Kim

by Robert Colby

  His lips tightened and his eyes took on a menacing glint. I knew he was dead serious and for some reason I couldn’t understand, I was touched with a pang of fear. I realized that all my little cracks and barbs were part of a brave front. Underneath I was just a little scared.

  “Don’t worry, Eddie,” I told him. “With velvet gloves.”

  He looked at me solemnly for a moment. Then he turned and walked off.

  As soon as he had gone, I called one of those chicken-in-the-basket places and had them send up a big order. When it came I covered myself with an old bath towel. I didn’t want to get any spots on the gown because I had the impression Tarino liked it and didn’t want me to change.

  Finished, I felt better. But I hate to eat alone and suddenly I needed the reassuring sound of Rod Striker’s voice. I went to the phone and dialed him. I didn’t get an answer so on an off-chance I phoned the office. Nothing there, either. He was probably out working some angle of the case. Night is just the other face of a job which has no hours and never stops until the pay-off. And then the next assignment begins.

  I felt cast adrift and there was in me a woman-hunger for some kind of permanent affection and security. At that particular moment I would have traded all of my so-called excitements for the dullest routine of a housewife.

  I was able to make myself a drink because I always keep a small supply in that apartment. I carried the glass and a book to a chair and sat down. I read two pages and couldn’t get into the story. Whenever there is time to read, my mind seems to be a jungle with problems stalking me from some dark foliage of my subconscious. Eddie Tarino was creeping up on me so I closed the book and took another look at him.

  In a sense, I could understand why the Kim Rumshawtype would be drawn to the fire which burned in him, even if only to leap back quickly from the flames. Eddie had that basic, naked animality which does not cringe behind the flimsy wall of social hypocrisy. His eyes said to a woman — Come out from hiding there in your silky cave. I know you, baby, and what you are. An animal, just like me. I see behind your coy smiles and poses. I see you to the core. And I am not afraid of you or what you might think of my nakedness, for I see you naked, too. So come out and play and I will show you passion stripped of pretense, lust without fear.

  You see, by all her training, a woman is afraid to reveal herself. And since training argues with hidden desire, the total animal like Tarino can sometimes challenge a woman into bed by lending her his own animal courage.

  If that’s not clear, it’s still a fact for many women. And the result is a kind of hypnotism from which a woman soon awakens once returned to her environment.

  That seemed about the way Kim got involved with Eddie Tarino. And when he wouldn’t let her go, the trouble began. It could have been a rather minor trouble for him. He could have escaped with a shrug. But he was stubborn and full of his ego, and his hunger was out of control. And what began as a small thing would swallow him altogether. Because his method of intimidation was sly and he couldn’t be caught by the front door. In order to stop him now, we had to uncover all the other evils surrounding him. We had to bring down the whole house because the trouble was hiding underneath.

  It has always interested me that some little quirk of character will trip the mightiest Hitlers.

  Anyway, I grew weary of my amateur head-shrinking and tried the book again. I made it through half a dozen chapters and the doorbell rang. It rang twice before I had taken a last look in the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door and gone to answer it, expecting Tarino.

  But Mr. Markos stood there gazing at me with that perfectly blank, cocked-gun expression.

  I’ve been dealing with this hard old world in a hard way for a long time. But I’ve never met a man in my whole life who made me so downright uneasy as he did. There was no smart answer for this one. I couldn’t find a key to open him up.

  You’re afraid of him, a voice whispered. And all the time I was shouting the voice down, I knew it was true. “Evening, Mr. Markos,” I said. “Won’t you come in?”

  Twelve

  Something touched Markos’ face which might have passed for a smile. He stepped into the living room with long slow strides. He was wearing a dark blue suit with white shirt and gray silk tie. He carried a gray felt hat with a high crown. Since hats in Florida are practically a curiosity, it seemed odd. But according to the telegram in Tarino’s desk, Markos had just arrived that morning from Chicago and I suppose coming from that ten-degree weather with snow on the ground, it was difficult for him to imagine going anywhere without a hat. Anyway, Markos was not a man to be kidded about his hat — or anything else.

