by Craig Rice
“Oh,” Helene said, rapturously, “I just wish I was going to stay here forever! But since I’ve got to go home tomorrow, please, take me everywhere, will you? Just—everywhere?”
He took her to a Harlem night club, announcing apologetically at the door that more money was needed. It turned out that she had another hundred-dollar bill, but that was all. That had to last through the evening.
“And your fee, or whatever you call it, has to come out of that,” she told him. “That’s all the money I could save out of what Joe gave me to spend on clothes. And he’d kill me—I mean, really kill me—if he knew I was doing anything like this.”
In the night club she pretended prettily to be shocked and delighted by the floor show. She ordered five more drinks, and drank one of them. Harris Lawrence was a smooth-looking customer, but he evidently wasn’t wise to the trick of emptying the little glass into the sugar bowl. Helene toyed with a sixth drink, and said, “Y’know why I called the office tha’ sent you out? B’cause a friend of mine gave me the number, tha’s what. Friend, name of Josephine. Know her? A’right, you don’ know her. She went out with somebody from your office and she thought he was pretty cute, I think you’re pretty cute, too. But y’know what? I mean, y’want me to be perfectly frank? When I called up your office, y’know what I thought? I thought I’d get him.”
She looked again at Harris Lawrence. He had thick yellow hair that looked as though it might have had a henna rinse, a broad face, glassy blue eyes, and moist lips. He didn’t look suspicious, though. “Y’know Josephine’s friend?” she asked. “Name was Dennis—Dennis something.” She accidentally knocked over her drink and said, “Ooops! There I go, being clumsy. Tell me, y’don’t mind my being clumsy. Oh, I remember my friend’s friend’s name. Dennis. Dennis Morrison. Works for your escort bureau. J’ever know a man named Morrison?”
“He isn’t there any more,” Harris Lawrence said. “He left about a year ago.” He looked searchingly at Helene, smiled, and said, “Do we have to talk about him?”
“Uh-uh,” Helene said, shaking her head. “Let’s talk about us now.”
“How about another drink?”
She shook her head again, vigorously. “Le’s get out of this dull place. I gotta leave N’York tomorrow, I haven’t got much time to spend. I wanna see something really exciting, I mean really exciting.”
“Well,” Harris Lawrence said slowly, and speculatively, “maybe I can suggest a place—”
“Le’s go,” Helene said, rising and staggering gracefully. “But, ’member now, I wanna see something, well, really—” She gave him a long wink.
“I know exactly what you mean,” the blond young man said.
In the taxi, suddenly, Helene felt that maybe she’d taken on something too big for her to handle. It was the first time she’d ever attempted anything like this, entirely on her own. She’d been in a few tight spots before, but always with the knowledge that Jake and Malone were somewhere within screaming distance or, at least, knew what she was doing, and would arrive when she needed them. But this time—Jake was involved in some strange business he wouldn’t tell her about, Malone was absorbed in some weird affair of his own, and—here she was. The three of them, all going three different ways. It had never been like this before. She tried to choke back a little, involuntary moan, and didn’t succeed. “There, there,” Harris Lawrence said, in a voice like ice.
A sudden spasm of fear froze the flesh to her bones. She wished with her whole heart that Jake—Malone—anybody was there. Not that she was frightened because the blond young man was making passes at her in the taxi, but because he wasn’t. If he had, she’d have stopped being frightened. Helene had learned how to cope with that during her freshman year in boarding school. But this was something else.
She stole a look at Harris Lawrence out of the corner of her eye. He looked disinterested, polite, and calm, entirely too polite and calm. She was frightened. But, she told herself, this wasn’t any time to start swimming back to shore. Besides, the events of the evening had borne out her ideas about the escort service which had once employed Dennis Morrison. The desk clerk at the hotel had given her a list of recommended escort services, and warned her against any which were not on the list and were, therefore, unregulated and unsupervised. There were, the desk clerk explained, plenty of legitimate escort services with which you could even trust your dear old white-haired grandmother. But some of the others—The service Dennis Morrison had worked for had not been on the recommended list.
