nights I ever had.”
“Stop talking about 'love' like a cliche machine.”
After a couple of drinks she started to read her latest book-of-the-month, day, or week. But she was becoming jumpy. Going into the bathroom— for some reason she left the door open. I watched her tie a rubber garter tightly over her left arm, heat up a 'cap' of heroin in a spoon with a match, slide the hypo needle into her arm, and finally— calmly squirt some blood down the sink, expertly clean the needle.
She did it in such an off-hand manner, it seemed the height of crude obscenity. I wished to heaven she'd at least shut the door... that I wasn't mixed up in this horrible mess... I stopped kidding myself: I could have gone to the police and didn't, so I was in—perhaps over my fat head—but in it.
Coming out of the bathroom Lucille stretched, dropped the negligee once more, rubbed her powerful breasts as she announced, “I feel so good I'm going to sleep. You can sit up all night, if you like, playing Little Lord Fauntleroy for...”
I slapped her mouth. Backing away, narrow eyes hot with anger, she said, “Don't ever lay a hand on me, Tony!”
I slapped her again, held her arms. “I won't, if you watch your big mouth. I'm offering you a good deal, don't need any cracks.”
She suddenly relaxed against me. “Okay, guess you're right.”
Turning abruptly, she went to the bathroom and washed her face, then fixed her bed, slipped in between the sheets and started reading again. Minus the make-up there really was a sort of harsh beauty to her face, the perfect eye-brows. I stood in the bedroom doorway for a moment. Looking up she asked coyly, “Like what you see?”
“Yeah. Your face is truly... beautiful.”
“Tony, you're a strange one.”
Making sure the front door was locked, I placed a chair under the knob, then went to the can and washed—drying myself with toilet paper. Lucille was sleeping when I came out. Undressing to my shorts, I tied the string of the duffel bag firmly around my right wrist, stretched out on the bed beside her—on top of the sheet—the bag and my hand resting on the floor. I was bushed.
Reaching up, I turned off the bed light. Lucille suddenly rubbed my chest, softly, “You've some tan, Tony, must really love the beach. Where do you go—Coney, Reis Park, Jones Beach?”
“Cote D'Azure,” I wanted to say, but merely patted her hand, told her to sleep. Within minutes she was snoring—a low, even and not entirely unpleasant sound. Without expecting to, I had a fairly good night's sleep myself, waking every few hours to lift the duffel bag tied to my right hand, listen to Lucille snore... then sink into a sound sleep.
I awoke at seven a.m. and took a fast shower. Afraid to use any of her towels, I dried myself with Arlene's hotel towel, stuffed it back into the duffel bag. When I came out Lucille was sitting up in bed, stretching, yawning—the sheet off, as if proving she slept in the raw. I wanted to sketch the chunky figure, was amazed she looked so rested—it had been at least ten hours since her last fix. “Any breakfast around?”
“In a moment, sir—Sir Wavy Hair.” She dashed to the can and ran a bath. A dozen minutes later she came out, in the same underthings she'd worn yesterday. “When do you make that phone call?”
“Too early now—after we eat,” she said, starting the coffee, putting a slew of sliced fruits and wheat germ in the blender, some sort of hard-tack crackers in the toaster.
The radio said it was going to be another muggy day. I eagerly ate the dizzy food, but wasn't able to match the savage delight with which Lucille tore into her breakfast. I helped her wash the few dishes, then she started to make-up her face, laying the stuff on with a heavy hand. When I asked why she used so much make-up, she astonished me by saying, “I find it very comforting. I read where a head doc said make-up gives one a sense of security —a mask to hide behind.” An educated, (outright) whore was novelty for me.
I saw her, from the window, cross to the drugstore, the same feeling of trapped panic welling up inside me. Sketching always calms my nerves and still watching the street, I ransacked the table drawer—looking for a pencil—my guts ready to burst with the tension.
I found a box of chalk and turning the frying pan over, tried roughing in the street scene below on the blackened pan bottom. The lines ended up a series of messy smudges—so much nothing—but I felt better. When I saw Lucille returning, the hippy walk, I ran water over the pan, left it in the sink.
She dropped the morning paper and a pack of butts on the table. “Hot out, already. My connection's coming right over.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I had a chance of making a good buy on a big white car, wanted him to look at the motor. Have to be careful over the phone—but he understood.”
“When he comes, I'll do the talking.”
