The Girl in the Cage

by Ben Benson

  He looked at the parts of the pistol, holding each piece up, examining them closely. Then he assembled it—so quickly that before I knew it he had swung around and aimed the pistol at my heart.

  He pulled the trigger and it clicked. I flinched instinctively.

  “Works,” he said with a soft, mushy smile.

  “You’re fast with a gun,” I said, my voice a little off-key.

  “It’s my hobby,” he said. “And this is a good gun. I’ve had it for years. Only one I own. I’m a one-gun man.” His eyes came up and enveloped mine. “I’m also a one-woman man. Wouldn’t do you no harm to remember it from now on.”

  “I’ll mark it in my diary,” I said.

  “Underline it,” he said. “Use red ink so you won’t forget.”

  He slid the magazine back into the butt. Then he put the gun into the shoulder holster strapped beneath his jacket. He stood up, his fingers working at the buttons. “Scotty and I are going out. We won’t be back. Close up at four. Make sure all the power is shut off. I don’t like to waste electric. I’ll look you up at Kincaid’s, tonight at six.”

  My eyes shifted to Cluett standing against the wall. He had taken out an H & R automatic that looked like a .32 caliber. He was checking the clip. Osanger was watching me. He laughed deprecatingly.

  He said, “That’s Scotty for you. The H & R is a discontinued model. I wouldn’t be seen dead with it. We’re going out to the farm and have some target practice. You got a gun, Ralph?”

  “I can get hold of one, I guess.”

  He smiled. “Sure you can. Maybe a Belgian automatic, huh?”

  “Maybe,” I said slowly.

  “Some day we’ll have a shoot together behind the barn. I’ve got a target set up. Don’t let these glasses of mine fool you.”

  They went out. I watched them drive away in Osanger’s car. I was breathing a little fast. The H & R had a fixed barrel, no slide. The front sight was filed off. Sometimes that was done so you could pull a gun fast without getting it caught in your clothes. Also, a fixed barrel without a front sight could take a silencer.

  *

  I closed up at four. At five I was waiting outside the Empire Laundry. When Leta came out, she took one quick look at my Ford and walked straight by.

  I got out and hurried after her. “Hello, Leta,” I said.

  “I don’t know you,” she whispered harshly. She kept walking. Her pace quickened.

  I fell in beside her. “Yesterday you knew me, Leta.”

  “That was yesterday,” she said tonelessly. “I did what Ken told me. Today it’s different. This is keep-away-from-Lincoln day.”

  “Is that what Ken said?”

  “Yes. Last night.”

  “First one thing, then the opposite. It beats me. How can you understand him?”

  “You’re not supposed to. You just do as he says. Sometimes he wants to show me off, to have men notice me, to admire him. Other times he thinks they pay me too much attention. Then he blames me and I get whipped.”

  “Whipped? What do you mean, whipped?”

  “Whipped. What else can I mean? Ken has a whip.”

  “He’s crazy,” I said hoarsely.

  “Next time you see him, tell him that. See what happens.”

  “I’m seeing him tonight,” I said. “There’s a job. I’m in on it.”

  “I know,” she said listlessly. “Ken told me. So you’re in. You’re with the clan now. You wouldn’t listen to me. So your life is done. Like Pomeroy’s, like mine soon.”

  “And Cluett?”

  “He’s living on borrowed time. Didn’t you ever hear of the Angel of Death? His name is Ken Osanger.”

  “It’s all in your mind,” I said. “Come on back to the car. I’ll take you shopping.”

  “I shopped yesterday.”

  “Then I’ll drive you home.”

  “You still don’t understand. Ken said no.”

  “And you always do as he says? Always?”

  “You’ll find you will, too.”

  “He’s got you buffaloed. Come on, let me worry about it. You can blame it on me.”

  I took her by the arm. A little sound came from her throat, but she didn’t resist. Her face was twisted stiffly like she was in pain. We went back to the car. I drove her to the little house on Mill Street. I went around and opened the car door for her. She stepped out.

  “Let me come in for a minute,” I said.

