by Brenda Joyce
Nancy failed to conceive again, and she knew that she was failing her husband. The silent accusation was always there. She gradually became aware that Abe had refocused: As soon as Belinda was old enough he intended to marry her off, so she could give him a grandson.
Nancy had always been faithful to Abe. Adultery was not even in her vocabulary. And though she and her daughter weren’t close, when Belinda was forcibly sent to camp that summer, Nancy thought that she might die from the desperation and loneliness of her life that Belinda’s leaving seemed to expose.
Just before camp started Abe had hired a new driver. He was twenty-one, a would-be actor named Jack Ford. Nancy didn’t look at other men, but she seemed to notice him. At first just a little, then constantly. Especially when they were thrown together every day. Abe was spending a lot of time out of town on business, leaving Nancy with the car and driver at her disposal. That summer was one endless shopping spree. In an attempt to enrich her life and take away the loneliness.
He was blatantly sexy, certainly one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. He held the door for her, said good morning and good night, and she found herself too flustered to respond. She was careful to drop her gaze from his compelling eyes before he could read her thoughts. For she was starting to fantasize about him—and Nancy was appalled at herself.
They had a home in South Hampton, on the beach. They went there every weekend in the summer. Abe would fly out late on Friday nights, while Nancy usually stayed from Thursday morning until Sunday because she wanted Belinda out of the hot city. The weekend after Belinda left for camp, Abe had to go to Los Angeles on business, and Nancy had no desire to stay in the sweltering city alone. She left for the Hamptons. Jack drove her in the limo.
She wasn’t really a drinker, but she’d had Jack pull over in Hampton Bays at a liquor store, and she sipped Scotch for the next thirty minutes until they got to the house. She began to wonder if she was making a mistake coming out alone for the weekend. The house was vast—twenty-five rooms—and Nancy was suddenly filled with dread.
She didn’t want to be alone.
She still didn’t know quite how it had happened. They arrived late; the staff was asleep. Nancy was a little drunk and getting more depressed by the minute. Jack carried her bags in, and she had almost swooned with gratitude when he said, his voice full of concern, “Are you okay, Mrs. Glassman?”
She started to cry, but she managed to stop. “Yes, I’m fine.” She looked at him.
He had brilliant green eyes, full of compassion, that searched hers. Waiting. Somewhere along the line he had taken his cap off. His hair was dark gold, streaked with shimmering lighter strands. His tie was loosened, his shirt collar open.
“I’ll get the rest of your bags,” he had said.
When he came back in she asked him if he’d like to have a drink. Just companionship, she told herself.
And then he took her in his arms.
It felt so good.
“God, you are beautiful. It’s so hard working for you, day after day …”
His arms were strong, and he wouldn’t let her move away. She didn’t want to move away. He was kissing her and he tasted so good. His body was hard and hot and Nancy was trembling beneath him—not from fear, but from desire. She needed him desperately, and it was an explosion.
He kept saying things, wonderful things. “You’re so beautiful … I’ve wanted you for so long … I can’t stand it … God, you drive me crazy … I think I love you …”
He thought he loved her.
She wanted him to spend the weekend, but there was the help to consider. And her guilt. And the fact that she didn’t know what she was doing. She wanted to ask him to stay at a local motel so she could meet him, but she was afraid to. Instead he left at sunrise the next morning.
She came back to the city a day early. Jack brought her bags up to her bedroom and left many hours later. Monday morning Nancy found out she was pregnant. Five weeks pregnant with Abe’s child. He would be ecstatic. She didn’t tell him.
All she could think about was Jack.
There was no turning back. They spent the rest of the month sneaking around, usually meeting first thing in the morning after Jack had dropped Abe at the office. Again and again, Nancy postponed telling Abe she was finally pregnant.
And then one morning, when Jack was driving himself deep and thick inside of her, their bodies dripping streams of sweat, slapping rhythmically, he froze.
Nancy opened her eyes, looked at his expression of complete shock, and knew Abe had walked in. She made a strangled sound, pushing him off, twisting, grabbing the bedspread and holding it up, her gaze going to the door.
