The Monkey Rope

by Stephen Lewis

  Seymour brought his forearm up sharply and knocked Junior’s hand away.

  “And my first rule is never to talk to a client who’s got his hands on my neck.”

  Junior threw his head back and laughed.

  “When you’re right, you’re right. Like I always say. But don’t talk to me about a plea.”

  Seymour leaned towards him and fastened his eyes on his.

  “I’m not saying you should. But we’d better keep it as an option unless you can give me something to go on, more than what I have now.”

  “Which is?”

  “On the down side, I have a client who the whole world knows was sleeping with the victim, a client who disappeared right after the murder, a client with a record, not a spectacular one, mind you, but one long enough and interesting enough to make it hard to form a defense based on character references. Further, my client had motive—a sexual relationship that seemed to be souring—and opportunity. Plus, he was dealing.”

  “Hey, man, whose side are you on?” For the first time, Seymour detected a note of concern in Junior’s voice, and just a shadow of doubt in the confident eyes.

  “I’m just telling you what we’re up against. What I have to work with on the plus side is the possibility that Eddie Gomez might have reason, vengeance, to kill Mrs. Levine, crazy as that sounds. That, plus the intention of both the prosecutor and her father to get this case out of the newspapers as quickly as possible.”

  Junior’s eyes narrowed in thought.

  “Yeah, Emily told me something about that.”

  “About what?” Seymour demanded.

  “About how her father never did give a good shit about her or anything but what he called the family honor. And that thing about Eddie. I didn’t believe her when she told me that the creep was bothering her. I thought she was just blowin’ steam, you know, to see what I’d do, and so I just laughed in her face.”

  “Maybe you should have taken her seriously. If what Rosalie has turned up checks out, Eddie was looking for her for a long time.”

  Junior did not hesitate.

  “Naw, man. I told you about her. She was always sayin’ crazy things, but,” he paused, “she sure was scared of him.” He shrugged. “No help, now.”

  “I guess not,” Seymour said. “You’re just remembering all this stuff now? You didn’t mention it before.”

  “No, man, I just forgot. How many times I gotta tell you. You can trust me. Shit, we’re fuckin’ with my life now. This is serious business.”

  “I’d like to believe all that.”

  “You can. Trust me.” Junior’s tone was sincere, and Seymour decided that he would. He didn’t really have any choice.

  “Tell me what you know about Gomez.”

  “First thing, I never bought the dude’s act. Even with what I know he went through. Nobody that crazy would still be walkin’ around. Don’t get me wrong. He ain’t right, that’s for sure, but he’s more right than he looks like.”

  “Maybe so,” Seymour conceded. “This salesman who worked in the showroom claimed he saw some kind of argument between Emily and Gomez. Do you know anything about that?”

  “No, but maybe something better will turn up.” Junior smiled. “You never know.”

  Seymour sat up straight.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” he said. “You keep your nose, and Pedro’s or anybody else’s, the hell out of this. Tomorrow morning I want to walk you into the police station.”

  Junior shot to his feet and paced around the room. He stopped in front of Seymour, his dark eyes alive.

  “That’s the way it’s gotta fall,” he said. “What are my choices?”

  “Only one. If you hide, they will eventually catch you. If you turn yourself in, we can try to keep our options open.”

  “You mean like a plea.”

  Seymour nodded.

  “If it comes to that. Would you rather go away for a very long time? We’re talking double murder here, and rape of a pregnant woman. I’d say,” Seymour pretended to calculate, “at least twenty years before a chance of parole.”

  Junior shuddered.

  “Twenty years. I won’t do twenty days. You know what happened last time. That was no bull.” He sat down next to Seymour and turned him by the shoulders so that their faces were inches apart. “You ever been ass-fucked? Ever been held down while some guy shoved it into you?” He squeezed Seymour’s shoulders. “It ain’t gonna happen again.”

  “Forget the plea bargain for a second. That’s last ditch. I’m not sure how far we can go with that, anyway. But if you turn yourself in, at least it’ll buy me some more time. To track down this Gomez thing.”

  Junior sat back in silence for a few moments.

  “Okay. I guess I’ll have to go with it.” He paused. “You gotta promise me one thing, though.”

  Seymour waited.

  Junior took a breath.

  “I want you to take care of Lois while I’m in the cage.”

  “I’ll do what I can, of course,” Seymour said.

  “You’re surprised, huh?”

  “You’re reading my mind.”

  “You think I don’t care what happens to her, I know, but, Jesus man, you should know better.” He pounded his fist against the arm of the sofa hard enough to make it shudder. “I thought you would understand by now. Just make sure nothin’ happens to her. That’s very important to me. When I’m not around, there’s no tellin’ what she’s gonna do.”

  “You got it,” Seymour said.

  Junior relaxed and took out a cigarette.

  “Relax,” he said. “This one comes from a regular pack.” He lit the cigarette and inhaled. A smile began to form around his lips. “A little while ago, you said something about Rosalie?”

  “What of it?”

  “Nothin’, just that it’s nice to know that my loyal sister is helping us out.”

  “She thinks you’re innocent.”

