can use the...”
Wyckoff walked over, pressed the elevator button. “Mr. Biner, unless you leave immediately, I shall be forced to call the police. Blackmail is an ugly...
“Blackmail?” I cut in, boiling. “I want the money he promised me! Returning to the States so suddenly has upset my plans.”
“Biner, you're either crazy or stupidly brave to have come here. There's one aspect of Robert's mess which has never been satisfactorily explained to me, nor to his mother. Robert went abroad a clean, sensitive youngster—within a matter of weeks he returns a dope addict, his life wrecked. While I am aware you allegedly rescued him from the clutches of hoodlums, I also am aware Robert would never have mixed with such lice if he hadn't met the wrong type of people abroad. I feel certain some... uh... Beatnik, like yourself, put him on the narcotic path. Now, you come around asking for money, which smacks of blackmail.” The elevator door slid open behind him. He jerked a fat thumb at it.
Furious, I yelled, “Is this the thanks I get for risking my life to rescue him from a mess—
“I accept that risk. Now, either you leave this second, never attempt to contact Mrs. Parks or myself again, or I shall phone the police. The choice is yours.”
Really feeling like a whipped cur, I stepped into the damn elevator, punched the main floor button.
Walking uptown, still sweating with anger, I didn't know what to do. I needed a room, a place in which to lay low for a while, to think... and I had less than thirty bucks in my pocket. Passing a cheap bar north of Canal Street, I felt sick with hunger. Buying a late paper I went into the bar, took a roast beef sandwich from the food counter over to the bar, ordered a beer. The bartender was an antique with the map of Ireland on his pale, veined puss.
Eating the sandwich, I glanced through the paper—nothing new on the killing, no mention of my name. When I ordered a second brew, the barkeep said, “Sure a scorcher today. I see you've been to the beach. Many people in swimming?”
“Yeah.” It was nearly six p.m. and the bar was empty except for a wino at the other end, staring up at the old movie on the ceiling TV, as he munched pretzels and nursed a drink.
The bartender thought making small talk was part of his job. Placing a beer in front of me he said, “Mister, I notice by your tan you're no stranger to the beach. Don't see many folks taking care of their health these days. I say folks have lost faith in each other, in God. What do you say, mister?”
“What? I say you're a 100% right,” I mumbled, my mind a whirling blank. I dropped a dollar on the bar. “Give me a straight bourbon chaser.”
Two women came in, sat at a table near the door. The bartender made no move to serve them. Both wore cheap, long-sleeved print dresses, looked in their late twenties. The younger had a swarthy face, chunky figure. The other dog was scrawny all over. Quickly casing the bar, the women talked to each other in a gossipy whisper.
Drinking the whiskey slowly, hoping it would relax my brains enough to let me think, I felt depressed as could be. “See you know how to drink, mister,” my gabby bartender said. “I swear, nobody even knows how to get an honest toot on any more. Great saints, all they do now is throw the stuff down their throat, become vomiting drunk. Main trouble with our world, no longer any honest values.”
“Aha.” In the dirty mirror running behind the bar I saw the chunky bimbo turn, look my way. It was hardly a compliment—against the wino I was obviously the best catch. She had a weird face—the make-up put on in hard, definite lines.
Turning to see what I was watching in the mirror, the barkeep snorted, “Of course you know the kind of women they are?”
I nodded again, wishing he'd shut up, wanting to be alone, thinking hard. The whiskey warmed my belly, and that was all it did.
“Mister, in my work I seen whores, honest women in their own way. Misfortune forced them to peddle their hips, but at least in the old days they accepted their fate, gave a man what he paid for. Whores today, like Lucille over there—ain't misfortune which makes them take to the street: they do it to support their needle. A habit...”
“Wait a minute...”
“... a habit they could break with any true will power. But with the crooked values of today, who knows of will power? Docs say smoking causes cancer but the companies advertise more than...”
“Hold it: the stocky one is a junkie?” I managed to cut in.
“Indeed she is. The new curse of the poor and the damned, dope. Opium ruined the mighty Chinese nation hundreds of years ago. Same is happening to us today. I see young punks who...”
My brain slowed down as he chattered on. I turned and looked directly at this Lucille, put on a small act. “You sure she's really a dope addict, bartender?”