Belinda stood there, white-faced and wide-eyed. She turned and ran, blond braids flying out behind her.
15
Abe had always loved sex.
He had loved it the first time he’d jacked off in the bathroom at home at the age of nine. He loved it even more the first time he’d had a girl, who was actually a hooker named Mabel who hung out around Eddie’s candy store where he picked up the slips. He had been fourteen.
After that he’d become something of a menace. He was always grabbing the girls at school, the older ones who had developed breasts. Fortunately Abe was tall for his age and lean, not skinny. He seemed to have missed adolescent awkwardness. He was magnetic rather than handsome—some might say forceful. He would not accept no for an answer. But he seemed to have a talent for zeroing in on the girls who said yes, and they seemed to like him too. He was both enthusiastic and well-endowed.
At seventeen he became a bit more cautious after he had gotten a senior named Beth pregnant. She wanted him to marry her, of all things. Abe laughed in her face. He couldn’t even be sure the kid was his. She married another senior four months later.
The college years were best. There was tail everywhere. Good girls didn’t—but so many others did. And Abe knew how to get the borderline cases over the edge. Then, too, there was Amanda Lee, Luke Bonzio’s mistress.
She was a blonde and gorgeous, with knockers that would drive any guy crazy. Abe wasn’t stupid. He knew she was off-limits. Still, he had to have her. And already, even at the age of twenty, he was used to getting what he wanted. Always.
Bonzio never found out.
Amanda Lee fell madly in love with him.
When Abe grew tired of her, he had trouble getting rid of her. He finally paid her off.
Nancy had been different.
She was a lady through and through. It was why he had fallen in love with her, why he had married her. He knew she was a virgin, just like he had always known his wife would be a virgin on their wedding night. He didn’t make love to her until that night, and then he was careful about how he made love to her, careful not to be crude, not to touch her too much. He tried to be gentle, not to hurt her, but, of course, lost control. He had never had a virgin before.
She didn’t climax, but then, he hadn’t expected her to. She didn’t enjoy it, but he hadn’t expect that either. Women like her didn’t.
Abe desired his wife but not the way he wanted other women. He made love to her as inadvertently and politely as possible. At the office he had a new secretary with a mammoth set of mammary glands, who also gave the best blow job he had ever had. He would never dream of asking Nancy to do something like that.
She was the perfect lady, the perfect wife, and the day she gave him his son, she would be the perfect mother too.
Until that very hot day in July when he had picked up the phone and overheard her conversation.
He had been in L.A. on business. Well, with pleasure thrown in. California had an endless supply of big-breasted blondes—a bonus to a lucrative deal. His latest mistress was a starlet who was so good he was debating making her into a star. He might buy a studio or buy her a role. He already owned five percent of North-Star, and half the Board owed him. He could get her in there. He was pleased with himself and life in general, having just closed a fantastic m
ulti-million-dollar deal to build a hotel complex in Palm Springs. He was in a magnanimous mood.
He had come home on an earlier flight than planned, and instead of going to the office he decided to make some phone calls from his study.
Purely by chance he had picked up Nancy’s line. And would have hung up, except that the man’s voice was familiar. He was saying something about “tomorrow,” and Nancy said, “We can’t. Abe’s back.”
At the sound of his name he realized he was listening to the chauffeur, the tough kid, Ford. Who was laughing. “So what? That hasn’t stopped us yet. I’ll come by as soon as I drop him at the office, like always. I’ve got to see you, Nancy. I need to see you,”
She was silent. “Jack, I’m worried. What if he finds out? What about Belinda?”
“Don’t worry,” he said huskily. “I’ll worry for both of us. Just hang in there. I’ll see you tomorrow, babe.” Then, “I’m going to fuck your brains out.”
Abe had been momentarily stunned.
He found her in her bedroom, sitting on the bed by the phone. At the sight of him she went white. He reached her in three strides, his arm going out. “No-good cunt,” he shouted, and the blow swept her off the bed onto the floor.
