by Ed Lacy
“What's wrong with me having a broad?”
“You're in training.”
“Aw, stop it. A gal relaxes...”
“Stupid bastard, get dressed!” Arno said, keeping his voice low and steady. “You know I let you have all the trim you want, when I'm around to supervise things. But not when you're in training for...”
“But that might not be for weeks, months! You think I'm a monk or...?”
“I think it took me a long time to find our man. I don't intend chancing the deal being queered by you getting sick. Get dressed—fast!”
Jake got out of bed slowly, began dressing. Arno grinned at him. “Although you have the mind of a ten-year-old, don't glare at me like a kid, Jake. I know exactly what you're thinking, and forget it. I haven't muscles and I braise easily.” Arno waved the knife in the air as if it were a baton. “It's a funny world—there's you, one hundred forty-eight pounds of fighting muscle. And this knife can't weigh more than a few ounces, yet... Did I ever tell you about a slob I knew who found his wife two-timing him? Jake, all he did was make one fast motion over the back of her legs, sliced the muscles. She never walked again. One slash and those big muscles in your arms might be severed, never lift your arms again. The docs don't know how to sew nerves together— yet. Or a...”
“Okay, okay,” Jake said, quickly buttoning his shirt. “I'm out twenty bucks. I'll ask her...”
“Nope, we don't want a stink. I came as fast as I could,” Arno said, suddenly chuckling. “You see the way she caught the door? Like an old burlesque skit I once saw. Come on, lover, let's get some sleep.”
“But twenty bucks? I...”
“So you dropped two bills. That's better than being out fifty grand.”
RUTH STEINER
Hanging up, Ruth sat in the phone booth and leisurely lit a cigarette. They were in some sort of coffee shop, a restaurant which had a juke box full of progressive jazz records. Trust Burgie to know a place like this. She could see his bald head now as he sat at their table, sipping wine. Of course you could also trust Burgie to over-do things, like ordering wine by the year, as if he really knew the difference.
Ruth was a trifle puzzled and upset. She knew why, and that upset her more. Walt had sounded almost abrupt over the phone. Usually when she said she wasn't coming home he would argue, plead, whine; at least ask if he should wait supper for her. Tonight? “I suppose I do get some sort of enjoyment when he crawls,” Ruth told herself. “Perhaps because he's so strong, so damn sure of himself. Oh Lord, I'm thinking like a neurotic bitch, wanting him to crawl. Plenty of women would love to touch his muscles, be in my... Did Walt have somebody in the apartment? He would never do that—I think.” For a second she was tempted to call back, but the whole idea was silly, so instead she left the phone booth, glanced at herself in a wall mirror as she walked toward their table.
Ruth had a number of problems, and a very real one was her weight. She was a big woman, a half inch short of six feet tall (in flat shoes) and a solid one hundred sixty-eight pounds. Actually, it was well-distributed and the mirror showed a tall, shapely woman. But most of the other girls she knew seemed to weigh less than one hundred fifteen pounds and forgetting her height Ruth was in constant tenor of becoming a “two-ton slob” as she called it. Calorie-watching was one of the many things nicking her mind.
Burges Flynn didn't make any effort to rise when Ruth sat, and she would have been astonished if he had. He was a short, wiry, little man with an almost completely bald head fringed with thin blonde hair, a big-featured face so homely it was attractive, and nervous eyes. He was wearing shaggy tweeds, a plaid wool shirt, and a pointed yellow beard which he believed gave him a “devilish” look. Burges was a free-lance photographer who made a point of being friendly with female editors. Watching Ruth cross toward the table Burges had thought, My, but she's a big one. It should be most interesting; I ought to wear a jockey outfit for the occasion. Tiny me, I trust I won't need a compass. He said, “I've ordered. The wine is quite good. Did you make the proper lies and excuses to your husband?”
“Aren't we just too cynical tonight, or at least trying too hard?” Ruth said, sipping the chilled, very dry wine. (She loved sweet wine but was ashamed, for some reason, to order any with Burges.)
“I hardly think I'm trying to be cynical,” Burges said. He had a practiced way of talking as if each word was a great effort he was happy to let go of. “Having once seen that ox you're married to, I sincerely hope your excuses were proper—and believable. Mr. Steiner looked quite capable of beating me to a pulp. Or at the very least, slapping me out of shape with his blackjack. Say, does he let you handle his gun?”
“Please, let's not talk about him. I liked your pictures for the perfume article.”
Burges held up his palm and scratched his little beard on it. “I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult. Pose a doll-faced model against a white screen, without having to consider composition, or getting any character into the shot—for the model has the intellect of a backward moron. Really, Ruth, a child with a Brownie could do as well. Still, to be trite...”
“I know, it's a living,” Ruth cut in as the waiter brought the food. They were both hungry and for a few minutes ate in silence, Ruth forcing herself to stay with only one bread-stick. Over coffee, she lit two cigarettes, handed Burges one. “Are we going to take in the Steichen exhibit at the Modem Arts tonight?”
