The Girl in the Cage

by Ben Benson

  I drove on. I began checking rural mailboxes for names. I passed two small farms. The third one was Osanger’s.

  There was a shabby, run-down, brown frame farmhouse set back about fifty feet from the road. Skirting the house was a warped open veranda without railings. A large, broad-shouldered woman of sixty was on a porch swing, rocking back and forth, reading a magazine. She looked at my car briefly as I went by. As I passed I caught a look at a big, faded-red barn behind the house. In front of it was a new tractor and the station wagon. Vince Pomeroy was bent over the tractor with an oil can. There was a small field of truck vegetables, maybe a quarter of an acre. Near the barn was a long, low henhouse surrounded by chicken wire. In the yard was an assortment of Rhode Island Reds and Plymouth Rocks. Pomeroy didn’t look up. I continued on 111 until I came to Route 114. I took that back to Carlton.

  I went into the drugstore on Main. In the telephone booth I reported everything to Lieutenant Newpole.

  “That’s a bad break about Pomeroy,” he said slowly. “You sure he hasn’t recognized you?”

  “Not yet, Lieutenant. What do you think?”

  “If he does, everything goes out the window,” Newpole said sadly. “We’d have to pull you out quick. But there’s a good chance he won’t remember you. Don’t forget, when he saw you you were in uniform. A man looks altogether different in uniform.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “I feel kind of naked here all by myself, Lieutenant.”

  “That’s another thing,” Newpole said, his voice serious. “I didn’t expect you to end up in a fight with a damn wolfpack. All right, now that you’ve shown you’re a tough kid, take the chip off your shoulder. Keep away from the rough stuff and try to get more friendly with Cluett.”

  “I tried,” I said. “But I don’t think it’ll work. And I don’t know why Osanger is stalling me about the job.”

  “Sounds like he’s checking up. Wants to see where you come from. If he’s as smart as I think he is, he’ll get your record through Chief Clemmisson. Clemmisson can request confidential information from the Board of Probation. That’s fine. They’ll report you did sixty days on Deer for auto theft. Then we’ll see how Osanger takes it.”

  “Here’s something else, sir,” I said. “There’s a sharpshooter named Waldock who runs a used-car agency in town. You might run a check on him and see who he is.”

  “Spell it out for me,” Newpole said.

  I spelled it out. Newpole said, “Got it. Listen, son, we’ve been trying to get a line on Osanger. There’s nothing on him in Mass. Where’s he from? We can teletype for information.”

  “Nobody knows where he’s from, Lieutenant.”

  “Try and find out, son.”

  “I’ll try, Lieutenant. Also, I’m going to a dance in Eatonville tonight.”

  There was a pause on the phone, then Newpole said, “It might end up with somebody’s car missing. Be careful, son. And if anything happens flash me the signal.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS AN AMUSEMENT PARK OUTSIDE OF EATONVILLE. There was a lake and a big pine grove. At the edge of the lake was the ballroom.

  The time was nine-thirty at night and the air was warm. I stopped my Ford at the edge of the parking lot and made the long walk to the entrance. When I came to the cashier’s booth I heard a crash of cymbals and a long blare of trumpets signaling the intermission. The music stopped and couples began to drift outside for a smoke. A man stood at the door and made a mark on their wrists with a rubber stamp, enabling the couples to return without paying another admission.

  I bought my ticket, gave it to the man and started in. I saw Kenneth Osanger coming toward me. There was a girl with him. I stopped. Osanger went by me, making no sign of recognition. The man with the rubber stamp held it up, but Osanger, gripping the girl by the elbow, brushed by him.

  I swung around. “Osanger,” I called.

  He stopped. He turned around, moving so that there was a gap between him and the girl. His eyes stared at me through the thick lenses. I walked back to him.

  “I didn’t see you,” Osanger said apologetically, in his husky voice. He was wearing a blue cashmere jacket with pearl buttons, a lightweight, white sport shirt, lightweight gray flannels and blue suede shoes. He shifted his feet impatiently, his big head bobbing. There were beads of moisture on his forehead. His lips were shiny-wet, the inevitable cigarette between them.

