Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

“What?”

“I don't want to talk about it, Georgie. Look, it's as bad as this: all the way over I was hoping my plane would have an accident and I'd be killed.”

“You're the cautious type Hank, how...?”

“Forget it, it's my party,” Hank said. He began asking about fellows we'd known in the old days—and whom I hadn't seen in years. When we first moved downtown, Hank had lived in the brownstone across the street; the only kid on the block I had as a friend. He was real social register stuff, not that he ever let that get him down, or hinder our friendship.

We talked for a while longer, then he said, “Have to go and see my ever-loving wife, wired her I was coming in this morning. Thanks for holding the money.”

“I'll call you at your sister's. I might be able to line up a job or...”

“No. Don't ever call me,” he said curtly. “I don't want Lee to even know about you. I'll get in touch with you at your office from time to time.”

“If that's the way you want,” I said, thinking it strange Hank didn't want me to see his wife, at least take them out.

“Has to be that way. Know this sounds odd as the devil, but I know what I'm doing. Soon as I get out of this mess, I'll explain things—or as much as I can. Bye George, you've been a bracer, a tonic.”

When he left I took out the money, thinking he had never even counted it. Counting seven grand made me so nervous I went to the portable bar, found only a heel of bourbon, and finished that.

I dressed to go out and buy a Sunday paper. Every now and then I touched the envelope in my inside pocket to be sure it was there. I heard a noise in the kitchen and nearly hit the ceiling. I ran into the kitchen to see Slob coming through the open window, his fine tiger's skin mussed and dirty. He brushed against my leg and purred, his big tomcat's head looking up at me with mild interest.

I laughed and brushed my pants where he'd touched them, pointed to his milk, asked, “Get much, whoring around?” I cooked some liver for him, made sure the money was securely in my pocket, and went out to buy the Times.

People were going to the church across the street and I walked past them to Lexington Avenue and the stationery store near 73rd. As I was walking back, turning into my block, I saw a cab pull up in front of the house. Joe Collins stepped out, then helped a girl out. Joe rang the bell, then saw me and waved, nodding toward the girl.

It was going to be a big Sunday.

As I came up, Joe boomed, “Georgie boy, meet Stella. Doll, this is my boon buddy, George Jackson.”

Joe's florid face had a faint dark stubble of whiskers and his eyes were bloodshot—the only thing fresh about him, including his clothes, was the loud nude on his hand-painted tie. The week before, Joe had gone in for dogs on his ties, hunting scenes, and before that it was horses—now it was lush nudes. Joe was head of the Maintenance Department in Sky Oil, and not a bad sort, even if he was loud and vulgar. He was always good for heating oil for the house whenever I needed it.

On closer inspection Stella looked a bit bloated, somewhere in her late thirties: the heavy featured blonde that can be found in most bars looking for a little excitement of the week-end.

It was obvious they were winding up the night and both were hung-over. I said hello to Stella and as I unlocked the door, Joe said, “You're in for a treat, doll. Georgie is a writer. Damn good one. How's about that, Georgie boy?”

“My press agent,” I said politely, wondering if Joe had told heir we worked for Sky Oil, or what he had told her. Joe was never very careful with his pick-ups.

“My, this is an odd room,” Stella said, looking around. Joe helped her with her coat and she was a solid-built woman.

“Yeah. Used to be a garage when Georgie's family was in the chips, real blue-bloods. Now he's down to his last garage! That's a blip.” Joe began to laugh.

Stella glanced at me, said, “He always tries too hard,” and her voice had a nice throaty quality.

As we sat down, the cat came into the room and Stella said, “What a big pussy,” and of course Joe burst out laughing. “What's his name?” she asked, expertly rubbing the back of his ears.

“Slob",” Joe said before I could answer.

Stella said in that asinine baby-voice people use for animals and kids, “What a nasty old name to give such a nice pussy-cat.

“His real name is Vaslav—that was Nijinsky's first name,” I said. “Then I shortened it to Slav, and finally Slob.”

“I see,” she said, not knowing what I was talking about. Joe went to the bathroom and came out while the toilet was still flushing. He said, “Give and take. How about giving us a couple of snorters?”

“Sorry, killed the only bottle I had early this morning. Like some beer?” I asked, feeling a little nervous with all that money in my pocket, and more than a little angry—Joe had a hell of a nerve bringing this babe here. Suppose Flo was still with me? Not that it would have killed Flo to meet a Stella. I was doubly annoyed with myself for being such a snob.

“Want some beer, doll?” Joe asked, going over and running his big hand through her over-blonde hair.

“Sure, good to taper off on beer,” she said, giving Slob a real rubdown.

I went into the kitchen and I heard them kissing, then Joe told her, “I'd best go in and help Georgie boy.”

He came in and put a heavy arm around my shoulder, turned on the water in the sink so she couldn't hear, said, “Jeez, what a night. I tied a big one on. Hey what do you think of Stella? Some sex-boat.”

“Not bad,” I said, pouring the beer. I knew all about Stella—all the Stellas: with a husband someplace in the background, maybe a kid or two, a busted marriage, a routine job during the week, and the frantic week-ends with any guy who treated her “nicely,” as she tried to regain her illusions of bright romance and youth over some bar; a dozen drinks fogging reality. “Listen pal,” Joe said, hesitating a bit, “hate to ask you this, but I see Flo isn't around... didn't think she would be, and...”

