“Joyce,” the girl said, coming forward. She was almost six feet tall barefoot and had golden hair that poured halfway down her back. She was smoking a Pall Mall and held the pack out to Erin, who took one. “Who’s this?”
“She calls herself Trixie,” Erin said. “She’s a dancer. She’ll be staying with us a little while, so you girls make her feel welcome.”
Joyce extended the cigarette pack in Tricia’s direction. Tricia had to crane to look her in the face. “No thank you,” she said. “I don’t smoke.” The pack hung there. “Thank you, though. Really. I appreciate it.”
“A dancer, huh? Well, Trixie, the rest of us here are just models, so you’ll be queen of the roost in no time.”
“Oh, I don’t think...”
“So, Trixie, you don’t smoke, let’s see...do you drink?”
Tricia shook her head no. “Not much. We had wine sometimes back home.”
“Wine sometimes. That’s pretty daring.” Joyce reached out and stroked one finger along Tricia’s cheek. “Is there anything else you don’t do?”
“All right,” Erin said, plucking Joyce’s hand away, “leave the kid alone. She doesn’t need you teaching her the feminine arts.”
“Why, Erin,” Joyce said, with a little drawl creeping into her voice, “I didn’t realize. If I’d known you already had your hand in the honeypot I’d never have laid a finger on the child.”
Erin took Tricia by the elbow, steered her to an empty cot. “Don’t worry about Joyce. She’s all talk. She’s just glad she’s not the new girl anymore.”
“I heard that,” Joyce called after them.
“Good,” Erin called back. “Now, drop those bags and let’s take care of your hair. You’ve really never had a dye job, a bleach job, anything?” Tricia shook her head. “That’s okay, it’s easy. You’ll see. I’ve done it lots of times. I wasn’t born this way.” She primped her copper-colored hair, let it fall. “Hey, Rita, you still got that L’Oréal stuff your sister sent you?”
Rita dug through a footlocker next to her cot, found a little container and brought it over. Her own hair was so blond it was practically silver, which made a strange combination, Tricia thought, with her dark complexion.
Rita laid one hand on Tricia’s arm. “It’s good, trust me. Just keep your eyes closed, ’cause this stuff really burns if it gets in them.”
Erin snatched the jar from Rita’s hand and hustled Tricia off through a doorway to a white-tiled office bathroom. “Thanks, beautiful,” Erin called over her shoulder.
The bathroom was large, too, with three sinks and three toilet stalls and, in the center, where a space had been cleared and pipes rerouted to supply them, a pair of bathtubs standing side by side on claw feet. There were also two devices Tricia couldn’t fathom, tall ceramic troughs mounted vertically on the wall, with flush handles at the top like toilets. Erin saw her staring. “Never mind about those, they’re for boys. And maybe Joyce, if she wants to try peeing standing up. Come over here.”
One of the showers was in use—they could hear the water going and someone soaping up behind the curtain. The other was empty and off. Erin turned the two knobs and a spray of water began. “Here, let’s get you out of that dress, this stuff’ll ruin it.”
Tricia hesitated, then began unbuttoning. She’d come to New York because it wasn’t Aberdeen, South Dakota, because it was a place where you might find yourself working for a nightclub full of Broadway stars and bandleaders with slicked-back hair, where you might room with a dozen girls you’d never met before and dye your hair blonde and dance for a living. And if you were going to come to New York good and proper, you had to leave Aberdeen at the doorstep once and for all.
She was in her brassiere and panties in no time, head held under the water, Erin roughly rinsing it, then patting it dry with a towel. While it dried, Erin stripped her own dress off, swapped it for an old robe she found hanging behind the door, and started mixing the bleach. Then she had Tricia sit down on a hassock beside one of the sinks and tilt her head forward.
“Close your eyes, honey, and don’t open ’em till I say so.” Erin started applying the bleach from the back of her head forward, daubing it on in little smears. From time to time she’d tilt Tricia’s head to one side or the other. She kept up a running monologue as she went. “...he’ll dock you fifty cents a night for rooming here, but that’s fair enough. Can’t get a room for that price anywhere in this town. You’re on your own for food, but nights you should be able to cadge some at the club and for breakfast there’s always Lester’s, where the rolls are fresh and he’ll throw in coffee for free if he likes how you look.”
