Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused
“She goes out every third day. Always at one, stays out about a half hour, maybe a little less,” he said. “You were in the house yesterday.”
“I had to get some personal belongings—that's when I remembered she has to leave the house. About a half hour?”
Henderson nodded. For a while he ate his mess quietly, then asked, “George, what's going on downstairs?”
“Why? I mean, is there something going on?”
“Nothing I can put my finger on, but the house gives me an uneasy... a... well, downright queasy feeling. And you, there's something different about you, and I don't mean only this junior detective role you're playing. It's—don't know exactly what it is but... look, your suit isn't freshly pressed, you're wearing the same shirt for the second day. George, you're not the old George anymore. What's going on between you two? And where's Slob. Haven't seen him for weeks.”
“Didn't I tell you, a hair ball almost strangled him, the vet had to put him out of the way.”
“Too bad, an intelligent animal,” Henderson said. “One of the contradictions of our society, we can perform a mercy death on an animal, but humans must go on suffering. And how about you—you swallow a hair ball, too?”
“Nothing is the matter,” I lied casually. “Hell, might as well tell you, we're having a spat and I'm having a little trouble getting rid of her. You know how those things run.” I stood up, ran my hand over the copper statue of Man O' War. “Francis, I'm learning a great bit of wisdom I should have known years ago—never bring your women to your own house.”
“That's all it is, sacking your woman?” he asked, not believing me.
“That's all. Take me a little time to straighten out.”
“All right,” the old man said, “only tell her to keep a cleaner house. Been seeing roaches lately.”
“I'll try to do what I can. How're the horses coming?” I asked, changing the subject.
We talked for a while, banal talk mostly, then I took the bus back to the office. Lee had shopped yesterday, that meant I had to wait one more day before she went out again. Tomorrow I'd go up and start searching. The whole idea left me jumpy, I was so damn scared of her. The idea of a gun came back when I passed a drugstore next to Radio City Music Hall. They had children's cap pistols in the window that looked like real .45s, or at least what I thought a .45 looked like. I only had three dollars for food to last the rest of the week, but I spent a dollar for one of those guns. The only thing that made it look phony was the silver finish of the handle. I purchased a small tin of black enamel and went to my room to have supper on a bottle of beer and two bits worth of cheese and crackers, which was filling if not nourishing. I carefully painted the pistol black and hung it up to dry. I was as intent as a kid with a new toy, and by midnight it had dried and the damn thing actually looked like a gun. Just handling it gave me an air of assurance, even though I knew it was all downright silly.
The following day I was hanging around the corner of 74th and Park at fifteen to one. I was sure Lee would turn toward Lexington to shop. Promptly at one I saw her leave the house, a heavy short sweater over an ankle-length evening dress she had. When she was out of sight, like the villain in a bad movie I held the “gun” in my pocket, walked down the block, let myself in.
The house wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, she had cleaned the day before. I quickly started on my list of possible hiding places. The panel was empty, but behind a row of books I found nearly three hundred bucks carefully wrapped in a dirty handkerchief. I didn't touch that, but kept looking—one eye on my wrist watch. Under a carpet I found another wad of money, and in one of the closets a shoe box heavy with pennies, dimes, and a few quarters. It was a terrific temptation not to take some of the money, but I left it alone—I wasn't after money this time, couldn't risk spoiling my chances of getting the note.
By one-fifteen I'd covered everything except the kitchen, bathroom, and my dance studio downstairs. I looked the place over carefully, to be sure I hadn't left any drawers open, or any evidence of my search, then left. I walked back to the corner and waited. A few minutes later Lee turned the corner at Lexington, went into the house, munching on something from the bag in her arm.
Three days later, on a Sunday, I was back on my corner, thinking that Sundays couldn't alter her schedule—she had to eat. The street was fairly crowded, people going to the church across from the house. I wondered where she would shop, although some of the delicatessens on Lexington were probably open. At one, Lee came out, dressed rather smartly in a heavy cloth coat I'd bought for her and a simple tarn. It was a raw afternoon but I was sweating and hot—with fright.