“I've seen enough photographs for one day.”
“Jose Limon is dancing at...”
“Honey, the ballet bores me. I have something else in mind for us this evening.”
“What?”
“Well, I've actually cleaned up my studio for the occasion. I think it's about time we went to bed,” Burges said, enjoying the slight, quick shock on her face.
Ruth's reaction was a combination thrill and slight feeling of fear. Although she had been expecting this from Burgie, even a bit disappointed he hadn't propositioned her sooner, she wasn't certain what her answer would be. Outside of one bungled attempt at sex in college, prompted mostly by curiosity, Ruth hadn't slept with any man except Walt. But she'd given it much thought, sometime wondering if sleeping around might mature her as a writer. It was like the time someone suggested she smoke a stick of “tea” for kicks. Ruth had wanted to but was afraid.
Now Burges blew a cloud of smoke at her and grinned. “Well, well, has anybody seen my sophisticated Ruth, the dirty joke queen? You're reacting like Sal-from-Carrot-Cross-roads.”
“I'm merely thinking it over. Or did you expect me to jump to attention with sheer joy? It was an abrupt offer.”
“Nonsense, we're not kids. We've been seeing a good deal of each other, and it's time we tried it in the hay. Simple as that, really.”
“Really?” Ruth mimicked, trying to keep fear and doubt from her voice. “Burgie, I don't think you quite understand the type of female I am.”
“But I do, I do the most. You're the type female I want to sleep with. I trust I'm your boy-type.”
“Stop making this sound like a blood test,” Ruth said, lighting a fresh cigarette, to stall for time. “I'm very serious, Burgie. I'm not saying no. The truth is I may want to say yes. But there's one thing about me you first have to understand. I'm a...”
Flynn held up a tobacco-stained hand. “Ruth, stop making with all the talk. And I do understand you—perfectly. My darling, you're a bum. Wait, wait, wait, and get the anger from your eyes. I don't mean a bed tramp, but an intellectual bum. You gas and moan about that great book within you—as you find a million excuses for not writing it. Undoubtedly you're afraid you'll learn you lack the talent. So you play it safe, never try to find if you have it or not. Next year, the year after, ten years from now, you'll be sitting at this same table, or in some other bar, playing the same record, 'If only I had the time to work on my book.' That's pure baloney, Ruthie dearest, and very stale baloney, at that.”
Her face was pale as she said, “Flattery will get you no pla
ce. You... !”
Burges reached across the table, squeezed her hand. “Honey, I understand you because we are alike. I'm a bum, too, so I know. We try to crucify ourselves on the cross of talent because we may be strictly no-talent characters. We are flagellants, beating ourselves with the success of others— and enjoying the pain. We...”
“I don't know what you are trying...”
“Come on, Ruthie, you know it's true This is the voice of experience talking. I've told my sad tale in Nice, in Hollywood, over cocktails in Chicago, Greenwich Village, did my song and dance as far south as Mexico City and north in Montreal, the pitiful tale of what an artist I am with the camera, the photo masterpieces and portraits I will shoot— some day. Those snatches of life I will stop and capture with my lens. Honeybunch, it isn't so much can I do it, but will I ever do it. I'm a guy who's been around and around, so I don't kid myself; it's far more comfortable to talk about it, than give it the old college try. Frankly, I've had my chances. In the navy I had the best equipment possible, loads of time. And once I married a wealthy biddy who set me up with everything I needed. As you have your opportunity now. You don't have to work, hide behind your job. You could devote all your time to your writing. Let's put it on the line, honey, we're both phonies, in our own little way. 'Art' will always be a word in quotes to us, the impossible carrot dangling before our noses.”
“Burgie, you have hidden talents! You're wasting your time behind a camera. You should be sitting beside the couch, taking notes. Or maybe on the couch!”
“One thing at a time,” he said, pressing her hand again. “At the moment all I desire to be on is you.”
“Oh, how sweetly you put it!”
“Come on, Ruthie, we're at least above the corny seduction lies and drinks. You're a hell of an attractive woman. I want you. That's my story; what's yours?”
“Now you sound like a lawyer, asking for a yes or no answer. Since we're being oh-so-frank, there's one thing you don't know about me, wise old owl. If I sleep with you it can't be any one-night stand. I'm a throwback to... something. Are you asking me to leave my husband and live with you?”
Burges took his hands from hers, rested his face on his palms and played with his beard. After staring at Ruth for a long second, he said, “Really, you're beginning to sound like one of my empty-faced models, completely simple.”
“Burgie, I'm not a prissy puritan, I trust. Nor am I a wanton, an easy...”
“Wanton? Oh please! Please! You say live with me, those just words or do you actually mean it?”
“I mean it, of course.”
“But what does 'live with me' mean? Tonight we'll be living together. If we hit it off okay, we might live together tomorrow, the following day, for a year, or until we're ready for Social Security. But even if we set up house tonight and tomorrow turned out to be dull—that would be the end of it for me. Even if we were married, legal, and what-not. In short, no guarantee comes with my bed.”
