by Ann Bannon
"That is the truth. He's a real bastard. God knows what he might have done to her. He has the Devil's own temper and he's been beating hell out of her since she was five years old."
There was a reluctant pause at Beebo's end and finally she said, “All right, damn it. All right. I'll go look for her. If she's with her father I don't know what good it'll do to check the bars down here."
"You never know. Besides, there's not much time."
"Okay, Jack. I'll get going."
"Call me as soon as you get back. Whether you find her or not."
"Right. Where are you going?” ‘The McAlton. To check with her old man."
"What about Terry? Can you trust him alone?” she asked with slight sarcasm.
"No,” he said matter-of-factly, looking at Terry as he spoke, in a voice that betrayed none of his passion for the boy. “I'm counting on the smoked oysters to keep him out of trouble."
Terry grinned a little but his eyes didn't leave the television set.
Beebo laughed. “Okay, doll, I'll help you out, but don't expect me to welcome Laura back and send her flowers. I'm through with that little bitch. If I find her I'll drag her home by the scruff of the neck and dump her.” ‘That's good enough, Beebo. Thanks.” Beebo scoured the Village. She knew it inside and out and backwards: all the gay bars, the favorite coffee shops, the side streets; the markets, the boutiques, the stalls and the brownstones; the parks, the alleys, the bookshops. Some were closed, some stayed open half the night. Wherever people collected down there, sooner or later Beebo investigated the spot.
The hours stretched out. Every hour or so she called Jack's apartment and talked to Terry. He simply said, “Jack's not back yet. He hasn't called in. Okay, I'll tell him.” And as Beebo walked she began to feel a real fear for Laura's safety, a tender concern that welled up in her and aroused her own contempt. At three in the morning she muttered, “Oh, the hell with it. Nobody can cover the whole damn Village in one night.” She called the penthouse.
Marcie, wide awake and alarmed, answered, hoping it would be Laura. She wasn't sure if she had a boy or a girl on the phone; she only knew it wasn't Laura. “Marcie?” Beebo said. “Yes. Who's this?"
"A friend of Laura's. Is she there?"
"No. Do you know where she is?"
"I wish I did."
"Who is this?"
"I'll call you back."
Marcie sat holding the receiver and staring perplexed at the phone some minutes after Beebo hung up.
Jack got back in the first light of dawn to find Terry asleep. He sat down without taking his jacket off, and called Beebo. No answer. Terry rolled over and looked at him. He was a medium-sized well-built boy, bright and handsome and easily bored, affectionate by nature, but spoiled, quick with his temper and quick with his generosity. He was not quite sure, being young and desirable, if he was in love with Jack. He liked being admired by a lot of people. But he was not the money grubber Jack had painted for Laura. He liked to be dominated and he was waiting for Jack to make a move in that direction. “Where the hell have you been?” he asked Jack. “Where's Beebo?"
"How should I know? You're the one who knows it all."
"Just this once, don't get smart with me, lover. I gotta find her.” Jack was too worried to coddle him.
"She'll call back on the hour. She's been calling in every God damn hour since you went out. I can't get any sleep around here. Who's this Laura, anyway? She must be a living doll."
"I've told you a dozen times. She's a friend."
"You act like she was a lover."
Jack stared at his handsome arrogant young face. “So what?” he said. “You have your affairs. I have mine.” And he turned around and walked into the bathroom and left Terry staring after him. Jack never talked that way to him, not even when he caught him in flagrante delicto. He never showed an erotic interest in girls, either.
The phone rang fifteen minutes later. It was Beebo. Terry answered and handed Jack the phone, listening to the conversation with his eyes half open.
"Absolutely no soap,” Beebo said. “I've been all over the damn Village. Nobody's seen her."
"She saw Landon earlier this evening,” Jack said. “She did? Does he know where she is?"
"He doesn't know from nothing, doll. She gave him a first class concussion. Walloped him with a glass ashtray. On the back of his head. Must have snuck up on him when he had his back turned."
"God!” Beebo exclaimed. “And then took off, hysterical, according to the elevator boy. She screamed all kinds of stuff at him. He says. Half of it's crap, of course. But he did tell me one thing—"
"What's that?"
