Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

“But that might not be for weeks, months! You think I'm a monk or...?”

“I think it took me a long time to find our man. I don't intend chancing the deal being queered by you getting sick. Get dressed—fast!”

Jake got out of bed slowly, began dressing. Arno grinned at him. “Although you have the mind of a ten-year-old, don't glare at me like a kid, Jake. I know exactly what you're thinking, and forget it. I haven't muscles and I braise easily.” Arno waved the knife in the air as if it were a baton. “It's a funny world—there's you, one hundred forty-eight pounds of fighting muscle. And this knife can't weigh more than a few ounces, yet... Did I ever tell you about a slob I knew who found his wife two-timing him? Jake, all he did was make one fast motion over the back of her legs, sliced the muscles. She never walked again. One slash and those big muscles in your arms might be severed, never lift your arms again. The docs don't know how to sew nerves together— yet. Or a...”

“Okay, okay,” Jake said, quickly buttoning his shirt. “I'm out twenty bucks. I'll ask her...”

“Nope, we don't want a stink. I came as fast as I could,” Arno said, suddenly chuckling. “You see the way she caught the door? Like an old burlesque skit I once saw. Come on, lover, let's get some sleep.”

“But twenty bucks? I...”

“So you dropped two bills. That's better than being out fifty grand.”

RUTH STEINER

Hanging up, Ruth sat in the phone booth and leisurely lit a cigarette. They were in some sort of coffee shop, a restaurant which had a juke box full of progressive jazz records. Trust Burgie to know a place like this. She could see his bald head now as he sat at their table, sipping wine. Of course you could also trust Burgie to over-do things, like ordering wine by the year, as if he really knew the difference.

Ruth was a trifle puzzled and upset. She knew why, and that upset her more. Walt had sounded almost abrupt over the phone. Usually when she said she wasn't coming home he would argue, plead, whine; at least ask if he should wait supper for her. Tonight? “I suppose I do get some sort of enjoyment when he crawls,” Ruth told herself. “Perhaps because he's so strong, so damn sure of himself. Oh Lord, I'm thinking like a neurotic bitch, wanting him to crawl. Plenty of women would love to touch his muscles, be in my... Did Walt have somebody in the apartment? He would never do that—I think.” For a second she was tempted to call back, but the whole idea was silly, so instead she left the phone booth, glanced at herself in a wall mirror as she walked toward their table.

Ruth had a number of problems, and a very real one was her weight. She was a big woman, a half inch short of six feet tall (in flat shoes) and a solid one hundred sixty-eight pounds. Actually, it was well-distributed and the mirror showed a tall, shapely woman. But most of the other girls she knew seemed to weigh less than one hundred fifteen pounds and forgetting her height Ruth was in constant tenor of becoming a “two-ton slob” as she called it. Calorie-watching was one of the many things nicking her mind.

Burges Flynn didn't make any effort to rise when Ruth sat, and she would have been astonished if he had. He was a short, wiry, little man with an almost completely bald head fringed with thin blonde hair, a big-featured face so homely it was attractive, and nervous eyes. He was wearing shaggy tweeds, a plaid wool shirt, and a pointed yellow beard which he believed gave him a “devilish” look. Burges was a free-lance photographer who made a point of being friendly with female editors. Watching Ruth cross toward the table Burges had thought, My, but she's a big one. It should be most interesting; I ought to wear a jockey outfit for the occasion. Tiny me, I trust I won't need a compass. He said, “I've ordered. The wine is quite good. Did you make the proper lies and excuses to your husband?”

“Aren't we just too cynical tonight, or at least trying too hard?” Ruth said, sipping the chilled, very dry wine. (She loved sweet wine but was ashamed, for some reason, to order any with Burges.)

“I hardly think I'm trying to be cynical,” Burges said. He had a practiced way of talking as if each word was a great effort he was happy to let go of. “Having once seen that ox you're married to, I sincerely hope your excuses were proper—and believable. Mr. Steiner looked quite capable of beating me to a pulp. Or at the very least, slapping me out of shape with his blackjack. Say, does he let you handle his gun?”

“Please, let's not talk about him. I liked your pictures for the perfume article.”

Burges held up his palm and scratched his little beard on it. “I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult. Pose a doll-faced model against a white screen, without having to consider composition, or getting any character into the shot—for the model has the intellect of a backward moron. Really, Ruth, a child with a Brownie could do as well. Still, to be trite...”

“I know, it's a living,” Ruth cut in as the waiter brought the food. They were both hungry and for a few minutes ate in silence, Ruth forcing herself to stay with only one bread-stick. Over coffee, she lit two cigarettes, handed Burges one. “Are we going to take in the Steichen exhibit at the Modem Arts tonight?”

“I've seen enough photographs for one day.”

“Jose Limon is dancing at...”

“Honey, the ballet bores me. I have something else in mind for us this evening.”

“What?”

“Well, I've actually cleaned up my studio for the occasion. I think it's about time we went to bed,” Burges said, enjoying the slight, quick shock on her face.

