by Julie Smith
He’d gotten in a half-open bathroom window Friday night. By now, he figured, she’d have burglar-proofed— people usually did that after a break-in. But no problem— his collection of keys would get us in the back door in a trice. While he worked, I held a penlight.
“What do you do,” I whispered, “when I’m not here?”
“Teeth,” he said. “Or sometimes nothing. I’ve got a pretty good sense of touch.”
When the lock finally moved, he sighed deeply and sensuously, like someone tasting honey and nectar. We closed the door behind us and cased the rooms quickly, making double sure no one was home. The curtains hadn’t been closed and there was enough light to see the living room. It was furnished in the makeshift way of people who aren’t home much and don’t care to be. The sofa was old, looked secondhand, and hadn’t been very nice to begin with. There were a couple of overstuffed chairs in a similar condition and one rattan one that didn’t go with anything else. A few Cosmos and Vogues had been tossed into a basket, but there wasn’t a sign of a book, and there was hardly any place to hide anything. Quickly, Booker looked under the cushions and moved on.
I wanted to stop and go through the bathroom cabinets, but he nudged me towards Isami’s room. “The plan is to get in and out fast,” he said. “You know how long the average burglary takes? Forty seconds. But of course that’s just the hit-and-run grab-the-stereo kind. We could be here as long as ten minutes.” He turned his penlight on as we reached a bedroom threshold. “Get this.”
The curtains were pink-checked and so was the bedspread. On the bed was an extensive teddy bear collection. The furniture was painted white, except for an old trunk, the sort in which college kids send off their clothes. It had been painted pink. “My dad’s girlfriend’s room,” said Booker. “I wonder what it’s like to make love in a bed with a dozen teddy bears.”
“Your dad’s a psychologist, isn’t he?”
“Not exactly. Psych professor.”
“She’s probably doing him a lot of good. You ought to have a more open mind.”
Booker started opening her dresser drawers and going through them with the utmost care, even, I thought, caressing certain intimate garments rather more tenderly than necessary. I was starting to worry, but watching him later— going through towels, papers, even kitchen utensils— I realized that was just the way he worked. With utmost care.
Because he wanted to get the job done fast, he condescended to let me take the trunk, though I’m sure my ham-handed touch must have driven him nearly mad. As it happened, the trunk was Isami’s laundry hamper; thus there was no need in the world for a delicate approach. Next I looked under the bed and in the closet. Booker carefully checked under the pillows and under the mattress. If Isami had the manuscript, it wasn’t in her room.
Next we went through the bathroom and the kitchen. Finally, we entered Beverly’s room. A chamber more different from Isami’s would have been difficult to imagine. One wall held her books, others, traditional art she’d probably picked up traveling— African tribal masks, Balinese paintings, Japanese scrolls. A good collection, both eclectic and extensive. The bed was covered with a simple white down comforter, and the other furniture was white wicker. The overall effect was rather tropical, certainly very individual. Briefly, I wondered why I hadn’t seen her taste anywhere else in the apartment. Then I saw a cluster of pictures of herself that she’d arranged on her dresser and I thought I knew.
She was the female equivalent of Wanda Kimbrough’s hunky blond— a gorgeous blonde in a sporty, wind-blown, conventional sort of way. In the pictures she wore tennis togs, safari clothes, jeans, and fancy dresses, everything looking made for her— and not more than ten minutes earlier, either. Something about her was just a little too sleek, reminding one more of a panther than a cat. There was a smugness there, and a lot of vanity, and a no-holds-barred acquisitiveness.
All that I got from a few photographs in near-darkness. With that kind of imagination, it’s no accident I write fiction, probably, but in that moment I felt I had a real sense of Beverly Alexander. I thought the reason she’d holed up in here, rather than actually spread herself throughout the apartment, was simply that the idea would never have occurred to her. She was older, better educated, far worldlier than Isami Nakamura and didn’t, in her own eyes, really live with Isami, I was sure. Just a little on the shorts and passing through till something better came along.
“You take the dresser,” said Booker and, happily, I plunged in. Quite truthfully, I was enjoying myself. There was something evilly satisfying about going through someone else’s things. I thought I could understand Booker’s pleasurable sigh when we came in.
There were scarves in the first drawer, and a jewelry box. There was really no need to look in the box, but, frankly, I was carried away. I found a long rope of pearls, gold bracelets, ivory bracelets, and every kind of earrings— sapphire, ruby, emerald, diamond. Just studs, to be sure, but here was a woman who liked her gems. I imagined I heard her voice. “Paul, darling, how did you know?” as she ripped off the wrapping paper. And then I heard it echoing and echoing, again and again.
On to the underwear, which I’m afraid I handled quite as tenderly as Booker had handled Isami’s. It was silk and filmy and after all, how often did a man have a chance to touch women’s underwear? If you wanted to feel your girlfriend’s (without her in it) she’d think you were a pervert. Yet women were permitted to handle and caress these dainty things any time they wanted to. I thought of touching my cheek with one of those camisoles, just to see what it would feel like, but worried that Booker might see. I wondered if he did that sort of thing when he burgled alone and felt a shiver up the spine. These forbidden pleasures were getting a little creepy.
