The noise lasted for fifteen seconds or so, subsided into more snorts, wheezes, and gasps, and finally ceased altogether. Ferris wiped his damp face and got his breathing under control. Then he pointed to the crimson stains on his clothing. "Chicken blood," he said. He pointed to the weapon clutched in his left hand. "Trick knife," he said.
"A joke," Mr. Pascotti said. "It was all a joke."
"Another joke," Mrs. Lenhart said.
"Another indignity," Mrs. Beresford said.
"And you fell for it," Ferris reminded them. "Oh, boy, did you fall for it! You should have seen your faces when I walked in." He began to cackle again. "My best one yet," he said, "no question about it. My best one ever. Why, by golly, I don't think I'll live to pull off a better one."
Mrs. Beresford looked at Mrs. Lenhart. Then she looked at Mr. Pascotti. Then she picked up one of her knitting needles and looked at the pudgy joker across its sharp glittering point.
"Neither do we, Mr. Ferris," she said. "Neither do we."
LITTLE LAMB
The place where they met for dinner was a Neapolitan restaurant on the edge of North Beach, not far from Don's apartment. The decor was very old-fashioned—red-and-white checked tablecloths, Chianti bottles with candle drippings down the necks and sides—but then Don was old-fashioned, too, at least in some ways, so she wasn't surprised when he said it was his favorite restaurant. Meg had never been there before. It wasn't the kind of place Gene would ever have taken her, not in a million years.
They sat at a little table in one corner, away from the windows that overlooked the street, and Don ordered a bottle of wine, something called Valpolicella. He was nervous, probably as nervous and tense as she was, but with him it was close to the surface, not pushed down deep inside. Poor Don. He must suspect why she'd called him, why she'd coaxed him into meeting her for dinner. How could he not suspect? He felt the same about her as she felt about him, she was sure of that. She'd noticed how he looked at her at the Currys' party that night three years ago, felt the mutual attraction then and every time they'd run into each other since. But he'd never done anything about it—never called her or tried to see her alone somewhere. And of course she'd never done anything about it, either. Until tonight.
But I should have, she thought. I shouldn't have waited so long—all those bad, empty months and years with Gene. I should have arranged to see Don right away after that party at the Currys'. If I had . . .
But she hadn't. She was such a little lamb. That was what Gene said, anyway, what he always called her in private. His little lamb. He hadn't meant it affectionately, as her being cute and cuddly and soft. No, he'd meant she was placid, no mind of her own, lost without someone to guide her. Just a poor little lost lamb.
Not any more, though. Not tonight.
The waiter came with the wine and to take their orders. She'd asked Don to order for both of them, because he'd come here so often and knew what was especially good. She wanted the dinner, like everything else about this night, to be perfect. He must have wanted that, too, in his own way; he was very deliberate, asking the waiter several questions before he made up his mind. What he finally ordered was zuppa di vongole, green salad, breadsticks, and fusilli alla Vesuviana.
"What is fusilli alla Vesuviana?" she asked after the waiter went away.
"Pasta with tomato and cheese. Vesuvius style."
"Vesuvius? It won't erupt while we're eating, will it?" He laughed, but it was a small laugh—forced, brittle.
"You don't have to worry about that."
"I guess I'm not very good at making jokes . . ."
"No, no, it was a good joke."
There was an uncomfortable little silence. The only thing she could think to say was, "Don, aren't you glad you came?"
". . . Yes, I'm glad."
"You're not acting like it."
"It's just that . . . well . . ."
"Well what?"
"I don't think Gene would like it if he knew."
"He's not going to know. I told you, he's away."
"I know you did, but—"
"Until tomorrow," she said. "Sometime tomorrow." Don seemed about to say something, changed his mind, and took a too-quick drink from his glass and spilled a dribble of wine down over his chin. She had an impulse to reach over and wipe it away, touch him, but she didn't let herself do it. Not just yet.
