The 1st Deadly Sin

He was suddenly conscious of the pain, in his left elbow, in his bleeding face. Then he was running, holding his injured left elbow close to his body, calculating possibilities and probabilities, but never once considered casting aside the sweetheart rose.

The body on the sidewalk should stop them for a moment, one of them at least, and as he turned onto First Avenue he stopped running, shoved the rose into his righthand coat pocket, fished out a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and held it across his bleeding face, coughing and coughing. He went into a luncheonette, two doors down from the corner. Still coughing, his bleeding face concealed by his handkerchief, he walked steadily to the phone booth in the rear. He actually clamped the handkerchief with his shoulder and took a coin from his righthand pocket to put in and dial the weather service. He was listening to a disembodied voice say, “Small craft warnings are in effect from Charleston to Block Island,” when, watching, he saw a uniformed cop run by the luncheonette with drawn gun. Blank left the phone booth immediately, still coughing, handkerchief to face. There was an empty cab stopped for a light at 81st Street. Luck. Wasn’t it all luck?

He asked the driver, politely, to take him to the west side bus terminal. His voice-to his own ears, at least- was steady. When the light changed and the cab started off, he pushed to the far left corner where the driver couldn’t see him in his rear view mirror without obvious craning. Then Blank held out his right hand, fingers spread. They didn’t seem to be trembling.

It was almost a twenty-minute trip to the bus terminal and he used every one of them, looking up frequently to make certain the driver wasn’t watching. First he swung open his topcoat, unbuttoned his jacket, unhooked his belt. Then he gently slid the loop of the ice ax off his nerveless left wrist, put his belt through the loop, and buckled it again. Now the ax would bump against his thigh as he walked, but it was safe. He buttoned his jacket.

Then he spit onto his handkerchief and softly rubbed his face. There was blood, but much less than he had feared. He put the handkerchief beside him on the seat and, gripping his left hand in his right, slowly bent his left arm. It hurt, it ached, but the pain was endurable, the elbow seemed to be functioning, and he hoped it was a bad bruise, not a break or a chip. He bent his left elbow and put the forearm inside his jacket, resting on the buttons, like a sling. It felt better that way.

He spit more into his handkerchief, wiped his face again, and there was hardly any fresh blood. The shallow wounds were already clotting. Blank pushed his reddened handkerchief into his breast pocket. He dragged out his wallet with one hand, glanced at the taxi meter, then extracted three one-dollar bills, replaced his wallet, sat back in the seat, drew a deep breath and smiled.

The bus station was mobbed. No one stared at him, and he didn’t even bother covering his face with his handkerchief. He went directly to the men’s room. It, too, was crowded, but he was able to get a look at himself in the mirror. His wig was awry, his left cheek scratched deeply-they’d surely scab-his right cheek roughened but not cut. Only one scratch on his left cheek was still welling blood, but slowly.

There was a man washing his hands in the basin alongside. He caught Blank’s eye in the mirror.

“Hope the other guy looks as bad,” he said.

“Never laid a hand on him,” Blank said ruefully, and the man laughed.

Daniel moistened two paper towels under the tap and went into one of the pay toilets. When he had locked the door, he used one wet towel to wipe his face again, then plastered toilet paper onto his scratched, wet cheek. He used the other dampened towel to sponge his coat and suit. He discovered an abrasion on the left knee of his trousers; the cloth had been scraped through and skin showed. He would have to throw away the entire suit, wrap it in brown paper and dump it in a trash basket on his way to work. Chances were a derelict would fish it out before the sanitation men got to the basket. In any event, Blank could tear out the labels and burn them. It wasn’t important.

He tried his left arm again. The elbow joint worked but painfully-no doubt about that. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve. A lovely swelling there, already discolored. But the elbow worked. He adjusted all his clothes and managed his topcoat so that it hung from his shoulders, continental style, both his arms inside, the ax swinging from his belt. He peeled the toilet paper carefully from his face and looked at it. Faintly pinkish. He flushed paper and towels down the drain, tugged his clothing smooth, and opened the toilet door, smiling faintly.

In the mirror over the basin he adjusted his wig and combed it slowly with his right hand.

Another man, a hatless bald-headed man, was drying his hands nearby. He stared at Blank. Daniel turned to stare back.

“Looking at something?” he asked.

The man gestured apologetically. “Your hair,” he said, “it’s a rug. Right?”

“Oh yes.”

“I’ve been thinking,” the man said. “You recommend?”

“Absolutely. No doubt about it. But get the best you can afford. I mean, don’t skimp.”

“It don’t blow off?”

“Not a chance. I never wear a hat. You can swim in it Even shower in it if you like.”

“You really think so?”

“Definitely,” Blank nodded. “Change your whole life.”

“No kidding?” the man breathed, enthused.

He took a cab back to his apartment house, his coat hanging loosely from his shoulders.

“Hey, Mr. Blank,” the doorman said. “Another guy got killed tonight. Not two blocks from here.”

“Is that right?” Daniel said, and shook his head despairingly. “From now on I’m taking cabs everywhere.”

“That’s the best way, Mr. Blank.”

He drew a hot tub, poured in enough scented bath oil to froth the water and spice the bathroom. He undressed and slid in carefully, leaving the cleaning of the ice ax until later. But, atop the sudsy water, he floated the sweetheart rose. He watched it, immersed to his chin in the steaming tub, soaking his sore elbow. After awhile his erection came up until the flushed head of his penis was above the surface, and the small rose bobbed about it. He had never been so happy in his life. He dreamed.

Part VII 1

“They had stopped at a wharf painted white, and now Honey Bunch followed her daddy and her mother up this and found herself at the steps of the cunningest bungalow she had ever seen. It was painted white and it had green window boxes and green shutters with little white acorns painted on them. Honey Bunch had never seen a white acorn, but she thought they looked very pretty on the shutters. There was a little sign over the porch of his bungalow and on it were the words ‘Acorn house.’”

Captain Edward X. Delaney stopped. At his wife’s request he had been reading aloud from “Honey Bunch: Her First Days in Camp,” but when he glanced up at the hospital bed Barbara seemed asleep, breathing heavily, thin arms and white hands lying limply atop the single blanket. She never got out of bed any more, not even to sit in a wheelchair.

He had arrived in time to help her with the evening meal. She nibbled a muffin, ate a little mashed potatoes, a few string beans, but wouldn’t taste the small steak.

“You’ve got to eat, dear,” he said, as firmly as he could, and she smiled wanly as he took the spoon and held some custard to her lips. She ate almost all the custard, then pushed his hand away, averted her face; he didn’t have the heart to insist.

“What have you been doing, Edward?” she asked weakly.

“Oh…you know; trying to keep myself busy.”

“Is there anything new on the case?”

“What case?” he asked, and then was ashamed and dropped his eyes. He did not want to dissemble but it seemed cruel, in her condition, to speak of violent death.

“What is it, Edward?” she asked, guessing.

“There’s been another one,” he said in a low voice. “A detective. One of Broughton’s decoys.”