“Of course. It's your stuff, Tony.” Lighting a cigarette, she began straightening up the bed.
I glanced at the newspaper. It was on the fifth page, a short item about:
POLICE SEEKING FOOTBALL PLAYER-ARTIST
Clayton Biner, a one-time professional footfall player who became an abstract painter, was being sought today by the police for questioning in the hotel room slaying of hoodlum Al Foster yesterday. The police refused to say what connection Mr. Biner had with the shooting, except that they thought Biner might have been a tenant of the hotel. Mr. Biner does not have any criminal record.
Al Foster, a known criminal, was killed in the room of one Stanley Collins, who registered at the hotel a few hours before the shooting, and who has not been seen since...
Lucille asked, “Curly, what you sweating about?”
“The humidity,” I told her, turning to the sports pages, then casually dropping the paper on the table. My guts were in a tight knot. How had the police learned my real name so damn fast? Goodbye to Syd and her Australian land, the last chance for...
“Tony, are you in a trance? Didn't you hear what I said?”
“What?”
Lucille grinned, the heavy lips truly inviting. “I was saying, if we get this settled, we both might go to the beach today. I haven't been swimming in years. Guess I could rent a suit. I like Jones Beach.”
“Good.” I was listening to steps in the hallway outside; steps of a man who walked carefully. My insides tightened harder at the sound of two mild knocks. Lucille made no move, and a split second later a key opened the door.
A young fellow—about thirty—stood there. He wasn't tall, perhaps on the trim side, wearing a neatly pressed but cheap linen suit, open grey sport shirt, crewcut dark hair. His face was sharp and mean, neither ugly nor unhandsome, eyes shrewd with a wiseguy expression. The face was so much pure rascal, it was attractive. He was very sure of himself, even the way he moved into the room, gently shut and locked the door, expressed confidence. The feeling of dread increased within me.
“This the pigeon, Lu?” His voice was a practiced toughness.
“Yes, the fellow I told you about, Gus.” Lucille sounded very nervous. “Tony, this is Gus.'
We nodded at each other and he grinned at me, licked his skinny lips, while his eyes raced to the duffel bag in my right hand. Sitting on the table, swinging his cheap Italian-styled shoes, Gus said, “Okay, big boy, let's see what you're peddling.”
She said, “It's pure, a real banger, Gus! I already scored.”
“I know you did, a free night for a free take-off, stupid tomato!” He suddenly smiled at me—Gus had the whitest teeth, was obviously quite proud of them. “Let's see how much you have, Tony, then we talk.”
“One pound of uncut heroin,” I said, suddenly getting the scene in focus—this was her pimp. I had a hopeless feeling of wasting time. “I want five grand for it. Since you don't look like you can raise five bucks, bring me somebody who flashes the long green and I'll show my wares.” I glanced at Lucille. “Thought you were going to get me your pusher? I don't need a pimp for...”
“Business manager,” Gus cut in, voice harder.
“Gus is my connection, gets my white stuff,” Lucille began.
“Shut your face, Lu! Big boy, let us all get straight: you're dealing with me. Lu's mine, so talk with me.”
“Gus, I think the
“Too much chatter,” Gus said, flashing his choppers in a smile at me. “Tony, the bag.” He held out a slim hand.
I tried to grin coldly. “First let me see the sight of welcome green.”
“Sure.” He pulled a snub- nosed pistol out of his pocket. “How's the color of this? Lu told me you're a great talker, but don't try to outtalk a .321 Open the bag!”
I knew I'd been had, and I didn't give a goddamn. It was all such a helpless mess—me broke and carting around three million dollars without the slightest idea of how to cash it in. For a split second—perhaps it was a hangover from my months of dejection in Europe—I felt it would be best to let this pushing punk kill me. Of course, I wouldn't stand still for a beating or... Resigned, I tossed the bag on the table, mumbled, “Easy Gus, don't let that rod get too good to you. A gun shoots both ways.”
With his left hand, Gus pulled out the damp towel, then looked positively stupid on seeing the plastic case full of heroin... eyes actually strained to leave his skull as he zipped the pillow case open, put a fingertip full of the white powder on his tongue. Screwing up his thin face, he gasped, “Jeez, it
Lucille came over to gaze into the bag with all the respect of a person peeping at the Future. Gus pushed her away and the same anger swept her crude face as when I'd slapped her.
While he was busy with her, I reached for the bag, stepped next to the window.