“You think he’ll like me?” Tricia said.
“Like you? When we’re done, he’ll leave his wife for you.”
The bleach stung in a few places, just felt wet in others. It was strangely relaxing, though, to have someone working her way through your hair like this, and Tricia felt herself drifting off. She came to with a start when she heard the bathroom door fly open and slam against the wall.
“Hey, Erin,” a voice said, “I’m not here. Understand?” A man’s voice.
Tricia gasped, sat up, groped for the towel around her neck and used it to pat her eyes. Behind her, she heard a shower curtain pull to one side and the girl inside squealed, “Hey! What’s the big idea?”
“Sh,” the man said. “I’m not here, you didn’t see me.” Tricia heard him climb into the tub and then the curtain closed again.
“Who was that?” Tricia said, looking around, her eyes finally open and only stinging a little. “What’s going on?”
Outside, they heard another door slam open and one of the girls screamed. “You can’t come in here!”
“Where is he?” A different male voice, this one angry.
“Just put your head back down,” Erin said, “and keep your mouth shut.”
But Tricia didn’t. She watched as a broad-shouldered fellow in shirtsleeves bulled his way into the bathroom, trailing two of the girls behind him. He had a big, rectangular head with a buzz cut on top and craggy features. Looked about forty years old, with muscled forearms and clenched fists. Tricia stood up, held the towel draped inadequately in front of her. “Mister,” she said, and she could feel her heart racing in her chest as he came toward her, “you shouldn’t be in here. There are ladies present.”
“Ladies?” the man said. “Where? I see some dames, a skirt or two, maybe a doll. I don’t see any ladies.”
“Then you’re not looking very closely,” Tricia said. “Now kindly leave.”
“I’ll leave, lady, when you hand over that scum-sucking lowlife who calls himself a book editor. I know he’s in here.”
“There’s no one in here,” Erin said. “Just us dolls.”
The man wasn’t paying attention. With the flat of his hand, he was slapping open the toilet stalls one by one, revealing no one inside. He peeked behind the bathroom door, where Erin’s dress was hanging. Then he went up to the shower and yanked the curtain open.
The girl inside was dripping and naked. Her mouth dropped open and she ripped the curtain out of his hand, pulled it around her chest. With her other hand she slapped him across the face. It sounded like a gunshot but didn’t seem to faze him in the slightest.
“Get out of here!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the man said, not sounding sorry so much as baffled. His prey seemed to have vanished and he didn’t know how. He turned back to Tricia. “You’re telling me you didn’t see a man, a little shrimp of a guy, brown hair, about so tall—” he held up his hand well over Tricia’s head—“come in here in the past five minutes?”
“I didn’t see anyone come in here, until you did,” Tricia said, which was true enough. “Now I need you to leave so I can wash this bleach out of my hair before it does some permanent damage. And—and—Rita there needs to get ready for an audition, and Lotty’s got to change, and none of us are dressed to receive visitors and here you are, barging in...it’s
uncivilized. Now get out!”
He hesitated for a moment, seemed to be weighing a snappy comeback, but finally he just said, quietly, “You’re absolutely right, ma’am. My beef’s not with you. But if you see him,” and here some of the fire returned to his voice, “I want you to let him know I’m not done with him. He can’t imitate me and expect to get away with it. I’ll find him, and when I do he’ll be sorry he ever took me on in a fight. You tell him that!”
“And who should I tell him said it?” Tricia said.
“Who...?” He seemed affronted. “Just America’s best-selling writer, doll. Tell him that. He’ll know who.”
And with that the man walked out, with one last glance at the bevy of young women around him in various stages of undress.
The woman in the shower let go of the curtain, turned off the water. She then drew back one foot and planted a kick in something soft lying in the bottom of the tub. They could all hear the dull thump as it landed. “Up,” she said.