Nancy shrank. “Abe,” she whimpered.
“I should kill you!”
“Oh, God!” Nancy moaned.
Abe grabbed her, yanking her up, hurting her and not caring. “How long have you been fucking around on me?” he roared. “How long, damn you!”
She was trembling and crying. “It was a mistake, I swear—”
“How long!”
“A few weeks.”
“And before Ford?” He had her pinned to the wall. “Answer me!”
“No one,” she moaned. “I swear, he was the first …”
He wrenched her face back, ignoring her whimper, then threw her on the bed. She rolled when she saw him coming, scrambling to the other side.
“You want it,” he had grated, pulling her up violently toward him, “all you had to do was ask.”
Abe pinned her on the bed, shoving up her nightgown. He plunged violently into her, again and again, determined to hurt her. Her sobs left him unmoved.
Afterward Abe lay on the bed, his heart raging. He ignored Nancy as she stumbled to her feet and into the bathroom. He closed his eyes. This wasn’t happening. Nancy Worth Glassman was not a cheap whore. She was his wife. He kept seeing her as he had through the years—chic, elegant, ladylike. Then he imagined her with the boy, Ford—naked and wet and moaning for him. He was sick. He hated her. He was going to destroy her.
And destroy Ford.
Nancy came out of the bathroom clad in slacks, a sweater, and carrying a small bag. He instantly sat up. “Where the fuck are you going?’
“I-I’m leaving.”
He was on his feet. “Oh, no, you’re not!” he snarled. He hated her, but he wasn’t about to let her go. Oh, no, not when she belonged to him.
She had started for the door, giving him her back.
And it dawned on him. “Just where the hell do you think you’re going? To him?”
She didn’t look back.
And then it was funny. He laughed. “To that two-bit punk? You’re leaving me, me, Abe Glassman, for that punk chauffeur?” And he laughed harder.
She wrenched open the door and started running, as if she couldn’t bear another moment in his presence.
He had let her go—for then. Ford was just getting his rocks off, and Nancy was in for a rude awakening if she thought he was her savior. What was she going to do—marry the kid? Live on canned beans and wear polyester for the rest of her life? He would wait. Wait until she came crawling back. And then he’d make sure she lived to regret every day of the rest of her life.
He heard her fall. There was a rolling, thumping noise that instinctively made him run to the top of the long, curved stairs.
She was slowly getting to her knees, bent over from the waist and moaning. He stopped himself from running down to help her, reminding himself of his hatred for her.
Eight hours later Nancy miscarried a twelve-week-old male fetus.
His son.
She and Jack Ford had killed his son.
16
What really happened?
He had liked his job. Not that driving a Caddie for Abe Glassman was his future, not at all. He’d come to New York to study acting, mostly because he had the face to launch a thousand ships and the pussy panting after him to prove it. Of course, he hadn’t made it very often to acting class that summer. But that didn’t matter. Glassman was big, as in megabucks, and if he didn’t own half of New York City by then, Jack knew he would one day. And maybe he would be there with Abe, riding on his coattails. After all, didn’t Glassman trust him?
Jack was certain he did, because he had been tested and had passed with flying colors.
The first time Abe Glassman had given him a sealed envelope and asked him to deliver it personally, Jack hadn’t thought much about it. The third time, he had held the envelope, weighed it, even sniffed it—and knew it contained money. He had taken it up to his tiny grimy room on Broadway and One hundred tenth and carefully steamed it open. He counted, slowly. Fifty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills. Then he replaced every single bill, not even tempted, and resealed the envelope. And delivered it.
Of course it was grease money.
The destination of the envelope confirmed it, and Jack began to keep track of his deliveries—city councilmen, CEOs, a secretary in the mayor’s office, an aide to a California senator, even a cop. Big stuff.
He began to think how sweet his life might become.
He was making money, good money for those deliveries. And there would be more coming his way.
Then it happened. The kid walking in on him and the gorgeous Mrs. Glassman while he had been driving his cock deep and thick inside her. Shit, that was bad. What if the kid told?
