy?’

  ‘A Federal.’

  ‘A which?’

  ‘FBI. Checkin’ on everybody stayin’ at the hotel.’

  The Eye yawned. ‘Who’s he looking for?’

  ‘Murder suspect.’ The dick showed him the ID composite of Joanna. ‘They call this a composite portrait. It’s made of strips, see – hair, eyes, nose, mouth and chin.’

  ‘“Murder most foul, strange and unnatural.”’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘Is she at the hotel?’

  ‘Nope. But if she’s in Richmond, they’ll get her sure as shit. You can’t stay hid long from them guys.’

  That afternoon the Eye visited Joanna’s boarding-house, a musty, ancient brick building on the river bank. (During the siege of Petersburg Robert E. Lee’s headquarters had been just down the street. All the cars parked along the curb had Confederate flags on their bumpers.) The poodle-faced little woman who ran the place received him in a damp parlor filled with bronze horses under glass domes.

  ‘Federal Bureau of Investigation.’ He showed her a badge. ‘We’re trying to locate a woman named Miss Nita Iqutos. Is she one of your tenants, ma’am?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she barked at him. ‘There are no fugitives from justice residing in this house.’

  ‘Is there anyone here from Los Angeles?’

  She looked startled. ‘Why, yes – Miss Vincent is from Los Angeles.’ (Joanna had been using her old LA alias – she had a social security number in that name.)

  ‘Can I speak to Miss Vincent, please, ma’am?’

  ‘She’s at work.’

  ‘When will she be home?’

  ‘Seven thirty.’

  ‘Would you tell her I’ll be back at –’ He glanced at his watch. ‘No, I can’t make it this evening. Tell her I’ll see her tomorrow night around eight o’clock. Thank you, ma’am.’

  He checked out of the hotel, said goodbye to the house dick, tipped the bellhops, and took a cab back to the boardinghouse at seven thirty-five. Joanna came out the front door at eight ten, carrying only her purse. But she was bulky and moved with padded awkwardness, which meant that she was wearing all her clothes under her raincoat.

  He followed her to the railroad station. She bought a ticket to Washington.

  Amblin’, strayin’

  Ramblin’, prayin’

  I walk in the April sun

  High wayin’, laughin’ an’ cryin’

  Bywayin’, livin’ an’ dyin’

  It’s spring again on Route 61.

  She stayed in Washington for two months, living on her savings, changing her name, wearing a new wig, emerging from her crust of slatternliness, blossoming again. And she met Yale Cyril Polk at a YMCA barn dance. He was sixty-two, a retired National Gallery curator, a hearty, scholarly bachelor, the author of a book called From King Tut to the Men’s Room, a Study of Mural Erotica.

  He took her to Kennedy Center to see Aïda, Der Fliegende Holländer, and the New York Ballet’s production of ’Tis a Pity She’s a Whore. They went to movies and Chinese restaurants, to a folk song festival, a table tennis tournament, a baseball game, and an all-female wrestling match. They spent a weekend together (but in separate rooms) in Ocean City.

  A woman followed them there.

  The Eye, who had grown not only rheumatic but also careless during these last few years, almost missed her. When he finally spotted her, he hobbled to cover, cursing himself.

  She sat in her car outside the motor court for two nights. When Joanna and Yale Cyril Polk went strolling on the boardwalk, she spied on them from the dunes. When they danced and dined and played liars’ dice in a bar, she watched them through the windows. When they drove back to Washington, she was a half-mile behind them all the way.

  She was in her fifties, handsome, pert, and furious. It was her anger that convinced the Eye she couldn’t possibly be a Bureau agent. She was too high-strung for that. He trailed her to an apartment house in Laurel. Her name was (Mrs.) Maybelle Danzig. She was a math teacher in a prep school in Rockville. Until just a few weeks ago she had been Yale Cyril Polk’s steady girlfriend. The D.C. wags called them Ma and Pa.

  The Eye’s radar, after a long sleep, was panting like a tea kettle, picking up storm warnings everywhere. He pilfered one of her love letters from Yale’s mailbox.

  Poor pathetic Lothario,

  Be assured of one thing, you are mine, all mine, and I mean that. You know, Yale, I do not joke about such things with levity and I will not let this vulgar little slut come between us. I know you have a ‘roving eye’ and that ha
s always amused me but this latest escapade is just too outrageous for words and I will not tolerate it. Be assured of one thing I am not the kind of woman one just ‘ditches’, no sir! My late husband, God rest his soul, is probably ‘turning over in his grave’ at the spectacle of my humiliation. But you may be assured of one thing, your heartlessness will not go unpunished Yale & there will be a reckoning!