“Jesus, Milly,” a voice said from inside the tub, “it’s not enough that I’m half drowned down here? You have to kick me, too?”
She kicked him again. “Up.”
Tricia watched as a man sat up inside the claw-foot bathtub, draped one waterlogged arm over each side. His suit and shirt were completely soaked, and his hair was plastered down over his forehead. The woman sharing the tub with him, a handsome blonde who looked like she’d been born that way, had her arms crossed and one hip cocked. She didn’t seem the least bit bashful. What she seemed, mostly, was annoyed at having her shower interrupted.
The man climbed out of the tub, slipping a little on the pool of water that had collected on the floor beside it. He pulled his hair out of his eyes, shook some more water onto the floor, peeled off his jacket and dropped it in a wet heap. His shirt was plastered to his chest and the buckles of his wide suspenders gleamed wetly against it. He looked around at the women in the room.
That was when Tricia got her first good look at his face, and he at hers. They recognized each other in the same instant.
She dropped the towel she was holding, strode up to him in her underwear.
He said, “I can—”
Tricia cocked her arm back and swung. The punch connected on the point of his chin, his feet went slip-slip-slip on the slick floor, and he fell backwards into the tub.
3.
Top of the Heap
“You’re Carter Blandon! Your family owns a hotel! The city can be dangerous for a girl like me! Tell me more, why don’t you?”
“Keep her away from me,” the dripping man said, having climbed out of the tub a second time. He was keeping Tricia at arm’s length, but she was pacing him, stepping forward each time he backed away.
“Where did your glasses go? Or were they all part of the act? Like that fancy accent you put on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man said. “I’ve never worn glasses in my life.” Tricia swung at him again and he ducked it. “Will somebody help me, please?”
“No way,” Erin said. “We want to see how this one plays out. Carter.”
“Where’s my money?” Tricia yelled.
“Gone,” the man said. “It’s gone. I spent it. All right? I spent it, every penny. To get my books out of hock before they went into a furnace. You would’ve done the same, I promise.”
“You promise? You want me to tell everyone here what your promises are worth?”
“Oh, we know,” Erin said. “We’ve heard them often enough.”
“Listen to me, will you? Come on. Please. Let me explain.” He sneezed. “I’m going to catch pneumonia. At least let me get into some dry clothes, okay?” He dropped his hands. “You might want to get into some yourself.”
Tricia looked down at herself and remembered suddenly what she was wearing—or, more precisely, what she wasn’t. Then her hand leaped to her head, where her hair was still slowly bleaching away. “Oh, no! Erin, we’ve got to wash this out—right?” She shot a glance at Blandon, or whatever his name really was. “Don’t you dare set one foot out of this bathroom, do you understand me?”
“Be reasonable—what am I supposed to change into here? I’ve got another suit in my office. It’s right across the hall. Erin can come with me, make sure I don’t go anywhere. You come over when you’re ready, I’ll answer any questions you have. Okay?”
Tricia weighed her options. It didn’t take long.
“Erin?”
“Sure, honey,” the redhead said. “Go ahead and wash. I’ll watch him for you.”
“Which office?” Tricia said.
“Number 315,” the man said. “Hard Case Crime.”
Number 315 was a smaller office than Madame Helga’s, just a single room with a single window and not too much light coming through it. Lettered on the glass it said HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS, and sure enough, the place was filled with books, shelves of them, stacks of them, and a handful spread out across the top of the wooden desk Blandon was sitting behind. Erin stood next to him, in her black dress once more, leaning one arm on his shoulder. He was in his shirtsleeves, with brown suspenders and a brown tie dotted with tiny red fleurs-de-lis, a brown fedora on his not yet completely dry hair.
“Have a seat,” he said.
“That’s all right,” Tricia said, “I’ll stand.” Her own hair was not completely dry yet either and the new dress she’d unpacked had creases showing from the long train trip. She felt like a rube, a country girl facing down the slickest of city slickers, and it made her reluctant to give any quarter, any at all.
