“I don’t know. I like to swim.”
“That’s like bathing.”
“Only you don’t have to fuck around washing.”
“Why do you suppose you like to swim, Quarry?”
“I like the feeling of water on me. All over me.”
“Pass the soap up here.”
“Okay.”
“Quarry.”
“Yeah?”
“You want to hear about the pink Mustang?”
“Sure.”
“It’s kind of personal.”
“I just screwed you, didn’t I? How much more personal can you get?”
“Screws aren’t always personal.”
“Oh?”
“Ours was a pretty personal screw. In twenty years I could tell somebody about that screw. How many screws can you remember well enough to tell about them the next day, even?”
“What about the Mustang?”
“There was this guy in Chicago. I was working as a Bunny in the club there, you know? He saw me in the magazine, the nude pose. He fell in love-at-first-sight with me, he said. He kept coming around the club, bothering me. It was getting me in trouble, almost lost me my job, you’re not supposed to fraternize with the customers, you know. So I agreed to go out with him, if he wouldn’t pester me. I went out with him and I didn’t like him at first. He wasn’t crude or anything, not your preconceived notion of what a gangster would be.. oh, I didn’t mention that, did I? He was a mob person of some kind. I suppose he killed people, or had them killed, but I didn’t think about that. If I’d’ve known for sure, it might’ve bothered me, so I never asked. We went together for a year and six months. He took me all over, Las Vegas, the Bahamas once. Then I found out he had a wife. I was humiliated. Oh, I wasn’t that much of a Iowa hick, I’d dated married men before, but I’d always known. I was with him a year and six months and he never told me, never mentioned it. He was older than he looked, he was fifty maybe and looked forty, and he was married to some old broad who didn’t care if he studded around. When I got upset, upset about his being married, he bought me a present. See, Playboy picks a Playmate of the Year, you know, and that year they gave the winning Playmate a pink Mustang. So he gave me a pink Mustang. He said I was his Playmate of the Year, and I guess I should have been insulted by the implication of that, but I knew how he meant it and it made me cry. He gave me the pink Mustang and told me he’d call me in a week, after I had some time to forgive him. But during that week he died. Or was killed, maybe, I don’t, know. He was found in his garage, door shut, car running, the carbon monoxide killed him, accidentally, on purpose, whatever. What’s it matter? That was seven years ago. I keep the Mustang in top shape. It’s like new. It’s going to kill me when I have to junk it, eventually.”
“Do you remember the first time you screwed with him?”
“No,” she said, a hint of surprise in her voice. “No, he couldn’t screw for shit.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment and then I realized she was crying. I wanted to help her but didn’t know what to do. I touched her shoulder and that seemed to do the trick.
We were putting our clothes on in the bedroom when I heard something outside that sounded like thunder. I went to the window and drew back the curtain and it was thunder. “I’ll be goddamned,” I said, “the sky’s black. It’s going to rain like a son of a bitch.”
“My windows are down,” she said.
“Mine too.” I crawled into my trousers, zipped up and moved out of the room. “I’ll go out and take care of it.’’
I stepped out the door and the sky rumbled again and I ran to the Mustang, rolled up the windows, ran to the Ford, got my raincoat out of the backseat, rolled up the windows. A few drops of rain streaked my face and just as I got to the door the downpour began. Inside, I threw my raincoat down on the hard straightback chair next to the door and heard a clunk. My automatic was in the pocket. I hoped Peg wouldn’t run across it.
“Does it shock you,” she said, dressed in blue sweater and hotpants again, sitting on the sofa, “that I was a gangster’s woman?”
I laughed.
She smiled, but there was a hint of frown in the smile. “What’s so damn funny?”
“‘I Was a Gangster’s Woman,’” I said. “Sounds like something on the cover of True Confessions.”
She laughed. “That’s me. A real gun moll.”
“His business didn’t seem to bother you.”
“His business was his business. He only supplied what others demanded.”
I nodded.
“But,” she said, “if I’d known exactly what he did, I probably wouldn’t have stood for it.”
“That’s hypocritical as hell.”
“Hey, who appointed you preacher, Quarry? You’re awful moral all of a sudden.”
“Maybe you’ve just underestimated me.”
“Bullshit. Next thing you’re going to tell me is you’re not married.”
“I’m not.”
“Every traveling salesman is married.”
“Not this one. You’re even my first farmer’s daughter.”
“Sure. You’re my first man, too. Today.” She shook her head, smiled crookedly. “You know something?”
“What?”
“Something about you reminds me of Frank.”
“Who’s Frank?”
“My gangster. My poor dead gangster.”
“I thought you said I screw better.”
“Oh you do, you do. So far, anyway. But your eyes. There’s something in them, or something that isn’t in them…”
“Listen, I want to know something. Does it or doesn’t it bother you that this Frank was in the rackets?”
“It doesn’t bother me. So am I, in a way. You know, that guy I mentioned before? The one I’m in business with? The one who shafted my girl friend and sent her down to Florida for his health?”
“Yeah. Ray.”
“That’s right. Ray. How’d you know his name?”
“You let it slip two or three times.”
“So I did. Anyway, some of Ray’s money comes from that kind of people.”
“What kind of people?”
“Mob kind of people.”
“You mean he’s running businesses as fronts for them?”
“No. All his businesses are legitimate. But he’s done a lot of expanding, and some of the mob people in the Quad Cities channel money into his businesses, mainly ’cause it’s a good investment. Not to mention the last thing anybody’d suspect as being backed by that kind of money.” She touched her forehead. “Hey, that reminds me… I was supposed to go over to the Springborn place this morning. Going to talk with Ray just once more, and if we can’t settle those contractural differences of ours between us, I’ll get my lawyer to move on it. What time is it, anyway?”
“Quarter after eleven.”
“Shit! I was supposed to be over there at eleven!” She got up from the sofa and said, “I better call him and tell him I got, uh… waylaid.” She grinned and glided over to the telephone on the wall in the kitchenette. I followed her in and sat at the table and watched her dial.
“Mr. Springborn, please,” she said to the phone. She winked at me while she waited for Springborn. Finally she was saying, “Hello Ray, look, I’m sorry I didn’t make it over this… huh? What? You’re kidding?… Oh my God, that’s terrible, that’s awful, the poor guy
… What was it, robbery?… I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it… Well, listen, what we have to talk about
