Nice Girl Does Noir -- Vol. 2 (Intro by J.A.Konrath)

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Ten minutes later, he took a room under the name of Richard Dudley. Patricia came up in a separate elevator. She had hardly walked through the door before he tore her clothes off and threw her down on the bed. She let him do what he wanted. He was like a man who’d been starved, and it was over quickly. Then she rolled over and taught him a thing or two.

  ***

  Moths played around the hotel lamp as she rolled on her stockings two hours later. Des was lying on the bed, smoking a cigarette, looking spent but quite pleased with himself. His blond hair was tousled, but his pale skin glowed like girls in love were supposed to. She gazed at his chest, which was curiously hairless, and his torso, slim except for an ever-so-slight paunch. His was the body of a successful man, a man on the way up. She snapped her stockings to her garter belt, then twisted around to stroke him. He moaned, stubbed out the cigarette, and pulled her to him. She unsnapped her stockings again and sank back on the bed.

  The hum of traffic down in Rock Creek Park drifted through the open window an hour later, bringing with it a welcome breeze. Des lit another cigarette, and set the ashtray down on his chest. She watched it rise and fall with his breath.

  “I’ve never had a woman like you,” he said softly.

  She smiled, watching blue smoke curl up over their heads and disappear.

  “You’re magic. We’re magic.” He moved the ashtray and nuzzled her leg with his lips. “You’ve revived something in me I thought was gone forever. I thought—I thought—well—it would never happen again.”

  Patricia felt a ripple as his lips slid down her shin. “Honey, I could see that from the first time we met.”

  “What about you?” He asked hesitantly. Was I—was it good for you?”

  “You were the best, sugar. A giant of a man. Never had anyone better.”

  ***

  The Negro elevator operator eyed her but kept a respectful silence as Patricia descended to the lobby. She was used to people staring at her, but there was something telling, almost bold in his look. Was her dress unbuttoned? Did he know she’d just made love all evening? Or was it something else, the thing that some colored people picked up without being told? Was he a spotter? No, spotters were generally fair-skinned Negroes. Still, she felt like slapping his face for having the audacity to challenge her.

  The breeze had disappeared by the time she caught the bus, and her legs stuck to the seat as she rode across the Calvert Street bridge. “Across the bridge” was a euphemism for the other side of the tracks. Most high yellows lived in Portal Estates off 16th Street, but Patricia lived across the bridge. During high school she’d gone on a few dates with a boy from Portal Estates—Clarence, his name was—but after his mother met Patricia’s brown-skinned mother and discovered where they lived, Clarence stopped calling. Patricia didn’t care. Across the bridge was just temporary.

  By the time she got off the bus, it was almost midnight. She walked the two blocks to her house on Lanier Place. As she unlocked the door, she heard her husband’s voice.

  “Where you been, baby?”

  She went into the front room. She’d met James at Howard University. Her Mama had just died, and she was lonely. Patricia didn’t have a lot of friends: the whites kept her at a distance, the colored girls hated her because she looked white. James had light skin that passed the brown bag test, but with his wooly black hair and distinctly Negroid features, he would never be high yellow. Still, he wanted to take care of her forever, and at the time, Patricia didn’t have the strength to resist. He was a good man: honest and hard working. But he was boring, and even his job as manager at Hahn’s Shoes wouldn’t get them where Patricia wanted to go.

  “I’ve been job hunting, Jimmy.”

  “From three in the afternoon till midnight?”

  “I left your dinner in the oven.”

  “I don’t want dinner. I want you.”

  “And I want us to have a better life.” She spared a brief glance around the front room, with its shabby furniture and faded curtains. “So we can move out of here. Find a nicer place.” She looked at him. “Don’t you want that too, sweetie-pie?”

  “I want us to have a baby, Patsy. Isn’t that the best job in the world?” He grinned. “Come upstairs, baby doll. We need to practice.”

  She shot him a look.

  He changed the subject. “So where you lookin’ for that new job?”

