Ed Lacy - Strip For Violence

“You again. Did you get me out of the shower merely to hear my voice?”

“Not exactly. Have some talk for you—over supper. This is important, so do exactly what I tell you, don't ask questions. At exactly six-fifteen leave your place and walk over I to that joint we had lunch at I'll meet you there.”

“All right, but...?”

“I'll explain later. Don't forget, leave exactly at six-fifteen and...”

“Should we synchronize our watches, general?” Laurie asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Darn right. What time you got?”

“I haven't any time—I'm naked and wet.... Oh, it's two minutes after five on the big hall clock.”

“See you at the luncheonette, Laurie. Better dress, too.”

“Oh shut up, Mister... Darling!”

Locking the office, I left the building and walked into Joe Brocco, a two-bit manager. He asked, “What's matter, Hal, the dick business lousy? Couple of the punchies working for you been around, asking me to dig them up a bout.”

“And you're the guy to do it—for a fast buck!” He ran a hand over his worn, flashy suit.

“What you want from me? I tell 'em they're washed up but they say they got to eat, washed up or not. I stalled them—can't pick up fights so easy these days, anyway. But I tell you true, I don't like to see a boy get a beating, a real bad beating. So try to give them more work, Hal, and...”

“Try! Try! Hell, I got my own worries, no time to feel sorry for a flock of has-been leather-pushers. Leave me alone.” I pushed by him, got into my car. As I drove away, he stood there watching me, his pimply face bewildered.

I sped up to Laurie's as fast as I could, and it was five-thirty when I parked about half a block from her house, examined the street. There were five other cars parked and I didn't see anybody in them.

I got out my pipe, puffed on some stale tobacco. At exactly six-fifteen Laurie left the house, looking very lovely in a soft print dress that the faint evening breeze pressed around her body.

As she started walking toward the luncheonette, one of the five cars—an old Buick—slowly drove after her. The guy at the wheel was a sharp-faced joker and he knew his business—must have been slumped down in the back seat all the time.

I waited. I had a big advantage over him, I knew where she was going. There was only one tail: nobody else followed Laurie. Turning on the ignition, I followed him to the luncheonette. Laurie was waiting outside the store and he'd parked across the street, had already disappeared into the back seat. I honked my horn, motioned for her to get in, headed toward the park at Spuyten Duyvil. “What's the idea?” Laurie asked. “Thought we were going to...?”

“Look in the windshield mirror—but do it easily. See that Buick behind us a ways? He's tailing you.”

She looked. “Can't make out the man at the wheel. What do we do now, lose him?”

“We're going to stop at Inwood Park, get out and walk up into any place where there's trees. I'll hide behind a tree, you keep on walking—stop a couple yards away from me and wait. When this clown sneaks up on you, I'll take care of him. Got any cigarettes?”

“Yes. But...?”

“Keep chain smoking cigarettes.”

“What's cigarettes got to do with...?”

“To make sure he can follow you. In this twilight your cigarette glow will act like a guide for him. Now when I drop off in the woods, don't stop, or look at me, keep walking. And don't walk too far—about twenty feet. Got it?”

“Yes. Seems like a lot of movie stuff to me.”

I didn't bother answering her. When we parked, we hurried up the walk that ran through the park, left that, and slowly started up a slight hill thick with bushes. Laurie was puffing away on a cigarette. As we passed a clump of bushes, I dived into them, turned, and crouched in as comfortable a position as I could get.

Laurie did it nicely. She stopped about fifteen feet above me, among a heavy growth of trees, the bright red tip of her cigarette plain against the darkness.

It was a hot, muggy night, and for about ten minutes all that happened was a flock of flies, or some kind of bugs, decided to have a light snack on the back of my neck. I couldn't smack them, the noise would be a give-away. I kept shaking my head like crazy... and then I heard it —somebody walking with great care, trying not to step on any twigs or dried stuff. The bushes around me weren't too high, but enough cover for a shrimp like myself.

The tail covered the open ground by the bushes quickly, stopped some three feet from me, staring up intently at Laurie's cigarette glow. All I could see of him in the dark was that he was one of these tall, thin guys, the kind that dress big but really are only skin and bones under the padding. He had one hand deep in his right pocket. I got to my feet slowly, holding the palms of my hands stiff. I held my arms out at my sides, like a ham actor making a speech, then reached up and clapped my hands over his ears as hard as I could.

15

SHE SCREAMED—a short, breathless scream—started to grab his head, then crumpled to the ground. I called out “Come on, Laurie, let's blow.”

Laurie came running down, asked, “What do we do now, search him?” The punk was rolling on the ground, holding his ears.

“Forget him. We're going to my place,” I said, taking her arm and making time down the hill, and enjoying the feel of the firm muscle in her arm, her side when my hand brushed against her dress. We walked over to the car and drove off.

“Where is your place?”

“I live on a boat, off 79th Street and the Hudson.”

“A boat? You sure are the strangest fellow I've ever met. I'm not sure I want to go out on a boat.”

“It's a safe place, little chance of any punk finding us.”

