Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused
As I walked toward her she threw her cigarette on the coffee table, burning it, got to her feet. I stopped. I didn't have the slightest doubt in my mind that she could (and would) not only beat me, but kill me.
I turned and went to the closet, took my hat and coat. She walked over to the door, asked, “Where you go?”
“You can stay here, I'm leaving.” I said, full of fear as I walked by her, expecting those big hands on me as I opened the door. A draft of cold air hit her naked body.
“George!”
I was safely outside. I turned and asked what she wanted, or maybe I merely opened my mouth and tried to talk: I was so upset my mouth was cotton dry.
“On Montag... Monday... you bring Lee money like before? Yes? No?”
I wanted to scream, tell her to go straight to hell, but she had me over a barrel. I nodded and walked away from my own house.
I walked down Park Avenue, trying desperately to think. I was in a rough spot. Would the police suspect me of murdering Hank? I didn't have an alibi, or even the faintest idea where I was on the night Hank was murdered. In fact I didn't know the exact date. I was probably out at Southampton, but that wasn't an alibi. Would the police really suspect me? For all I knew the note for the money, my living with this backward girl, might be enough to convict me, hold me for trial. Actually, I wasn't worrying about a murder rap so much, I was worrying like hell about the mess it would stir up, the juicy newspaper stories... as if I had been found robbing and sleeping with a ten-year-old girl. That note made it much more than merely an affair.
If this ever hit the papers, got out... what could I do? Run away? Kill myself? I could see the whole world staring at me; “they” would be pointing a million fingers of shame and scorn at me. (Actually, if I had been able to reason it out I would have realized that the worst the scandal could do to me would be the loss of my job, my few friends. As for the murder angle, it would never stand up in any court, but the very thought of a trial made me hysterical.) My comfortable velvet rut was being smashed to tiny pieces.
As I walked I thought of a hundred outs: call a mental institution, tell them there was a lunatic living in my house; get in touch with Ellis Island, Lee was certainly an undesirable alien; I even considered something as “basic” as getting her out of the house by a money ruse, then changing the locks and let her raise hell. And all the time I knew I couldn't do anything as long as she held that damn receipt. Without that piece of paper it might not be too bad, her word against mine. Living with a backward girl wasn't a crime, but with that note, my great “cleverness” exposed, that meant I was a heel of the first water... they might even call it some sort of forced prostitution, with the girl getting paid with her own money—which, as the old joke says, makes it rape. I wondered just how “backward” Lee was, when she had found the note, how long it took her to understand its power?
I had a headache by the time I reached 42nd Street and it suddenly occurred to me I was homeless, had to find a place to sleep. I was also hungry. I had a sandwich and coffee, walked west till I reached the Turkish bath. I took a room for the night and didn't even bother with the baths.
But I couldn't sleep and in the middle of the night I went downstairs, sat in the pine steam room and brooded. I was really in hell.
In the morning I realized I didn't have a clean shirt and I bought one and a pair of socks, changed in the men's room of a hotel, throwing my old clothes away. After breakfast and a shave, I stopped at the bank and cashed a two hundred dollar check. It was another shock to find I had a little under $1500 left of the seven thousand. I had given Eddie a grand, spent another on her clothes, we had spent over a thousand—plus my salary—eating out, doing the town, and giving her a hundred a week accounted for another thousand.
I'd slept a few hours at the baths and now I spent the morning trying to think of an out. Harvey was away on a story, so I had the office to myself. I fixed the approximate date of Hank's death, sent my secretary out to buy old copies of the Times. Joe came in to find out what horses I had, looked surprised when I told him I'd forgotten to play that morning. He was full of a lot of breezy small talk and when he left, I read and reread the newspaper reports of Hank's death. There wasn't much to go on, evidently the police never considered the murder angle too much. I wondered how I could get them interested in the case again—without getting them interested in one George Jackson.
I dropped into Jake Webster's office. He said, “Early, Mr. Jackson, first race ain't started yet.”
