Enter Without Desire

by Ed Lacy

  “So could I. Afraid I'm not clever.”

  She smiled again and I wanted to touch her face. I said, “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Grinning. It gets me....”

  The smile fled and she looked more like a frightened kid. I figured her for twenty-three, maybe twenty-five at most.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I wasn't making fun of you, or anything. It seemed funny, two strangers meeting and trying to pick the other's brains, in hope of a quick buck.”

  “Yeah, big way to spend New Year's Eve.”

  “Anyway, that's why I was smiling. I didn't mean to...”

  “Mrs. Morse—Elma, you have an exciting smile, as you damn well must know. What you don't know is... I haven't been... eh... around a woman for many months. So don't tease me with that smile.”

  “You drunk?”

  “Been trying to get that way, but without success.”

  “These 'many months'... sound as though you've been in jail.”

  “Might call it that. I've been living in a shack out on Long Island, trying to work. With no heat, light, money, or women.”

  “Oh, stop talking about women as though we were a stick of furniture. Never met a real starving artist—thought they went out with bootleg gin and the Charleston. Did your work turn out all right?”

  “Don't be funny, because you're not!”

  “I won't be anything.” She lit a cigarette, turned away from me—her movements so graceful I wanted to cry. I mean—well, you know; see a girl on the street, on the screen, or even a picture in a magazine, and there's something about her that sets your body chemistry bubbling; maybe she doesn't affect any other man that way, but for you, she's a stick of red-hot sexy dynamite. That's what this Elma was doing to me. She was so damn lovely and this was New Year's Eve, and here we'd been accidentally thrown together.... Only I wasn't going to do any chump act—in a few minutes it would be over, and she'd be back with her lucky husband, who was probably sitting out in the audience like a proud poppa. I was all steam on the inside, but I was playing it cool—I had to.

  All the time I'd been at Sandyhook, trying to work, trying most of the time to keep warm, I hadn't thought much about sex. I had a good plaster anatomical female figure I kept studying and handling, but looking at female muscles isn't exactly a passion arouser. Also, not eating regularly is far more effective than saltpeter. There were a few girls around Sandyhook in the winter—the plump daughter of the local storekeeper, the tall wife of the guy who rented boats. Sometimes Tony and Alice Alvins, my neighbors, had some girls down for a week-end... but I didn't have the energy or the money for those kinds of campaigns.

  There was a tavern on the outskirts of Sandyhook that served shore dinners and was empty most of the winter. Sometimes I went to hell with myself and dropped in for a beer, watched television. There was a bloated old woman of about sixty, with terrible make-up and bright blonde dyed hair... who suffered from the illusion she was still twenty. She wore an expensive mink like it was a rag, was a Mrs. M. Something or other... but loved to be called Margie. She had a station wagon, lived in a big house near the sea, and had a husband, some place. Marge was always high and would breeze into the joint and sing in a clear voice, “Hold that tiger...” and give everybody her young girl's smile with her wrinkled mouth.

  I don't know if she was crazy or what, but every few minutes she would hum or sing out, “Hold that tiger...” as though it was very witty. Marge was popular with the barflies. She'd set up the house a couple of times during a night. Several times Marge not only gave me the eye, but gave me a whispered version of “Hold that tiger...” but I wasn't having any of that. Maybe I wasn't hungry enough, or I'd get to wondering if Marion would end up like this unhappy old woman, and it would give me the shivers.

  Elma asked, “Do they let us pick our subject?”

  “I don't know. I ducked in here to get out of the rain.”

  She looked at me for a second, her eyes warm and clear, then she laughed, throaty, thick laughter that hit me like a drink. “That's as good a reason as any. In fact, it's even better than if a person had a reason to come here.”

  I didn't try to understand that. I packed my pipe and dug into my pockets for a match. She held out a cheap lighter; I thanked her and she said, “Come on, don't look so glum. We have to be partners, whether we like it or not.”

  I wanted to say, “Honey, I couldn't be angry with you if I had to,” but didn't want to sound like a jerk on the make. I simply said, “Don't mind me. Hell, I'm not only glad you're my partner, I'm happy to have even seen you.”

  “Well, thank you,” Elma said, giving me that big-mouthed smile that made me sweat. To change the subject, I didn't want to build myself up for a big let-down. I asked “What does a record librarian do?”

  “Make a file of their titles, keep a catalog. Frankly, I haven't worked at it in several months. I'm... well, unemployed. Why I'm here. But I liked the job, was more fun—to me—than work. You see, I love music... modern stuff...”

  She kept on talking, her voice a happy sound, telling me about the old sentimental records she had, how she played them now and then just to have a pleasant cry... I studied the good curves of her cheeks, the unusual eyes, the lush, heavy lips.

  The typist at the end of the room stood up and gave Hal, the m.c., a stack of cards and everybody looked at their watches, as though we were about to go into battle. Not that I've ever been in battle. Hal left the room and out on the stage a band began to play and the room filled with tension as people whispered, “They've started.”