  “Come,” she whispered. There were tears in her eyes again. She opened the door. Her father came forward to meet us with his toothless grin. Gently she took a bag of chocolate drops from her handbag and gave them to him. He bobbed his head and prattled something. She led him into his bedroom, closed the door and left him there.

  “Before supper?” I asked her. “Is it good for him?”

  “To keep him quiet,” she said. “I have to talk to you, to explain things. I don’t know why you’re so stubborn.” She walked into the living room and sat down. She gripped her hands so tightly the knuckles were white.

  “Explain,” I said. “I’m listening.”

  “I don’t know why you’ve been so nice to me,” she said. “I’ve learned the hard way, to look for gimmicks. Maybe you’re just getting a bang out of it, for kicks. But I don’t care what your reason is. It’s the first time in my life I’ve been treated like a lady. You made me feel soft inside, like a melted-cheese sandwich. You’ve made me drop my guard.”

  “I wanted you to,” I said. “You’re much too young to—”

  “Sit down,” she interrupted. “I’ll tell you a little story. I come from Hungarian people. I wasn’t born in this house, but something even worse, a little shack down by the railroad yard. My mother died when I was twelve. My father, who was working on the railroad as a trackwalker, took it bad. He started to drink. He lost his job on the railroad and he began doing handyman work and odd jobs around town. Wackie Willie they called him. You ask anybody. He was the town drunk.” She looked up at me. “Maybe you don’t want to hear any more. It’s not what you’d call a nice story.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “His mind wasn’t too bad then,” she said. “Not like it is now. He never had enough money to support me and drink at the same time. So he began to steal things. A garden hose, a rake, a sled, a lawnmower. Anything that he could sell somewhere for the price of a few drinks. Three times he was caught. The first two times the judge felt sorry for him and gave him a suspended sentence. The third time he did five days at the county jail in Dedham.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Five years ago. I was sixteen then and I had left school and was working at the Empire Laundry. A week after he got out of jail he was passing Osanger’s Garage. The garage had been open about a year then. My father saw some quart cans of oil on a rack outside, near the gasoline pumps. He took three of them and started to walk away. Ken saw him and grabbed him. He took my father into the office and made him sign a confession. Then he let him go. That night Ken came to the house and showed me the confession.”

  She stopped. Her voice had become lower and lower as she spoke. Now she raised it. “I told you I was sixteen then. Ken said he had seen me around town and had been looking me over. I wasn’t surprised because I had noticed it myself. You couldn’t help but notice it. When he looked at you, you got the shivers like he could see right through your clothes.”

  She glanced over to me where I was sitting on the other end of the couch. She rubbed her forearm in a quick, nervous gesture.

  “Ken was sitting where you are now,” she continued. “He slid closer to me and said that now that we had met, we would become good friends. Then he explained that if he turned my father in, it would be a fourth offense. Under the Barnes law he would go to prison for life.”

  “Dammit,” I said. “Not the Barnes law.”

  She waved her hand. “I know. But then I wasn’t very smart and my schooling wasn’t too good. I didn’t know that the Barnes law is only in
New York. Ken had a bottle of whiskey with him and he gave it to my father. Then he sat there and watched my father drink it until the poor man rolled off the chair. Then Ken said he knew I was a good daughter and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my father, would I? I was only sixteen, but I could tell what was next. Ken took me into the bedroom and closed the door. Then he started to undress me.” She rubbed her hand over her eyes. “That’s how it started. Ken still has the confession.”

  “Three cans of oil,” I said bitterly.

  “Yes, I sold myself cheap,” she said. “When I was seventeen I went to a lawyer and he explained to me about the Barnes law being in New York. But he also told me that in Mass. they have a law on the common and notorious thief. In extreme cases a man can get twenty years for a fourth offense.”

  “Extreme cases,” I said. “The law is on the books but it’s hardly ever used. Never for what your father did. Never for three cans of oil.”

  “So the lawyer told me,” she said wearily. “But by then I had a reputation in town. I was Osanger’s whore. Kids used to run after me on the streets and call me every filthy name imaginable.”

