The Man wanted me to believe that FruitJar had come down to Peardale that day on his own. He had to make me think that, or I'd think of another reason for FruitJar being there… the real reason. Because he'd been sent. It might blow the job if I knew that. I might blow it and get away… instead of getting what a guy always got for blowing or running out.
Fruit Jar wasn't very bright. He hadn't needed to be very bright for the job The Man had sent him to do-to deliver some dough, maybe, or maybe to throw in a good chill as the clincher to a deal. But he hadn't been even that bright. He'd missed connections somehow with the party he was supposed to see, and instead of beating it and trying again later he'd screwed around waiting. He'd gone out of his way to needle me.
I'd scratched him up with the knife, and he'd been a little worried when he took off for the city. He had a pretty good idea that he'd pulled a boner. And he should have known what The Man was like-when The Man was really sore at you, you never knew it-but he wasn't bright, like I've said, and.
Or was it that way? Was I knocking myself out over nothing? Had The Man given me the straight dope?
He might have. A guy like me-well, he gets so used to looking around corners that he can't see in a straight line. The more true a thing is, the less he can believe it. The Man could have leveled with me. I was damned sure he hadn't, but he could have. He had-he hadn't. He hadn't-he had.
I didn't know. I couldn't be sure. And it wasn't The Man's fault and it wasn't Fruit Jar's. There was just one guy to blame, a stupid, dried-up jerk named Charles Bigger.
Big shot… Bright boy…
I could feel it. The hard glaze spreading over my eyes. I could feel my heart pounding-pounding like someone pounding on a door. Pounding like a scared kid locked in a closet. I could feel my lungs drawing up like fists, tight and hard and bloodless, forcing the blood up into my brain.
There was a crowd of people waiting to get on the train at Times Square. I went through them. I walked right through them. Giving it to them in the ribs and insteps. And no one said anything, so maybe they sensed what was in me and knew they were lucky. Because they were lucky.
There was a woman getting on, and I gave it to her in the breasts with my elbow, so hard she almost dropped the baby she was carrying. And she was lucky, too, but maybe the baby wasn't. Maybe it would have been better off down under the wheels. Everything ended.
Why not? Tell me why not.
I walked back to Forty-seventh Street, and somewhere along the way I bought a couple of newspapers. I rolled them up tight under my arm, and their hardness felt good to me. I rolled them tighter, and slapped them against the palm of my hand. And that felt good, too. I walked along, swinging them against my hand, swinging them like a club, the motions getting shorter and shorter, jerkier and jerkier, and..
'Temper, temper-'
Who was it that'd said that?… I grinned and it made my mouth hurt, and the hurt felt good… 'Temper, temper-'
Sure. I knew. Have to watch the temper-temper. So I'd watch it. I liked to watch it. There was only one thing I'd like better… but everyone saw how lucky they were. And in a minute or two I'd be alone in my room. And it would be all right then.
I walked up the two flights of stairs. There was only one elevator and it was crowded, and I had enough sense to know that I'd better not get on it.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor, and walked down the corridor to the last room on the right. And I leaned against it a moment, panting and shaking. I leaned there, quivering like I'd been through a battle, and…
And I heard it. Heard the splashing and humming.
The quivering and the panting stopped. I turned the door knob. It was unlocked.
I stood in the doorway of the bathroom looking at her.
She was scooted down in the tub of suds, one arm raised up so she could soap it under the pit. She saw me, and she dropped the washcloth and let out a little squeal.
'C-carl, honey! You scared me to death.'
'What are you doing here?' I said.
'Why'-she tilted her head to one side, smiling at me lazily-'you don't recognize Mrs. Jack Smith?'
'What are you doing here?'
'Don't speak to me that way, Carl! After all-'
'What are you doing here?'
The smile began to shrink, pull in around the edges. 'Don't be mad, honey. I-I-don't look at me like that. I know I was supposed to come in tomorrow, but-'
'Get out of there,' I said.
'But you don't understand, honey! You see, sis and her boy friend drove out to Peardale, a-and I-it was perfectly nnatural for me to r-ride back to the city with them-No one could think there was anything w-wrong with-'
I didn't hear what she said. I didn't want to. I heard but I made myself not hear. I didn't want any explanations. I didn't want it to be all right. I was scared sick, so damned sick, and I was already sliding into Fruit Jar's shoes. And I couldn't pull back, I couldn't run. They were all watching and waiting, looking for the chance to trip me up.
All I could do was kill.
'Get out of there,' I said.
I was slapping the newspapers into my palm. 'Get-slap- out-slap-of there-slap, slap, Get- slap…'
Her face was as white as the suds, but she had guts. She forced the smile back, tilted her head again. 'Now, honey. With you standing there? Why don't you go on and get in bed, and I'll-'
'Get-slap-out-slap-of there-slap, slap…'
'P-please, honey. I'm s-sorry if-I'll be sweet to you, honey. It's been more than a year, and h-honey you don't know- Y-you don't know how s-sweet-all the things I'll-'
She stopped talking. I had my hand knotted in her hair, and I was pulling her up out of the water. And she didn't try to pull away. She came up slowly, her neck, her breasts, the soapsuds sliding away from them like they didn't want to let go.
She stood up.
She stepped out of the tub.
She stood there on the bathmat, fighting with everything she had to fight with-offering it all to me. And she saw it wasn't enough. She knew it before I knew it myself.
She raised her arms very slowly-so slowly that they hardly seemed to move-and wrapped them around her head.
She whispered, 'N-not in the face, Carl. J-just don't hit me in the-'
I flicked the newspapers across her stomach. Lightly. I flicked them across her breasts. I drew them back over my shoulder and-and held them there. Giving her a chance to yell or try to duck. Hoping she'd try it… and stop being lucky.
There were too many lucky people in the world.
'You're a pretty good actress,' I said. 'Tell me you're not an actress. Tell me you haven't been leading me on, acting hardboiled and easy-to-get so you could screw me up. Go on, tell me. Call me a liar.'
She didn't say anything. She didn't even move.
I let the newspapers drop from my hand. I stumbled forward, and sat down on the toilet stool, and made myself start laughing. I whooped with laughter, I whooped and choked and sputtered, rocking back and forth on the stool. And it was as though a river were washing through me, washing away all the fear and craziness and worry. Leaving me clean and warm and relaxed.
It had always been that way. Once I could start laughing I was all right,
Then, I heard her snicker, and a moment later that husky saloon-at-midnight laugh. And she