Slipping my “gun” into my outside overcoat pocket, I walked quickly to the house, unlocked the door. If most of the stores were closed on Sundays, that meant Lee might have to take more time shopping—or less time. The apartment smelled of stale air and old food. I went down to the dance floor, started searching. I had a stroke of luck—on the spur of the moment I went through the various record albums. She had hidden it cleverly, no money or anything, merely the little piece of paper that was the note tucked in with a record. I jammed it in my pocket ran up the steps and into the living room. I still had ten minutes to spare and I went to the two piles of money I'd discovered the other day, took a few tens from each pile. I locked the door, and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, sweating furiously but feeling wonderful. I saw Lee turn the corner, a small paper bag in her hand. There was no doubt about it being her, she was so big. I could go up and see Henderson, but if he didn't answer the door at once, Lee would find me. I dashed across the street, joined the people going to church. I was pretty sure Lee hadn't seen me.
I sat in the rear of the church about ten minutes, listening to some choir-singing that was very restful, then I walked out, hailed a cab at Lexington Avenue. I wanted to drink but the bars weren't open yet, so I gave the cabbie Joe's address. I counted the money I had taken (or stolen) from Lee. I had seventy dollars. That meant I'd be paying her with her own money—once more—but that for the next week anyway, I could live and eat decently again.
Joe and his kid were sleeping off a hangover. Joe came to the door in his underwear, half asleep, looking bloated and sloppy. I had a few fast drinks with him, went to the bathroom and burned the note, flushing it down the toilet.
I stared at the rushing water and almost cried, I was so relieved; there wasn't any possible link, fantastic, circumstantial, or otherwise, that could connect me in any way with Hank's death.
Joe wanted me to hang around, he was expecting some girls over later in the day but I was feeling too good to listen to his chatter all day. At the door, I was kidding him about being so fat and he punched me on the arm and we sparred and wrestled like kids. I suppose I was so gay Joe was surprised—he looked at me rather oddly as I left.
I wanted to see Flo, but she was out. I went to the Turkish bath, sat in the steam-room for a long time, had a rubdown, and came out feeling very clean and refreshed. I had a big steak and lobster dinner, went to a favorite little bar on East 46th for cocktails, and took a room in the Hotel New Yorker for the night.
I was jittery all day Monday, but knew I could duck seeing Lee that night. As I rang her bell, I dug my hand in my left pocket, held the toy gun firmly. She'd certainly be in a vicious mood if she'd discovered the money and the note were gone.
But she seemed as calm and blank as ever, counted the hundred I gave her, asked if I wanted to come in. I said no and she said, “You return next Monday with money?” It wasn't exactly a question, more of a statement.
I said I would and walked away. At the next corner I tossed my would-be gun into a garbage can.
I felt very good... I even had a few bucks to spend that week.
Chapter 7
I HAD DESTROYED the note, there never was any note. In a way I now had nothing to fear, nothing real. I could have stopped giving Lee money, I could have thrown her out. Or, if I wanted to risk my life, I could return to the house and steal a hundred each week, pay her off with her own money... again.
I could have told Lee to take off, or anything I wanted to, and it would have been all right; nothing would have happened to me. Sure, she might raise a rumpus, but who would listen to her, know about it, care? Maybe Marion Henderson, Joe, Flo. Flo I could handle and even if I lost my job—who has a guaranteed job these days? Not even civil service workers.
I could have done any of a number of things and been free of Lee, but we are so conditioned to fear scandal (and what does the word really mean?), so deathly frightened of what “They may say...” that I went on giving Lee the hundred a week, scrimping by on $25 per myself.
I had almost become accustomed to even that, but Christmas wrecked me, threw me way off. Or maybe Christmas had nothing to do with it and I was merely fed up with my crummy room, my worn clothes, lack of good food, no dancing—not even a bathtub to soak in.
When Henderson gave me the December rent it was a severe effort not to go on a bender with it. It was extremely difficult to forward it to Flo. I had a strong desire to see Flo, and I certainly wanted to give her a Christmas present.
