Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

Joe and his kid were sleeping off a hangover. Joe came to the door in his underwear, half asleep, looking bloated and sloppy. I had a few fast drinks with him, went to the bathroom and burned the note, flushing it down the toilet.

I stared at the rushing water and almost cried, I was so relieved; there wasn't any possible link, fantastic, circumstantial, or otherwise, that could connect me in any way with Hank's death.

Joe wanted me to hang around, he was expecting some girls over later in the day but I was feeling too good to listen to his chatter all day. At the door, I was kidding him about being so fat and he punched me on the arm and we sparred and wrestled like kids. I suppose I was so gay Joe was surprised—he looked at me rather oddly as I left.

I wanted to see Flo, but she was out. I went to the Turkish bath, sat in the steam-room for a long time, had a rubdown, and came out feeling very clean and refreshed. I had a big steak and lobster dinner, went to a favorite little bar on East 46th for cocktails, and took a room in the Hotel New Yorker for the night.

I was jittery all day Monday, but knew I could duck seeing Lee that night. As I rang her bell, I dug my hand in my left pocket, held the toy gun firmly. She'd certainly be in a vicious mood if she'd discovered the money and the note were gone.

But she seemed as calm and blank as ever, counted the hundred I gave her, asked if I wanted to come in. I said no and she said, “You return next Monday with money?” It wasn't exactly a question, more of a statement.

I said I would and walked away. At the next corner I tossed my would-be gun into a garbage can.

I felt very good... I even had a few bucks to spend that week.

Chapter 7

I HAD DESTROYED the note, there never was any note. In a way I now had nothing to fear, nothing real. I could have stopped giving Lee money, I could have thrown her out. Or, if I wanted to risk my life, I could return to the house and steal a hundred each week, pay her off with her own money... again.

I could have told Lee to take off, or anything I wanted to, and it would have been all right; nothing would have happened to me. Sure, she might raise a rumpus, but who would listen to her, know about it, care? Maybe Marion Henderson, Joe, Flo. Flo I could handle and even if I lost my job—who has a guaranteed job these days? Not even civil service workers.

I could have done any of a number of things and been free of Lee, but we are so conditioned to fear scandal (and what does the word really mean?), so deathly frightened of what “They may say...” that I went on giving Lee the hundred a week, scrimping by on $25 per myself.

I had almost become accustomed to even that, but Christmas wrecked me, threw me way off. Or maybe Christmas had nothing to do with it and I was merely fed up with my crummy room, my worn clothes, lack of good food, no dancing—not even a bathtub to soak in.

When Henderson gave me the December rent it was a severe effort not to go on a bender with it. It was extremely difficult to forward it to Flo. I had a strong desire to see Flo, and I certainly wanted to give her a Christmas present.

I needed quick money.

I dropped in on Jake Webster one morning, asked, “Jake, without arousing any suspicions or fuss, can you find out in what bank a Francis F. Henderson worked? I'm fairly sure it was a Manhattan bank, and he worked as a tailor about fifteen years ago.”

“Can do, Mr. Jackson, I know people who work for the bonding companies. The guy dip into the till?”

“No, nothing like that. He's a friend of mine and I was thinking of playing a practical joke on him. You know, clown stuff. Of course, if it's too much trouble or inconvenience for you, why....” And at the moment I was honestly praying Jake would say he couldn't do it.

“Naw, just a matter of a couple phone calls,” Jake said.

Later in the afternoon he told me Henderson had worked for the New York National Bank in their 23rd Street branch.

I went up to see Henderson that night and on the way up I lost my nerve—it was such a despicable thing to do. I decided I'd merely borrow a hundred from him, and if I needed more dough—steal it from Lee.

The old man was listening to the radio, rolling some cigarettes full of Turkish tobacco with a little machine he had. There was a bottle of Irish whiskey and we had a few long drinks, then I asked, “Francis, I'm rather badly strapped for cash. Can you lend me a hundred?”

“Well,” he said, hesitating, “for how long?”

“Oh, couple weeks, a month or two,” I said a little angry. After all he was warm with money and a hundred wasn't a big bite to him.

“I suppose so, only don't make it more than a month.”

I got steamed, or maybe it was the whiskey talking, for I suddenly said, “Don't be so cheap, Henderson. Suppose I make it several thousand and you make it a gift!”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice low.

I nodded toward the statue of Man O' War. “It's like this: there's a bank on 23rd Street which might be interested in one of its former tellers, by name of Francis Henderson, who likes horses and who suddenly retired. And who once told me not all bank tellers who bet on the ponies—with the bank's dough—are caught.” As soon as I said it I knew it hadn't come off right.

Henderson's eyes went large as he said like a soft sigh, “George—Jesus!” There was an uneasy, flat, silence for a moment, then he yelled, “George! Get out of here, you blackmailing bastard!”

“Now wait,” I began, trying to make my voice sound strong. “You're in no....”

“I'm going to tell you something, you louse, then I'm going to kick your tail out of here, or die trying,” Henderson said, his old wrinkled face sickly and pale.

