by Lionel White
Her body tautened and moved closer and her lips were under my chin and on my neck and then she suddenly moved and raised herself and her lips found my own.
I almost went out again and I don’t know how long we held the kiss. At last she moaned and she pulled me, turning a little away.
She had found my left hand and guided it and when she was satisfied with that, her own hands had again moved down. And then I too turned and now she was breathing as deeply as I was breathing.
I felt the blood in my veins surge and churn and the northern lights and the constellations and the unchartered stars were back, but I no longer cared about them.
The bed had found a life of its own.
The tiny hands were on my shoulders now, the nails digging into my flesh and my own two hands had at last discovered the soft natural curves below
and behind. Her mouth was wide on my own as she drew me in, moaning and wnthing.
There was no longer any headache, no longer any suitcase filled with thousands of dollars, no longer any room in a motel. There was only herself and myself, the single ecstatic unit into which we had blended. Only the rhythmic, tossing surge of our passion.
Her nails suddenly dug deep into my flesh and this time she cried out and her small white teeth bit sharply into my neck and the moment had arrived when the whole world ended.
We must have lain there, side by side, for a full ten minutes before she finally stirred and spoke.
“I am sorry I had to hit you with the bottle, Sam,” she said.
I was breathing like a wounded stag, but I managed an answer. It wasn’t bright, but I meant every word of it.
“You can hit me any time you like, baby,” I said.
She laughed and then, before I knew what she was going to do, she leaped up, tossing the sheet from the bed. I heard the pitter-patter of her steps across the room and suddenly the light went on, half blinding me.
“ I put the cork in the bottle before I hit you, ’ ’ she said, facing me coolly and serenely in all her exciting nakedness, “so it wouldn’t spill. I’ll make you a drink.”
She thought of everything.
She sat on the edge of the bed, holding her own glass as I sat up and swallowed my drink.
“You’ll be nice, won’t you, Sam, and wait for Suzy?” she said. “It is really best.”
“If you put that glass down and turn that light off,” Isaid, “I’ll wait for Suzy. I’ll wait for Marcus’ ghost or any damned thing in or out of this world you want me to wait for.”
She leaned over and patted my cheek.“ You are sweet,” she said. “And you won’t be sorry, either. You’ll like Suzy. I know you will.”
“I like you,” I said. “And that’s enough for any one man. Put down the drink. Turn out the light.”
She carefully set the glass on the floor.
“I can see, my boy,” she said, “that you are a glutton for punishment. But we’ll leave the light on. I like the light to be on.”
I started to reach for her but she moved off the bed.
“You just lie and rest for a few minutes,” she said. “We have a lot of time. Suzy won’t be here for at least another couple of hours.”
She was reaching for her clothes and I guess she saw the look on my face.
“I’ll only be a minute,” she said. “I'm going to have that bellboy find another bottle of Scotch. Suzy will want a drink when she gets here and we will, probably, be all out. But I’ll be right back. How is your head? I was careful
to hit you on the side of it so I wouldn’t really hurt you. ”
"My head is fine, ” I said. "It isn’t my head that is bothering me. It’s my—”
She laughed and tossed her clothes back on the chair. “I’ll just slip into your shirt and trousers while I send for the liquor,” she said. “It’s quicker.”
She was facing me as she stretched out her slender arms to put them into the sleeves of my shirt and I was lost in admiration at the perfection of her beautifully rounded body. Her skin was a delicate ivory, as smooth as satin and without a blemish. There wasn’t an ounce of surplus flesh on her, and yet every bone was softly concealed.
My eyes traveled down her lovely figure, lingering on the satin-smooth slopes of her breasts. I noticed, too, the odd, heart-shaped birthmark on her hip, just below the bone where the curve began.
Somehow it enhanced her loveliness. It could have been painted on by an artist to accentuate the sweetness of her curving, voluptuous thigh.
“The hell with the whiskey,” I began, but she moved quickly across the room, again doing the trick, with her hand over my lips.
“I told you, darling, that I’ll only be a minute,” she said. The hand moved down to caress me.
“You can wait for a couple of minutes, can't you, sweet?”
“I’m not sure that I can,” I said, and I really meant it.
It was more like fifteen minutes than one before she was back, holding a fresh bottle of unopened Scotch in her hand. She set it on the dresser and began to unbutton my white shirt, slipping her arms out of the sleeves.
The trousers fell to the floor and she stretched, lifting her hand to stifle a tiny yawn.
"See,” she said, “I told you I would be right back.” She moved toward the bed, her naked body gliding forward with a soft, liquid grace.
“And now, until Suzy gets here,” she said, “we won’t think about anything at all but just us.”
She was right as usual. For the next two hours, nothing in this world existed except the two of us. There was no suitcase full of money, there was no Suzy, there was no dead racketeer named Marcus. There was no problem and no future and no past. Just the wildly delicious, ecstatic, intoxicating, overpowering present.
Two hours that proved everything man has learned since Adam and Eve took a bite of that apple has been pretty much a waste of time and energy.
Chapter Five
I didn’t wait for the weather report, but reached over and switched off the television set as soon as the newscaster was through speaking and the commercial started to come on.