Of course, she could always scream. This was a well-populated street, and there would probably be a cop at the next corner. But she’d started this, and she wasn’t going to give up now. She fell heavily against Harris Lawrence’s shoulder and lisped, “My frien’ Josephine—everybody calls her jus’ Jodie, Jodie-wodie, she told me that the young man who took her out was pretty wunnerful. Tha’s why she gave me th’ name an’ number of your office. Tell me, d’ja ever know him? Was he a frien’ of yours?”
“Who?” Harris Lawrence asked.
“My frien’s frien’. Jodie’s frien’. Name of—Dennis. D’ja know him?”
“Not very well,” the blond young man said.
“S’too bad,” Helene said. “He mussa been a wunnerful man. I think you’re wunnerful, too, honey. Min’ if I call you honey?”
“Not at all.”
She yawned, long and loudly, and said, “Very s’eepy. Maybe I oughta go back to the hotel an’ go to s’eep. Min’ if I go back to the hotel ’n’ go s’eep.”
“Oh, you don’t want to do that,” Harris Lawrence said. “Why, you haven’t spent all your money yet.”
“Tha’s all righ’,” she told him. “Y’can keep the rest of it.”
He reached over and took her hand. His hand was cold and damp. “Have you forgotten,” he said, in a bad imitation of tender confidence, “I promised to show you something really—” He pressed her hand.
“Oh yeah,” she said, “Oh sure. Y’bet I wanna go there.” She managed another giggle. “Joe would murder me!”
“But you’ve got to keep quiet about it,” he said. “If the escort bureau knew I was taking anybody there, I’d lose my job.”
She wondered where he was taking her. She pretended to muffle a coloratura hiccup and said, “I think you’re cute.”
“I think you’re cute too,” he said grudgingly.
“Where’re we going, honey?” she said. “Sure you don’ min’ if I call you honey?”
He said, “Well, it’s a kind of night club.”
It turned out to be a cross between a fifth-rate speak left over from 1929 and an Elks’ Smoker. There was a great show of secrecy, and a great to-do about being admitted. Inside, there were a stuffy, smoke-filled room, a dozen untidy tables, a few drunken customers, and a bored-looking waiter who consented to bring Helene a glass of alleged Scotch, tasting faintly like sweet varnish. Three tired colored boys were creating a terrific din with a piano, a guitar, and a bass fiddle. On the tiny platform that pretended to be a stage, a rather chubby girl, dressed in one adroitly placed oak leaf and a carelessly applied coat of body paint, was inexpertly dancing something that might have been a hula.
“Oh,” Helene gasped. “If Joe’s mother could see this! She’s terribly strict, you know. And Joe would just die. I mean, absolutely die.” She remembered to hiccup again, and prattled on, “Joe thinks I’m spending the evening with a girl frien’, but I don’t have any girl frien’s in N’York, y’know what I mean?” She pretended to avert her eyes from the platform, and said, “I’m kinda scared, honey. Maybe I’d better g’wan home. I d’want to get in any trouble.”
“You don’t want to go home now,” Harris Lawrence said, with an unsuccessful attempt at warmth. “Why, the show’s just starting.”
She combined the giggle and the hiccup this time, and said, “Well, if you say so, honey.”
He patted her hand all the way up to the elbow, with disinterested fingers, and said, “Pardon
me just a minute, beautiful.”
He didn’t go toward the men’s room, he walked over to the bored waiter and spoke a few, quick, low-toned sentences. Helene poured the glass of imitation Scotch under the table. How could she get out of this place, if she had to? Again she felt a moment of almost pure panic. If only Jake were here! If only she were anywhere else in the world, and with Jake! Maybe she could get out of here, if she pretended to be going to the ladies’ room.
Harris Lawrence came back and sat down beside her. She looked at him anxiously and said, “Oughta go home. Oughta go home ri’ now.”
“Oh, you want to see the rest of the show,” he said. “You won’t see anything like this anywhere else.”
There were exactly fourteen other customers in the place. Helene wondered how many of them were legitimate. There were four giggling, intoxicated, middle-aged, expensively dressed women at one table. There were three glassy-eyed men at another table. There was a party of four in one corner, two men and two girls, none of them paying any attention to the chubby dancer. There was a hard-faced man sitting alone at a table near by, and two more hard-faced men at a table near the door.