  I looked at the girl. She was tall, full-hipped and full-breasted. She wore a white linen dress which clung to the shapely curves of her body. Her legs were perfect. She had a smooth oval face, the nose short and uptilted, the mouth soft and alluring. Her hair was golden-blond, flowing softly to her shoulders.

  “Who’s your friend?” I asked Osanger.

  He frowned, then turned reluctantly to the girl. “Come here, Leta.”

  She came up dutifully, solemnly, without a smile. Her eyes were a pale brown, without spark or vitality. At first, she gave me an odd feeling that she was blind, that she was looking at me without seeing me. Then she looked at Osanger, expectantly, as though waiting for another command, standing there like a beautiful machine without initiative or will of her own, unable to do anything except by order.

  “Leta,” Osanger said mildly, “this is Ralph Lincoln, the kid who’s coming to work for me.”

  I smiled at her. “Hi,” I said.

  She said nothing, not even recognizing the introduction with a nod of her head.

  Osanger said, “Leta, why not say hello to the man?”

  She looked at him uncertainly, then she said, “Hello.” She said it very softly, her head half-averted, still looking toward Osanger as though not sure she had done right.

  Osanger turned on her. “You did wrong, Leta,” he explained in a patient, pleasant voice. “You should say, ‘How do you do, Mr. Lincoln.’”

  I saw sudden wild terror flame in her eyes. Her hand trembled so she almost dropped her white handbag.

  I said quickly, “She’s doing all right the way she is, Osanger.”

  Osanger’s face broke into a gentle smile. “Nice, huh?” He reached out and pinched her bare arm. “Solid. Not fat. Not an ounce of fat on her.”

  I saw her flinch slightly. I could feel an embarrassed flush creep over my face. He had spoken of her as though he had been discussing a piece of livestock. And there was something evil and degrading about a beautiful girl, or any girl, or any human, responding to commands with sheer dread and abject submissiveness. “How’s the dance?” I asked Osanger.

  “Too warm in there,” he said. “We’re going home. They play that bop all the time. I’m a little too old for it.” His eyes were fixed on me like two big egg yolks swimming in milk. “Who told you to come?”

  “I heard there was a dance tonight. You know how Carlton is. It’s no Times Square.”

  “You picked the town,” Osanger said huskily. “Nobody sent for you.”

  “Oh, I like the town,” I said. “The town’s all right. But I like a little excitement, too.”

  “Well, I’ve got to go,” Osanger said apologetically. “I might see you tomorrow.”

  “So long,” I said. “Good night, Leta.”

  She didn’t answer me. Osanger nudged her. “Say good night to the kid,” he said patiently.

  “Good night,” she said, in a flat, mechanical voice.

  I watched them leave. She walked away on a pair of beautiful, tapering legs. She stepped into the black Chrysler. Osanger went around and got in beside her. They drove off. Beauty and the beast, I thought. I couldn’t figure it at all. Not then.

  There was a soft-drink bar at one end of the ballroom. The building had open beams festooned with colored paper streamers and Japanese lanterns. At the far end there was a large open veranda. Beyond it the bright moonlight hit the water of the lake, shimmering it in silver.

  There was a raised wooden bandstand with a microphone on it. Instruments lay across the chairs. The music stands carried the name Rhythm Rascals. The men of
the band were at the soft-drink bar, weary, pasty-faced, round-shouldered men in white shirts with long-pointed collars, short maroon jackets, maroon bowties, black pants.

  There was a steady babble of noise. At the far end of the bar I saw Scott Cluett leaning on the counter talking to Vince Pomeroy. I made no move toward them.

  Across from me were two identical doors, one marked He, the other She. I saw the She door open and Cluett’s girl came out. She started for the bar. Then she saw me. She faltered, broke stride and looked down toward Cluett. Then she came over to me.

  “Hi, Lincoln,” she said in a throaty voice. “Everybody’s here tonight. But everybody.”

  “Irma,” I said. “Is there anybody firma?”

  “Fresh,” she said. Her smile was brittle. “How’d you know my name?”

  “Heard it,” I said. “How did you know mine?”

  “Things get around,” she said lazily. “You dancing tonight, Ralphie?”