  Elma whispered, “The band is strictly commercial— junky.”

  Hal's secretary, the hard-looking blonde, suddenly rushed into the room, motioned for the first couple, like a hammy actress. The couple were so nervous they turned a sickly pale. Elma said, “Look like they're walking to their doom. We're fourth—last. Nervous?”

  “No. I don't expect to win. How long does this last?”

  “Half hour. I sure wish we win. I'm full of the great American dream—lucking up on some easy money. I need it.”

  “Who doesn't? But I still don't expect to win.”

  The first couple had hardly left the room when the next two were called. Elma giggled nervously. “Must have been a couple of dopes.”

  “You get a consolation prize for fluffing out?”

  “Everybody receives a box of soap powder.”

  “Exactly what I need on a rainy New Year's Eve. I'll...”

  The third couple left, and a few seconds later the blonde stuck her head in, curled a finger at us. Elma squeezed my hand. “Here we go—to make asses of ourselves.”

  As it turned out, we didn't go any place for what seemed years, but was probably about ten minutes—we just waited around in the wings. The stage was bright with light, a band in the background. At one side of the stage there was a large cardboard Uncle Sam with a cash register for a mouth. At the other end was this huge wooden dollar sign, painted a cheesy gold, with an ordinary red balloon attached to it. In the center of the stage at a platform and several mikes, Hal was putting a couple through the mill. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the audience seemed to enjoy it.

  From the wings the stage looked unreal, phony to the teeth. And the audience, what the hell did they come for? Did they all hope to get a chance at the prizes? Or were they all lonely and...?

  Buddy-boy Hal motioned the couple offstage with, ”... So sorry, but at least you're walking out two hundred dollars richer. And who knows, you may be in the running for our grand prize and a chance at the mystery balloon. Now... for our final contestants we have Mrs. Elma Morse, a record librarian, and Mr. Marshal Jameson, a sculptor. Folks, bring them on with a great big hand.”

  It was the first time I'd ever received a round of applause, except on the football field, and that's different. Either I was embarrassed, or the jerks applauding us like mad seemed so awfully stupid, out of this world—anyway I got stage fright and
couldn't move. Elma tugged at my hand and giggled, and I just stood there like a dope. The blonde gave me a sharp kick in the ankle which made me jump— and then I was okay.

  Hal escorted us to the center of the stage, ran his eyes over Elma, looked like an idiot, and gave out a corny wolf-whistle, which seemed to panic the audience. He said, “Well, now, Mrs. Morse, shame we're not on TV, you're certainly the prettiest record librarian I've ever seen. How about that, folks?” There was more clapping, some whistling. Elma stood there, face flushed, forcing a tight smile. I stared out at the rows of faces, feeling like a loon, wondering what in the hell I was doing on the stage.

  Hal said coyly, “Any time you want to come up and listen to my records...” and slapped himself across the face. For some reason this got the audience hysterical.

  When the laughter died down, Hal said, “Just gagging around, Mrs. Morse. I suppose Mr. Morse is out in the audience?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “You mean he's home listening in?”

  “I don't know if he's listening in, either,” Elma said calmly, face relaxed once more. “Haven't seem him for some time.”

  “Well, time is running out, so let's get on with the show,” Hall said quickly. “You'll have fifteen seconds to answer....”

  I was still so dazed that for a moment I didn't get what Elma had said. Although what good would it do me with less than two quarters to spend on New Year's Eve?

  “... Now,” Hal boomed, “here's an easy question— what's the finest soap for home washing? Why, of course... Liquid Bubbles!”

  A big, six-foot pigeon-toed girl in skin tights suddenly pushed a large box of soap into my hands, nearly knocking me over, another in Elma's. She towered so over me, the audience laughed. I wondered if there was anything the audience wouldn't laugh at.

  Hal was looking through several little file cards in his hand as he said, “Listen carefully to question number one. You're to pick out the nearest correct answer from several I give you. Now, for a hundred TAX-FREE dollars: How many counties in New York State? 10? SO? 100? 500? 1000?”

  Elma looked blank, then almost angry. I said, “I believe there are about sixty-two counties in the state.”

  “Correct! Right on the nose for Mr. Jameson, the sculptor! You have a hundred dollars and Uncle Sam receives...”

  He pointed to the register in the cardboard Uncle Sam's mouth, which rang up $21 in taxes. I snapped out of my daze —I now had fifty bucks, could eat—even ask Elma to join me—make a night of it.

  Hal held up a fat hand for silence. “For another hundred TAX-FREE dollars: Which of the earth's continents has the highest waterfalls in the world?”

  “Niagara...” Elma began. I nudged her, said, “Venezuela—South America.”

  “On the nose again, Mr. Jameson!” Hal roared as the audience clapped like mad. “Yes, sir, there is a waterfall in Venezuela that is over 3,000 feet high, while our own Niagara is only a puny 169 feet,” Hal read from one of the cards.

  Elma whispered, “Aren't you the quiz kid! My God, two hundred bucks. And he's sore at me, giving us the hard ones so....”