I told him I was going to do a feature on him for the Sun and he puffed up with pleasure. Then I said, “By the way, Jake, you know police methods. I'm writing a piece of fiction, going to try it on the Saturday Evening Post, but I'm in doubt about some of the police details.”
“You came to the right party, Mr. Jackson. If I had the right people behind me, no telling how high I would have gone in the department. What do you want to know?”
“Well, in this story I'm making up,” I said, picking my words carefully, “the girl was once suspected of killing her husband. He was a lush and died as a result of a fall....”
“He was a no-good,” Jake said, nodding.
“Well... yes. Anyway, he fell or was pushed down a steep flight of... eh... stairs, and died. The police made a routine investigation, called it an accident. But the hero of my yarn is suspicious of the girl. Now it's several months since the 'accident' happened. At the time, the gal's alibi was that she was down in the basement using the washing machine. Nobody saw her, the police took her at her word. As I said, months have gone by, the case is forgotten. Supposing the hero tried playing detective, wanted to get the cops interested in the killing again, what would he do?”
“You mean the hero wants to turn in the wife of this no-good?” Jake asked, as if it was impossible.
“Yes.”
“But Mr. Jackson, in most stories it would be the cops trying to pin a bum rap on the gal and the hero saving her, especially if she's a pretty babe and...?”
“This one is absolutely ravishing, but she's bad. It's a new twist,” I added, almost smiling. “How would my hero go about it?”
“Tell you, Mr. Jackson, you ain't giving the hero much to go on. Like whether she was or wasn't at the washing machine. Your dick could go back to the house, question the other people there, and get no place. You got to count on the fact the cops did that too, at the time of the killing. Why don't you dream up some eh... thing, like a woman remembering she argued with her at the washing machine because maybe some colors ran and spoiled the woman's laundry, and it was the shirt she give her husband for his birthday, so that made it the day before the killing, or something like that? Get what I mean, using a washing machine ain't nothing anybody could remember months later. In fact, if the gal was a murderess, that would be a smart alibi—it's simple. Them complicated alibis are the ones that fall apart. Even if someone claimed they did remember she wasn't at the machine, it would never hold up in court, unless you got a... a... thing to prove it. Understand?”
“Yes. Looks like I'm stuck with my story.”
“Well, change it. To get the cops interested, you'd have to come up with new evidence. Have her do something else, like buying something where you can use the date on the salescheck to prove what you want.”
“Suppose the hero merely called the police, an anonymous call?” I said, knowing damn well I couldn't do that, the way things stood I didn't want the police in on it, I would only be involved.
“No good, they get crank calls all the time. Unless the guy gives them some new evidence over the phone. I'd like to see the story when it's done, always get a bang out of a detective yarn. Say, when you going to start the... eh... article on me? Jesus, my wife will go crazy when she hears this. Know what, I won't tell her, show it to her when it comes out. She'll be fit to be tied.”
“I'll have Harvey stop in when he returns, get the data and all that. Might be a while before I can schedule it.” I started for the door.
Jake called out, “See you later. Got anything good running?”
“Didn't put a bet down to-day. I haven't anything good—running or otherwise.”
Back in my office I found I hadn't blended any tobacco lately, had to smoke a name brand, which annoyed me. I smoked my pipe and thought about my troubles. Any idea of proving Lee had murdered Hank was out. As Jake said, I didn't have a damn thing to go on. And if I ever went back and started questioning the janitor of her apartment, the fellow might get suspicious, call the police. He'd surely remember me taking her clothes some months ago. No, I had to stay clear of the law, or be involved, and that would mean, at the very least, headlines and scandal. There was also another bright thought hidden in my mind which made me break out into a cold sweat—fantastic as it seemed, it wasn't impossible that I might be held and convicted of the murder! The money, keeping Lee, could be strong circumstantial evidence. And I had absolutely no proof I didn't kill Hank. For the average person who lives alone it's almost impossible to establish an alibi for any particular time.