She tasted her own wine. It was heavy, faintly sweet, not at all the kind of wine she usually liked. Tonight, though, it went with the ambiance here, with this special occasion. She drank a little more, watching Don drain his glass and pour another. She mustn't have too much herself before the food came. She had no tolerance for alcohol and she mustn't get tipsy, mustn't do anything to spoil things for either of them. When she got tipsy she would giggle or have an attack of the hiccups or knock over her glass—something silly and embarrassing like that. So she must be very careful. One glass of wine, no more.
It was just the opposite with Don. He drank two full glasses of Valpolicella and part of a third before he began to relax.
Then she was able to draw him out a bit, get him to talk about his job—he was an editor with one of San Francisco's regional publishing firms—and about people they both knew. When she told him about Marian Cobb's latest trip to a fat farm, and he laughed a genuine laugh, she felt both relieved and reassured. It's going to be all right, she told herself. It really is. Tonight is going to be just fine.
The zuppa di vongole came. She wasn't at all hungry, she had been sure she would only pick at her food, but she finished all of the soup; and all of the green salad that followed, and then most of the fusilli alla Vesuviana. It amazed her just how much of an appetite she had. And all the while they continued to talk, not about anything personal, just small talk, but there was an intimacy in it of the sort that she and Gene had never shared over a meal. Don felt it too. She could see him gradually give in to it, let the warmth of it enfold him as it was enfolding her.
Afterward they had espresso and a funny licorice-tasting liqueur—Zambucca?—that was served with a coffee bean floating in it. Over their second cup of espresso, she caught him looking at her, an unmistakably hungry look that he quickly covered up. It made her tingle, made her wet down below. She had never responded sexually when Gene looked at her that way. Oh, maybe in the beginning she had, a little. But not like this. She had never felt about Gene as she did about Don.
Why didn't I do this a long time ago? she asked herself again. Why, why, why didn't I?
The waiter came with the check. Don paid in cash, and when they were alone again she said, "What I'd like to do now is walk a bit. It's such a nice night."
"Good idea."
"Then what I want to do is go to your apartment."
She said it so casually, so boldly, it surprised her almost as much as it surprised Don. She hadn't meant to be so brazen; the words had just come out. He blinked in a way that was almost comical, like a startled owl. "Meg," he said, and then didn't go on.
"Wouldn't you like to?" she asked.
"I . . . don't think it would be a good idea."
"Why not?"
"You know why, for God's sake."
"Well, I think it's a wonderful idea," she said. "It's what I want and I think it's what you want too. Isn't it?"
He gave her a long searching look. Then he let his gaze slide away and said abruptly, almost painfully, "Yes, damn it. Yes."
"You mustn't be ashamed. I'm not."
"It isn't that I'm ashamed . . ."
She touched him then, touched his hand with the tips of her fingers. It made him jump as if with an electrical shock.
"It's all right," she said. "Don—it's all right."
"It's not all right."
"But it is."
"You're a married woman . . ."
"I don't love Gene. I'm not sure I ever did."
"That isn't the point."
"It is the point. It is," she said. "Please, let's leave now. I'd like to walk."
She g
ot to her feet and stood waiting for him to do the same. It wasn't a long wait, only a few seconds. They went outside together, along the crowded sidewalks of upper Grant. Somewhere she could hear music playing, guitar music—flamenco guitar? She smiled. It was such a nice night.
Beside her, Don said, "Meg, I don't understand this. Why? Tell me why."
"You know why," she said. "I've known all along how you felt about me. And I've felt the same about you, from the very first."
"Then why did you wait three years? That's what I don't understand. Why tonight, all of a sudden?"
"It was time," she said. "Past time. I couldn't wait any longer."
He was silent, walking.
"Don? You do want to be with me tonight, don't you? Alone together, the whole night?"
"You know I do. I won't deny it."
"Then that's all that matters, darling. Us together, tonight."
She heard him sigh softly. And then she heard him say, "God help us both."
Yes, she thought, God help us both.