“I’m sorry about the money,” Blandon said. “Believe it or not, I didn’t like doing it. But I was desperate. If we don’t have books to sell, we don’t have a business, and my printer was threatening to destroy the lot if I didn’t pay him at least a portion of what I owed.”
“So you stole from me.”
“Stole? You handed me your money, I didn’t steal it. As I recall, you were standing on a New York City sidewalk, talking loudly about how much money you’d saved up. Lady, if I’m starving and you put a roast beef sandwich in front of me, I’m going to eat it and damn the consequences.”
“So I’m a roast beef sandwich.”
“In this metaphor, yes.”
“And what do you think the police would call what you did?”
“They’d call it fraud and throw me behind bars for it. But that’s just because they don’t understand the realities of the modern business world. A small company like ours...thirty-five dollars can be the difference between life and death.”
“What do you think it is to me?”
“An investment,” he said. “And a smart investment, too. Think of it as buying a piece of New York’s next great publishing company. Dell, Fawcett, Pocket Books... these are million-dollar operations. And why? Because of these.” He lifted a couple of the skinny paperbacks from his desk, let them drop again. They looked like drugstore crime novels, the covers colorful and lurid and peppered with ladies in negligees and men with guns. Each book had an image of a yellow ribbon in the top left corner and one more on the spine. “Just twenty-five cents apiece, just five little nickels—but men have built castles on that foundation of nickels. They’ve built empires. And what have they got that I don’t?”
“Ethics?” Erin said.
“Don’t you believe it,” Blandon said. “They’ve got no more ethics than a cat. They bite and claw and fight for every penny and if it takes a thumb in the eye or a knee in the groin to do it, that’s what they deal out. It’s every man for himself, winner take all. But for the winner who does take all, the one who comes out on top of the heap...” He fell silent, a dreamy look on his face. “And that’s going to be me. That’s going to be Hard Case Crime. We’re going to come out on top.”
“Even if you have to fight dirty to get there,” Tricia said.
“That’s right, sister. Even if. You see this book?” He picked out one of the books on his desk, held it out to her.
The cover showed a nearly bare-breasted blonde dressed as Blind Justice, an old-fashioned scale in one hand and a bloody sword in the other. She was peeking out from under her blindfold at a couple of frightened-looking men. The title was Eye The Jury and in smaller type below that it said A Mac Hatchet Mystery by Nicky Malone.
“This was our first book, came out four months ago. That fellow who came after me in the bathroom? This is what he’s all hot under the collar about. Just because he wrote a book ten years ago with a similar title about a guy named Mike Hammer. Am I imitating it? Damn right I am. His book sold millions of copies. Ours? So far we’ve shipped twelve thousand. Doesn’t hurt Spillane at all. Guy hasn’t written a book in six years, he’s probably still raking it in. I guarantee our little book doesn’t even make a dent in his income. But what it does do is get us started. At twenty-five cents apiece, twelve thousand copies are worth three thousand dollars, and half of that comes to us.”
“So why did you need my thirty-five bucks?”
He shrugged, looked uncomfortable. “A copy shipped isn’t a copy sold. And even when they do sell, the stores take their sweet time paying. And the printer gets his cut off the top. Then there’s the warehouse and the trucking and the binding and the paper...”
“I’m sure,” Tricia said, “and the author and the artist, too, but—”
Blandon blew a raspberry. “That’s peanuts. Trucks and paper and printing—that’s where the real money goes.”
“Listen, Mr. Blandon,” Tricia said, and then stopped. “Hold on, what’s your real name? It’s not Blandon, I’ll bet.”
He shook his head. “It’s Borden. Like the milk. Charley Borden.”
“Mr. Borden, then. I’m sorry to hear about your troubles. But we’ve all got troubles. And I’m happy to hear about your dreams, but we’ve all got those, too. I didn’t set out to make an investment in your company, and it’s not like you handed me a stock certificate back there on the sidewalk. What you did was lie to me and take my money. If I hadn’t been lucky enough to get a job next door, I might’ve starved. You should be ashamed—”
Fifty-to-One hcc-104 Page 3