The net result of all my thinking was a headache. All I could do now, I decided, was to sit tight till Monday when I'd give Lee her hundred dollars. Just what would happen then, I didn't know, but there wasn't a thing to do till then—except find a room and clothes.
I took off early in the afternoon, took a room and bath at the Hotel Taft, bought a suit, shirts and underclothes, and a pair of shoes. That night I looked around my room, felt so low I went out and got slightly drunk. I'd never felt homeless before, and it was an awful sensation. I suppose what I missed most was my basement studio. Dancing always had more of a relaxing effect on me than drink.
The next morning I bet on a horse called Frame-up and won, and felt a lot better. Also a drunken sleep had convinced me I wasn't in any real danger of being accused of murder, pr even a scandal. All I had to do was buy the note from Lee, wait a few weeks, then inform Flo I was no longer living on 74A Street, have Flo throw Lee out. It all seemed as simple as that.
I had dinner that night with Joe and it was a relief to listen to his corny chatter. I didn't tell him about being thrown out of my place, but when I had supper with him the following evening he asked, “You and your doll have a fight? You got lot of time on your mitts.”
“Something like that.
Joe sighed. “Interesting looking dish—what a pair of shakers.
“Where did you ever see her?” My voice was sharp.
Joe grinned. “Slow down, George, I ain't beating your time. I saw you out with her once, going into some swank restaurant on East 53rd Street. I love them tall, big, dolls—something to grab.”
“Well don't ever think of grabbing this one—she'd break your arms,” I said.
He slapped me on the back. “I don't play in nobody's backyard, at least nobody that's a buddy of mine. First time I ever saw you chasing, but I can see why—she must put down some powerful stuff between the sheets.” He laughed and gave me another stupid slap on the back.
I laughed politely and thought I'd better change my address in the office files. Now and then they called me if a big shot flew into town suddenly. I certainly didn't want Joe, or anybody else, barging in on Lee.
Saturday night I went up to Henderson's for some poker. The house looked the same and I thought how amazing it was that a house with an oil burner practically ran itself. Joe and two friends of his were already there, watching Henderson dunk pretzels and cheese in his beer. We played till three in the morning. As we were leaving, Henderson counted the sixteen dollars he'd won, said to me, “Stick around, George, want to talk to you.”
I said good-night to Joe and the others, poured myself a beer. Henderson said, “Beer and food cost me nearly five dollars, so I made a net of eleven dollars. Not bad for an old man. You know the other day I was in the subway and some young snip of a girl stood up to give me her seat. I ignored her and then she had the gall to say, 'Sit down, pop,' I said to her, 'Young lady, it's true I am older than you, but that isn't any reason to offer me your seat. Why did you do it?' She said, 'Well, you're less able to stand than I am.' I shut her up with, 'And since when in our society do the weak and the aged, the less able, get any special consideration?' And as if to prove my point, while we were arguing, a husky young boy slipped into the seat. Nerve of that girl!” Henderson chuckled.
I waited. He hadn't asked me to stay for the sake of small talk. He said, “When are you coming back, George?”
“I don't know. Anything happening downstairs?”
“Quiet as usual. Are you done with her, or what? It isn't any of my business, but it has spoiled my window watching some... the waiting for your return.”
“We had a fight and I left, walked out. Does she ever leave the house?” I said before I realized it was a stupid question—she had to go out for food.
“Oh, yes, leaves the house every third day, for about twenty minutes. Buys groceries. There's no other man coming around, if that's what you want to know.”
I grinned—God how I wished there was another man!
“How does she look?”
“Same as usual.”
“I have to see her Monday. By the way, if you want me for anything, something goes wrong with the house, call me at the office. Meantime, I'd better have the oil tank filled.”
On Monday I arranged with Joe to send one of his men around with some oil. Since this was piped in through an opening in the sidewalk, it wouldn't disturb Lee. That night, after supper, I took a cab up to the house, rang the bell. There wasn't any answer. I rang again and called her name. There were a few seconds of silence, then she opened the door.