  “You should have gone away. You should have started over somewhere else.”

  “I tried. But my father was getting worse. It’s so much easier not to fight it. Ken takes something out of you. He makes you lose your will. It’s like a disease, a drug. I didn’t earn too much at the laundry and Ken was paying a lot of my bills. But even so I knew I had to break away from him. One day I packed up, took my father, and went down to the railroad station. The train came in and just then Ken stepped up and took my bags away. He brought me to his garage. He said he would never let me go. He said I belonged to him, that he owned me. If I tried it again he would search me out, find me and kill me.” She looked up at me again. “You think I didn’t believe him? Would you believe him?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “I guess I would. There’s something badly wrong with him. He’s all twisted up inside.”

  “Like a corkscrew,” she said. “Then he said he would show me I belonged to him, he would show everybody. He locked the garage doors. Then he heated up a soldering iron.”

  Suddenly she reached up and pulled down the shoulder strap of her dress. Her hand worked back and undid the snap on her white, strapless bra. She bared her right breast. It was a beautiful breast, but on it, burnt unevenly, were two little white scars making the initials KO.

  “You see the brand?” she asked. “KO. Ken Osanger. Knock Out. Finished. So I am finished. I’m his cattle, his prize blue-ribbon cow.” She slipped the bra back and pulled her dress strap up. “Do you want to know what other things he does to me? Do you want me to describe them?”

  “No,” I said, my voice low and inarticulate. “I’m just wondering why you took it, why you didn’t go to the cops.”

  “What cops?” she asked bitterly. “To Clemmisson? The big fat turtle sitting in the sun? Me, the town whore? He’d laugh at me.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. No local cop would. Not even Clemmisson. There’s some pretty good cops in these small towns.”

  “You never lived in Carlton on the wrong side of Main Street. Clemmisson works for the money people, for Lance Nodecker, for Ken Osanger. They pay the taxes that pay his salary. Besides, I think Clemmisson is afraid of Ken. He really is.”

  “All right, there are other cops,” I said. “You could have gone to the State Police.”

  “Who are they? Young kids riding around in sharp uniforms. Do you ever see one here? Only once in a while they’ll drive through town in a hurry.”

  “They might be pretty scarce,” I said. “But there’s a barracks near here in Wrentham.”

  “What’s the use, anyway? What if I did tell them? Maybe they’re afraid of Ken, too.”

  “Dammit,” I said. I was so angry I was shouting, sputtering. “You think the whole world’s afraid of Ken? How do you think the cops would know unless you told them? They don’t study tea leaves or look at a ouija board. You have to tell them.”

  “Sometimes I would think of it,” she said dully. “I thought I would go to the Wrentham Barracks and tell them the whole thing. But then I knew the troopers would come and take Ken away. If they did, he would kill me when he got out. I just knew it. If I had a friend to talk to—to advise me—” She brushed at her hair. “But I have no friends. I have my records. They’re my friends. Not bop, and not long hair. Sweet music. The Merry Widow album. Sigmund Romberg, Victor Herbert, the Strauss waltzes. I listen to the music and have a good cry and I feel better.”

  I stood up. “You’re getting out of here,” I said flatly. “You start packing some things.”

  “No,” she said quietly. “Wherever I go he’ll find me.

  “Not this time,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “Don’t feel so bad for me, honey. I’ve gotten used to it. I really have.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I said. “You can’t kid me. I can tell from the way you talk. You hate him.”

  “Hate him? I used to hate him so much I’d burn with a fever. But after five years the fire burned out. You have to have strength to hate, and I don’t have it any more. Now when I’m with Ken I’m nothing. I’m a store dummy, a lump of flesh. I’ve trained my mind to be somewhere else. I make believe I’m not with him. I’m on an ocean liner, dancing with a dreamy fellow. I’m at a lake sitting under the pines in a cool breeze. I’m a girl in a cage. I’m a Cinderella, or a captive princess, and I’m waiting for a Prince Charming to rescue me. Maybe a man who would look like you, Ralph.” Her mouth trembled. “So leave me to my little-girl dreams. It’s the only thing I have left.”

