Stronghold

by Stanley Ellin

  “How about you, doll? Still going down to the high school to pick cherries?”

  Janet studies my face. She says unbelievingly, “Is that what’s on your mind? That I destroyed your precious innocence? Come off it, Flood.”

  I say, “What was it all about that day? Why me? Wasn’t it because you found you were going butch and started to panic about it? And I was the easiest way to find out how far you were gone?”

  “Oh, listen to Dr. Freud. You mean it never entered your mind that you were the first time for me too, Flood? That I might just have gotten fed up wondering what it was all about?”

  “So you picked a kid?”

  “You weren’t that much of a kid.”

  “I was a kid. And you picked me because any grown man that got near you smelled dyke.”

  “You’re wrong. You’re wrong. You are wrong.” Janet takes on a puzzled look. “But if I thought—”

  “Yes?”

  “—if I thought that this whole crazy business—getting these men in here, terrifying everybody, robbing my father—if I really thought it was to rip me off for some imaginary wrong I did you—”

  “Now you’re the one getting Freudian, doll. That’s all right. I hear all dykes are strung out on Freud.”

  “—if I thought that was behind all this, it would be a killer, Flood. My own personal low.”

  “Don’t let it be. Just take a good look in that glass, doll. It’ll tell you to avoid such ego trips.”

  That shuts her up.

  Both the other women are in jeans and shirts when Coco and Harvey bring them back to the kitchen. “All right,” I say to Janet, “your turn.”

  She stands up, clutching her robe to her at the neck—what she hadn’t minded my seeing, she obviously doesn’t approve of her mother and sister seeing—but Coco says to me, “Hold it, man. I want to show you something first.”

  I follow him down the hallway past the dining room and into the living room. With its shuttered windows, it’s hard to see anything in it. Coco switches on the lights, and I look around. “Show me what?”

  “That was just an excuse, man. What we are here for is a little private confabulation.” There are a pair of armchairs facing each other in front of the fireplace. Coco points at them. “Sit down and listen close.”

  I sit down and he stretches out in the other chair. He slides his gun from his belt and dangles it by his middle finger through the trigger guard. “Quick-draw McGraw?” I say.

  Coco says, “Remember, man, I was at those group shit-tossing sessions in Raiford when your little mental quirks—you know what I mean?—got analyzed by that nice doctor. Blackouts—right?—where you are not responsible for what you do. But sometimes I wonder about those blackouts. Maybe yes, maybe no. If they are the genuine thing, why were you not just put away in a psycho ward?” He spins the gun once around his finger, then levels it at me. “Either way, try not to have one of those fits now because of what I am going to tell you.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I am talking about phase two. I don’t like the way it is being handled.”

  “You said the same about phase one, but it worked out fine. Phase two is working out just as fine.”

  “I will argue that. For example, you put me down in front of those women. With a gun. Let me remind you, Mr. Flood, that I am a partner in the Company, not a field hand on your plantation.”

  “All right, I’m sorry I hurt your fucking black feelings. If that’s your complaint—”

  “There is a more serious complaint. Your action showed you do not appreciate that I am right now the one indispensable man. Because all the loot we collect will be only bags of scrap paper if phase three is not attended to properly. And I am phase three.”

  “We’re not there yet.”

  “We are moving close to it. And you can screw it up very handsomely if you keep to that collision course you are now on.”

  “Collision course with you, Coco baby?”

  “Not me. That girl. That Janet. She is under your skin, man. She gives you the itch. I don’t know why, because a scarecrow like that could not turn me on, but I think you are trying to move in on her. Can you tell me that when you take her upstairs now, you will not ask her to open up for you?”

  “I can tell it to you. Would you believe it?”

  “No. What I believe is that when you tell her to lay down and give, she might try to fight it out, and then she could get hurt. Or worse.”

  “Killed?”

  “Yes.”

  I laugh. “You seem to be picking up where that shrink in Raiford left off.”

