Inside Job

by Levinson, Len

  “Don’t touch me, you bastard,” she said, wiggling away.

  “What’d you do to this dolly?” DeFranco asked Brody.

  “Who the fuck knows?”

  “He’s a liar,” Marion said.

  DeFranco raised his eyebrows. “You don’t tell any lies?”

  “When I tell somebody I’m going to call them—I call them.”

  Brody snorted. “Oh come on. You’ve probably shit on more guys than you could shake a stick at. When it comes to lying, pretty girls like you wrote the book.”

  “You’re a male chauvinist pig.”

  “Give me a fucking break, will you?”

  “I’ll like to break your goddamn head open.”

  “Cops got thick heads,” DeFranco said.

  “I can’t disagree with that,” Marion replied. “That’s why they’re so stupid.”

  Brody winked at her. “I was smart enough to get into your pants.”

  “You son of a bitch!” She took a swing at him, but he caught her wrist in mid-air and stopped it cold. His sudden demonstration of agility and strength made her jaw drop open.

  “Be a nice girl,” he said soothingly. “Otherwise I’ll take down your pants and spank you right here.”

  “She’d probably like that,” DeFranco said.

  “I can’t stand being near you anymore,” Marion spat. “Let me out of here.”

  She stood up, took her drink, and walked away, shaking her ass.

  “Fucking crazy bitches,” Brody said. “You can’t live with them, and you can’t live without them. You look like you need another drink.”

  “You’re right on both counts.”

  DeFranco raised his hand and caught the attention of the waitress. When she came over, they ordered another round of drinks. When that round was gone, they ordered another round. By one-thirty in the morning they were plastered. Their hair was mussed and their features blotchy. Their eyelids blinked out of coordination, and the corners of their mouths sagged.

  “I gotta get the fuck home,” DeFranco said.

  “ You’d better not drive. You won’t make it,” Brody replied.

  “I’ll get a cab. Can I drop you anyplace?”

  “Naw, I’ll be all right, I think.”

  “Don’t you live in Queens?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll take you home, then shoot down to Brooklyn on the B.Q.E.”

  “Nah, I’m not going home. My fucking old lady is mad at me.”

  “What for?”

  “Who the fuck knows.”

  “They’re all fucking crazy.”

  “You said it.”

  “The only way to deal with women is keep them barefoot and pregnant.”

  “Really.”

  “Well, I gotta get my show on the road. If you ever need anything, you know who to call.”

  “Right.”

  DeFranco got to his feet, teetered from side to side, and made his way toward the waitress, paying the check. Then he stumbled toward the door. Well, De-Franco would have to take care of himself, Brody thought, but where the fuck am I going to sleep tonight?

  He raised his hand, and the waitress came over.

  “How much I owe you?” Brody asked.

  “Mister DeFranco took care of everything.”

  “Well let me give you something.” Brody reached into his pocket, took out a ten-dollar bill, and gave it to her.

  “Thank you sir.”

  “That’s okay.”

  The waitress walked away, and Brody stood up, running his fingers through his hair. He adjusted his leather jacket on his body and headed for the door, but to get there he had to pass the bar.

  “Leavin’ so early, Brody?” somebody said. “Lemme buy you a drink.”

  “Nah, I gotta go.”

  “What’s the matter? Can’t handle another drink?”

  “Give me a break, will you?”

  A cute little brunette gave him the eye. He couldn’t remember her name. “Good night, dolly,” he said.

  “What’s your hurry, Brody? Somebody kill somebody someplace?”

  He grinned and leaned his elbow on the bar beside her. “How come a pretty dolly like you is alone this time of night, or morning?”

  With a wave of her hand she indicated the bar full of people. “I’m not alone.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “If I wanted to have somebody, I could.” Her brown eyes twinkled.

  “Why don’t you take me home?”

  She looked as though she were considering it, when a blonde on the other side of her spun around and faced Brody, and this blonde was none other than Marion.

  “Don’t listen to him, Julie,” Marion said. “That guy is the pits, when it comes to men.”

  “Brody’s not so bad,” Julie said.

  “Oh yes he is. He’s the type that just uses women.”

  “I don’t use women any more than women use me,” Brody replied.

  Marion touched her forefinger to Julie’s shoulder. “You do what you want to do, but I’m telling you, Brody is the pits.” She turned away.

  “I think I need a new P.R. man,” Brody said. “I’m getting a bad reputation.”

  “I think maybe you deserve it,” Julie countered.

  “What I deserve is you. Why don’t you take me home with you?”

  “What happened? Your wife throw you out?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Why else would you want me to take you home?”

  “Because I like you.”

  “But this is so sudden, Brody. Is this the desperate hour for you?”

  “Listen, if that’s the way you want to be about it— forget it. Brody don’t have any desperate hours.”

  “Don’t get mad, Brody.”

  “I’m mad. Have a nice night, dolly.”