She took his arm and moved close to him, as if they were already lovers. And for the first time, she thought about the bruises and wondered if the most recent ones still showed. Well, it didn't matter so much if they did. She would ask Don to turn the lights down low or shut them off altogether. That way, he would not notice tonight. Tomorrow . . . well, tomorrow was tomorrow. He would find out then, in any case, not so very long after he found out about Gene.
She thought about Gene, but only briefly. Only briefly did she picture him lying there in the bedroom they had shared, the bedroom where time and again he had beaten his poor little lamb, the bedroom where she had shot him to death at four o'clock this afternoon.
Yes, officer, I emptied the gun into him. He was coming at me, he was drunk and ready to beat me again, and I took the gun and I shot him and then I ran out and drove around and around—and then I called Don Murdock and arranged to have dinner with him and later spent the night with him for the first and last time. Do you think that's awful? Do you believe I'm some kind of monster?
No, she mustn't think that way. All of that was tomorrow. First, there was tonight. And no matter what anyone believed, tonight was very important—very, very important. Like the last night before the end of the world.
She hugged Don's arm and smiled up at him, thinking about tonight.
ONCE A THIEF
(With Jeffrey M. Wallmann)
What I was doing, standing there in the shadow of a large oak at four o'clock on this clear moonlit morning, was considering the heist of a car. Not just any car, mind you, but a beautiful three-liter Lancelot Mark II, sitting in a secluded driveway less than a block away. The street—dark and deserted—was a tunnel of oaks, and the houses were nicely spaced apart. It was, as we say, a perfect setup.
But I was still only considering. Car thugging had been my trade for roughly half of my adult life; however, the other half has been spent in an assortment of state-maintained resorts run for the care and preservation of breeds such as myself. If I were to follow the mandates of my craft and once again be caught—well, the parting words of Warden Selkirk, when I was paroled from State Prison recently, were still heavy in my mind:
"Kenton, you're a loser, a perennial fixture here at the Camp. Much as I hate to say it, I'm afraid it won't be long before you're back with us again—for an even longer stay."
Nevertheless, I had been on the straight and narrow up until now. With the help of Feeney, my parole officer, I had gotten a worthwhile job as swing-shift dishwasher at the El Rancho Truck Stop and I had a room over the All-Nite Bowling Lanes; and saving bus fare the way I was, I would soon have a color television set. Maybe I shouldn't have scrimped on the fare, though, for walking to work brought me past the Lancelot every morning. And every morning I had been finding it harder and harder to continue walking and not driving.
You had to see that Lancelot to appreciate it. Sweet graceful lines, genuine leather throughout, crushed-velvet door panels, combination short wave and cassette mounted in the console, air conditioning, and power everything. The potential joy of wheeling it to Honest Jack's Auto Emporium, where it would receive a brand-new identity and eventually a brand-new home, made the palms of my hands itch.
Well, I was still trying to make up my mind—the Lancelot or another running of my personal gauntlet—when the kid appeared. He was on the sidewalk beyond the Mark II, moving with a kind of awkward stealth, looking furtively around him. When he reached the driveway he darted along it to where the Lancelot was parked. I could see him clearly in the moonlight—young, thin, scared, dressed in black—and I could see the bent wire he was clutching in one hand.
I recognized both the look of him and the wire. I had had both on my first heist those many years ago, the venture that had sent me down the broad path of crime. I saw the kid bend at the driver's door—and I knew I had to stop him. Before I could ponder the wisdom of this decision, I was hurrying silently away from the oak and down the sidewalk.
The kid was so intent on maneuvering the coat-hanger wire through the Lancelot's wing window that he didn't hear me at all. I eased up behind him and let my hand drop heavily onto his shoulder. "Son," I said in a low voice, "you're in trouble."
He turned, cringing. "Who—who are you?"
"Officer Stanislausky of the Special Citizen's Patrol," I said. "It's my job to watch this affluent neighborhood to make sure nobody heists iron belonging to the taxpayers."
"I—I wasn't going to steal this car."
"You were looking for a place to take a nap, maybe?"
"I just got a thing for Lancelots, that's all."