  “Blood is blood,” Junior said simply. He shook another cigarette out of the pack and offered it to Seymour. Seymour was about to light it when angry shouts jumped up from the apartment below. He lit the cigarette and listened. Junior was on his feet, standing by the door, his body tensed for flight. It was quiet for a moment, but then there was a scream, high pitched, the sound of bodies struggling against each other, and then a thud. A second later, Pedro raced into the room.

  “A bad scene, man,” he said. “I hadda waste the John. He was into some weird stuff, and it was, like, getting out of hand.”

  Junior nodded, as though, Seymour thought, he were a corporate executive being told the details of a merger.

  “I’d better blow,” he said to Seymour. “All of us.”

  Seymour got up and walked to the door.

  “What about Kitten?” he asked.

  Junior’s face darkened.

  “Yeah, we gotta do somethin’. We’ll get her out and take her along.”

  “She’s okay,” Pedro smiled, his gold tooth bright in the dim doorway. “I got her untied. Just a couple of bruises. She’ll make it out herself and be workin’ again tomorrow.”

  Junior took Seymour’s hand as they stood in the alley behind the building. Lights were on in windows across the street.

  “We don’t have time, now. I’ll call you tomorrow. If I can. If you don’t hear from me, you just go in and buy us some time. I’ll show.”

  Seymour nodded.

  “Make sure you do.”

  He caught the first stab of the whirling red light about a block away. Junior had already taken a step into the darkness.

  “I’ll call,” he said. And then he was gone.

  Seymour knew he should run, too, but he took a second to clear his mind. As they had leapt down the stairs, he had stopped in front of the first floor apartment. The man, nude, was on the floor where he had fallen face down, his neck slit, blood puddled around his head. The woman still had pieces of rope tied to her arms and legs as she struggled into her clothes. Her hands we
re covered with blood, but Seymour didn’t know whose. Strands of rope were also on the four corners of the bed. The room had been dark, but Seymour had been able to see her face well enough to make out the puffy lips and swollen eyes. She had taken a step toward them, almost fallen, and clutched Junior’s arm to steady herself. Junior had swiped at the blood on his sleeve as she recovered her balance and stumbled out of the room and into the darkness outside.

  Seymour heard a car door slam, and he saw Pedro supporting Kitten as they stumbled down the street. He swung himself over a rickety wooden face into a backyard behind another building, and walked silently in the shadows of an alley until he emerged into a quiet street.

  Chapter Six

  Rosalie opened the door for Seymour before he had a chance to put his key in the lock. She was wearing one of his white dress shirts, and the olive skin of her thighs and chest glowed. Seymour embraced her and ran his hands under the shirt and over her bare buttocks. For a moment he let himself forget.

  “Problem?” she asked.

  “You might say.”

  She took his arm and led the way into the kitchen. She poured a cup of tea from the pot on the table.

  “Want one? There’s semifresh coffee ready, too.”

  “I’ll have the coffee. Haven’t you gotten any sleep?”

  “Have you?”

  He felt his nerves begin to snap.

  “Please, let’s not play that scene again. Not now. I almost got picked up along with your brother.”

  He sat down at the table and sipped the coffee. He hadn’t realized how shaken he was, and now he felt a little faint. Rosalie ran her warm hand over his forehead.

  “You look awful,” she said. “What happened?”

  “Oh, nothing much. All in a day’s work I guess. Just another murder. Right in the room below us. A whore who was having trouble with a John.”

  “And? Who was killed?”

  “The John. And you’ll never guess who did it.”

  Her face flushed and then drained of color, and he leaned over to take her hand.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I shouldn’t be playing guessing games. No, it wasn’t Junior. It was his new bodyguard. Gold tooth.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Remember, the tooth I showed you that time in the office.”

  She nodded, and the color began to surface in her face.

  “He’s working for Junior. Only now maybe I should call him scarface.”

  “How’d all that happen?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to find out.” He brought his fist down on the table. “Damn, I didn’t get a chance to find out a lot of things. Like if Junior is going to let me turn him in. I mean, we sort of agreed, but we didn’t set the where and the when, and now he’s underground again.”

  “He’ll get in touch.”

  Seymour frowned.

  “Yeah, I know. Like always, just when you least expect it, there he is. But we’re about out of time.”

  “Does he know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’ll hear from him very soon. He’s no fool.”

  Seymour relaxed a bit, and finished his coffee.

  “You’re probably right. But still I wish that creep could have restrained himself and not gotten himself killed.” He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “Some things I just don’t understand. All this bondage shit. The woman took a beating.”

  “Maybe it’ll teach her a lesson.” Her voice had an edge, and Seymour was puzzled.

  “You think it’s her fault.”

  “I’m not saying that. Just that she could learn something from it, but she’ll probably be right back on the streets tonight. Anyway,” she said after a moment, “I think I had Lois in mind when I said it. I don’t know exactly why.”

  “We’re both a little rocky,” he said.

  Seymour felt the bile begin to rise in his stomach and he got to his feet. His legs did not behave, and the room spun. He closed his eyes against the memory of the deep purple bruises on the woman and the slit neck of the John, and realized that he had not even stopped to check if the man were still alive. He got up again and staggered over to the sink. He tasted the sourness at the back of his throat as he leaned over, but he could only manage a dry hacking cough, and then he stumbled into the bedroom.