The map of Ireland broke into a snort-laugh. “Been hooked for over a year. Three cap gal.”
“Cap? What's a cap?” I asked, playing along like a straight man.
“Fix, a shot of dope. Means she needs three capsules of the stuff a day. Lucille's an educated one too, could be a nice sort.”
“But she looks so... healthy,” I said, to be certain. “I thought they were all sickly, nervous?”
“Mister, you haven't been around. Just as well— the Devil's playground is overcrowded as always. Notice she's wearing a long-sleeved dress in all this heat? Arm is full of dark marks where she shoots the evil into her soul. Looks okay now, probably had her shots. But see them when they're in need of a fix—they look like death eating a cracker. I...”
“What's her drink?”
“Scotch and milk. I...”
“Take one over to her table, please. Give the mutt with her whatever she laps up, too.”
The map of Ireland rubbed his rummy nose, very disappointed in me. He made two drinks, waited until I'd paid for them, before waddling over to their table. When the girls turned to glance at me, I motioned for Lucille to come over. Instead, she coldly shook her head, turned her back to me as she sipped the Scotch. I
“Fair enough,” I said, finally sitting at their table: I didn't want to get hooked for any more drinks.
Her scrawny friend showed a row of dirty teeth as she said, “Me, I don't mind being finger-snapped.”
“Maybe some other time, dearie,” I told her, turning to Lucille. Despite the bad make-up job, she had wonderful eyelashes, like fine feathers, and her facial structure at close-up was full, unusually strong. “If you're open for business, let's go.”
She gave me a cold look, then grinned, all her face getting into the act. “Got yourself hot and excited out at the beach, buster? Going by your tan, you must live on the beach—be hot all the time.”
I stood. This Lucille sat for a moment, then slowly got up and stretched, really a feline gesture. Taking her purse, she said, “See you, Bea. Come on, eager, I'll take the starch out of your pants.”
Reaching the street she said, “Since we're in business, it's fifteen bucks.”
-'I'm interested in the rest of the night.”
“Well now, that's the kind of executive talk I like to hear. A whole night costs sixty bucks.”
Shrugging, I took her arm. “Where we heading for?”
“I have my own pad—for all night Johns. My name's Lucille.”
“Tony.”
We turned into a side street and pulling her arm away, she pointed to a small tenement on the other side of the block. “See that house over there? Red one, next to the stinking grocery shop? Apartment 2F—which cleverly stands for the front apartment, second floor. I'll walk ahead. Wait a few minutes, then walk right in, like you belonged. Okay, Tony?”
Examining the dusty window of a shoddy liquor store for a few minutes, I wondered if I was about to be mugged—decided I had to chance it. Crossing the street I casually walked into a narrow hallway smelling of stale foods, up wooden stairs, and in the dim light made out a crudely lettered 2F. Lucille opened the door before I knocked, wearing a dirty negligee. I stepped into a living room/kitchen, plainly furnished—including, to my smug surprise, a full bookcase, and a cheaply reproduced Degas print on one wall. In the other room I saw the large bed, open door to a tiny bathroom.
I rested my duffel bag on the table; Lucille came over and kissed the side of my cheek, awkwardly pressing her body against me. I grabbed the sleeves of her negligee as she whispered, “The money, Tony, sweet.”
Pushing the robe up her arms, I saw the main vein in her left arm an angry purple, surrounded by faint scars and skin bruises. Pulling her arm away, she said, “Come on now, Tony— some green stuff.”
Holding her left wrist I asked, “On junk, Lucille?”
She yanked her wrist savagely away, right hand caressing my hips, the sullen face alarmed. “Cop?”
“Nope.”
Staring up at me with bold dark eyes, she shrugged. “You're big... but not cop-beefy. You're not packing a gun and I never saw a dick with hair pretty as yours. You a user, too?”
“No.” Pulling a chair over, I sat down, blocking the door.
She suddenly giggled. “What's the matter, no hot hurry-hurry to bed now?” Turning on a table radio she began dancing, the robe billowing out to show solid thighs. Lucille moved with heavyweight grace. “Tony, I must have the money in front. You understand?”
“Relax. I've a business proposition for you...”
“Fat stuff, what the hell you think you're pulling? I