The waiter unobtrusively whispered to the party of four. A moment later they left, just as unobtrusively.
“I hope you’re enjoying the show,” Harris Lawrence said.
“S’wunnerful,” Helene assured him. “Jus’ wunnerful. Only, oughta go home.”
The music came to a long drum roll, the chubby girl whirled around, vanished between the dingy green curtains, and returned without the oak leaf. Two of the glassy-eyed men applauded, not very loudly.
Helene wondered how the trick was going to be worked. A fake holdup, or a fake raid? Or maybe the old gag of a furious wife bursting in with a six-shooter.
The colored piano player took a drag on his cigarette and put it out. The music suddenly hit a new high, as far as sound volume was concerned. From behind the dingy curtains, a thin, brown-haired man darted, dressed in a minute scrap of imitation leopard skin. The middle-aged women put down their drinks and began to watch the show. The chubby girl fell to the floor, posing like an ungraceful Eve. One of the hard-faced men nodded to the waiter, who stepped out into the anteroom. The thin, brown-haired man dodged behind the dingy curtains, came back without the leopard skin, and struck a pose. One of the middle-aged women gave a little scream. Then there was a shrill whistle from the front, and the lights went out. Harris Lawrence grasped Helene’s arm, right. “Come with me,” he whispered. “This is a raid.”
She let him lead her through the dark room. It was more than a fake raid, she reflected. There had been a sudden white flare that could only have come from a flash bulb just as the lights went out; the camera, she guessed, must have been aimed to take in the party of middle-aged and expensively dressed women, and the Adam-and-Eve scene on the stage.
“Don’t worry, I’ll hide you,” he said. “Just stay there and keep quiet.” He thrust her into a dark closet and shut the door. She stood there, listening for sounds outside. There were none. The freezing fear began to come back. She wished that Jake were here. It seemed like a very long time before the door opened again. There was the blond young man, and, beside him, one of the hard-faced men. “This is a friend of mine,” Harris Lawrence said. “He can get you out of this.”
Helene whimpered (softly, though) and said, “Wanna go home.”
“Shut up and mind me,” the man said, “and you’ll get home.” His voice changed suddenly. He said very smoothly and persuasively, “You don’t want your husband to know there’s been any trouble.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Helene said.
“I can fix it with the cops,” he said. “Have you any money?”
She shook her head and burst into tears.
Harris said, “She’s such a nice lady, I don’t want to see her picked up in a raid. Only I haven’t any money with me.”
Helene sobbed, and said, “Maybe they’d take my jewelry.”
“She has copies,” Harris Lawrence said quickly.
“That’s right,” Helene said. “I have copies. Joe wouldn’t ever find out.”
“Well,” the man said, “maybe—”
“Oh, please,” Helene gasped. “You look so kind. Please, help me!” She stripped the bracelets off her wrists, pulled off her necklace. “Joe would kill me, if he found out!” She snatched off her earrings, and dumped the whole lot in the hard-faced man’s hands. “Jus’ get me outa here. I wanna go home, I wanna go home!”
“Jeez, where do you find them!” the hard-faced man murmured to Harris Lawrence.
She whimpered, “Wanna g’home.” She managed another hiccup, not coloratura this time, but almost baritone, “I don’t feel so good.” Then she burped, as loudly as she could.
“You’d better get her out of here,” the hard-faced man said.
Harris Lawrence nodded and said, “Oke. Shall I call Louie?”
“Hell no,” the hard-faced man said. “Go out and hail a legitimate cab. They may be looking for her when she gets back.”
“I think you’re cute too,” Helene burbled to the hard-faced man. “Min’ if I call you honey?” She burped again, louder this time and said, “Feel sick.”
“For Chrissake,” the hard-faced man called, “hurry up with that cab.”
“O.K., O.K.,” Harris Lawrence called back, from halfway down the stairs.
If they thought she might remember where she’d been, they would send someone with her in that cab. She didn’t want that to happen. She fell over a shadow on the carpet, and sprawled against the hard-faced man, who pulled her to her feet. “Wanna take my clothes off,” she giggled thickly. “Wanna take all my clothes off, righ’ now.” She moved a vague hand toward her shoulder strap.