  “You can stop dreaming,” I said. I looked at my strapwatch. “Look, there’s no time now. I have to get back to my room. Ken is expecting me there. But you start packing. Later tonight I’m coming back to take you and your father away.”

  “No,” she said. “Don’t come here again. Don’t ever come near me. I swear if Ken finds you here he’ll kill you.”

  “Look,” I said angrily. “Maybe you don’t understand—”

  I stopped suddenly. I had heard a rustle behind me. I turned swiftly. My eyes shifted to the faded Wilton rug on the floor, to the opened front door.

  To Ken Osanger standing on the threshold.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THERE WAS A HEAVY, ALMOST UNBEARABLE SILENCE IN THE ROOM. Osanger puffed on the cigarette between his lips. His eyes seemed to swarm over me.

  “Leta is right,” he said mildly. “Don’t come back for her. You should always listen to Leta. You won’t go wrong.”

  “All right,” I said to him. “But I’ll tell you this. She didn’t invite me here. I came on my own. I barged in. Nobody invited me.”

  “Sure,” he said in a sincere voice. “Sure, I believe you, kid. But Scotty and I have been looking all over for you. I finally drove down here and saw your car in front of the house. Come on, Scotty’s waiting outside.”

  I looked at Leta’s stricken face. She tried to say something, but when her mouth opened nothing came out. I started for the door. Osanger stepped aside to let me pass. Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a cellophane packet of chocolate mints. Deliberately he broke the package, scattering the mints on the floor.

  “Tell the animal to come out of his bedroom,” he said to Leta. “Let him have a party.” He turned to me, blinking his enormous eyes solemnly. “You ought to watch the zombie scramble for candy. It’s better than the zoo.”

  “Never mind,” I said shortly, my hands itching for his fat neck. “I don’t want to see it.”

  “Oh, stay and watch it, Ralphie. It’ll only take a minute. It’s more fun than a barrel of monkeys.”

  I walked by him and outside. Cluett was sitting in the Chrysler. Osanger came down the stairs and joined us.

  “You’ve got no sense of humor, kid,” he said to me. “I wanted to make you laugh.”

  “I don’t feel like laughing,” I said.


  “Well,” he said. “You probably want to go home and change clothes.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Where are we going?”

  “To my farm first.”

  “All right, I’ll meet you there.”

  “No, we’ll go home with you, Ralph. Scotty and I are in no hurry. We have all the time in the world. Go ahead, we’ll follow your car.”

  I got into my Ford and drove to the rooming house. I stepped out. The Chrysler stopped behind me. Osanger and Cluett went upstairs with me.

  As soon as we came into the room they moved swiftly. Osanger closed the door. As I turned, Cluett grabbed me from behind, locking my arms in a full nelson. Osanger took the Colt from his holster and shoved the muzzle against my throat. He pressed.

  “What is it?” I asked, my voice choked.

  “Leta,” Osanger said huskily, breathing through his cigarette, blowing smoke and ash on my face. There was a drop of spittle near his moist lips. His eyes bulged very large. “You tried to take Leta away.”

  I felt cruel pressure on my elbows as Cluett tightened his grip. In a sudden frenzy, Osanger pushed the pistol muzzle harder, choking off my wind. It was as though I could sense death in the room.

  “I’ll kill you,” Osanger said. “You come near Leta again and I’ll kill you. Understand? Kill you. I’ll cut you into little pieces so you won’t get up and walk away. Understand?”

  “I understand,” I whispered, dry-mouthed. “Now lay off.”

  “I’ll kill her, too,” he said in a throbbing, frenzied voice. “You know how?”

  “I don’t want to know how,” I said.

  “Maybe it’s better you don’t,” he said. “But I’d kill the both of you as quick as I’d squash a bug. You believe me?”

  “All right,” I said. “I believe you. Take the gun away.”

  He let his breath out very slowly. The gun came away from my throat. He signaled Cluett with it. Cluett gave one hard, vicious wrench that sent sharp, excruciating pain shooting from my elbows to my wrist. He let go.