Ruth's reaction was a combination thrill and slight feeling of fear. Although she had been expecting this from Burgie, even a bit disappointed he hadn't propositioned her sooner, she wasn't certain what her answer would be. Outside of one bungled attempt at sex in college, prompted mostly by curiosity, Ruth hadn't slept with any man except Walt. But she'd given it much thought, sometime wondering if sleeping around might mature her as a writer. It was like the time someone suggested she smoke a stick of “tea” for kicks. Ruth had wanted to but was afraid.

Now Burges blew a cloud of smoke at her and grinned. “Well, well, has anybody seen my sophisticated Ruth, the dirty joke queen? You're reacting like Sal-from-Carrot-Cross-roads.”

“I'm merely thinking it over. Or did you expect me to jump to attention with sheer joy? It was an abrupt offer.”

“Nonsense, we're not kids. We've been seeing a good deal of each other, and it's time we tried it in the hay. Simple as that, really.”

“Really?” Ruth mimicked, trying to keep fear and doubt from her voice. “Burgie, I don't think you quite understand the type of female I am.”

“But I do, I do the most. You're the type female I want to sleep with. I trust I'm your boy-type.”

“Stop making this sound like a blood test,” Ruth said, lighting a fresh cigarette, to stall for time. “I'm very serious, Burgie. I'm not saying no. The truth is I may want to say yes. But there's one thing about me you first have to understand. I'm a...”

Flynn held up a tobacco-stained hand. “Ruth, stop making with all the talk. And I do understand you—perfectly. My darling, you're a bum. Wait, wait, wait, and get the anger from your eyes. I don't mean a bed tramp, but an intellectual bum. You gas and moan about that great book within you—as you find a million excuses for not writing it. Undoubtedly you're afraid you'll learn you lack the talent. So you play it safe, never try to find if you have it or not. Next year, the year after, ten years from now, you'll be sitting at this same table, or in some other bar, playing the same record, 'If only I had the time to work on my book.' That's pure baloney, Ruthie dearest, and very stale baloney, at that.”

Her face was pale as she said, “Flattery will get you no place. You... !”

Burges reached across the table, squeezed her hand. “Honey, I understand you because we are alike. I'm a bum, too, so I know. We try to crucify ourselves on the cross of talent because we may be strictly no-talent characters. We are flagellants, beating ourselves with the success of others— and enjoying the pain. We...”

“I don't know what you are trying...”

“Come on, Ruthie, you know it's true This is the voice of experience talking. I've told my sad tale in Nice, in Hollywood, over cocktails in Chicago, Greenwich Village, did my song and dance as far south as Mexico City and north in Montreal, the pitiful tale of what an artist I am with the camera, the photo masterpieces and portraits I will shoot— some day. Those snatches of life I will stop and capture with my lens. Honeybunch, it isn't so much can I do it, but will I ever do it. I'm a guy who's been around and around, so I don't kid myself; it's far more comfortable to talk about it, than give it the old college try. Frankly, I've had my chances. In the navy I had the best equipment possible, loads of time. And once I married a wealthy biddy who set me up with everything I needed. As you have your opportunity now. You don't have to work, hide behind your job. You could devote all your time to your writing. Let's put it on the line, honey, we're both phonies, in our own little way. 'Art' will always be a word in quotes to us, the impossible carrot dangling before our noses.”

“Burgie, you have hidden talents! You're wasting your time behind a camera. You should be sitting beside the couch, taking notes. Or maybe on the couch!”

“One thing at a time,” he said, pressing her hand again. “At the moment all I desire to be on is you.”

“Oh, how sweetly you put it!”

“Come on, Ruthie, we're at least above the corny seduction lies and drinks. You're a hell of an attractive woman. I want you. That's my story; what's yours?”

“Now you sound like a lawyer, asking for a yes or no answer. Since we're being oh-so-frank, there's one thing you don't know about me, wise old owl. If I sleep with you it can't be any one-night stand. I'm a throwback to... something. Are you asking me to leave my husband and live with you?”

Burges took his hands from hers, rested his face on his palms and played with his beard. After staring at Ruth for a long second, he said, “Really, you're beginning to sound like one of my empty-faced models, completely simple.”

“Burgie, I'm not a prissy puritan, I trust. Nor am I a wanton, an easy...”

“Wanton? Oh please! Please! You say live with me, those just words or do you actually mean it?”

“I mean it, of course.”

“But what does 'live with me' mean? Tonight we'll be living together. If we hit it off okay, we might live together tomorrow, the following day, for a year, or until we're ready for Social Security. But even if we set up house tonight and tomorrow turned out to be dull—that would be the end of it for me. Even if we were married, legal, and what-not. In short, no guarantee comes with my bed.”

“Under all those words, how is this different from a one-night stand?”

“I don't know. As I said, if the one night turns out interesting, we keep going. My dear, one of the occupational diseases of our day is trying to stretch something good until it turns sour. In this lousy world I believe in finding happiness where you can. The food was fine here tonight, but that hardly means I'll be eating breakfast and lunch here tomorrow. Don't try to push your luck is my motto.”

“I see. I'll have to think about it.”

“Really, Ruth?”

“Yes, really!”

Flynn motioned for the check. They didn't talk again until they stood outside, when he said, “I'll put you in a cab. When you've thought it over, give me a ring.”