  ***

  The weather eventually cooled, the leaves fell, and the gray of November descended. Patricia didn’t notice. Her afternoons and evenings were full of Des. They met twice a week at the Shoreham, once in a while at the Sheraton Park. Between the passion and lovemaking, Patricia mentioned the new job as often as she could. Des said he was working on it.

  Over time Des emerged from his shell. His smile grew broader, his step more assured. Between the sheets, too, he developed into a sensual, giving lover. It made him happy when Patricia climaxed, so she made sure she did. In fact, he was turning out to be the best lover she’d ever had, and Patricia was half in love with him. She couldn’t figure out why his wife didn’t want him, but she was thankful she didn’t.

  One afternoon just before Thanksgiving, Patricia rushed from school to the Shoreham. A conference with an anxious parent had made her run late. She was just crossing Calvert Street, watching the wind whip leaves into tiny eddies above the ground, when she sensed someone following her. She stopped and turned around. No one was there. She shook it off and hurried to the hotel.

  After their lovemaking, Des lit a Winston and cradled the ash tray on his chest. “I have something to tell you, Patricia.”

  “What’s that, sweetie?” She snuggled in close and ran her fingers across his milky skin. That was another thing she liked about him. There was almost a delicacy to his body.

  “We’re going to Havana the week after Thanksgiving,” he said. “For a conference.”

  “Havana, Cuba?”

  When he nodded, a little thrill ran through her. It was finally happening! A new job, travel to an exotic location. A vision of casinos, men in tuxedos, and women in long gowns flashed through her mind. Her fixer had come through. She snuggled in closer. “Oh, baby. This is wonderful. When do we leave? I have so much to do. “

  He pulled away and stubbed out his cigarette. “Patricia, I think you misunderstood. Lorraine is coming with me to Havana,” he said softly.

  “Lorraine?” He wasn’t making sense.

  “She—she wants us to spend time more together. She’s noticed we’ve grown apart. She wants—she’s talking about a second honeymoon.”

  Patricia froze. If she stayed absolutely still, the words he’d uttered wouldn’t count, and they could start fresh. From the beginning. She didn’t move a muscle, but nothing happened. Then Des looked at her with such a sad, wistful expression her stomach flipped over.

  “What—what about Franklin?” She managed to ask.

  “Lorraine’s mother is coming in from Nebraska to take care of him.”

  Patricia swallowed. “But Des, this isn’t—”

  A loud banging at the door cut her off.

  They both sat up, startled. “What’s that?” Des frowned.

  “I don’t know.”

  The banging persisted. Between the knocks were muffled thumps, as if someone was throwing themself against the door. Patricia and Des exchanged anxious looks. Hotels had notoriously flimsy locks. Then a raw voice shouted. “You in there, baby? If you are, open this door.”

  Patricia felt her jaw drop.

  Des didn’t notice. “What the hell?” He reached for the phone. “I’ll take care of this.”

  But Patricia stayed his hand. Wrapping the blanket around her, she jumped out of bed and stared at the door, as if she could see clear through it to the other side. “No, don’t Des. Let me take care of it.”

  “Are you crazy, Patricia?” Des picked up the phone but didn’t have the chance to call, because Patricia ran to the door and opened it wide. James stumbled into the room. He n
early lost his balance, but righted himself and looked around. Patricia wrapped the blanket more tightly around her. Her heart was pounding so fast and hard she could hear it in her ears.

  James started toward her, rage spinning off his face. “What the hell…?”

  Patricia backed away, terrified.

  Des jumped out of bed. “You. Stop right there!” He shouted. “Before I call the police!”

  James ignored Des and kept going toward Patricia.

  “Did you hear me?” Des yelled.

  James’s response was to pull out a knife.

  “No!” Patricia gasped. “Put that away!”

  But James raised the knife in the air. The blade gleamed in the lamplight. Patricia recognized it—it was the kitchen knife she used to de-bone chicken and fish. As he closed in, she backed up until she hit the edge of the bed and fell across it. James kept advancing, brandishing the knife in the air.