"She told him those pants he was wearing would never make a man of him."
After a surprised silence Beebo gave a wry tired little laugh. “Jesus,” she said. “She must have been screwy."
"The elevator boy thought so. It sounds kind of bad. I'd better call Marcie."
"I called her at three."
"God, Beebo, don't make it any worse than it is!"
"Relax. I didn't leave my name. Just asked for Laura and Marcie said she wasn't there. Well, Jackson? Now what? We call the cops?"
"You want us all to get thrown in the jug? They'd love to run in a bunch of queers. No, let's wait a day. She's a sensible girl underneath it all. She'll come to her senses and I'm the first one she'll call.” Terry, on the bed beside him, gave a contemptuous snort. “I wish I felt so confident,” Beebo said. “Yeah,” Jack said. “I do too,” he admitted. “Okay, boy, keep in touch."
Jack hung up and sat drooping on the bed, the fatigue showing in his face. “God, you look old,” Terry said with a characteristic lack of tact “How old are you? You never told me."
"Eighty-two,” Jack said. Terry grinned. “I don't believe you."
"You're not supposed to."
"How old? Tell me."
Jack stood up and turned to face him, in no mood for jokes. “Terry, don't bug me. I've had enough of you today.” Terry gaped at him. Jack had never talked harshly to him and now he was doing it every time he opened his mouth. “I love this girl,” Jack told him. “I don't know why, but I do know that for once I've found a decent sweet kid who isn't out for every damn thing she can get from me. She can give a little, she doesn't have to take all the time."
"Oh, you love her!” Terry said sarcastically, propping himself up on his elbows. “That's swell. Just swell! Thanks for letting me in on it."
"And I'll probably love her long after you've climbed out of this bed for the last time, you little bastard. You and a dozen other guys. It's a kind of love you don't know much about, Terry.” He was too tired, too worried, to take much heed of what he said or how. His resentment spilled out and it felt good to let go with it and he did.
Terry wasn't used to being disciplined. He had managed, in eighteen crafty years, to avoid it. So he was surprised at himself when he reacted to Jack's tongue lashing with a renewal of interest in him. He lay back on the bed and watched Jack strip to his underwear. Jack was not a beautiful man physically; tough and wiry, but not beautiful. Yet Terry watched him with enjoyment, wondering what to expect from him next.
Jack stretched out on the bed next to Terry. There was an hour or so when he could sleep before he had to get to the office. He turned his head a little and saw Terry watching him. “You still here?” he said. “I thought I told you to go."
"I think I'll stay,” Terry said, smiling. “I'm a glutton for punishment.” He was intrigued by this new side of Jack.
Jack turned over and looked at him, surprised. “You're a brat,” he said finally. “A beautiful, unbearable, stuck-up, silly, irresistible brat."
Terry laughed. “That's why you love me, Superman,” he said, poking Jack in the ribs.
"Who says I love you?” Jack said wearily and turned away from him. “Jack, be nice to me."
"I'm worried sick and he wants me to be nice to him. Ha!” Jack told the walls. “Damn it, I think you do love this girl.
"
"She bought your oysters, lover. You can spare her a little good will yourself."
Terry dropped back on his pillow in silent surprise. It was the first hint he had had of the state of Jack's finances.
Jack went to work. There was nothing to be accomplished sitting around the apartment quarreling with Terry. It wouldn't bring Laura back any sooner, and there was not much he could do to find her now. Except call in the police and he gagged on that idea. He would wait at least until the next morning.
But at the end of the day things were getting black. Laura was still gone; Marcie was panicky and agitating for a call to the police; Beebo was glowering, furious at herself for caring what happened to Laura and yet caring anyway in spite of herself; and a thunderstorm was brewing.
They waited alone, Jack and Marcie and Beebo, in the gathering dark: each with his own peculiar fears and hopes. Jack drank. Marcie paced around the roof, praying God that Laura hadn't killed herself. Beebo came over after a while and talked to Jack.