  Brody pushed himself away from the bar and shuffled to the door, opened it, and landed on the sidewalk. The cool March air hit his face and revived him a bit. Where in the fuck am I going to sleep tonight, he thought. He didn’t want to go home to Doris under any circumstances. There was a hotel on 45th Street between Sixth and Fifth Avenues that was clean and reasonable, if you could call twenty dollars a night reasonable. What the hell, it was his only shot at almost two o’clock in the morning.

  He wasn’t tired enough to sleep, so thought he’d walk downtown and see the action on the sidewalks. He liked to look at passing faces, catch scraps of private conversations, and feel the vibes of the city. Lighting a cigarette, he stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and stepped downtown. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but not so much that he couldn’t handle himself or be aware of red lights and traffic. It takes a lot to incapacitate strong men like Mike Brody.

  At 64th Street a thought arose in his mind and made him stop. He couldn’t quite perceive what the thought was, but knew it was significant. He closed his eyes, and the face of Christine Hyatt came to mind. Then he remembered that she lived on 64th Street, probably no more than half a block from where he stood at that moment. What the hell, why not give her a call. Couldn’t do any harm. There was a telephone booth on the corner and he went for it, put in a dime, took out his little black book, and dialed her number.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hi, how are you.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Detective Brody.”

  “Oh, hello Detective Brody.” She sounded delighted to hear from him.

  “Why don’t you just call me Mike.”

  “All right.”

  “Have you heard from Mister Carson by any chance?”

  “No. Have you been drinking by any chance?”

  “Yes. I’m off duty and I happen to be in your neighborhood. Thought I’d take you up on your offer for a cup of coffee.”

  “Well, my apartment’s kind of a mess.”

  “Are you trying to say that you’ve got somebody there?”

  “No, I’m trying to say that my apartment is a mess.�
��

  “Well I’m a mess too, so we’ll be even.”

  “Why are you a mess?”

  “I just am. If I get there in five minutes, would that be all right?”

  “You’re that close?”

  “Right on the corner.”

  “Do you like Jamaican Blue Mountain?”

  “What’s that?”-

  “It’s a type of coffee.”

  “It sounds like something you roll in paper and smoke.”

  “No, it’s very good coffee, but it’s very strong.”

  “I love strong coffee.”

  “I’ll make a pot, then.”

  “Good. I’ll see you soon.”

  Brody hung up the phone, lit another cigarette, and walked unsteadily toward Christine’s apartment building. He looked forward to seeing her again. She was a sweet pretty kid, not the type of bum who hung out in singles bars. There was something precious and pure about nice women. They make a man feel better than he was. The sluts make you feel like you were in a cesspool, or a lunatic asylum.

  He walked into the vestibule of her building and of course the perpetual doorman was there with his inquisitive eyes. Brody showed him his badge and walked to the elevators, pressed the button, and rode up to the eighth floor. He pressed the button in the middle of Christine’s door, and the chimes rang inside. She opened the door.

  “Hi,” she said cheerily. She wore jeans, a cowboy shirt untucked, and her long hair was tied into a ponytail.

  “Hi.”

  “Come on in.”

  He walked into her living room, and saw posters of male and female ballet dancers on the walls. Record jackets and magazines were strewn about the red and white striped rug.

  “I told you the place was messy,” she said.

  “It’s not messy. It’s just lived in.”

  “Can I take your coat?”

  “Okay.”

  He took it off and handed it to her; she hung it in the hall closet.

  “Have a seat on the sofa there, and I’ll bring the coffee right in.”

  He sat on the big overstuffed sofa and crossed his legs. On the coffee table before him was a copy of Dance Magazine. On the cover a fruity-looking man was standing on his toes. She returned with a tray on which was the coffee pot and two cups. Kneeling beside him, she set the tray on the coffee table, and he caught a glimpse of half a bare breast, the top three buttons of her cowboy shirt being undone. She sat on an upholstered chair opposite him and poured the coffee.

  “How do you take yours?” she asked.

  “Black, no sugar.”

  She smiled. “A real man, huh?”

  “A real coffee addict.”

  “I am too. It’s awful. Sometimes I crave coffee the way a junkie craves drugs.”

  “Both things aren’t nearly the same, but I know what you’re saying.”

  She handed him his cup, and he took a sip.

  “Very good,” he said, wishing he were more sober.

  “I’m so glad you like it.” She took a sip of hers.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “No, I smoke too.” She opened a box on the table and held it out to him. “These are genuine Turkish cigarettes. Care to try one?”

  “Okay.”

  “They’re very strong.”

  “I think I can handle them.”

  “Have you been drinking a lot?”

  “Do I look it?”

  “You’re not quite the official detective I spoke with this afternoon.”

  “Now I’m a slob, right?”

  “More human and more vulnerable perhaps, but not a slob. Try to hold your cigarette straight, and I’ll give you a light.”

  She took a lighter from atop the table and lit his cigarette, then hers. They both puffed and looked at each other. He was beginning to think that he shouldn’t have come up here drunk and disorderly. It made him and the N.Y.P.D. look bad.