  Suddenly Des appeared in her field of vision. He jumped James from behind, caught his arm, and twisted it. James lost his balance and fell on Patricia. As he did, the knife slipped out of his hand and skittered across the carpet. Des bent down and scooped it up faster than Patricia would have thought possible. Lunging forward, Des plunged the knife in James’ back.

  James raised his head and looked at Patricia in surprise. Patricia was surprised, too. She wouldn’t have thought Des had a chance in a match-up against James. Her husband had to be four inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. But there Des was, stabbing James again and again, like a madman, his face a frenzy of fury and hate. James gazed at Patricia. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite form the words. Then his eyes rolled up, and his head fell forward.

  Finally, it was quiet. Patricia disentangled herself from her husband. Blood gushed through his jacket and pants, staining the bed sheets, the spread, the carpet.

  Des stared at James, at Patricia, at the knife. “He was going to kill you,” he whispered.

  Patricia kept her mouth shut.

  Des hesitated. Uncertainty flashed in his eyes. “You saw, right? He was going to kill you. Maybe me, too.”

  For one brief moment, Patricia didn’t know what to do. She saw her life careening out of control, away from her government job, her job as a teacher, even her life with Des. She was terrified of the secrets that would be revealed, and maybe some that wouldn’t. Then something occurred to her. She could fix this. All it would take was a little work. She sucked in a breath and fought back the fear.

  “Yes. I saw, Des.” She nodded her head. “I saw the whole thing.”

  “Well, then…” Des let his voice trail off. A violent shudder ran through him. He went to the phone and lifted the receiver.

  Patricia ran over and snatched the phone away. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m calling hotel security.”

  “No. You can’t.”

  He reached for the receiver. “Of course I can. He was going to kill us. This was self defense.”

  “No. It’s—he—” Des tried to grab the receiver, but Patricia kept it away from him. “Wait. Think about what you’re doing, Des.”

  “What’s to think about? The man is dead. We need to report it. He was—” Des stopped. “You opened the door. Why did you do that? What the hell was going through your mind?”

  “I—I don’t really know. I just wanted to stop the banging. I thought—”

  Des’s face grew pinched with anger. “If you hadn’t opened the door, this might never have happened.” He squeezed his eyes shut. Another tremor shot through him. He seemed to be struggling for control. He opened his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Give me the phone.”

  “No, Des. Think what will happen when it comes out you were here in the hotel room. With me.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” He sounded stoic. “You don’t play around with death.”

  “Are you prepared to lose your job?”

  “My job?”

  “If this gets out, it’ll be all over the papers. There’ll be lots of publicity. The Commerce Department won’t be happy that one of its Assistant Secretaries is making news like this. They’ll get rid of you, just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “And what’s Lorraine going to do when she finds out?” Des started to speak, but she cut him off. “She’ll throw you out, Des. She probably won’t ever let you see Franklin.”

  Des paled.

  “I know what it’s like to grow up without a father. Don’t do this to your son.”

  “No, Patricia. You’re wrong. It’s not like—”

  “Listen to me, Des.” She held the receiver close to her heart. “We can fix this.”

  “No. We have to take responsibility.”

  She ignored him. “You registered under a fake name, right? Paid cash as usual?”

  “You know I did.”

  “And I came up the back stairs.” She nodded more to herself than to him. “This will work.” She put the phone down, went over to James’s body, and started rolling his pockets.

  “What are you doing?”

  “There’s no one who can prove we were here.”

  “The desk clerk knows what I look like.”

  “Honey, you look like every other white man who ever checked into a hotel under an assumed name.”

  Des stared at her. But he didn’t pick up the phone.

  Patricia reached into James’s pants pocket and pulled out his wallet. “It’s okay, baby. I’m gonna fix everything.” She extracted James’s driver’s license and glanced at it briefly.

  “Who is he?” Des’s voice cracked.

  She looked at Des, then back at the license. “Why do you care?”

  “I want to know his name.”

  “It’s better if you don’t. He’s just a colored man.”