“Under all those words, how is this different from a one-night stand?”
“I don't know. As I said, if the one night turns out interesting, we keep going. My dear, one of the occupational diseases of our day is trying to stretch something good until it turns sour. In this lousy world I believe in finding happiness where you can. The food was fine here tonight, but that hardly means I'll be eating breakfast and lunch here tomorrow. Don't try to push your luck is my motto.”
“I see. I'll have to think about it.”
“Really, Ruth?”
“Yes, really!”
Flynn motioned for the check. They didn't talk again until they stood outside, when he said, “I'll put you in a cab. When you've thought it over, give me a ring.”
“For your next tidy, here's another motto: don't push your rudeness!”
Burgie reached up to kiss her, but Ruth shook her head. He smiled as he said, “But I'm not being rude, sweet. Surely you can understand that being around you and not having you is sheer torture for my sensuous nature. Rude? Indeed no, but I am being terribly honest.”
He stopped a passing cab and holding the door open for Ruth, told her, “I sincerely hope, and expect, to hear from you very soon. Perhaps tonight.”
When the cab pulled away, Burges dropped into a bar for a fast one. He felt very dramatic and pleased with himself, although he also vaguely wondered if he had talked himself out of some work. But he felt sure she would call him within hours. Beside, her trade magazine could only mean so much money—about enough to cover his rent. And tonight he couldn't resist the cool act he'd put on. Burges had enjoyed it more than if he had taken Ruth to his place. As for becoming tied up with her—My God!
Riding in the cab, Ruth lit a cigarette and somehow felt like a little girl who has been scolded. For no reason she found herself remembering the time she was sixteen and joined the high school ballet group. The teacher was a snippy old maid who'd taken one look at Ruth's stocky big body in the skin-tight leotard, and told her loudly, “You would rupture any unfortunate boy trying to lift you. I think you'd do better to try out for the football squad.” Of course this was followed by a chorus of snickers from the other girls.
Later, when Ruth had used the incident in a story published in a literary magazine, she had made the teacher a homo. It had given her a great sense of revenge, almost made up for the hurt. But at the time she had a feeling she had no real business in trying to be a ballet dancer, and certainly no need for outside activity. That had been foolish; being assistant editor of the school paper kept her running after school. And Ruth had, in a sense, the very same feeling now with Burges. She really didn't want to be that 'Bohemian.' Yet the thought of being only Walt's wife rankled her, seemed a defeat. For a journalism major who had won a medal for the best creative writing in college to end up as a mere housewife for a detective was a hell of a letdown. Ruth was also aware, when she could think clearly and honestly enough about it, that she was using Walt for a whipping boy.
She knew many husbands would not want their wives to write, probably because of intellectual jealousy. But not Walt. He often gave her material from some of his cases to use. Her highest-paid story, the one which had brought the query from a publishing house about a novel, was based on an arrest Walt had made.
Leaning back in the cab, still troubled (and relieved) at the way things had turned out tonight, Ruth told herself, “It was all so wonderful with Walt—at the start. Real star-dust. What's happened to us? Now that's a clever line. Half the married people in the world must be asking it. Perhaps if we'd had a baby? Another smart line. Your marriage is breaking, grab a baby for glue. Beside, that isn't my fault, or Walt's. We never were lucky. Never. I sound like an old hag. Maybe we'll still have a child. But that can't be our answer. Burgie says I don't have to work—go write. He sounds like Walt, refusing to understand why I needed the fellowship. At least Burgie must know one needs the right kind of atmosphere to create. One simply can't sit before a typewriter every day like a stenographer and turn out a good book. Would I be able to work better around a Burgie? True, he's more my kind...” Ruth giggled, remembering what he'd said. They were both bums.
The cab stopped for a light. Glancing out the window Ruth saw the street busy with people going to watch the hockey game at the stadium. She remembered the first time Walt had taken her there. It seemed so exciting and... When was that, their second or third date?
Upon graduating from college Ruth rushed to find an apartment with another girl, an aspiring actress, on the edge of the alleged “arty” section of town. It was a miserable cold water flat, bug- and mouse-infested, but it was tremendous fun and excitement in the beginning: the time they had stayed up all day and night to paint the flat with wild colors; meeting other writers and artists; the long bull sessions; the informality; the freedom; the feeling of being a part of things—all of them so pure and high-minded, and actually a gassy part of nothing. Although she had sold a story for a hundred dollars, and was given envious pats on the back, Ruth ve
ry soon found she had to get a job. She came from a middle class family and could have asked for money, but never did after overhearing her father, when Momma suggested he pay Ruth's rent for a year, wisecrack, “For this she needs a college education?”
For a time she didn't even attempt to find editorial work, afraid it might “spoil” her writing talent. Ruth took a part-time sales job in a department store. Regularly at noon she rode the subway uptown. Almost as regularly she noticed Walt. She had to. They always seemed to ride the same car and were the tallest people on the train. After the fifth or six day, they grinned at each other. Walt asked for a date the following noon.