  Maybelle

  On a warm afternoon in May Yale Cyril withdrew eight thousand dollars from his bank account. He picked up Joanna on K Street and they drove along the Potomac to Harpers Ferry where a justice of the peace married them. They had dinner in Frederick. They were to spend their honeymoon night in a motel near Westminster, then drive to Philadelphia and New York.

  However, there was a change of plans.

  Maybelle Danzig was waiting for them at the motel. It was time for the reckoning. She had a Lüger.

  ‘I love you!’ she screamed. And she shot Yale Cyril once in the leg and once in the back of the shoulder. She shot a hole in Joanna’s valise. A man coming out of one of the units to see what all the noise was about was hit in the hip by a stray bullet. Another bullet killed a barking police dog. ‘I love you, I love you!’ she shrieked again and again, and tried to fire a shot into her temple, but the gun jammed.

  Joanna managed to escape in Yale Cyril’s car. She drove to Baltimore, abandoned the car, threw her wig away, and walked to the Greyhound terminal.

  She sat for hours in the waiting room, just staring at the floor.

  Rain began splashing on the windows. She opened her valise, took out a raincoat, pulled it on over her wedding dress.

  Then she bought a ticket for Trenton, N.J.

  17

  It was three o’clock in the morning when she climbed out of the bus. She put her valise in a locker and walked through the empty streets to State and Broad. She stood on the corner, looking up and down.

  The Eye stepped into a doorway a half-block behind her. What are you going to do now, Joanna?

  She walked up East State past the Bell Telephone Building and the post office, turned down Clinton to the railroad station. There was an all-night restaurant here, so she ate a sandwich and drank a cup of coffee.

  I’m going home.

  She walked to Tyler Street.

  All the houses were gone. The whole block was a vast crater filled with high cranes reaching out of the darkness like dinosaurs’ necks. A spotlight lit up a sign reading BATTLE MONUMENT PARK 4,000 Apartments 20,000 Trees.

  Shit! Then she laughed. In my father’s house are many homes!

  She went back to the terminal for her valise. In the morning she moved into a rooming house on Yard Avenue. In the afternoon she looked for a job. She was hired as a waitress in The Hessian Barracks on West State Street.

  The Eye sat down at his usual place near the front window. He opened a menu.

  Try our Special 13

  Original Colonies Breakfast

  Try our Marquis de Lafayette Salad

  He’d tried both. They sucked.

  There were eight waitresses, two in each quarter of the restaurant, wearing Hessian grenadier tunics, tiny tricorn hats pinned atop periwigs, hip boots, and miniskirts. The half-dozen or so tables in this corner of the room were Joanna’s sector.

  Try our Battle of Trenton Roast Beef

  Try our Delaware Crossing Bake Shop

  Corn Bread & Soda Biscuits.

  She came out of the kitchen, served a couple sitting in front of him.

  ‘Hey, girlie!’ someone called. ‘What about our coffee?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She dropped a spoon. She was wearing her glasses. Her peruke was lopsided, her tricorn had come unpinned. She looked like a cartoon Betsy Ross.

  Try our 1776 Apple Pancakes

  Try our Special Mercer County Bivouac Brunch

  ‘Miss! Miss!’ a woman’s voice chirped, ‘can I have another napkin, please?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Try our $1.50 Dawn’s Early Light Eye Openers

  She dropped a knife.

  ‘Honey!’ a man shouted. ‘I don’t want to rush you or anything like that, but we’ve been waiting here for almost fifteen minutes now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She finally came over to the Eye’s table. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Morning.’ He fumbled with the menu. ‘I’ll have the – the – uhh – eggs with sausage and herbs.’ He had the shakes again. This was his nth meal in the place, but he always began quaking whenever she stood next to him. His trembling subsided in time, as it always did, thank God.

  It was June. The window was open. The sun warmed the backs of his hands. Christ! She’d been working here in this ye fucking olde mess hall for two weeks – no, longer – eighteen days!

  What are you doing, Joanna?

  Waiting. She dropped an armful of menus.

  Waiting for what?

  Waiting. Waiting. She picked up the menus. Waiting …

  The hostess hurried over to the Eye’s table. She was plump and fussy and motherly and always in a state of crisis. ‘We’re so crowded,’ she complained. ‘Would you mind very much sharing your table?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ the Eye said.