“No point in flying off the handle, we can work this...”

“Shut your filthy mouth! Oh, you've caught me, but only in a lie. Sure I worked as a teller, was a real mousey type, too. As for stealing, I wouldn't even take an extra Christmas calendar without asking first. But you're right—I am a gambler. I had a sister who ran away from home, married a real gambler. She died almost twenty years ago, left me everything she had: her furniture—including this statue of the horse, and a fair amount of money. I always wanted to gamble and never had the nerve, but I took the biggest gamble of my life—I retired. I've been living on three thousand a year, on the assumption that I'll die before the money runs out. It's a race, and I'm betting on my bank book outlasting my life span. I'm down to less than six thousand now, which means I have to die in two years or I'll be in a bad way. Why do you think I play such a tight game of poker? The money I win means days and hours to me. And now you... you....”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Henderson, but I'm in a jam and I thought you had all kinds of coin. Not that that's any excuse for the way I acted,” I said weakly.

He stared at me for a moment and his face seemed to relax.

He shook his head. “I'm sorry for you, George, and I can't understand you. Why you and I are—were—alike. I thought we knew how to live, to look at the world, we're sophisticated in the true sense of the word. But stooping to this, my God! You'd better leave. I'm pretty worked up about this, please leave before I say things that will hurt both of us, place me on your level.”

I took my coat, opened the door, said, “Francis, forgive me. I don't know what came over me.”

He said, “There's no point in anger. Perhaps in a few months we can even be friends again. But until I ask you, I'd rather you don't come up here again. I'll send my rent directly to Flo.”

There wasn't anything I could say, so I went out. It was a cold raw night, looked like snow and I didn't have enough money to get a decent drunk on at any bar. I bought a quart of wine and went to my room.

I was in rough shape the next morning, and by borrowing a couple of bucks from Harvey, Joe, and Jake Webster, I managed to stay drunk till Christmas. The Christmas party at the office made me quite a character—I got stupid drunk and passed out on the first bottle. Joe put me to sleep in the men's lounge and when I awoke, feeling like my head had been pulled inside out, via my stomach, the party was going full force. I ate a few sandwiches and ate too fast or something, for I got sick—all over myself.

As I stumbled out to get some snow and air, I vaguely remembered Harvey telling me Flo was on the phone, asking me to come to a party, but much as I wanted to see her, I was in no shape to do anything but go to my room and sleep it off. Of course the reason I passed out was I hadn't had anything to eat for three days, unless you're the scientific type that considers alcohol as food.

I awoke to find somebody banging on my head. My brain seemed to be a jumble of small pieces, and as I gathered them together, tried to think, I knew I was in my room, but it was dark, and I was across my bed, fully dressed—even to my shoes.

The banging was somebody knocking on my door and it sounded so loud... as if I was in the middle of an echo chamber.

The banging grew louder and I called out, “Flo? Flo? Who is it?” But my mouth was two layers of horrible smelling cotton and no words came out. I stood up stiffly, waited for the room to settle down, and started for the door. It was fortunate the room was tiny, I couldn't take more than a few steps and even that little effort made me faint. I managed to open the door.

Joe was standing there. A Joe looking cheerful, drunk, and sleepy. He's been up all night, or all week, judging by his eyes. He stepped in and I shut the door, the sound of it nearly slicing my head in half. Joe opened his coat, pushed his hat back, and looked at me as I sat on the bed. He made a face, opened the window and the cold air was a life-saver. For a while he stood there, without speaking, then he sat on the one chair, pulled out a pack of butts, lit one for me. The smoke was smooth as velvet and felt wonderful in my throat and nose.

Finally I asked, “What's the visit for?”

Joe blew out a cloud of smoke, glanced around the room, said, “What a trap.”

“How did you find me?” I asked, the question sounding absolutely stupid.

“Looked in the office files. You been worrying me, boy.”

“So I been worrying you. Glad you didn't go up to the house.”

“I was up there a few days ago. She said you didn't live there no more. A foreign doll, and what a sex-boat. Came to the door with just a slip on and is she....”

“Stay away from there, Joe, stay away from her!”

“What's the matter, she turn out to be too powerful for you? Georgie boy, what's wrong? Haven't been yourself for weeks.”

“And when I was myself, what was I? Joe, I was the guy wanted to go through life playing it safe, I wouldn't play unless I had a pair, backed up. Only you can't live like that, you got to go for the inside straights sometime, it seems.”

“Buck up. What's the matter?”

“Matter? Nothing! I'm just dandy, simply ginger-dandy!”

Joe shook his head. “Boy you look like hell. And something is sure wrong. George, you're a guy with class, a fashion-plate, and look at you now... living in this flea-bag, clothes wrinkled to hell and dirty. And you smell like a sewer—an old one. And there's something awful wrong when a guy making over a hundred a week starts borrowing a buck here and there. Not that I mind, you understand, but it's a sign something is screwy. Then you had some kind of a fuss with old man Henderson, Jake says you been asking some odd questions, and finally, a couple of weeks ago when you were up to my place, you were packing a gun.”