  Des frowned.

  “Tell me something. How hard do you think the cops are gonna work to find the killer of an unidentified colored man?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do.” Patricia slid James’s driver’s license back into his wallet and dropped it into her purse. “Not hard at all.”

  Des swallowed.

  “Des, you can never speak of this again. Never. Understand?”

  He hesitated, then gave her a brief nod.

  “That’s good, honey. Now let’s wash up and get out of here.”

  Patricia went into the bathroom and ran the hot water so long that it steamed over the mirror above the sink. She wiped a small circle in the middle and peered at her reflection. “Another thing, honey. I think you’d best postpone that trip to Havana.”

  ***

  Patricia checked the Post and the Star every day, but there was nothing about an unidentified colored man found dead at the Shoreham. When a week had passed, she put out the word that James had left her. She didn’t know why, and she didn’t know where he’d gone, she told her neighbors. She was disconsolate, of course, so miserable that she’d decided to move. There were too many painful memories here. She was going to give up teaching, too. Someone had kindly offered her a new job at the Commerce Department. In the International Trade administration. Patricia packed her things and said sorrowful goodbyes. She moved to an apartment in Cathedral Mansions off Connecticut Avenue on the “right” side of the bridge.

  The first few months, Des was more dependent on her than ever. There was a primitive, almost violent quality to his lovemaking, as if killing James had somehow filled Des with her husband’s life blood. He had never been more virile or passionate. Through it all, though, he was true to his word. He never spoke of James. In fact, he never spoke much at all.

  To make up for his silence, Patricia began talking about their future, after he left Lorraine. She was careful never to overlook Franklin and always made him part of the tableau. “And then you and I and Franklin will drive to Luray Caverns. We’ll have to make sure Franklin brings a sweater. It gets cold down there.”

  It wasn’t until winter dissolved into spring that things changed a
gain. Des lost his ardor. Oh, he would come to the apartment and make love to her, but his passion had faded. What had once been spectacular sex became mechanical and rote. By the time the dogwoods were at their peak, Des told her it was over.

  “I can’t do this any more, Patricia.”

  “Do what, sweetie-pie?”

  “Every time I’m with you, I see that dead colored man. I need to make a clean breast of it. I’m going to tell Lorraine and go to the police. I’m prepared to take responsibility. I was the one who killed him. But I’ll keep you out of it. I promise.”

  Patricia laughed harshly. “I don’t think so.”

  “I figured you’d say that, but I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Have you told anyone yet?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good.”

  He inclined his head. “Why are you so opposed to doing the right thing?”

  Patricia sat down daintily in the new Louis XVI chair she’d bought at the fifth floor furniture department at Hecht’s. It was a far cry from the bargain basement. She took a breath.

  “Because that wasn’t just any dead man, sugar. That was my husband, James.”

  Des froze. “What?”

  She repeated what she said.

  Confusion spread across his face. “But he was a—a Negro.”

  “That’s exactly right. He was. And so am I. You ever heard of the phrase ‘high yellow?’”

  Des’s mouth fell open. He stared at her for a long time. She saw him take in her dark hair. Dark eyes. Her pale skin. Saw comprehension dawn in his eyes. His face grew hard. “My god. I’ve been screwing a nigger.”

  “Yup. And you killed one too, honey. Two facts you’d best keep to yourself, don’t you think?”

  Des’s eyes went dead, losing any flicker of emotion. His coldness was so unnerving Patricia went into her bathroom and quietly closed the door. The subsequent silence lasted so long that she flinched when her front door finally slammed.

  ***

  Patricia dressed the next morning in a new red dress from Woodie’s. Strolling to the bus stop, she was aware of eyes watching her from behind the shades of nearby homes. She lifted her chin. She was a good looking woman. No sense hiding it. As she rode the L-4 downtown, she started to map out her plan. Des’s boss seemed like a nice man. She took out her compact with the tiny mirror and checked her make-up. He would do. After all, her mama always told her she needed a fixer in her life.