They talked, they drank, the phone rang. Terry wandered around the apartment in a pet because nobody was paying any attention to him. In another part of town Burr cursed silently because Marcie would pay no attention to him. And still elsewhere Merrill Landon lay with an aching head and heart and peppered the detective agency he had hired with evil-tempered calls while they labored to locate his daughter.
Finally Terry exploded at Jack, “If you don't talk to me I'm going to get out of here!” He gave the nearest chair a petulant kick. “I don't have to hang around here till I drop dead from boredom."
"Go,” said Jack. “You're driving me nuts anyway with that damn pacing the floor."
"I wish I was driving you nuts,” Terry retorted. “I just seem to be in your way."
"You are, lover. Shut up and eat something. You'll feel better."
"I just ate!"
"Then just shut up."
"God! This place is a mausoleum. I've had enough!” He went to the bedroom and grabbed a sweater, but when he reached the front door he turned and found that Jack wasn't even looking at him. He was talking to Beebo. He was saying, “By God, it's worth a try. I'm going over there. Nothing could be worse than sitting here wondering if she's drowned in the damn river or swinging from a rope somewhere."
"Oh, for Chrissake, Jack!” Beebo snapped. “Have mercy. I'm not made of stone."
Jack got up and headed for the door. Terry stood uncertainly and watched him approach. “Make up your mind,” Jack said to him. “In or out?” His anxiety over Laura made this attitude of impatience with Terry perfectly genuine. Yet Jack was not without a small sudden pleasure at Terry's reactions. “How about you?” Terry said. “Out."
"I'll go with you."
"I'll be back in an hour."
"I want to go with you."
Jack stared at him, again pleased and surprised. “You can't,” was all he said, putting his cigarette in his mouth while he pulled his jacket on. “Why the hell not?"
Jack took him by the shoulders. “Terry, you want to do something for me?"
Terry eyed him like a suspicious five-year-old. “I don't know. You're so bitchy tonight.” He sighed. “All right, all right. What do I have to do?"
"Stay here. And if she shows up, hang on to her. I'll be back at—” He looked at his watch. “-at ten. No later."
Terry threw himself in an armchair with a huge sigh of disgust. “Oh, this Laura!” he groaned. “She must be the most fabulous female in the whole goddam world."
"She is,” Beebo said briefly. She ditched her cigarette and walked out ahead of Jack “I'll be at home, Terry,” she called back. “If she shows up."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll hogtie her and call all the newspapers. I'll notify the President. Christ!” Jack and Beebo went down the stairs together and out into the lowering night. The first drops were coming down. “What'd you give him, Jackson?” Beebo smiled. “He's learning how to mind. He doesn't like it very much, but he's learning.
Jack shrugged. “He does like it, doll. That's the secret. He likes to be shoved around a little. I wish to hell I'd known before I bought all those stinking oysters.
CHAPTER 16
It was five past ten and the rain was fairly heavy outside. Terry was curled up in the armchair watching television, eating peanuts and drinking a beer. He was irritated with Jack for being late. He tried to get interested in the film and sat for a quarter of an hour with his eyes on the set, wiggling restlessly, like a child in need of a comfort station. He jumped when a knock on the door disturbed him.
"Come in, you know it's not locked,” he said without looking up. “Where the hell were you? At least I tell you where I'm going. Well talk, damn it.” And he turned around to see a tall slim girl standing five feet from him, her long hair streaming wet and her clothes clinging to her body. He was conscious of nothing in her face but her eyes; huge, blue and heavy, dominating, agonized.
Terry stood up suddenly, stammering a little. “You must be Laura,” he said finally. “I was beginning to think you weren't real.” He took another look at her, pale as a wraith, her eyes the only warmth in the cold oval of her face. “Are you?” he asked. And then smiled a little sheepishly. “Well, don't just stand there. Come in and sit down."
She moved as if she were dreaming, one hand to her forehead, and he guided her to the sofa where she half sat and half collapsed, letting her head fall back against the cushions. She looked utterly exhausted.