  Coco says coldly, “It is no laughing matter. Already you took out that old Sarah so hard, it’s lucky she is not dead. Phase three depends on bringing the hostages into St. Hilary in sound shape. Certainly none of them must be lost in action along the way. Otherwise, there is no phase three.”

  “Explain that. So far all you’ve let out about St. Hilary is that everything’s under control there. I’m starting to wonder just how much under control.”

  “No need to wonder, Mr. Flood. And no need to go into details until the time comes. That is the safest way.”

  “Not for you.” I stand up, draw my gun and aim it right between his eyes. And I don’t just let my thumb rest on the hammer as he is doing, I cock the hammer. He doesn’t follow suit. He sits there, his gun wavering a little in his hand. “Jimmy, don’t be a fool.”

  I say, “Put that thing away, Hubert. Or do I call in Harvey and Lester and have them put it away for you? Permanently.”

  “You think Harvey and Lester are that much sold on you, man?”

  “I think so. Now put that thing away.”

  He takes his face-saving time working the gun back into his belt. It’s so easy, I feel a little disappointed. I say, “Now what about those St. Hilary details?”

  He looks almost cross-eyed at the muzzle of the gun now centered on the bridge of his nose from a foot away. “I do not function at my best under these conditions, Jimmy.”

  I put a finger between the hammer and the firing pin and let the hammer ease into the safety position. But I still keep the gun on him. “Better?” I ask.

  “Somewhat.”

  “And those details?”

  “But no names.”

  “Names too. That’s so you won’t be too indispensable, Hubert.” I start to draw back the hammer again, but Coco holds up a hand. “Worthington and Moore,” he says. “That’s the names.”

  “Who are they? Our reception committee when we land there?”

  “Yes. Worthington is Minister of Justice. Moore is Commissioner of National Police. It will not be just another police case however, because we are coming in as politicals.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “You have the Weatherman record. I was Black Union in London. That will get a heavy play.”

  “And Harvey and Lester?”

  “Victims of the Mafia. They tried to expose the Mafia in Miami and were railroaded into jail for it. So they joined us in our political struggle.”

  I say, “Do you mean your St. Hilary buddies, this Worthington and Moore, will really buy this crock?”

  “Officially and publicly, yes. It’s a good deal for them, Jimmy. We land there, the plane is surrounded by security people, Worthington and Moore bravely come aboard—”

  “Risking their lives.”

  “Naturally. They come aboard with all the TV and newspaper people watching, and they palaver with us in private. The whole world holds its breath. Will we kill these brave envoys, will we kill the hostages, will we blow up the plane? Then Worthington and Moore step out of the plane as heroes. They have negotiated the release of the hostages, and they have granted us temporary refuge. We are politicals. A new movement in a wrong-headed but justifiable struggle against the oppressors. We are locked up overnight, sent on our way by chartered plane next day. The hostages are returned safely to the loving arms of their family. Worthi
ngton thinks he can make it as next Prime Minister on the basis of this alone.”

  I say, “But this pair of black angels isn’t working for us just so one of them can get to be Prime Minister of that sandpile. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “All right, what’s the payoff? How much of the money do they get?”

  “Half of it.”

  I say, “Two million!” and Coco quickly holds up a hand again. He says, “Put away that weapon, man. We can talk like civilized people about this. Do not forget we are civilized people. We are not hoodlums.”

  I press the gun into his forehead, forcing his head back against the chair. The click, when I cock the hammer, convulses him. He grips the arms of the chair, his fingers spread wide and straining. If his muscles tighten one more notch, he’ll disintegrate like shattered glass. I say, “We’ve got a beautiful partnership going, don’t we? The Shanklins get us the guns and the car, I get us the money, and you give half of it away.”

  He whispers, “Jimmy, that is the price. Man, did you really think it would be some kind of cut-rate deal?”