  ‘Thank you so much.’ She turned and called, ‘Over here, Lieutenant!’

  Two men came across the room and sat down beside him. They were lean and cool and short-haired. They wore shabby suits. One of them needed a shave. ‘Thanks,’ the lieutenant grinned. The Eye nodded politely. They picked up menus and ignored him.

  Fuzz!

  He closed down his radar, locked it. If he started sending out signals, he knew they would feel the vibes. They were pros, oldtimers, just as attuned to the beams as he was. He turned off all his switches, dials, and buttons.

  ‘What was the sergeant so worked up about?’ Shaggy Cheeks asked.

  ‘Those junkies he grabbed on State Street,’ the lieutenant muttered. ‘One of them was only eleven years old.’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘Father’s a teacher at Junior Three.’

  ‘You eat in this place often?’

  ‘Once in a while. Since they closed Louie’s joint there’s not much choice.’

  The Eye glanced out the window. He had to say something. If he didn’t they’d notice. An innocent bystander wouldn’t just sit here and clam up. He would have to try to start a conversation and let them brush him off.

  ‘Beautiful day,’ he remarked. They smiled at him tiredly. ‘Trenton’s a lovely city. You fellows live here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m just passing through myself. My son’s at Princeton. Going to drive up and see him and –’

  Joanna came to the table, and they ordered. The Eye asked for a pear. She walked off, colliding with another waitress.

  ‘Watch it!’ the girl yelped.

  ‘Sorry,’ Joanna gasped. She fled to the kitchen.

  The lieutenant watched her, chuckling sardonically. ‘Very attractive chick,’ he drawled.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ the other sneered. ‘That monkey suit! It’s too much!’

  They bolted down their food and left. The Eye ate his pear and drank two cups of coffee. When she came to gather up the dishes he whispered to her, ‘Policemen always make me nervous.’

  She looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Those two – they were cops.’

  She shrugged indifferently.

  Balls! She just wasn’t reacting. He sat back and stared at the menu.

  Try our Independence Day Port Wine Melon

  & Clover Honey Baked Grapefruit

  He had to get her out of here. How?

  Try our Hessian Soldier Strudel

  Fuck all! How?

  Try our Yankee Doodle French Fish Courses

  Filets de sole aux raisins à la Thomas Jefferson

  Médaillons de colin à la Ben Franklin

  Brochet grillé à la John Hancock.

  There was only one way.

  He took a train to
Camden and bought a car – a Stone Age Porsche with a rattling washing-machine motor. He paid for it in cash, not bothering to use one of his fake BankAmericards. This proved to be a lucky inspiration, saving him from a rap later, when the police investigated the car’s ownership.

  He drove it back to Trenton and moved into a motel on the Washington Crossing turnpike.

  He then rented another car, a Chevette, which he drove to the motel, too.

  He bought six blank cartridges in a sporting goods store on Greenwood Avenue, and loaded them into the clip of his .45.

  He went to the Broad Street National Bank and cashed ten one-hundred-dollar traveler’s checks. He bundled the money into a package of twenty fifties and put it into an attaché case.

  Then he went back to The Hessian Barracks for supper.

  Joanna was passing and repassing, carrying trays and menus. He waved to her but she didn’t see him.

  He opened the case, took out the wad of money, pretended to conceal it as he counted it. He recounted it. Then he counted it again. And again.

  Finally she walked over to him, removing her glasses and pinching her nose. ‘What will it be tonight?’ she asked listlessly.

  ‘I don’t care.’ He held the wad in both hands, like an offering. ‘Anything at all. I –’ He was trembling. He looked up at her. She was staring out the window. He saw her throat rising out of the open collar of the tunic. He saw the powdery curve of her cheek. He saw her green eyes shining over him, past him, beyond him. He looked down and saw her hand on the table, the crooked finger just beside him.

  She put on her glasses and blinked at him. ‘I beg your pardon …’

  ‘How about an omelet.’ He dropped the bills back into the attaché case. ‘And a salad or something.’

  ‘Mushroom omelet?’

  ‘Sure.’ He set the case on an empty chair. ‘Fine.’

  She walked off. She stopped, looked over her shoulder at the chair.

  Whew.

  By eight o’clock half the tables were filled. The lieutenant came in, alone. He sat down on the opposite side of the room.

  She brought the Eye his omelet.

  ‘He’s back again,’ he said.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘That policeman.’

  ‘Do you want to order your dessert now?’

  Waiting, she whispered. Waiting …