Terry stood hovering uncertainly over her, staring at her. At last he said, “Jack says I've got to keep you here.” She shut her eyes. “He's supposed to be home at ten. He should be right along. I'm Terry. Terry Fleming. Jack says he told you about me. He certainly talks a lot about you. He thinks the world of you.” She gave no sign that she had heard or cared to hear.
At last in some consternation he said, “Would you like something to eat, Laura? You look like you could do with something.” No answer. He went out to the kitchen and opened a can of soup. He fixed up the plate with crackers and cheese and, as a second thought, smoked oysters, and poured a glass of milk. Every two or three minutes he interrupted his task to go to the doorway and check on her. He thought she might vanish, like a ghost But she didn't move. She looked dead. She scared him.
He put the food on a tray and brought it into the living room and sat down on the sofa next to her. He put the soup and milk on the coffee table in front of her and then he said, “Wake up. Wake up, Laura.” She didn't stir. Terry put an oyster on a cracker. “Here,” he said, shaking her a little. “Here, for God's sake, eat it. It's your oyster."
Laura stirred and opened her eyes, took one look at the smoked oyster, and turned away with a grimace. Terry was offended. “So what's wrong with smoked oysters?” he said. “Here. It's yours."
She looked at him then. Really saw him. And then sat up a little, rubbing her eyes. “Mine?” she repeated dimly.
"Jack says you bought ‘em.” Terry looked at her with bright eyes, curious now. “You might as well enjoy diem."
Laura sighed and then saw the soup. Terry handed her a spoon and she ate it all without a pause or a word. It seemed to give her strength, to bring her back to life. “I haven't eaten.” she apologized. “I can't remember..."
"Want some more?” he asked quickly.
"No. No thanks. Maybe later.” She looked around the apartment, recognition and sense coming back to her face. “Where's Jack?” she said, and suddenly clutched Terry's sleeve. “Where's Jack?” She sounded frightened.
"He'll be back any minute,” Terry said. Laura stared at him then.
"Oh, you're Terry,” she said.
"You're Laura.” He grinned. “I saw you first."
She blinked at him, unable to joke with him. Dead serious, she asked, “Did the oysters help?"
"Help?” he said. “Oh. You mean Jack and me."
"He says you love them."
Terry studied her, frowning over his smile, and then looked away in embarrass
ment. “Not the oysters so much,” he said. “But you helped, in a roundabout way. By getting lost."
"I'm glad,” she said, confused. “He loves you terribly.” She seemed to have no sense that this might startle him or be the wrong thing to say. She hadn't the physical strength to censor herself. She spoke the necessary truths and no more. But Terry was strongly affected. He walked to the other side of the room and refused to look at her for a while, letting his feelings whirl around inside him. When he did look back, she was stretched out on the sofa, sleeping the sleep of complete exhaustion.
* * * *
Laura woke up to find Jack sitting in the armchair sipping gingerly at a steaming cup of coffee. His eyes showed over the rim of the cup, heavy, anxious, and old. He lowered the cup when she wakened, putting it on the coffee table by the sofa and lighting a cigarette. “It's a nice day,” he said cautiously. She sat up halfway. “What time is it?"
"Seven-thirty."
Laura dropped back and shut her eyes. She found a blanket over herself and her shoes were on the floor beside the sofa.
"Well,” said Jack, “are you going to tell me where the hell you've been? Or am I going to ask?"
Laura turned her face suddenly to the back of the sofa and wept “Oh, Jack,” she moaned. “I killed him. I killed him. Oh, God help me.” And she began to sob. “Killed who?"
"My father."
"Your father,” he said with friendly sharpness in his voice “has a prize concussion. But he's very much alive."
She turned her head slowly to look at him, her eyes enormous and her heart stopped in her chest “Alive?” Her voice was a startled whisper. She sat up suddenly and said it out loud. “Alive?” She grabbed Jack's arms with the strength of shock. “How do you know? How do you know? Tell me quickly."
"I will, give me half a chance.” He pushed her back down and told her of his trip to the McAlton. “I just went up to the fourteenth floor,” he said. “It was easy. There were a lot of people standing around outside his room and the elevator boy told me about it Incidentally, you made a real friend. He thinks you're the original Goof Nut"