“Mcdonald, aren’t you done yet? Let me finish.”
Dreamily, in a kind of pleasant trance, the way women get when they’re shopping, I abandoned the dresser and opened Beverly’s closet. Shoeboxes were piled from the floor to the hems of dresses packed in tighter than tissues in a box. On the shelves above were more shoeboxes and some that looked like hatboxes. “I’ve gone through those,” said Booker.
I’d seen him check the pillows and mattress too. Wondering what was left for me to do, I sat for a moment on the bed, next to a small table with a white phone on it. Idly, I opened the table’s little drawer. If there had been a personal phone book, the police had undoubtedly taken it. I was just rummaging. The drawer was full of bills and bank statements, photos, rubber bands, and hair clips. There were also a couple of books that Bev had apparently dipped into at bedtime. One was Barbara Tuchman’s March of Folly, the other a trashy bestseller. Considering Beverly’s history background, the Tuchman book wasn’t surprising, nor would Diamonds, the Pamela Temby potboiler, have been odd on its own. But the wild diversity of the two caught my attention. I couldn’t imagine what there could possibly be about Diamonds to interest a woman who was also reading March of Folly. In fact, was so puzzled I opened it to the bookmark. Attached to the middle of the page was a yellow Post-It with six names on it. Or rather, three, and three variations of another. Sarah Williams, at the top, was underlined. Then three were listed, followed by phone numbers: Herb Wolf, Russell Kittrell, and Pamela Temby. Off to the side, more or less doodles, were Sarah M. Williams and Sarah Mary Williams.
I’d never heard of either of the men, but Temby was a huge celebrity, possibly the best selling author (if you could call her that) in the country. Still, that wasn’t the name I found most eye-catching. Sarah Williams was. I peeled off the Post-It and turned to Booker. He was frozen, like a dog watching a bug crawl. “Somebody’s home,” he said, even his whisper cracked with terror.
No lights were on, so all that really had to be done was close the two drawers we’d been investigating and slink out the back door. Stealthily, we made for the kitchen, Booker a basket case and me, for some reason, cucumber cool. Probably because my professional pride wasn’t at stake.
Booker was just reachin
g a surgically gloved hand toward a doorknob when a man’s voice shouted, maybe two feet from us: “Kitty? Kitty, kitty, kitty? Isami, she’s back here. Come around, okay? Maybe she’ll come to you.”
“That’s my dad,” mouthed Booker, significantly paler, even in the dark.
Apparently the thought of being caught by his old man had immobilized him. It was up to me to get us out of there. Waving him after me, I headed toward the front, thinking Booker the prideful professional must be a wreck indeed if this simple but effective strategy hadn’t even occurred to him. He shook his head, rooted to the spot.
“Luna! Come to Mommy,” cooed Mommy. “Oh, you big pretty Looney Tunesey, that’s a good kitty.”
There was absolutely no time to waste. Grabbing Booker by the elbow, I began to march him to freedom. It took nearly all my strength to budge him, but right was on my side. He had momentarily lost his mind, and I was leading him to safety. “Paul, listen, it won’t work. Paul!” He was whispering these and other nonsense syllables, but I simply paid him no mind. He scuttled along beside me, there being precious little else he could do.
Finally in the living room I opened the front door with a flourish. Or what would have been a flourish if the door had opened. I actually spoke out loud: “What in hell…” And that seemed to rouse Booker from his trance. First he shushed me, then pointed at the double deadbolt. Too late, I remembered this was the second time he’d been here, and even if it were the first, he would have been thorough. On that occasion, he would have searched to see if there was a key around, in case of fire. And judging from his reactions of the past few seconds, there wasn’t. But now he was functioning again. “Isami’s room,” he mouthed, as a key clicked in the back door lock.
Without argument, I followed him to teddy bear heaven. It was there or nowhere— a guinea pig couldn’t have wedged itself into Beverly’s closet. Without the slightest hesitation, Booker took the trunk, leaving me no option but the closet. It was probably better that way, I thought. He was smaller, and we might have to spend the night there. Squeezing myself into a corner, the horror of it hit me: Spend the night there! Standing up, trying not to breathe too loud, or sneeze.
I tried to steel myself. Human beings had gone through worse, though usually only in wartime. I thought of some of the tiny cars I’d slept in on cross-country trips in my student days. I’d been a lot thinner then, but even so, my recollections were of a particularly virulent hell. Oh, well. Maybe I should think of the Warsaw Ghetto.
Light steps and heavy ones came into the room. “Oh, Looney, Mommy’s bitty kitty. Itty bitty bad kitty, staying out like that.”
“Ohhh, Isami Wommy’s daddy’s little bad girl, said the Papa Bear.” I practiced deep breathing, mostly to keep my gorge down, but partly to calm myself down— I figured there was about a 90 percent chance Booker was going to rise up screaming, a maverick pair of Isami’s undies perched rakishly on his head.