  “I don’t know. Who’s there to dance with?”

  “Me,” she said.

  “There’s a label on you. I can read it from here. It says Scott Cluett.”

  “Don’t be a cube. Nobody owns little Irma.”

  “Pomeroy is here,” I said. “Dance with him.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “Vince is strictly a moron. But strictly. What’s the matter? Are you afraid, Ralphie?”

  “I don’t think Scotty would like it.”

  She smiled languidly. “No, he wouldn’t.”

  “And that’s just why you’re doing it.” I shook my head. “Look, why don’t you find yourself another cookie?”

  “Because they’re all afraid of Scotty. All but you. I didn’t think you’d crawl, Ralphie. You haven’t gone chicken, have you?”

  “What am I supposed to do? See red when you mention the word ‘chicken’?”

  “Oh, come on,” she said.

  “Don’t push me,” I said. “Every time I’m pushed I get into trouble.”

  She smiled delicately, blandly. The band left the drink bar and went to the stand. They rustled around for a moment, tuning their instruments. Then the beat came and they began to play bop.

  “Go, go,” I heard someone say.

  “They’re real gone,” Irma said, swaying her hips, her eyes dilated. “Dig the way that band jumps. Real fat cats.” She lifted her arms. “Come on,” she said impatiently. “Take me out.”

  I stood there facing her, my hands motionless. I felt a touch on my shoulder. I turned. I locked eyes with Scott Cluett.

  “Still on the prowl,” he said, his voice taut. “Still looking for trouble.”

  “No trouble,” I said. “I paid my way in. They sold me a ticket. They’ll sell anybody a ticket.”

  The tenor sax wailed. On the floor, dancers glided, wove around. I looked for Vince Pomeroy. I didn’t see him.

  Irma said earnestly, “He asked me to dance with him, Scotty. Honest. What was I gonna do? I didn’t want no fuss.”

  I looked at her. The lie had rolled out as smooth as oil. Her eyes had a cruel expectancy. She reminded me of a vicious little mare, deliberately pitting two stallions against one another.

  Cluett’s face was like stone. “I’ll show you a place where we can finish it off, Lincoln. Once and for all. Come on.”

  I didn’t move. Some kids had gathered close to us, kids I had seen at the Peppermint Stick last night. Cluett said, “Come on, or I’ll get somebody to carry you.”

  He started for the open veranda. I had no choice but to follow him. His gang fell in behind. When we came to the veranda there were some couples entwined in the darkness. They separated, the girls patting their hair. They watched us.

  There was a short flight of stairs which led to a pebbled little beach. A dozen rowboats were moored to a wooden pier. A warm, pine-scented breeze brushed my face. Irma minced down the stairs after us. Then she stood there, her feet apart, her hands on her hips.

  Cluett took off his sport coat and handed it to her. Underneath he wore a short-sleeved sport shirt. “Last time I was a little drunk. Now I’m sober, you sonovabitch.”

  “You’ve got me wrong,” I said to him. “I’m not looking for a jam.”

  “Then get down on your knees and beg.”

  “Oh, cripes,” I said. I took off my jacket and put it on the railing of the veranda. It seemed as if I was going to spend the rest of my life fighting him. There was a mania, an incorrigible badness in him, so deep, so unmalleable, it was incapable of changing.

  Cluett took a stance. His left elbow was bent high, his left fist cocked out, his chin buried in his left shoulder. His right was lower this time, protecting his stomach. He shuffled forward. It was a good stance for a prize ring, for a smooth canvas square, for a man with boxing gloves. It looked good. It looked professional. But he wasn’t a professional. He had had no training. A stance was one thing, fighting was another.

  I held my fists low, my face exposed, waiting for him to lead, waiting so I could counterpunch. He flicked out his left to me. Then another left. His right hand was jumping, ready. I moved my head, taking both blows going away, over my shoulder. I waited again. He tried to dance in, but it was not easy on the soft sand.