"That I can appreciate," I said. "But the fact remains, you're caught red-handed. I'm duty-bound to take you in."
"Give me a break, mister," the kid said. "I got a widowed mother to support, and if I'm arrested I'll lose my job."
"A widowed mother?"
"And a baby sister," he said.
"Well," I said, "that's a different story," even though I had used such a story myself on occasion. But he looked like a decent kid, just a little mixed up in his thinking.
"You mean, you'll let me go?" he said.
"Why not? I once supported a widowed mother, too."
"Thanks, mister—thanks!"
"You'll never try to heist another car?"
"Never!"
"Then you're now released on probation," I said, and let go of his shoulder. He gave me a weak grin, backed off two steps, then turned and ran down the driveway and out of sight along the oak-walled sidewalk.
I looked at the house to see if anyone had been aroused, but it was still dark and quiet. Then I looked at the Lancelot. The palms of my hands began to itch again, and I felt a weakness in the pit of my stomach. I began to shake. The Lancelot was so sleek, so beautiful—
And all at once I realized that I hadn't stopped the kid only for humanitarian reasons, that I had intervened partly because he was about to heist the Lancelot, my Lancelot. I knew then that I had to have it. I couldn't control myself any longer, the urge was too strong. Some men are born to write books and some to shape the destinies of the world; I was born to heist cars. There is no denying the inevitable.
The kid had left his bent coat hanger in the wing window. I touched it, almost nostalgically, and began to maneuver it. The old magic was still in my fingers. The door opened soundlessly under my hand and I slipped in behind the wheel. I ran my palms over the soft leather upholstery. Honest Jack was going to love this baby. Honest Jack had an eye for fine quality. He did not give new identities to anything but the best from both sides of the Atlantic.
I leaned down under the dash and began to cross the ignition wires. I didn't need a light—a craftsman works mainly by touch alone. As soon as I had her hot-wired, I would get out and roll the Lancelot into the street. Then—
The door was suddenly jerked open and the brilliant white light of a flash beam filled the Lancelot's interior. I sat up, blinking, and heard a sharp aut
horitative voice say, "Hold it right there. Put your hands where I can see them."
I put my hands where he could see them. The flashlight lowered slightly, and beyond the hazy glare was a big guy in a pair of pajamas. In his other hand he held an automatic. It was very steady. He said, "So you were trying to steal my car, eh?"
I sighed resignedly. Under the circumstances there was no point in trying to bluff it out; the proverbial egg was all over my face. "I couldn't control the urge," I said. "I have never been able to control the urge."
"In other words you're a professional car thief?"
"Reformed professional car thief—until just now."
"I thought so," the guy said. "I saw the way you got rid of that kid and the quick, smooth way you opened the car."
In spite of the situation I felt a touch of pride. "How did you know something was going on out here?" I asked him.
"I was raiding the refrigerator," he answered, "and I happened to look through the kitchen window when the kid started up the drive. I got my gun and went out through the back door and by that time you were here talking to him. I knew you weren't what you claimed to be, so I just hid in the shrubbery to see what you were up to."
I sighed again. Would the local police and my parole board understand about birthrights and uncontrollable urges? Somehow I didn't think so; they had been unimpressed in the past. Well, maybe Warden Selkirk could arrange for me to have my old cell back. It had a nice view of the exercise yard.
All that took place three months ago, and I can hardly believe what has happened to me since. I have moved into a posh residential apartment building called the Nabob Arms, and have acquired the color television set and a car of my own—not a Lancelot, but quality merchandise nonetheless. And Dolores, this very buxom blonde I met in the park a while back, has consented to become Mrs. Harold Kenton when her divorce is final.
Everything is coming up roses for the first time in my life, particularly and primarily because I am now able to pursue my calling on an average of six times a week—the heisting of iron, the finest of iron from both sides of the Atlantic. Bliss, sheer bliss. Oh, I don't get as much per as I did from Honest Jack, but I have to look at it from the volume and organizational aspects, not to mention the safety standpoint.
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