  “You told me in Raiford it could be. But maybe I’ll go as high as a million now. Your million, baby. And you’ll never miss it.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Jimmy. Man, you wipe me out, you will never see any of that money again. They will ship two million back here and say that’s all they found on us. And they will set it up so you and Harvey and Lester are cut down trying to escape. I’m the only one who can handle it. That is part of my understanding with them.”

  I think that over, watching the beads of sweat come up on Coco’s face. He says, “It doesn’t have to come out of your share, Jimmy. Or mine. Take that gun away, and we can talk about it.”

  I back away from him a little, still holding my sights on his forehead. “Talk,” I say.

  He sits there drawing in long breaths, getting his wind back. Finally he says, “I believe it when you say Hayworth cannot keep the law out of this. And they will use guns. That means we need Harvey and Lester to make sure there’s a stand-off until the police come to terms with us.”

  “So far, all I hear is a playback. What’s new on the tape?”

  “This, Jimmy. Once the police come to terms with us, what can Harvey and Lester offer the Company? So let us suppose that once the money is delivered here, and the police agree to cooperate, you tell Harvey and Lester in confidence that it’s all right for them to have a little fun with the two girls. Take them upstairs and get some action before the party is over. Then, before any damage can be done, we walk in and wipe out Harvey and Lester. These two lustful animals broke the Company’s rules, we saved the women from them, we come on all saintliness. And the women themselves are our witnesses. Do you see how it works out?”

  “I do, Hubert baby. Suppose I get together with Harvey and Lester right now and tell them about your little plan for them? Do you see how that would work out?”

  “Remember I am phase three, Jimmy. Anyhow, it was wrong from the start for those two to get a million each when they operate together as one member of the Company. They are taking advantage of us that way.”

  I say, “Hit me but don’t shit me, Coco,” but now I really have something to think over, and he has sense enough not to cut into my thoughts. Finally I say, “If we’re political, we need a name.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that when we land in St. Hilary we want a name to hand your friends there. Something the papers and TV will buy. The July Group. How does that sound?”

  “The July Group,” Coco says. “It has a nice ring to it, man. But what I want your opinion on is, how many of us do you estimate will be landing at St. Hilary?”

  He looks at me, the old blacksnake, and I look at him. I say, “The July Group happens to be a very moral organization, Hubert. Those who violate its code by raping helpless females are not entitled to be on that plane, are they?”

  Coco gives me his genuine pearly-toothed smile. “No way,” he says.

  The women are making breakfast for themselves when we get back to the kitchen, Harvey, his chair propped against the wall under the phone, keeping an eye on them. Especially, I take note, on Deborah, who is something to keep an eye on.

  I say to Janet, “Dressing-up time, miss,” and she hesitates, gauging me. But when I say, “It’s up to you. I’m not bringing your medicine down here,” she evidently makes up her mind that there are some fates worse than J. Flood.

  In her bedroom, she takes a key from a dresser drawer and unlocks the big Chinese-style lacquered box on top of the dresser. There is enough stuff in that box to stock a drugstore.

  She spills four meths into her hand, but I pluck two of them out and shove them back into the bottle. “We’re not aiming for a real high, doll,” I tell her. “Just enough to keep the motor turning over.”

  She starts to protest, thinks better of it, and pops the pills just like that. One expert gulp and down they go. I lock the bottle away and put the key in my pocket. “If you’re a good girl,” I say, “there might be more later.”

  “And what’s your idea of a good girl, Flood?” She pulls open the cord of her robe and drops down resignedly on the edge of the bed. “This?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Only on demand. Whenever the master is ready.”

  I say, “Those pills couldn’t have turned you on yet, so I don’t know where the hell you’re getting your ideas.”

  She looks bewildered, then takes on a wise expression. “I gather you and your pretty boys have something going with each other, is that it?”

  I control the temptation to let her have one across the face. I say, “If you want to ball right now, bitch, we’ll do it. But you’ll have to ask for it, just the way you did last time.”