“What made you think that?”

“Hell, don't kid your Uncle Joe. You two never last more than a few days. Look, the point is, you see Stella, what she wants. Could we use your place—for a little while?”

“What happened to your places—get dispossessed?” I asked, angry. I don't like anybody using my place, not even for parties—seemed to give the place a dirty atmosphere, and I mean dirty in every sense of the word. At the moment all I wanted was to listen to some good records, smoke my pipe, and read the Sunday paper.

“The kid's aunt and uncle came in from Harrisburg last night,” Joe said, running a comb through his thick, black-gray hair. “The yokels got their dates mixed, thought Walt was coming home this month, 'stead of next. Whole damn month off, but you see how it is, can't take doll there. Wouldn't even bother, only she's such a hot number. I know how you feel about... it... but you see her, ready to explode and...”

“All over my bed,” I said, shutting off the water, taking the beer bottles and glasses into the living room.

We sat around, making small talk over the beer, Joe waiting for me to make a move. Finally he said, “Beer—nothing to it. Georgie, you're a man of high influence, how about getting a bottle?”

“On Sunday morning?” I said. Then I got my hat and coat, decided I might as well let him have the place. I knew Joe and it would have been even more ridiculous for me to sit in the living room reading the Times while they were in the bedroom.

“What's Sunday morning? You're known at some of the bars around here, ought to get a bottle without much trouble,” Joe said quickly, winking at me.

“I'll try.”

“That's it. Take your time.”

I looked at my wrist watch. It was almost eleven. “I'll try—till noon.”

“Great,” Joe said.

I went out, wondering how I'd kill an hour. I had seven thousand in my pocket, had been maneuvered out of my own house, and although it was a mild sunny day, I was too tired and sleepy to walk. I knew I wouldn't sleep that night either—I have a complex about other people using my bed.

I stood in front of the house for a few minutes, trying to decide whether to drop down and see Flo, take a walk, or try the peace and quiet of the church across the street. I decided against all three. I was not only irritated at having been thrown oat of my house, but the money in my pocket gave me a restless sense of power—even though it wasn't mine. I walked to the corner of Park Avenue, then turned and went back to the house, rang Henderson's bell. When he buzzed the door open, I went upstairs. He was waiting inside his door, wearing a neat silk robe, and slippers.

He said hello as we shook hands.

“Thought I'd drop in for a few minutes,” I said.

“Fine, fine. Having breakfast. Join me?”

I shook my head, took off my coat and hat. Francis was a health bug. While I sat and watched him he ate a bowl of red jello in which I could see sardines, chopped celery, and string beans suspended. He was a little gray-haired man, eccentric as hell, but full of life for a person well over 70.

“Try some, you'll like this,” he said, pointing to the mess.

“I doubt if I would.”

“Utter nonsense. Consider the contradiction: You'd eat a sardine sandwich, a salad, and take jello for dessert—and think nothing of it. But mix them all together, as they will become inside your stomach, and you turn it down.”-

“I certainly do!”

He ate a few spoonfuls of the stuff, chewing it thoroughly. “Now isn't that stupid, afraid to look at what's in your belly? You're hiding your head in your intestines, to paraphrase the ostrich and the sand business.”

I didn't answer and he finished his 'meal' in silence. I glanced about the room. He had heavy, old-fashioned furniture, with a big bronze statute of Man o' War on the ugly old mahogany sideboard.

Henderson washed his food down with a glass of carrot juice, took the dishes into the kitchen. I picked up his Times, read the front page. “Going to have Joe and some of the boys in for poker this week?” he called out.

I said I guess so and went into the kitchen. He was pouring heavy sour cream and bits of chocolate-covered graham crackers into an electrical mixer.

“Any night you wish,” he said, starting the mixer, which didn't make much noise. “Be sure Joe is there. That Joe, drawing to straights and flushes—a slow living.”

Through the door I could see the statue of Man o' War. Francis F. Henderson was a quiet, reserved old man who lived off an income. He had no visitors or family, and played a capable, if cautious, game of poker, always quitting when he lost over eight dollars. He paid his rent promptly, saw all the Broadway plays, dressed plainly, and seemed to live pretty close to the cuff. I had an idea his income was about a hundred and fifty a month—he counted his pennies and played poker to win, not for the game.

Our relation was much more than a landlord-tenant affair, but we were never really friends. I thought there was always a certain reserve, almost a cunning aloofness, about him. I knew very little about him, he picked his words when he talked, except that he had worked for many years in a bank. Once when I asked about the statue of the horse that dominated the living room, he said, “The Man —great money horse. Did a lot for me.”

And once when there was a story in the papers about some bank teller arrested for dipping in the till and losing the money on the horses, we had been making small talk about it when Henderson looked at me with a faint smile, asked, “Ever think of the number of tellers that—eh—borrow funds and aren't caught? Of course you'll never read 'bout them in the papers. In the movies and papers the teller always bets on the wrong horse. That's ridiculous—some of them must win. Same percentage for tellers as for anybody else....”