We were sitting in the living room and I was in my shorts and Marilyn was fully dressed. I drew a long puff from the cigarette I held in my hand and looked at my wrist watch, which was a wasted gesture as I had j ust heard the announcer give the time. I started to get up.
“She still isn’t here, kid,” I said. “We’re crazy to hang around any longer. You heard the broadcast. Everybody in America knows that Marcus was killed up the road in that car accident.”
"You promised, Sam,” Marilyn said.
“I know, baby. But how long do we wait? Can’t you understand? Marcus’ friends—”
“She’ll be here, Sam. And don’t forget, Marcus’ friends don’t know where we are. They won’t even be sure that I was with him. ’ ’
“You know better than that,” I said.
“All right. They’ll know. But we have to wait, anyway. Oh, honey, don’t worry. Think about the future. Just you and me and Suzy and all this money. ”
She looked over to the table where the suitcase lay, still opened where we had left it when we had recounted the money a few minutes ago.
“Just the three of us. In South America where we’ll be safe. And, honey, you’ll love Suzy. You’ll love her as much as you’ll love me. Just be patient.”
“Sure,” I said. “Sure. But I don’t need Suzy, honey. One of you is plenty. Plenty for any man. Anyway, what will Suzy think? After all, you say she takes care of you and so forth. Maybe she won’t care so much to have me along on the party.”
Marilyn quickly crossed over and stretched up and kissed me Eghtly.
“Sam,” she said, “you’ll have to meet Suzy to understand about us. Why, do you know we are identical? Absolutely identical. You won’t be able to tell us apart, I’ll bet. And Suzy is just like I am. She'll like you as much as I do. She’s bound to.”
Did she like Marcus as much?” I couldn’t help saying.
/> She didn’t get sore.
Marcus was different,” she said. “I never loved him and Suzy knew it. Suzy couldn t stand him and neither could I. But she’ll like you.”
In the same way you like me?”
She looked at me and smiled wickedly.
“We’ll see,” she said. "We’ll see when she gets here. Just be patient. I’ll tell you what. I’ll go in and bring you the rest of your clothes and we can get all ready.”
She turned quickly and entered the bedroom. I started to follow and it was then I heard the sound at the door.
I turned swiftly, staring, and I saw the knob move. I heard the key turning and as I took a step forward the door suddenly slammed open.
It wasn’t the gun he held in his ugly fist that stopped me cold in my tracks, although I must admit that would have been enough to do so. No, it wasn’t the gun. It was the man who held it. I couldn’t have been more surprised seeing him there, his wide beefy shoulders filling the doorway and his short-cropped red hair almost reaching to the top of it. Nothing was changed but his shirt. He’d traded the torn dirtyT-shirtforaturtle-neck sweater. He hadn’t been able to change the purple bruise on his jaw where my right hand reached him, however.
He was smiling and it failed to improve his face in the slightest.
Battle, the demon deputy, was back in action.
He lifted a tufted eyebrow over one small piglike eye and his crooked mouth twisted into what he probably fancied was a sinister smile. It just made him look more then ever like a pig with indigestion.
"My, my,” he said, “you do like to check into tourist camps, don’t you?”
He moved forward, closing the door behind him with one hand but keeping the other one very steady on the gun. I almost felt complimented. This time he seemed to think a gun was necessary.
“Saw your car and remembered it,” he said. His tiny eyes quickly took in the room, passing hurriedly over the opened suitcase. I guess he didn’t see the money or if he did, it didn’t register.
“You seem to have as many names as you have tourist rooms, Mr. Russell,” he said, accenting my name and looking very smug at his own brightness. He reached out with a foot as big as a small steam shovel, catching his toe under the rung of a straight backed chair to pull it up and sit. I thought the seat would go under his vast bulk, but it held.
"You are supposed to knock before you bust into private rooms,” I said, “or hasn t your boss told you about that yet?”
The sarcasm was lost on him.
You re supposed to register under your own name,” he said, taking my gambit and neatly cornering me. “Furthermore, in this state, it is illegal to register in a public hotel or lodging house with a woman other than your own wife—or didn’t you know?”
f J didn t know, I said, playing it for laughs.
"Don’t be unhappy. You’ll learn fast from now on in, Mr. Russell.”
“Did the car tell you my name?” I asked, stalling for time. I was listening for sounds from the other room. I wanted a second to catch my breath.
"The license plates told me,” he said, “after I checked with New York. They told me several things, or at least a farmer a few miles down the road who saw them early this morning, told me several things.”
“Never believe a farmer,” Isaid. It wasn’t very witty, but at the moment I didn't know quite what to say. I got part of the picture. But I didn’t get it all. And I knew that it was a whole canvas.
He had, without doubt, spotted my car at Cutter’s Cabins and taken the number down. He’d seen the same car sitting in front of the Whispering Willows and had known I’d checked in. He’d found out that I was there under a false name and had registered with a woman who was not my wife.