  Again he pushed out the left. Suddenly he crossed with the right. I moved in this time, blocking the blow with my forearm. He was off-balance for a split second, his entire right side exposed. I slammed him with a hard left to the side of the face. He staggered. He swung the right again. I took it on the cheek and hit him once more, a hard smash to the face. He wobbled. He forgot his careful stance. He began swinging rights and lefts wildly, his breath sobbing with frustration, a thin keening noise coming from him, like from a crazed kitten. I stepped back and measured him. I hit him hard with my right. Not on the chin where I would break my knuckles, but in the throat. He tumbled over backwards, hitting the sand with his shoulders. He shook his head and spat blood. He tried to get up.

  I waited for the kids on the veranda to jump me. But no one moved.

  “Don’t quit on me, Scotty,” Irma said. “For Gawd’s sake, don’t quit on me.”

  Cluett wavered to his feet. I feinted with the left, made as if to cross with the right, then crashed through with the left again. I caught him high on the cheekbone, cutting it. He slithered back down on the sand again, his face covered with gore. I rubbed my cut, swollen knuckles. Then I reached down and grabbed him by the shirt front, half-lifting him, my other fist bunched.

  “Anytime you’re ready,” I said heavily.

  His face was stiffly wired with exhaustion. He tried to speak but there was only a bubbly sound in his throat. He tried to swing at me. I caught his arm and cuffed his face with my open palm. He sagged back to the sand.

  I let go of him. I had a strange feeling I hadn’t beaten him. There was no true sense of victory over him. There would never be. He had suffered only a temporary setback. He would build up strength and reserves again and he would be back for me. I felt a little involuntary shudder go through me. I was thinking, probably the only way to stop him was to kill him.

  I put on my coat and went back up the stairs. I pushed through the silent crowd on the veranda. A bouncer came hurrying toward the arena. He looked at me sharply, then continued on.

  I went through the dancing couples to the door marked He. Inside, I bathed my face with cold water. Except for my bruised hands and a tiny cut over my right eye, I was unmarked. I dried my hands with a paper towel. I was throwing the towel into a metal wastebasket when the door swung inward and Cluett came in.

  There was dried blood on one cheek. His mouth was awry with puffiness and one eye was swollen and closed. He didn’t say a word. He sucked in his breath and moved diagonally for me, one fist cocked. I pushed him in the face with my open hand. He stumbled against the washstand and sat down on the floor.

  I went outside and had a coke at the bar, drinking it with an unsteady, shaky hand. The band played. I watched the dancers. Five minutes later Cluett came out. This time Irm
a was waiting for him. She linked her arm in his and they walked back to the veranda. There they stayed. I began to look around for Pomeroy. I didn’t see him.

  An hour went by. It was eleven o’clock. There was dancing, exhibitions and solos. Cluett stayed on the veranda with Irma. There was no sign of Pomeroy and I was getting nervous.

  Suddenly there was a commotion at the front entrance. A small boy about eighteen had burst in and was shouting angrily. I saw a crowd gather around him. I went over. I asked somebody on the fringe, “What’s it all about?”

  “The kid’s car was stolen.”

  I pushed through the crowd and grabbed the boy by the arm. “Hey,” I said, “maybe I saw your car. What kind is it?”

  His face was wet with tears. “’52 Plymouth sedan. Black.”

  “What’s the registration?” I asked.

  He gave it to me. I shook my head. “That wasn’t it,” I said. “When was it taken?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, turning a tearful face to me. “I got here about half-past eight. I was just going home. I came outside and the car was gone.”

  Somebody took him to the small office, where there was a telephone. I went back to the bar and looked toward the veranda. Scott Cluett came out with Irma. They walked slowly through the ballroom and outside. I followed them. In the parking lot they got into the Mercury and drove out. The dance was beginning to break up. Other cars began to move. I ran for mine, got in, switched on my lights and drove through the exit in the haze of dust.

  I stayed behind the Mercury as it rolled along Route 105 back toward Carlton. We came to a crossroad and there was a State Police cruiser with a blinking blue roof light. Two troopers, wearing white luminous cross straps, were signaling by flashlight to slow down. Cluett slowed and a flashlight waved him by. I slowed and hunched down over the wheel so they wouldn’t recognize me. They waved me by, too. I didn’t know the two troopers. But they didn’t want us. They wanted a black Plymouth sedan, and their roadblock had come too late.