“You want to go home,” he said. “Remember? Home?”
“Whose home?” she said. She reached for the other shoulder strap.
He caught her hand and slapped it. She threw her arms around his neck and began crying noisily. She broke off in the middle of a sob and said, “Feel bad. Ri’ here,” and put a hand on her stomach.
He supported her with one arm and yelled down the stairs, “Hurry up with that cab!”
“O.K., it’s here,” Harris Lawrence’s voice called back.
“Do wanna go home,” Helene hiccuped.
He picked her up, carried her down the stairs, and dumped her into Harris Lawrence’s arms.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” Harris Lawrence said.
“Hell yes,” the hard-faced man said. “Right now, she wouldn’t remember the Johnstown Flood.”
“Do wanna go home,” Helene said in a childlike voice. “Pu’ me down, ri’ away.” She struggled a little. “Pu’ me down, I tallya. Wanna ’frow up, ri’ away.”
“Put her in that cab,” the hard-faced man said, “quick. Get her out of here!”
Harris Lawrence didn’t put her in the cab; he threw her in. He slammed the door and said, “Take her to the St. Jacques. The doorman will pay you.”
The cab shot down the street. Helene sat up and took a long breath of fresh, clean air. She lit a cigarette.
“Never mind that St. Jacques business,” she told the driver. “Just take me around the block.”
The driver slammed on his brakes in surprise, nearly throwing her to the floor. “Howzat?”
“I said, take me around the block,” Helene told him, “and slowly.”
The cab moved about a hundred feet, then the driver said, “But, lady, you looked—” His voice broke off.
“Do I look that way now?” Helene said serenely.
“Well—” He looked back over his shoulder. “Well, no.”
Suddenly she realized how much afraid she’d been. The blond young man who’d called himself Harris Lawrence, the hard-faced man, the dingy room, the feeling of being entirely on her own. She was still afraid. Even the shadows cast by the street lamps were dark and menacing. “Turn the corner,” she said. Then, sharply, “No, to the rig
ht.”
A broad red face looked back at her from the driver’s compartment. “Are you gonna tell me how to drive? Nobody can make nothing but a right turn at that corner.” His face matched the picture in the driver’s card. Stanley Sczinsky. “You’re sure you feel O.K., ma’am?”
“I feel fine,” Helene said, slowly releasing her fingernails from the palms of her hands. She threw away her cigarette and lit a new one, to prove to herself that she wasn’t really trembling. “Just drive around the block, and don’t go too fast. How are you at following people, Mr. Sczinsky?”
“Just call me Stan,” the driver said. “And I could follow a herring down Forty-fourth Street.” He slowed down, looked over his shoulder again, and said, “Lady, you aren’t one of those G-men, are you?”
Helene straightened the gold-spangled scarf and said, “Not me.” It was an almost unendurable temptation to say, “Take me to the St. Jacques.” She’d be safe, and warm, and comfortable. But no, she’d started this, she had to see it through. “Take it easy around this next corner, Stan, turn off your lights, and slide up to the curb.”
“Whatever you say, lady,” Stan said.
People like Harris Lawrence and the hard-faced man didn’t let a lapful of diamond jewelry just lie around loose. The hard-faced man had said, “I’ll take care of the stuff,” and Harris Lawrence had said, “Not unless I’m with you.” They’d had to do some nice, fast work, taking in a discontented young wife who was leaving town tomorrow. Now they’d do some equally fast work, cashing in on her jewelry.
The street was dark and quiet. They parked against the curb, turned off the lights, and watched. Stanley Sczinsky turned around and said, “Lady, you know you have to pay for waiting time.”
“Don’t worry, I will,” Helene said. “If I have to wait all night.”
But it was only a few minutes before two men came out of the dingy, unlighted building. Even from across the street and halfway down the block, she could recognize them. The hard-faced man. The hennaed hair of Harris Lawrence. “Hold everything, Stan,” Helene whispered. “Here we go.”
The two men got into a waiting black sedan and drove south. The cab followed discreetly, a block behind. “I dunno what you’re up to, lady,” Stan said as they crossed Forty-second Street, “but I’m glad to help.”