  He lay in bed on his back, alternately staring at the shadows on the ceiling and closing his eyes. He lit a cigarette, and that helped a little. He began to feel a little calmer, and his stomach was no longer forcing choking gases up into his throat. Rosalie had not joined him. He had heard her straightening up in the kitchen, the water running in the sink, but then silence. He thought he heard the front door open and close, and he strained to hear voices or steps padding down the hall. His forehead was clammy with sweat, and he shut his eyes so that the room would stop spinning. He felt a soft hand stroke his face.

  “I thought I’d better give you some time alone,” Rosalie said.

  Seymour reached for her and drew her into the bed.

  “No,” he said. “I want you here.”

  * * * *

  Rosalie heard the knocking first, and by the time Seymour opened his eyes she had slipped out of bed. He saw her slip on his old flannel robe and step quietly out of the room. He heard the door click open, and then after a moment, a woman’s voice. He could not make out the words, but the sound of the door closing and the scraping of two chairs on the kitchen floor was clear. He fought back the acid taste in his mouth and the throbbing in his head and stumbled to the bathroom. His face in the mirror was gaunt, his eyes red-rimmed, and his stubble thick and gray. He splashed some water on his face until he felt sufficiently awake to find out what Lois wanted this time.

  She and Rosalie were sitting at the kitchen table, both with their backs erect and rigid in their chairs. Cups of tea sat untouched before them, sending thin strands of vapor into the chill air. It looked as though they had been holding this position for some tune, as they sought an answer to a vexing problem. Seymour tried to break the mood.

  “Good morning, ladies.” He forced warmth and some lightness into his words. Lois looked up for a moment and then turned back to Rosalie who remained motionless.

  “There’s coffee on the stove,” she said without turning around.

  Seymour poured himself a cup and pulled the stepstool over to the tiny kitchen table he had had since his student days. He sat down and looked at the two women. Rosalie had his robe bunched tightly around her, and she held it closed with one hand. Her uncombed hair stood out and her eyes were fixed on Lois. Lois still had her coat on, an imitation fur, probably meant to look like a fox. It was open, almost sliding off her shoulders, and she was wearing a tight jersey pullover under it. Her long hair flowed down her back and her face was fully made up with heavy red strokes on her cheeks and thick blue on her lids. Seymour could just see her bare thigh over the edge of the table.

  She smiled at Seymour with a flutter of her heavy lashes.

  “I was just telling your hausfrau that I have a message from your client. And one from me.”

  Rosalie stood up.

  “You’ll excuse me,” she said, “but I have to get dressed.” She leaned over to kiss Seymour and held her lips against his. Seymour sat quietly on his perch, waiting. The water pipes knocked loudly as Rosalie turned on the shower.

  “Well,” he asked finally. “What was that all about?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Lois replied. “You’ll have to find out from her.”

  He imagined Rosalie in the steamy bathroom, the cracked mirror over the sink dripping with mist, and he parted the shower curtain. Rosalie, her eyes closed and her head turned up to the hot water, soaped her breasts with her bare hands. She smiled, her arms reaching for him through the moist air, her body long and lean, just the hint of hair under her arms but rich and thick between her legs.

  Lois brought her spoon down in a measured stroke against the rim of her cup. “All rise
,” she said.

  Seymour did not respond.

  She frowned.

  “Isn’t that what they say when court is in session?”

  He nodded. “And are you the judge?”

  She threw off her coat and thrust out her chest. She stood up and raised one foot onto the chair. Her skirt rose to her hip.

  “Do you want to enter a plea, counselor?”

  He removed her foot, his hand brushing the inside of her thigh. He sat across from her.

  “It looks like you have your work clothes on,” he said.

  She laughed.

  “Counselor, how could you think that, so early in the morning.”

  “Maybe you’re just stopping off on your way home, then,” he snapped.

  Her face froze for a moment.

  “Maybe I am.”

  He thought a second, and then shrugged.

  “I guess, at this point, that’s your business,” he said.

  She threw her head back and laughed before fixing him with her bright eyes.

  “At this point? It’s always been my business.” She paused. “You, of all people, should know that.”

  “What’s this about a message. Or messages?”

  “The first,” she said, “is from Junior.”

  “When did you see him?”

  “Last night.”

  “Where?”

  “Look,” she said, her voice cold. “Let’s make this easy. I talk, you listen. Then if you have questions, ask them.”

  She took a sip of her tea and put the cup down with a clatter. Her hand was shaking.

  “I saw Junior, my man, your friend and client, last night. At home. I heard his voice. From the baby’s room. He was saying good-bye.” She took another sip, but this time held the cup between her hand. “He said to tell you, Friday morning, ten o’clock. No reporters, or no show. At the courthouse. You be there and he’ll find you.”

  “That’s all?”

  “From him, yes.”

  “And you?”

  “Just this. You probably won’t see me for a while. Don’t call. I’ll be keeping odd hours. And I don’t want any involvement. It’s bad for business.” She bit off the last words.