  He stood in the center of the living room, turning the hat slowly in his hands and looking around him with the slightly puzzled attitude of one who wonders why he is there in the first place.

  “Very nice,” he said, making it sound like an accusation. Then he turned and walked out the door, adjusting the hat carefully to his head as he went.

  There was nothing for me to do but grab my pocketbook and follow.

  I found him waiting for me at the curb, standing beside a gray Lincoln sedan. He had the rear door open and for a moment I wondered if I was to sit in back while he drove. But then I noticed two men on the front seat. I climbed in and their heads turned just an inch or so towards me and I got a better look at them.

  The driver was one of those young-old types. He had what the slick magazine writers call handsome-clean-cut-features-with-a-clean-cut-jaw. He was also clean-shaven. He was the sort of junior executive material which leers down at you from enormous billboards. But his mouth and especially his eyes were positively ancient. Hard and old as sin, as they say.

  The other was a Latin with mocha skin and the inevitable dark hair and thin mustache. He was below fifty but otherwise I couldn’t have guessed his age. He was chunky. Beside the driver he seemed short. His eyes were small and bright in a puffy face with a receding jaw.

  Markos sank down beside me and closed the door. He didn’t introduce me to the others and not a word was spoken. We pushed off into the night traffic, gliding west for a block and then turning south. Markos stared blankly out the window while the two in front peered straight ahead. The silence was oppressive and even ominous.

  I had the unreasonable conviction that something had gone wrong since I last saw Tarino; that I had been forced out and now I was being taken towards whatever vengeance was planned for me. It was one of the few times in my life when I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound idiotic. But I had to hear my own brave little voice.

  “A beautiful night,” I said.

  Markos turned slowly and gave me this cool stare. A rebuke. The kind you would expect if you had desecrated the silence after a funeral oration with some stupid pleasantry. He returned his gaze to the window. Traffic droned past rhythmically. There was the grunt and throb of a trailer-truck changing gears; the long cone of a raised headlight examined Markos’ brooding features and winked out.

  “It was so cold yesterday,” I said. “Not like — ” (I almost named Chicago) “not like the rest of the country, of course. But you know,” (with a chuckle) “pretty frosty for us.”

  Markos, in the middle of lighting a cigarette, nodded.

  The hand with the cigarette came to rest on his knee, the cigarette glowing skyward between pale fingers and becoming a tiny beacon in the dark.

  “But then today,” I hurried on, “all of a sudden it warms up and we’re in the seventies. That’s the way it goes … I see you’re wearing a hat, Mr. Markos, so you must come from a pretty cold climate. Well, that’s no brainy deduction, is it? But what I mean to say is that this must be such a marvelous change for you — this balmy weather. Do you come down here very often …? No? Well, I suppose the first time is really the best, don’t you think?”

  Silence.

  “By the way, Mr. Markos, where’s Eddie? Mr. Tarino.” “Myra …” Markos raised a long finger and aimed it casually
towards my face. “Yes, Mr. Markos?”

  “Myra, you talk too much. Why don’t you shut up, like a good girl.” He spoke softly, almost soothingly, but his little smile was the blade of a knife. “Just shut up, that’s all.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Markos,” I said, and despised myself for that meek whimper of an apology.

  Markos settled back in his seat. His face closed altogether and again he stared from the window.

  We turned a corner and slid west again. This was a narrow street of wood-frame houses, antique eyesores, peeling and overcome by untamed vegetation. The city fathers must have decided it was not a street that could withstand illumination and, except for an occasional eye of jaundiced light, darkness was complete.

  After a time we came into an area of squat buildings which looked as if they might house some minor manufacturing plants. And a block beyond these we pulled up before a long cement building with two tiny windows high up near the roof. From these windows came a feeble hope of light.