  “All right now,” Hal said, after Uncle Sam registered more tax money. “Quiet, please. For another hundred TAX-FREE bucks, let's go. In what states is the largest reservoir in the U. S. A.? I mean largest in terms of water supply?”

  “Arizona and Nevada,” I said promptly, as Hal shouted correct again and the audience cheered. I felt a little drunk —I had a hundred and fifty dollars, a fortune.

  Hal said, “Mr. Jameson, you have a unique knowledge of little known facts. May I ask how you know these things, sir?”

  “Sure. I've been living in a shack in the country all winter. There was last year's World Almanac and... that was about all I had to read.” There was a moment of silence and then this “clever” line brought the house down, Hal's inane laughter beating against my ears till they hurt. Elma was staring at me, amazement in her eyes.

  Hal waved his hands again for silence. “Mr. Jameson, because you've been so quick at answering, and because you've really run into some hard questions, I'll give you a break. For your last question, you can tell me the name of the reservoir, or I'll give you a new...”

  “It's Lake Mead, but it may also be called Hoover Reservoir,” I said, like a kid reciting homework.

  “Lake Mead is good enough! You have four hundred TAX-FREE dollars. Now, if you'll kindly sit at the table —along with the other couple—in a few seconds you'll get a chance at the grand prize and the money balloon. But first a word about Liquid Bubbles...”

  At another mike three girls sang of the wonders of Liquid Bubbles, as the amazon who'd nearly floored me with the box of soap took us over to the table. We sat down and Elma said, “You're simply terrific. Was that really true, about having nothing to read but the Almanac?”

  “Yeah. See, in order to get the shack heated, I had to stuff the door cracks and windows with paper. What I mean is, once I got set, I wouldn't go out to get a paper or anything, because if I opened the door, damn shack would be like an icebox for the rest of the day.”

  “That sounds so...”

  Hal came over, carrying a hand mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, you each have a dart in front of you. I shall read a line of poetry, give you one hint, and then you will have exactly ten seconds to tell me the name of the author. Now, if you think you know the answer, before you tell me, try to hit the money balloon with your dart. If you hit the balloon and if you have the correct answer, you will receive the bonus bill, but whether you hit it or not, if you have the right answer, you will receive the big $2,000 TAX-FREE prize.

  “Quiet in the audience please, I can only say the line once. And please, no help from the audience. Ready? What famous Irish writer penned these words:

  “'Each great passion is the fruit of many fruitless years'?”

  The stage was full of an unreal, heavy silence. A clock was ticking off the seconds loudly. When four seconds had passed, I was about to take a chance and say, “Shaw,” when Elma grabbed her dart and threw it with one neat and clean motion. There was a mild pop as the balloon disappeared and a fifty-dollar bill sailed through the air in lazy circles, finally glided to the floor. A kind of dull roar from the audience and Hal held up his hand, as though directing traffic, said, “Wait a minute, Mrs. Morse, what's your answer?”

  “George Moore!” Elma said, trying to keep her voice even.

  Hal's booming “Correct!” hit me like a wallop in the gut. I opened my mouth like a jerk and gasped for air. For Christsakes, I had over a thousand bucks! I never had that much dough at one time in my whole life. At the moment I didn't believe it. I didn't even believe I was on the stage, although over the noise of the audience I could hear that awful bass-drum voice of Hal's saying, “You and your partner have won a grand total of two thousand, four hundred and fifty TAX-FREE dollars!”

  Vaguely, in dream fashion, I knew Elma was shaking my hand, and maybe I was pressing hers. The big girl in the skin tights came over and handed Elma a bunch of roses—I remember the delicate light-red color. The main thing was the noise—there were all sorts of noises in the air. I guess we were off the air, for Hal called over the accountant and he gave each of us a statement about the tax being paid, asked, “Shall I give you a certified check?”

  “Hell no, cash,” I said. In my mind I was already ploughing through a steak.

  “Lot of money to carry around on a New Year's Eve....”

  “We're a big boy and girl, we'll take the cash,” Elma said.

  There was a lot more talk and people milling around us, asking questions—for publicity, I suppose; then Hal handed me a thin pile of twenty-four 100-dollar bills, and a fifty. I turned and gave Elma a dozen of the bills, said, “I don't have change for the fifty.” And I almost burst out laughing because I didn't have change for fifty cents, much less fifty bucks. “Neither have I.”

  “You take it,” I said. “You won the folding money.”

  “Non
sense, if you hadn't answered those other questions....”

  I took her arm. “Look, Miss Newly-Rich, I'm a little dizzy in here, let's blow.”

  “Take the loot and run,” Elma said.

  I elbowed my way out of the crowd, Elma following me. Hal was yelling about pictures, but we reached the stage door and came out on the street. It was still raining.

  We stood there and she said, “Well, thanks for....”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Look, it's New Year's Eve and... well, back there you said... your husband....”

  “We've been separated for several months.”

  “Elma, let's blow the fifty, have a big evening?”