about whores.
“I knew. So what?”
“Slip took a fancy to her, kept her for a time. He was one of these old school con men, smooth, polished, big front. His specialty was the horse-wire con. He'd have a buddy, and a store fixed up as a telegraph office... the supposedly crooked telegraph employee giving them the track winners before the bookies got it. You know how it works—they still pull that ancient gag now and then, even these days.”
“I know. Where does Flo fit in?”
“Slip latched on to a sucker, let him win a few bucks —the old come-on, then took him to the cleaners. In this case they put the finishing touch on the mark by having Slip put a bag of chicken blood in his mouth. He let the mark sock him, fell down hard, played dead, blood flowing from his mouth. Old stuff again. Scares the sucker so bad he'll never talk about it, keeps a million miles from the cops... thinks he's a murderer.”
“You still haven't told me about Flo?”
Max laughed. “She was bait for the mark, and of course in on the 'kill,' only they forgot to tell her it was a fake. Slip must have been tired of her and saved her cut by not telling her, skipping town. Technically, she thinks she's a party to a murder.”
“Slip still alive?”
“He's doing five to ten in a Federal pen out in Kansas. That what you want to know?”
I said thanks and hung up. The operator was asking for another jit. I sat there for another half hour and Saxton didn't show. The druggist was looking at me again, so I took a walk around the cottage. There was a little chill in the air and I knocked on the back window, told Mady to give me a shot of rye. It was the first drink I'd had in a long time and it warmed my guts, felt good. Mady said, “Does rye always put that contented smile on your face?” and laughed.
“Don't let the bottle get too good to you—leave the stuff alone. It gives you a silly expression,” I said, giving her the glass back. She slammed the window and I went back to my prowling.
I sat on the back steps for another hour and nothing happened. I called for another shot; it was really chilly. I walked around some more, then sat on the back steps again, thought about Flo. Harry had sure played her for a fall guy. Poor Flo, if she'd been born plain, or ugly, she would have had a happier life.
A couple of times I heard a car stop, or people walking near by, but it always turned out to be some neighbors coming home.
By midnight I was chilled to the bone and afraid I was getting a cold. I decided Saxton wasn't coming out. I went in through the kitchen door, stopped in the bathroom to take my temperature. It was normal. There was a light in the living room, but Mady didn't call out to me. I figured she was asleep.
I was right... she was sleeping off a load in the big chair—the big history book about Billy's outfit open on her lap, the remains of a bottle on the floor beside the chair. I tried to slap her out of it but all she did was open her eyes, say in that loose way a drunk talks, “You got no right... right... no... order me about. Tell me not to drink. I... I... can... handle it. I...” Then she passed out again.
I have a blind spot about drunks. Don't know why— maybe I need a couple of sessions on the couch. I was so damn mad at her I picked her up and carried her into the bathroom, and she was heavy as hell. I stood her up in the tub, under the shower, but she kept slipping. I got her balanced against the wall for a moment, ran back into the living room and got the thick military history book. Jamming that against the tub and the side of her legs, I had Mady nicely balanced... sleeping standing up. I pulled the curtains and held my arms around them—in case she fell—and turned on the cold water.
For a moment nothing happened, then there was a gasp, a choked cry, and a scream. I grabbed her, turned off the water. I lifted her out of the tub, her clothes sticking to her body, her hair wet and stringy—she looked awful.
Mady sobered up fast, began to cuss me, her voice very clear, her eyes getting angry bright. She came at me, punched me a few times before I pinned her arms down. “What the hell's the idea?” she asked loudly.
“The idea is simply that I don't want you getting loaded and sentimental sloppy every time you smell a cork. I...”,
“Get your clothes off before you catch a cold.”
“Suppose I want to get a cold?”
“Stop talking like a child,” I said. “Look, Mady, we'll hit it off swell, and I want us to, but it has to be you and me—not the bottle makes three. You know I can't stand seeing you drunk. It means.... Aren't you happy with me?”
“Yes... only... Matt, sometimes I feel like a total stranger to you. As though you'd withdrawn into that tough shell of yours. Last night you were so... hard... and now, out there, when I gave you the drink, you barked at me not to take a shot like I was your servant. Matt, sometimes I feel you don't need me.”
“Don't think that—ever. I need you badly,” I said, kissing her. I took off her wet clothes and rubbed her down with a big towel and she didn't talk, then she said, “I didn't mean to get high, but I felt so... so... alone and lost when you barked at me, that I...”
“Honey, I was working, watching for Saxton. There wasn't any time for sweet talk.”
“I know but... I took a few to relax me and then...”
“You started mooning over Billy's picture,” I added.
“What else have I to turn to when I feel you don't want...?” For the first time she saw the soggy book at the bottom of the tub, colored inks streaking out of it.
“The book!” she sobbed. “You've ruined it!”
I grabbed her shoulders as she bent to pick it up. “That's right—it's ruined. Now you have nobody to lean on but me. I want it that way, because I haven't anybody but you and all we need is each other!”
“Matt... Matt, don't be so tough... so hard,” Mady said, crying.
I slid my hands off her shoulders, her skin so fresh and cool, as I hugged her, whispered, “Baby, I'm not tough, and I don't want to be. I'm not hard, but you're all I have and I'll hold on to you with everything I've got.”
We kissed each other hungrily, her big lips exciting demanding, as they fiercely covered mine. As we started for the bedroom, I thought I heard a noise at the front door. I told Mady to go to bed and I turned off the lights and went over to the living-room window. There wasn't anything to see. I tried the door and it was locked. Probably the wind rattling the door.
Mady was calling softly and as I passed her chair, I picked up the bottle arid took a quick swig—to cool off this time—and started to undress.
SATURDAY
It was a lousy morning, cold, raining on and off. We stayed in bed till ten, when Joe rang the bell. He was in a good mood, didn't even look with disapproval at Mady and me running around in pajamas. His wife, Ruthie, was feeling fine, wanted us over for Sunday dinner. He had coffee with us, drove me downtown.
In his struggle-buggy he told me, “Matt, I'm sorry about the way I acted the other night... running away, crying. I was a jerk. I still don't like what we did but...”
“But when you play with crap some gets on your hands.”
“Yes. Guess we couldn't help it.”
I said, “We could have if you had a decent union, or whatever you postmen have, to go to bat for you, point out you didn't do anything wrong. That's the big IF. A shake racket is only successful when people are afraid to tell the blackmailer to hump off.”
“I still feel a little guilty about Harry's death, but I suppose that will wear off in time.”
I wanted to laugh. Joe was a comic, his “little guilty” was like being a “little pregnant.” We made small talk till I told him to let me off at the Grace Building and when he looked at me big-eyed, I said, “I'm going up to Harry's old office. See you and Ruthie tomorrow.”
“About one-thirty.”
Thatcher Austin came running out of the building, looking more crazy than usual. Soon as he hit the sidewalk he stopped, looked around wildly, then walked down the street as fast as he could. Joe said, “I know that guy—Mr. Austin.”
“How do you know him?”
“Lives on my route. A sort of Communist.”
“What?” I asked, laughing.
“What's the big joke? I shouldn't go around calling people's politics these days, but a postman can tell how and what a guy thinks —by the mail he receives. Austin now he gets lots of radical papers and magazines, even some from abroad. Along with a lot of jerky flag-waving rags. Always have a heavy load of mail for him.”
I told Joe about the creep and he was shocked. “Always thought he was a little nervous, but a quiet guy like that... behind this crummy stuff. Doesn't seem possible.”
“Just stay away from him,” I said, getting out of the car. As I took the elevator to Flo's office I had an idea to play for laughs—I'd accuse the creep of being Red on the basis of the mail he received. Of course he used the left publications for his files... but it was an amusing angle.
There was a new receptionist—a young redhead with a gay loose mouth and the wrong kind of clothes—lot of frilly stuff that made her look like a worn Christmas tree.