“Very safe—back there, he heard you say we were going to your place and...”

“He didn't hear anything, and never will hear again. His eardrums are busted.”

I joined the traffic on the West Side Highway. She was staring at me, her tight face almost loose with fright. “You mean you made him deaf for life? Why how could you do...?”

“Laurie, try to get this through your pretty noggin— we're not playing potsy—but for keeps! I had to make sure he didn't tail us to the boat.” And I wondered if there would be a couple of hoods watching the yacht basin.

“But to maim a man for life. Hal... you... you frighten me.”

“The killer that shot your pop and Brody, what was he doing, playing by the rules?”

She didn't answer, lit a cigarette. In the light of the match her face looked worried. After a few puffs she asked, “What do we do on the boat?”

“Eat, cruise around for the rest of the night.”

“If you think I'm going to spend the night with you on a boat...”

“That's what I think. The killer has knocked off two of my girls, and I don't intend to have you make it a trio.”

“I'm not one of your girls!”

“Neither was one of the dead girls, but the killer thought she was. Could be he saw what I feel for you on my face this afternoon, or... the point is, we're not taking any chances. I don't want you as a beautiful corpse. And don't worry, I won't chase you all over the boat.”

“Worried?” Laurie snapped. “I can handle you.”

“Fine, then stop chattering about it.”

“Oh, stop acting so tough—little man!”

I laughed at her. “Okay, little woman.”

16

We turned off into the parking lot. I kept the motor running. There were a dozen cars there, but I didn't see anybody. I locked the struggle-buggy and we walked to the dock. Laurie looked around, pointed to the strangely beautiful amphitheatre-like structure with fountains in its center, that stands behind the yacht basin. She said, “Gee, I never even knew there was a place like this in the city, fit's lovely, like something out of the...”

“The Roman days,” I cut in, watching everybody on the floating dock. There was a couple of guys who looked as though they came off a boat, their wives or girls—and Pete, Although it wasn't time for him to go on duty. I asked him if anybody had been around to see me. He said no, asked where I'd been. I stepped into the launch, helped Laurie in, and from the way she stepped in I knew she hadn't been on boats much. Pete called out that my dinghy was fixed, and I said I'd leave it at the dock for now.

I told the attendant driving the launch to circle my tub a few times and when he asked why, I slipped him a buck, He made several lazy circles around the boat—everything looked normal. The moon was coming out bright and pale white light covered the boat. I motioned for him to bring the launch alongside, jumped aboard. I unlocked the cabin door, waited for the stale air to get out as I told Laurie to jump. The Hudson was pretty smooth, but she hesitated, then jumped and almost fell. I grabbed her, pulled her to me, my arms brushing her breasts. She tried to push me away, but I turned her around, said, “Step down into the cockpit—and relax. The boat may not look like much, but she's seaworthy.”

When she was safe in the cockpit, she said, “Don't ever say that again!”

“Slice the outraged schoolgirl stuff, and stay put—for awhile. Be out in a second.” I stepped down into the cabin, took off my shirt and coat, put on rubber-soled shoes that gripped the deck. I pumped out some bilge water, raised the motor hatch, gave the old Packard a brief going-over. She seemed okay and I closed the hatch. The motor turned the second time I stepped on the starter. Leaving it idling, I raced forward and let go the mooring line, ran back and put her in gear, steered out and up the Hudson.

No other boat followed us. A sightseeing boat was a few hundred yards ahead of us and making time. I called Laurie over. “Take the wheel. Keep the bow pointed toward the middle of George Washington Bridge. Don't get nervous and start turning the wheel this way and that. Just like driving. I'll be out in a moment.”

She took the wheel and I watched the wake for a second —she was keeping the boat fairly straight. I went down in the cabin, washed my face, changed to shorts and a T-shirt. I got out a clean pair of swim trunks, another shirt, left them on one of the bunks. Starting the alcohol stove, I took stock of the food situation. The bread was moldy, the butter rancid, and I tossed them out a porthole. I had some canned goods, a box of crackers, and a fifth of rye. Of course I didn't have any ice, but there was a bottle of ginger ale. I secured that with some fish line, ran up on the deck and hung it over the side. Taking the wheel I said, “There's some shorts and a shirt you can change into in the cabin.”

“I'm quite comfortable as I am.”

“Okay, okay, I'll see if I can get any outraged-virtue music on the radio to go with your act. But your dress will get a little messy on the boat.”

“I'll chance that.”

“It's your dress. Go down into the cabin and under the bunk on the port side—that's the left side, you'll see several drawers. In the top one is a metal box with some fishing tackle. Bring that up—we'll have to fish for our supper.”

She cautiously stepped down into the cabin, then called out, “Say, this is all very cute. I have the box, but where's the rods?”

“I'm a hand-line man.”

We were running against the tide and I headed for the New Jersey shore; the tide is always stronger in the center of the Hudson. Laurie was sitting near me, the fishing box beside her. When we passed under the George Washington Bridge, its string of lights like a fantastic pearl necklace in I the clear night she said, “Bridge looks so clean and beautiful from underneath. What's that bridge over there?”