  “Not me, Flood. Not with you. In fact, the thought of it turns my stomach.” She stands up, shrugs off the robe, and gets into panties and jeans, no bra. No bra needed. She takes a shirt from the dresser and puts it on. “All business, aren’t you, Flood? But where does the business wind up? I mean, where’s the last stop on the plane? Cuba? Somewhere in the Sahara?”

  “You’ll find out when you get off the plane.”

  “I’ll tell you what you’ll find when you get off that plane, Flood. A lot of men in uniforms, and a long-term sublet in a dirty little jail. You’re not under the Cuban flag or Arab flag or any other flag some people like to wrap themselves in so they can get away with murder. You’re under the skull and crossbones, man, and nobody is buying that wherever you land. So that makes you pretty much a damn fool, doesn’t it, when you could have had the money my father offered you and at least a chance to spend some of it before you were put away. Suppose I told you, you had another chance right now to reconsider that offer?”

  I say, “Did you ever hear of the July Group?”

  “No.”

  “Now you did. That, baby, is what this is all about.”

  She starts pulling a comb through her hair in front of the dresser mirror, looking at my reflection in the mirror. She says, “Well, this is July, all right, and you and your strong-arm men are a group. I don’t see anything more than that.”

  “Because this is our first big move. With your daddy’s assets, we’ll be ready to kick the props from under the whole sick, corrupt system. It’s coming apart anyhow. All it needs is some people really willing to knock the rest of it down.”

  “You, mein Führer?”

  “The July Group, doll. No Cuban flag, no Arab flag, just the American flag upside down.”

  She looks at me a long time in the mirror. Then she says, “Is it all right, Führer, if I wash up and pee?”

  “With the door open, liebchen. You know the rules.”

  So she washes up and pees, never seeming to mind in any way that I’m on observation duty at the open door to her bathroom.

  Cool. Nobody could play it more cool. And then I realize that this skinny, pill-popping, castrating bitch with the banged-up lip is act
ually getting to me.

  No more of that, Jimmy boy.

  Marcus Hayworth

  When David and I drive up to the Marcy house Uri Shapiro’s car is already parked there, and it’s Uri who opens the door of the house to let us in. Anna and Elizabeth are in the hallway behind him. Uri looks inquiringly over my shoulder and says, “Where are Emily and the girls? What is this about, Marcus? We’re all very worried.”

  “Emily and the girls are home. They’re all right. There’s nothing to worry about yet.”

  “Yet?” Anna says. “And thee looks very worried yourself, Marcus. Thee looks downright sick.”

  David says, “If we wait to talk about it until the Quimbys are here, we won’t have to repeat everything. Meanwhile, if there’s coffee—”

  There’s a strong smell of coffee in the air, and it reminds me that I’ve had no breakfast and that perhaps some of the sickness I feel is simply hunger. Hunger, at a time like this. But the fact is that when David and I have coffee and toast at the kitchen table, I know that I, at least, feel a little better. Feel a little courage rise in me.

  While we are at the last of the coffee, the Quimbys come in and Ethel says to me, “We left the kids with the work crew at the boatyard, so we should have an hour before one of them falls in the water or gets into the machinery or something. What’s this all about, Marcus?”

  “Not here, Friends,” Anna says. “In the parlor.”

  The parlor has already been set up for a meeting, the precious satinwood desk hauled out before the fireplace, straight-backed chairs arranged in a semicircle before it, although, painfully, three of those chairs must remain empty on this occasion. David, this year’s clerk of the meeting, takes his place at the desk. “We will open in silence,” he says, and I, wound up so tight, and knowing all the others are too, expect the briefest of silences. Then I become aware that David is deliberately extending it on and on until the spirit of anxiety and impatience in the air is tempered by this calm enforced on us.

  At last David says, “This started with a young man, Jimmy Flood, who I believe you all remember,” and then he describes events from Flood’s arrival yesterday to our reason for gathering the meeting now. All take it wordlessly, but with the shock naked on their faces.