He had sweated bullets, waiting for Glassman to get back from L.A. Unable to sleep, he had tossed restlessly in the heat. Wondering why Nancy Glassman had failed to keep their rendezvous that afternoon, and feeling horny as hell. When he had spoken to her that morning on the phone, she had sounded fine. Had something gone wrong since then?
Abe called a little after midnight—something he often did. Everything seemed the same. Jack had felt vast relief, thinking that Abe didn’t know—the kid hadn’t talked. He was sure of it when Glassman told him to come by the town house to pick up another “package.” He got over there fast. And even in person Abe seemed fine.
The address Abe sent him to was in Queens, not Manhattan. Jack had never been there before, but that didn’t mean anything. He had even been whistling as he thought about the nice bonus he always got for these little deliveries, jamming on a rock station as he hit the Midtown Tunnel, fingers rapping the wheel.
He started frowning when he asked directions and was sent into a shabby neighborhood. Not just shabby. More like the kind of place he’d grown up in. An unadulterated slum. Kids in rags playing in streams of water from open fire hydrants. Tumbled-down buildings, some gutted from fires. Pregnant teenage girls sitting on stoops. Old men drunk in doorways stinking of urine. The strains of a ghetto blaster followed him down an entire block.
The address was a store advertising cigars and girlie magazines. This did not smell right. Jack wasn’t afraid—he was good with his fists and a broken bottle, if need be—but he was alert. The man inside the store was big and menacing. He looked as if he could break a man’s neck with his bare hands. His two customers weren’t as big, but they had that same feral look. Oh, shit, Jack thought, locking his door with one motion.
As the big piece of brawn came out toward him, Jack knew. He knew.
He rolled his window up and put the car in drive. From the corner of his eye he saw the blurred movement, realizing too late what had happened. The window smashed, glass raining in on him, and a bloody arm the size of a tree branch reached in. Before the c
ar could even accelerate, the man had Jack’s throat locked in his arm and was dragging him out. Jack reached for the window, gritting his teeth as jagged glass cut his hands. He tried to pull a piece away. A small, daggerlike shard broke off in his hand.
He was propelled backward, but Jack didn’t fall. He regained his balance, crouching. “Come on, motherfucker,” he rasped, ignoring his bleeding hand.
The big man laughed.
Jack darted forward, sweeping up with the glass and jumping back. A line of blood appeared on the man’s fat belly. He growled.
Jack attacked again, feinting and jabbing with the glass. The man was an ox. He couldn’t move to save his life. This time Jack sliced open his arm from elbow to wrist. He blinked salty sweat out of his eyes.
Movement on the periphery caught his attention. The other two were behind him and approaching from both sides. Then the giant lunged, and Jack had to leap out of the way. Something hit his ankle hard, and as he went crashing onto the ground on his side, he realized he’d been tripped from behind.
He kept rolling, right onto his feet. As he came up he saw the blow coming and heard the man laugh. The undercut to his gut doubled him over, red pain rushing through him. In that instant he knew he was in serious trouble.
Brass knuckles.
His jaw cracked, snapping his head back. Another blow to his stomach, and he cried out. As he hunched over, a knee came up into his groin. The pain was so excruciating he almost passed out. He started to drop. The second knee came up into his face, breaking his nose. Blood spurted. There was an agonizing blow to his kidneys, making him scream. He felt ribs crack. He began choking on his own blood. An excruciating blow to the back of his head, and he crumpled in a heap on the street, a red-and-black haze stealing over him.
“Is he dead?”
“No, he ain’t dead, just close, real close.”
Dimly, Jack heard and wondered if the man was right. He felt as if he was dying. In fact, according to the staff in the hospital where he was laid up for six months, he had almost died the night he had been rushed into Emergency. And three months after his release, when every door in the city was slammed in his face, when his old girlfriend threw him out, when he was jobless and homeless and forced to sell it just to survive, he knew he hadn’t dreamed what the thug had said just before unconsciousness claimed him:
