Strip For Violence

“Honey, I'll be the first to admit you pack a lot of high-powered sex. Now stop teasing me into making a pass so you can have me thrown out on...”

“You louse!” she snapped, jumping to her feet, standing like a monument to desire. “You little miserable bastard of a man!”

I didn't stand up—I would have looked ridiculous, not even reaching her shoulders. I said softly, “Relax, Miss de Mayo. Wouldn't mind tangling with you, but at the moment I'm only trying to locate Marion Lodge, help her get some dough. So the poor kid went all the way down the road, selling herself for...”

“Save your tears, you'd stand in line too. Oh, sure she was a sucker! Broadway seemed something clean and high, beautiful and exciting... only she found it was raw and filthy, heartless, and so... so... terribly lonely!”

I clapped my hands lightly. “When you get too old for the stage, you can always write a sob column.”

Margrita's full lips sneered at me, “Mac, when I get old I'll have this racket licked, spend all my time reading the most interesting book in the world—my bankbook!”

“Let's get back to Marion Lodge. Does she ever write you? She must have mentioned the city she was moving to? Must have...?”

“Told you I haven't heard from her in a year. Besides, she was doing okay, this two-bit farm wouldn't mean a thing to her.”

I got up. Even standing on my toes I wouldn't be level with her eyes. “Okay, Miss de Mayo, sorry to have bothered you. Have to report Marion Lodge's last-known occupation—whoring, end of the trail. Or would you say, Another innocent little moth was burnt by the Great White Way, seduced by the greatest whore of them all— ambition?”

Her lips quivered for a moment, then she said harshly, “Wise little pimp, aren't you. Say what you like. I have to change now.” She fiddled with some buttons on the back of her blouse and her “dress” suddenly dropped to her feet. I was wrong, she wasn't wearing a G-string, she was stark naked.

She turned, picked up some cold cream from the dressing-table, began to rub her face—as though I wasn't there, but watching me in the mirror. There wasn't any point in my saying a word—everything I wanted to say she could see too plainly in my eyes. One crack from me and the jar of cold cream would be bouncing off my face.

I walked out There was something screwy about her, and dangerous, that I didn't try to understand. Or maybe it was all in my mind, angry at her height, at her teasing me. I stood in the narrow hallway outside her door for a moment. I thought I heard her crying.

“What you doing, short-ass?”

The voice was deep and suave; I looked up to see “Cat” Franklin standing in the kitchen a few feet from me.

“I'm listening at the keyhole, what the hell did you think I was doing?” I snapped, walking past him, ready to knee him if he tried to stop me.

He merely stepped aside, smiling down at me.

11

The two-block walk to my car cooled me off somewhat. And driving back to the boat I tried to figure out exactly what I was angry about. I'd talked less than ten minutes to Margrita, it was the only time I'd ever spoken to her, yet I felt as steamed as if I was an old boyfriend she was handing the brush. It didn't make sense.

Pete took me out to my boat and I undressed. It was too warm for pajamas, so I climbed into my bunk, snapped the lights off. From a nearby express cruiser I heard dance music, sounds of several women and men laughing. My own boat was rocking gently and I kept thinking of Margrita and Louise, how the relationship between a man and a woman should be so simple, and always ended up so damn complex, full of knots. Maybe it was a reflection of our world, where even the relationships between nations were all screwed up.

I tried to sleep, but then I started thinking of Marion Lodge, wondering how hungry and disillusioned she must have been when she started peddling it, if she still wore her hair in those corny curls when she was hustling, what a lousy thing it was that society made a commodity out of that, how lucky men were that they were not built so they could sell....

I heard the launch coming and it didn't pass me, but came alongside. Pete called out, “Company, Hal.”

I said, “Come aboard,” and sat up and snapped on the light and there was Anita coming down the cabin steps! I pulled the sheet across me like a startled school girl as Anita said, “Well, well, so this is where you live. Very cozy.”

“Get me that robe hanging on the door. What are you doing here?” I asked, as she sat down on the bunk opposite me, lit a cigarette. She had on high heels, a smart suit, and her face was flushed and covered with a lot of make-up. She looked older, almost a little hard. Maybe it was her overbright eyes—I was certain she'd had a few drinks.

“Now, Hal, is that a way to greet a friend, barking at them?”

“Stop the chatter and get me the robe.”

“Get it yourself, I like you the way you are,” Anita said, blowing a cloud of smoke at me. “I really go for all those nice muscles ridged across your tummy. Hal, you look much better undressed. My, warm in here.” She fanned her skirt showing the V her thighs made to her black-lace panties.

“If I get up I'm going to fan something—your backside. Now what the...?”

She came over and sat on my bunk, stared at me with big sad eyes. There wasn't any liquor on her breath. “Why don't you stop with this big-brother act? Hal, am I poison, that hard to take?”

There was a serious, pathetic quality to her voice—this was my big day with the gals! And for a fast moment I asked myself why I was playing the brother clown, Anita was young, pretty, and burning up.... But my so-called better sense kept warning... lay off!

“Don't start that, Anita. You're not hard to take, on the contrary you're—Hell, baby, you're a kid. We'd only end up in a mess. I like you; if I didn't I wouldn't worry about hurting you or...”