  “I guess I shouldn’t have come up here like this,” he said.

  “Don’t be so worried about it. You’re a decent guy. I know that already, and if you drink too much you must have problems.”

  “Naw, it’s not that. It’s just that sometimes you go to a bar to talk to your friends, and before you know it you’re smashed.”

  “If you had some sort of a normal life, you wouldn’t be hanging out in bars in the first place. I see a wedding band on your finger. Where’s your wife?”

  “In Queens.”

  “Got any children?”

  ‘Two.”

  “You’re having marriage problems, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Welcome to the club. I’m a divorcee.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes.”

  “You look too young.”

  “How young do you think I am?”

  “Twenty-three or twenty-four.”

  “I’m thirty.”

  “What!”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re older than me!”

  “So what?”

  “But you look like a kid. My wife’s twenty-eight, and she looks twenty years older than you.”

  “Well, I’m a dancer, and the kind of physical exercise we do keeps us in shape.”

  “You can say that again.”

  She smiled. “What’s the problem with you and your wife?”

  “Oh, the usual crap.”

  “Bored with each other?”

  “I guess so.”

  She shrugged. “Well, that’s the way it goes. Either you try to patch it together for the sake of the kids, or you get divorced.”

  “If she just kept her mouth shut, we’d be okay.”

  “She’s unhappy, that’s why she can’t keep her mouth shut. How’d you like to be cooped up with kids all day every day?”

  “I’d go out of my gourd.”

  “That’s what’s happening with her. Maybe she should get somebody to take care of the kids during the day, and go find a job.”

  “She doesn’t know how to do anything.”

  “So she can go to school.”

  “No, I don’t believe in that,” he said, shaking his head. “If a woman has children, she ought to stay home and take care of them at least until they’re old enough to go to school. If she’s not going to do that, she shouldn’t have children in the first place.”

  “Women are just people, Mike. Sometimes they don’t know what they’re getting into until it’s too late.’-’

  “That’s too bad where children are involved. Children have a right to be raised by their mothers. Mothers have an obligation to raise their children. People should take care of their obligations whether they want to or not.”

  “What are the obligations of a father?”

  “To bring home the bacon.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s enough.”

  “That’s not enough,” she said, and he realized from her flashing eyes that he’d touched a raw nerve someplace. “Fathers have more of an obligation to their children than that. They have an obligation to try and help the mothers in every way they can, not leave them cooped up with kids all the time while they hang out in bars.”

  “Oh oh, you don’t approve of me.”

  “It’s not that I approve of you or disapprove of you. I’m just showing you the other side of the picture.”

  The booze he’d drunk undermined the reticence he might have had about discussing his personal life. “But what if you can’t stand your wife anymore? What if you don’t like to be around her? What if she’s fat and sloppy and you’re not?”

  “You have to ask yourself how she got that way.”

  “I don’t give a shit how she got that way. I just want her to leave me alone.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have expected her to stay young and pretty forever.”

  “You’ve stayed young and pretty—why couldn’t she?”

  “I exercise for six hours every day of the week. Women with children don’t have t
ime for that.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe I should’ve married you.”

  “Ballerinas don’t make very good wives, because we love dancing more than we love our husbands. Most men can’t deal with that. My husband couldn’t, and I don’t think you could, either.”

  “I’d sure like to try.”

  She looked at him irritably. “Don’t be silly.”

  “Why am I being silly?”

  “Because you’re a married man, and I don’t fool around with married men. I did once, and it was awful.”

  “What if I wasn’t married.”

  “I’d probably be very interested in you. The rugged masculine type of man who leads a dangerous life like you, can be very attractive to women. You’re so out of the ordinary.”

  “There are thirty thousand cops in New York, so I’m pretty ordinary.”

  “Women like me seldom meet policemen.”

  “Women like you probably think you’re better than us.”

  “No, it depends on the policeman. You’re an attractive man and you were very helpful to me today. I can’t help liking you. But your problem is that you’re not very aware of yourself. You don’t understand why you do things. Someday you’re liable to find yourself in a mess that you could have avoided if you were more aware of yourself.”

  His head was spinning from booze, strong coffee, and onrushing fatigue. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. I guess I don’t take life that seriously. I do whatever seems right, and if it’s not, I’ll take my lumps like a man.”

  She raised her cup of coffee. “Good luck.”

  He raised his. “Thanks.” Bringing it to his lips, he drained it, then set it on the coffee table. “I think I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t shown you my best side.”

  “I saw your best side this afternoon.”

  “That wasn’t my best side.”

  “No?”

  “No. I can be a lot of fun.”

  “I’ll bet your wife doesn’t think so.”

  “She used to.”

  “That’s time gone by, my friend.”

  He stood up. “I think I’d better get going.”

  She set down her cup and looked up at him. “If you go home like that you’re really going to have problems with your wife. She’ll probably kill you.”