But why the gun—why the sinister, sly mannerism? Sure, he didn’t like me and there certainly was no reason he should and he probably would do everything he could to give me a hard time. He undoubtedly felt he had that right after my butting into his little act up the road earlier in the day. But why the gun? You don’t use a gun to arrest a man on a charge of checking into a tourist camp under an alias with a woman.
His crack about the farmer up the road came through then and I began to sweat gently under the armpits. He may have looked stupid, but he had the instinctive sense of an animal. He seemed to smell my sudden fear.
What passed for a smile came back.
“The farmer’s name is Kilski. He runs a broiler spread. Maybe you remember the place? It’s just before you come to a culvert, on Route 301. Funny thing about that culvert. Seems some guy missed the road and flipped over into it and got himself killed this morning. Does that mean anything to you?”
“It means you should be very careful to drive with caution. The life you save may be your own.”
I was still the life of the party. Just one little bon mot after the next. It went right over his head, but it didn't matter. It wasn’t a very good crack, anyway.
“This chicken farmer, this guy Kilski who saw your car, he said you were headed toward New York. You’re an odd man, Mr. Russell. You were going to New York and then suddenly you changed your mind and started back toward the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Just about the time a guy piles up his Caddie and gets himself killed. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You always seem to be changing your mind. Like checking into one tourist camp under one name and then turning around and checking into another one under another name. What’s the matter, fellow—can’t you ever make up your mind?”
He was getting ahead of me in the joke department. I decided humor wasn’t my forte after all.
“All right, Battle,” I said. "So I’ve checked into a public establishment, as you put it, under a false name. So it’s a misdemeanor at best. What’s with the gun? You don’t need it to serve a summons. ”
If I thought he was going to put the gun away and apologize, I was very far out in left field.
“You look at television?” he asked. His eyes went to the set.
"Can’t stand it,” I said. “I read books.”
“Too bad. You see, that guy I was talking about—it was on the air and in all the late afternoon newspapers. Seems he was pretty important. Guy named Marcus. Big time racketeer. Supposed to be the money man for the mobs. He was on his way from Florida and the news commentators seemed to feel that he had been down there for other reasons than getting a suntan.”
“A lot of people go to Florida.”
“Not like this guy Marcus. They say be went down to pick up the money which the Cuban gamblers were able to get out of the country after those anarchists with the beards took over. Poor fella—-just think of it—probably bringing all that dough back to his pals and he has to go and get himself killed.”
“I’m bleeding for him,” I said.
“You’ll be bleeding all right, Mr. Russell,” Battle said, and I didn’t like the look on his face when he said it. He started to say something else, but I missed the words. I was listening again to the slight sound coming from the bedroom. I don’t know how Battle himself missed hearing it unless he was so fascinated by the sound of his own voice.
I looked quickly back at him and again listened. I wanted him to keep on talking.
“Yes,” hesaid. “This day has just been chuck-full of coincidences. First let’s take you. You just happen to be driving north on Route 301 about the time this guy Marcus gets himself killed. That chicken farmer just happened to be out in the field and saw you go by and remembered your car ‘cause he saw you slow down and pull to a stop near that culvert I was telling you about. Then I just happen to run into you while I am on my way to check into the accident.
“A day of coincidences, all right. I just happen to drive by here and remember your car from earlier. And poor Marcus. He just happens to get killed while he is driving around with a car full of money. You know what the final and funniest coincidence of all is?”
Don t tell me,” I said. “I can’t bear too many surprises in one day.” Comes the jokes again,�
�� he said. “But I’ll tell you, anyway. I can take jokes.
The final coincidence is that when we searched the car after we got to the accident scene, there wasn’t any money. Not one little bit. Just the couple of hundred bucks Marcus had in his wallet along with his credit cards and identification.”
"Maybe that chicken farmer—Kilski you said his name was didn’t you?— maybe he wanted to see why I stopped.”
"Oh, he saw all right,” Battle said. “But if you can stand it, Г11 tell you about the last and the strangest coincidence of all. Want to hear it?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’m a captive audience.”
“Always jokes. Oh well, I’ll tell you anyway. The final coincidence is that poor Marcus didn’t really get himself killed by driving off the road and hitting a culvert.”
“No?” I said. He was beginning to get a little ahead of me. “You mean the news commentators were wrong? There was still a spark of life...?”
"Oh, no, nothing like that. He was killed all right. But it wasn’t the accident. The Cadillac wasn’t the weapon. The weapon was a blunt instrument, Mr. Russell. An iron pipe or a blackjack or something along those lines. Applied expertly to the base of his skull.”
I looked up sharply. I was remembering something. And the words came out without my really thinking about them.
“I seem to remember that you are pretty handy with—”
He leaned forward and the hand which was free swung and the blow caught me alongside the face, leaving my cheek feeling as though someone had just removed the flesh. He hadn’t even stood up to reach me.
The joking hour was over.
He stood up.
“You in the bedroom, ” he said. “You can come in now. ” He was looking at the bedroom door but the gun was still looking at me. There was no sound from the other room.
“Call your broad in,” Battle said.
I didri t move and he began to raise that left fist again.
“Come on in, kid,” I said loudly. "We got company.”