  The place had only one door that I could see. And this was a big steel corrugated affair, large enough to admit a truck. In black letters on the white surface there was the identification:

  MARKOS SUPPLY CO.

  Equipment and Supplies for —

  Hotels * Restaurants * Bars

  I assumed that this was a warehouse, and that later proved to be correct.

  The driver turned around to look questioningly at Markos who said, “Well, Remick, what’re you waiting for?”

  Whereupon the one called Remick opened the door and got out. He was one big hunk of man, bigger than I had thought. He stood by the car waiting and staring in at me. The Latin was turned in his seat, watching with his fierce demanding little eyes.

  There were a few beats of silence during which Markos worked his jaw and eyed the Latin. I was extremely nervous but tautly ready. I had opened my pocketbook, taking a cigarette from the pack within and holding it ready for the lighter I pretended to hunt in the bag. Actually, I had opened the gun compartment and my hand was clasped around the butt, finger on the trigger. The gun wasn’t too comforting. There were three of them and probably they were all armed.

  “All right,” said Markos to the Latin. “This is it.”

  I had the gun half-out. But then he went on, “I’m sure you’ll find the equipment satisfactory, Carga. My boys are going over it now and we should be able to make delivery to your hotel in a few days. If you’re happy, we’ll discuss the terms later, eh?”

  “Yes,” said Carga. “But you know I am in a hurry.” His teeth flashed in the dark, he spoke with a small, lisping accent. “I must have the kitchen equipment immediately. Yes, especially the equipment for the kitchen.”

  “I know, I know,” said Markos with his knife-smile. “Why do you think I brought you down here at this hour of the night? It’s a favor. We conduct our business in the daytime.”

  “Very well,” said Carga. “Later, then.” He climbed out and shut the door, moving off with the one called Remick. At which point I heaved a mental sigh which, if real, could have been heard a block away. I let the .38 fall back into the pouch.

  Markos watched the two until they had reached the door and passed inside after a wait in which they must have pressed a signal button. The door rolled upward only a few feet and they had to duck under. Then the quick splash of light was gone and Markos got out. He eased behind the wheel and beckoned for me to come up front.

  We turned around in a driveway and gunned back down the street. Markos said nothing until we had reached a main thoroughfare and had swung towards the ocean. Then his hand dropped lightly on my knee and squeezed.

  “Now,” he said. “An end to business.” His voice and manner had changed in some subtle way. “We’ll have a little party at my hotel. Champagne and a nice spread — the works. How about it?” He braked at a light.

  “Fine, Mr. Markos. I’d like that. Who’s going to be there?”

  “Does it take more than two for a party?” He laughed, a metallic rasping.

  The light flicked green and he stepped down hard on the gas.

  Thirteen

  Markos was staying at a hotel on Miami Beach, one of those colossal dreams of stone and glass which can be found in few other sections of the country.

  We pulled up to the door and a parking attendant took the Lincoln. But not before Markos had opened the trunk and removed a brief case. I made special note of that case because I had an idea it was going to interest me.

  In the vast lobby with its fountain behind glass and its tile mosaics, Markos sought the bell captain and gave him a list of items to be sent to the room.

  “How soon do you want this delivered, sir?” said the captain.

  “Ten minutes ago,” said Markos. And gave him a ten-dollar bill which he peeled from a roll that would embarrass a bookie.

  We stepped into an elevator and climbed until I thought we must have run out of floors, riding into space the way they do in those animated cartoons. Then we walked down a hall of mauve carpets and up a few steps to a vermilion door with a small gold crown in bas-ralief. There wasn’t another door like it on the floor.

  Markos produced a key and we entered an enormous living room done lavishly in Chinese modern and practically ringed with floor-to-ceiling glass. In one corner of the room there was even an ebony grand piano.

  “Penthouse,” Markos announced. “Nothing to beat it in the whole goddamn town. You like it?”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said, and it was.

