Candy

So great that the Candy problem seemed to be no problem at all. Hell, I was a reasonable man. The world was a reasonable world.

Why shouldn’t the dyke be a reasonable dyke?

Why indeed?

It seemed simple. I would get hold of the dyke, get her off in a corner somewhere and explain to her just how much I needed Candy. I would also tell her that her sex life was twisted and convince her of the error of her ways. She would break down, cry a little, give Candy back to me, and go out to find a man and raise a family.

I would snarl a little at Candy, get her to beg me to take her back, then pet her and kiss her and slip her a quickie on the rug or something. Then we would be thicker than thieves and life would be a bowl of cherries again.

Simplicity itself. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for being such a logical member of the human race, able to view the world and its problems with enviable objectivity, clear-headed and always on hand to come up with the right solutions to any pressing difficulty.

Shrewd old Flanders.

Sharp thinker.

Cool-headed bastard.

One in a million.

Great guy.

Genius.

Double genius.

Genius in spades.

I got carried away at this point and delivered a weird monologue on the way down in the elevator, informing the elevator op what a lucky Joe he was to have me in his car. He must have figured I was stoned again because he nodded very sagely and didn’t open his mouth.

I walked to the dykery, my own private name for Candy’s current love-nest. I passed all the bars and remembered the time I had passed them before and the trip back when I hadn’t passed them. That was the beauty of it—I could remember the whole scene, the whole evening, and I found the House on 53rd Street without any trouble.

I took the elevator to the fourth floor this time and found Apartment 4-B without any trouble. I stood outside the door for a minute, getting myself ready for the master salesmanship pitch, and then I buzzed the little buzzer.

The door opened.

Chapter Eight

I’D HAVE FELT a lot better about the whole thing if she hadn’t been such a damnably attractive woman.

Black toreador pants were tight on her slender legs and tighter still on her hips and tail. She had the right type of figure to be wearing them as well as the right sexual outlook on life and they looked fine.

She also had the right build, or lack of it, to be wearing a man’s shirt. This particular man’s shirt would have been out of place on any man unless he was as queer as she was. It was pale green and it was tucked neatly into the pants which were secured by a yellow alligator belt. How the devil they got that belt will ever remain a mystery to me. When did you last set eyes on a yellow alligator?

The shirt had a button-down collar and I was willing to bet there was a button in the back as well. She came on real ivy league, even to the dirty tennis shoes on her little feet. Her eyes peered at me through severe black glasses. The eyes were a pale blue, the shade they call steel-blue. The look she was giving me was a steely one, too.

“Good afternoon, Miss—”

“Not Miss,” she said. “Mrs.”

That damn near floored me. I couldn’t picture the bloody dyke married to somebody. But you live and learn, so I said Mrs. and paused valiantly, waiting for her to come through with the last name.

She didn’t come through.

“Look,” she said, “whatever you’re selling, I strongly doubt that I want any.”

“I’m not selling anything.”

“Neither am I,” she said. “I’m neither selling nor buying, and if you’ll excuse me I’d like to shut the door. With you on the other side of it.”

I was beginning to get the idea that she didn’t like me.

“Hang on,” I said, “My name’s Flanders, Jeff Flanders. I’m a friend of Miss Cain.”

“Oh,” she said.

“I wanted to—”

“You’re not a friend of Miss Cain,” she said. “Not a friend at all. I don’t think she likes you.”

“I—”

“I don’t think she wants to see you any more.”

“I—”

“In fact,” she said, “I think I might tell you that I’d rather you didn’t see any more of Candy.”

I scratched my head. “Funny,” I said, hilariously, “but that’s what I came here to tell you.”

Her forehead squinched up and she didn’t know exactly how to react. The door opened wider and I entered the apartment; then she gave the door a shove and it closed. She waved me on inside and pointed a tired finger at a chair for me to sit in. Then she wandered over to another chair and plopped herself down into it.

On my way over to the chair I took a good look at the apartment, at least at the room I was in. This was what Candy had peddled herself to get and by the looks of things she hadn’t done badly. The room reeked of money. The carpet reached from one wall to the other wall and it was thick enough to get lost in. The furniture was so modern they must have designed it a couple of days before but it wasn’t poorly chosen. It was Swedish modern in design and it cost a fortune. That much was easy to see.

There were a few pictures on the wall, original oils that I didn’t want to recognize. Big splashes of helter- skelter color that looked like something out of a bad dream.

I didn’t recognize the pictures. But I did recognize the signatures in the lower corners of the pictures.

Mrs. Whoevershewas was rolling in dough.

“Mr. Flanders,” she said, pronouncing the name as if it was one she could easily learn to detest. “I have the feeling that you are going to pose a problem. I strongly doubt that the two of us are going to see eye-to-eye.”

I agreed with her in stoic silence.

“I’m not sure where to begin, Mr. Flanders.”

“You might tell me who the hell you are. That’ll do for a conversational opener.”

“I hardly see—”

“It’s just that I like to know who I’m shouting at.”

“Caroline Christie,” she said. “You may call me Mrs. Christie.”

That was decent of her.

“You’re here to make trouble,” she said. “Aren’t you, Mr. Flanders?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not you’ll cooperate.”

“In what manner?”

The conversation was beginning to get me down. “Mrs. Christie,” I said. “I want Candy back. Candy and I were together and I want her back.”

An eyebrow went up. “That’s touching.”

“I need Candy,” I said.

“You don’t need Candy,” she told me icily. “You need stuffing. You’re a unique specimen and you ought to be displayed somewhere. But you do not need Candy.”