I needed quick money.
I dropped in on Jake Webster one morning, asked, “Jake, without arousing any suspicions or fuss, can you find out in what bank a Francis F. Henderson worked? I'm fairly sure it was a Manhattan bank, and he worked as a tailor about fifteen years ago.”
“Can do, Mr. Jackson, I know people who work for the bonding companies. The guy dip into the till?”
“No, nothing like that. He's a friend of mine and I was thinking of playing a practical joke on him. You know, clown stuff. Of course, if it's too much trouble or inconvenience for you, why....” And at the moment I was honestly praying Jake would say he couldn't do it.
“Naw, just a matter of a couple phone calls,” Jake said.
Later in the afternoon he told me Henderson had worked for the New York National Bank in their 23rd Street branch.
I went up to see Henderson that night and on the way up I lost my nerve—it was such a despicable thing to do. I decided I'd merely borrow a hundred from him, and if I needed more dough—steal it from Lee.
The old man was listening to the radio, rolling some cigarettes full of Turkish tobacco with a little machine he had. There was a bottle of Irish whiskey and we had a few long drinks, then I asked, “Francis, I'm rather badly strapped for cash. Can you lend me a hundred?”
“Well,” he said, hesitating, “for how long?”
“Oh, couple weeks, a month or two,” I said a little angry. After all he was warm with money and a hundred wasn't a big bite to him.
“I suppose so, only don't make it more than a month.”
I got steamed, or maybe it was the whiskey talking, for I suddenly said, “Don't be so cheap, Henderson. Suppose I make it several thousand and you make it a gift!”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice low.
I nodded toward the statue of Man O' War. “It's like this: there's a bank on 23rd Street which might be interested in one of its former tellers, by name of Francis Henderson, who likes horses and who suddenly retired. And who once told me not all bank tellers who bet on the ponies—with the bank's dough—are caught.” As soon as I said it I knew it hadn't come off right.
Henderson's eyes went large as he said like a soft sigh, “George—Jesus!” There was an uneasy, flat, silence for a moment, then he yelled, “George! Get out of here, you blackmailing bastard!”
“Now wait,” I began, trying to make my voice sound strong. “You're in no....”
“I'm going to tell you something, you louse, then I'm going to kick your tail out of here, or die trying,” Henderson said, his old wrinkled face sickly and pale.
“No point in flying off the handle, we can work this...”
“Shut your filthy mouth! Oh, you've caught me, but only in a lie. Sure I worked as a teller, was a real mousey type, too. As for stealing, I wouldn't even take an extra Christmas calendar without asking first. But you're right—I am a gambler. I had a sister who ran away from home, married a real gambler. She died almost twenty years ago, left me everything she had: her furniture—including this statue of the horse, and a fair amount of money. I always wanted to gamble and never had the nerve, but I took the biggest gamble of my life—I retired. I've been living on three thousand a year, on the assumption that I'll die before the money runs out. It's a race, and I'm betting on my bank book outlasting my life span. I'm down to less than six thousand now, which means I have to die in two years or I'll be in a bad way. Why do you think I play such a tight game of poker? The money I win means days and hours to me. And now you... you....”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Henderson, but I'm in a jam and I thought you had all kinds of coin. Not that that's any excuse for the way I acted,” I said weakly.
He stared at me for a moment and his face seemed to relax.
He shook his head. “I'm sorry for you, George, and I can't understand you. Why you and I are—were—alike. I thought we knew how to live, to look at the world, we're sophisticated in the true sense of the word. But stooping to this, my God! You'd better leave. I'm pretty worked up about this, please leave before I say things that will hurt both of us, place me on your level.”
I took my coat, opened the door, said, “Francis, forgive me. I don't know what came over me.”
He said, “There's no point in anger. Perhaps in a few months we can even be friends again. But until I ask you, I'd rather you don't come up here again. I'll send my rent directly to Flo.”
There wasn't anything I could say, so I went out. It was a cold raw night, looked like snow and I didn't have enough money to get a decent drunk on at any bar. I bought a quart of wine and went to my room.
