steroidally rounded, while Bush’s strength was more muted. But, no doubt: Both were strong men. And even though Stallone was given to interminable perorations toward the wind-up of each of his movies, both he and Arnold generally let their strength speak for itself.
After the movie, they repaired to the nearby Elias Bros. Big Boy. Each ate generously from the buffet and salad bar. But then, each was a fair-sized person. After dessert there was an awkward moment. What now?
“Well,” Bush said, with a tone of finality.
“Well.” The word took on a little life coming from Agnes. “Well, the evening’s young.”
“Oh?”
“I was thinking maybe we could go to your place.”
Most of the other men at the morgue would have given their severance pay for such an open-ended invitation from “Jugs.” But Bush was uncertain. There were all those pictures on his walls. What would Aggie think of that? And besides . . . “My place ain’t very much.”
“I kind of figured that, Arnie. You go to economy movies. You drive an economy car. I figured you’d live in an economy flat. But I like that.”
Well, then, to hell with the pictures! “Okay, let’s go.”
The drive to Bush’s apartment took only about twenty minutes. When they arrived, Agnes had to admit that she hadn’t been mistaken. A lesser woman would have phrased it that her worst fears were realized. But, somehow, Agnes was able to view the largely deserted area as an economy neighborhood. She said as much. Arnold was pleased.
He led the way up the rickety stairs and hesitated only a moment before he unlocked and opened the door. He knew this was the moment of truth—an inevitable moment.
He entered the room, turned on the single overhead light, and stood aside. Agnes entered, smiling at the room’s spartan dimensions. Then she saw the walls. “Arnie, the pictures!” she shrieked.
“I was afraid of this.”
After her initial shock, she took a closer look. “Why, Arnie, they’re the two prostitutes that we had in . . . the serial killings.”
“Uh-huh.” He feared the worst.
She stepped closer to examine the pictures more carefully, moving from wall to wall. All in all, she did not find the pictures as distasteful as almost anyone else would have. After all, she had seen the corpses in the flesh. If anything, she appreciated the photographer’s technical excellence. However, one anomaly puzzled her. “Arnie, how come you got pictures of the whores on three walls and holy pictures on the other wall? I mean, how does the Blessed Mother figure in this?”
“Are you a Catholic?”
“No . . . why?”
“You knew it was the Blessed Mother.”
“Good God, Arnie, everybody knows that.”
“I suppose.” That Agnes was not a Catholic was not an earth-shattering revelation. But it would have been nice had they shared the same faith.
“So,” Agnes returned, “how come you got all these pictures on your walls?”
“No special reason. Some of it is my work. And the rest of it is my religion.”
“Oh.” Agnes would have pursued the subject a bit further but there was a more pressing matter. She looked around. “Arnie, where’s your bathroom?”
“At the end of the hall.” He went to the doorway and pointed to the open door at the end of the corridor. “Nobody’s using it now.”
Agnes smiled valiantly and, purse in hand, traveled the short distance to the floor’s one and only bathroom. She admired economy, but there was a limit. She equated separate facilities with the more primitive outhouse. She did not care for either.
Beyond responding to the call of nature, she inserted her personally prescribed diaphragm. One never knew how these evenings might end, and Agnes knew better than to trust a man to have a supply of condoms. However, what with the herpes and AIDS epidemic, she also came prepared with condoms to supply any prospective partner. Better safe than sorry, she reminded herself regularly.
She returned to the room to find Arnold standing uncertainly near the only window. He looked as if he felt trapped and was more comfortable near one of the room’s two exits.
Agnes sat on the bed and patted the space next to her, an invitation to Arnold to join her.
Instead, he took one of the two straightback chairs. He did not know what to make of her. At least she did not complain about his cigarettes. He had been smoking all evening. Although she did not join in, neither did she shrink from the clouds of smoke that had permeated the atmosphere around them. There was something to be said, he thought, for a woman who did not object to another person’s smoking these days.
But this invitation to join her on the bed? Confusing. All evening he had scrupulously treated her with all the respect due a good woman. Just as he’d been taught by all those nuns and priests in Catholic schools.
Agnes did not seem upset that Arnold had disregarded her invitation. She appeared gratified with what she took to be his naivete.
“That’s nice,” Agnes said.
“What’s nice?”
“That you think so much of your religion . . . that you’ve got all these religious pictures on your wall. You don’t find many men like this these days.”
“I suppose. I never thought about it.”
“That’s another nice thing: that it comes to you so natural. You don’t even have to think about it.”
Bush shrugged. He was still trying to figure out what she was up to and where all this was leading.
“I also liked the way you took such special care of those two women.” She indicated the photos of the two mutilated corpses.
“You did?” This genuinely surprised Bush.
“Yes. Not everybody would have done that. Oh, I heard the dirty jokes some of the guys were telling about those poor women. It turned my stomach.” She indicated the turned area. Then she moved her hand up her body, accentuating the already clearly defined area of her breasts.
Bush felt sexual stirrings.
“But,” Agnes continued, “you protected them, even in death. I saw how you tended to them. Wouldn’t let anyone else handle them. Even fought for them! That’s when I really began to wonder about you, Arnie. I’ll bet you took good care of your mother, didn’t you? A woman can tell that sort of thing.”
“I didn’t know my mother,” Bush said flatly.
“Didn’t know your mother! You poor thing. And yet your heart can go out to these poor creatures who were so badly treated. So brutally murdered. All that and you didn’t even have a chance to know your own mother. You really are one in a million, Arnie Bush.” Agnes rose from the bed and moved just behind Arnold’s chair. She began to knead his shoulders.
Bush was thoroughly confused.
“They say you’re not married . . . that right?”
He nodded.
“Ever been married?”
He shook his head.
“Ever had a girl?”
He shrugged.
“Any girl’d be proud to have you for her fella, Arnie.”
He sat motionless.
She stopped kneading his shoulders. What was she doing? He could hear some sound but he couldn’t identify it.
Suddenly she stepped in front of him. She was only inches away. She had removed her dress, revealing a black lace bra and half-slip, and a lot of body. Agnes was proud of her body. She had reason to be.
“Well, Arnie?”
Bush gasped. He was immobilized. He didn’t know what to do. He was used to being in charge of things. This