  “Bill and a half a day,” said Markos. “C’mon, I’ll show you the layout.”

  There were two great bedrooms, each aimed at the sea, one of them containing a king-sized bed. In this room Markos placed his gray felt hat on top of a dresser and tucked the brief case in one of its drawers.

  The rest was a small kitchen and a dressing room set with mirrors. There were two baths. A walled balcony encompassed the entire apartment, although the balcony was sectioned so that each room had a separate area.

  Markos took me to the section which fronted the living room and we stood there looking out and down upon the glazed multicolor of lights west and the giant formless shadow of the ocean east. Directly below was the cement court with its scatter of tables, a tiny bar beside an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The pool was lighted and the water had a look of azure purity. Even at this hour a few late swimmers splashed and dived.

  Markos bent his head and said, “It’s along ways down, eh?”

  He said so little. And somehow when he did speak, the simplest statement seemed to carry undercurrents of meaning. So I looked at him from the corner of my eye, but there was nothing in his face. He simply stared below.

  I followed his gaze down the long sweep of the building to the far distant pavement. I am not overly afraid of height. But at times it has an odd effect upon me. I feel as if the ground has a magnetism which attracts me towards it in some insidious way. This was one of those times and there was a rushing in my ears, a hollowing in the pit of my stomach that made me weak with the light-headed dizziness of too much wine. I turned away.

  “It’s a lovely view,” I said.

  He studied me for a moment. I had the impression that he had discovered my little fear just then as I peered down. It was an unsmiling look he gave me, yet smiling just the same. His eyes roved over my body.

  “I liked the dress better this afternoon,” he said. “Without the jacket.” It was a command. “Well, it’s a little cool tonight,” I parried. “Take it off,” he said.

  I removed the jacket and folded it over my arm. His jaw worked, his eyes probed my breasts.

  “I want to thank you, Mr. Markos. For getting me that job this afternoon.”

  “You will, baby,” he said. “You’ll thank me.”

  And then he reached a big arm around me and pulled me against him. His hard thin mouth came towards me and I wanted to turn my head but didn’t dare. There was the foul stench of spent cigars. And quickly his lips fastened on min
e like a clamp of moist metal.

  I closed my eyes and made a small pretense of enjoying it. There was nothing in my mind but a single object — the long tube of toothpaste which sat on a shelf of my medicine cabinet. I saw it so plainly I could almost read the brand.

  At last his mouth came away. But then his hand stroked my bare shoulder and slithered down to the top rim of my dress. His hard fingers went beneath and clutched the material. He was going to rip it away, I could see it in his eyes. I was about to grab that hand when he let go and turning about sharply, moved into the living room.

  I spent a minute just gulping air, then went inside. He was gone.

  I tried to think what to do. He was unpredictable. I had no guide to what made him tick. I had to keep him happy. Somehow. Just long enough. Really stalling, I went into the dressing room and repaired the damage to my make-up. I was just finishing when I felt his presence.

  He was standing in the doorway, leaning on the jamb. He had removed his coat and tie and his shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist.

  “Hello,” I said.

  He didn’t answer. He made a tiny beckoning movement with his head. And again he was gone.

  He wasn’t in the living room or on the balcony. So I knew exactly where he was. And now I could think of just two choices — go there, or run from the apartment and keep on running. I compromised. I would go to him and somehow I would talk him back into the living room.

  He was lying on that big bed, feet crossed, a pillow behind his head. I stood waiting in the doorway, caught by the very stillness of him, especially his eyes. I thought how absurd it was to imagine I could talk him anywhere. What would you say to a man like him?

  His eyes ordered me to come in. They spoke obscenely and with hypnotic demanding — the way snakes are said to fascinate. And before I understood why, I moved towards him.

  “Close the door,” he said. I closed it.

  He grabbed me the minute I was within reach and pulled me down on top of him.