Instead, there was only a long pause, with heavy breathing. Then the Papa Bear spoke again. “Wouldn’t Isami Wommy like to get out of these troublesome old clothes?”
“Papa Bear first.”
“Isami first.”
They were speaking in the most nauseating baby voices. But suddenly Isami turned into a human being again. “Catch me!” she said, all full of fun and good cheer. She exited, pursued by a bear. She must have been fast. There was a great trampling and thumping that seemed to go on for hours. I took advantage of the noise to stretch a little. There wasn’t a peep out of the trunk. Finally I whispered: “Booker?”
Nothing. I figured he’d gone catatonic.
Then the two merry chasers clattered back into the room. There was a great whumpf and squeak, as Isami jumped on the bed and Booker’s dad jumped on her. Dear God, I thought, please don’t let him say he’s going to eat her all up. But magically, the Papa Bear had metamorphosed into a pirate. “Arrrrh,” he said. “Now the Gypsy girl will do the captain’s bidding.”
“Noooo!” shrieked Isami. I could hear her struggling.
“Yes! Yes. Now!”
“Nooo!”
“Yes!”
“No, Jack. I can’t.” She was sobbing. This was for real. They weren’t playing games any longer. Was Booker’s dad going to rape her? Would his only son and the son’s loyal companion have to save the fair damsel? Not a cheering prospect so far as I was concerned, but I thought Booker would rather relish it. What a splendid castrating revenge! He might never burgle again.
However, now we had neither Papa Bear nor pirate, but concerned swain. “Isami, what is it, darling?”
“Not here.”
“But you have to come home sometime. You can’t stay with me forever.”
“I know. I’ll be fine when we get back from Hawaii— I just need a few days away from here.”
“Honey, I need to talk to you seriously. Like a psychologist, okay? The longer you stay away from here, the scarier it’ll be to come back. I agree you need a few days away. That’s why I’m taking you, isn’t it? But, please. Let’s stay here tonight.” Big bully! I thought. You just don’t want to be stuck with her. All you ever think about is yourself. If only I were telepathic. Get out of here! Not tonight, Isami Wommy. Pretty please.
She said: “You really think we should?”
“It’s best for you, honey. When we leave tomorrow, you’ll feel much better about yourself, and your house will be yours again. You won’t have to dread coming back all the time we’re in Hawaii.”
She laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’ve been dreading going to Hawaii. Because I’ve been worried that I’ll just worry all the time we’re there. About coming back.”
“You see? Is Papa Bear right?”
“Um-hmm.” There was a rustle, as of a large bear enfolding Goldilocks in his masculine embrace. Then there were squeaks and things. Then someone walked a few steps and the room went dark.
And then passed several eventful centuries, during which every muscle I owned put up a protest that made the anti-Vietnam movement seem insignificant. After that, light breathing and heavy snoring.
Looking at it logically, Booker’s father was well into his fifties and therefore surely wasn’t capable of making love for more than a couple of hours maximum. That meant there were still five or six hours till dawn and no telling how long before Isami and Papa Bear would get up to catch their plane. I simply was not going to make it. If I woke them up trying to leave, at least they’d be distracted and maybe Booker could get away. I’d save him from the horror of getting caught spying on his father’s leisure-time activities. I was a pal when you thought about it. Holding my breath, I reached for the closet door. It wasn’t there.
CHAPTER 7
A hand grabbed mine and Booker whispered, “Paul, it’s me.” By the time I’d stifled the automatic gasp, he was already padding soundlessly toward the kitchen. I followed, thanking God for professional help. I had no idea if I could have gotten the door open without a telltale snick. As it was, I rustled a few of Isami’s frocks, but she and Kessler Senior were apparently too exhausted to stir. Getting out of the pitch-dark bedroom was the worst, but once in the hall, I turned on my pen-light and was out of there in two shakes, through the open back door, stopping only to close it. By the time I got to the car, Booker was already warming it up.
I had to drive, though. A more unnerved human being I have rarely seen than the scrawny, sweat-soaked redhead who beckoned me into the driver’s seat and seemed to need all his remaining strength to slide over the gear shift to shotgun. Neither of us spoke for a few blocks. Finally I ventured, “You okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shall I drop you at Langley-Porter?” (As this was the local mental hospital, I was making a feeble joke.)
“Take me to Perry’s.”
“Listen, buddy, I know you need a drink, but Perry’s is too damn noisy.”
“I’ve got to get laid.”
“You mean you were excite
d by what we— uh— witnessed?” But that wasn’t it— I could tell by the look of him. He wanted human warmth and comfort.
“Back off, Mcdonald.”
“Sorry. But—”
“Shut up, will you? Just take me to goddam Perry’s!” Very well then. He could just wait till morning to find out that the mission hadn’t failed after all. If he was going to talk to me like that, I certainly wasn’t going to bother trying to cheer him up.
“Your trouble,” said Sardis later, “is you get your feelings hurt too easily.”
“Hurt, hell! I was mad.”
“Same thing.”
“It certainly isn’t.”
“Not for everybody. For you it is. Some people just go lick their wounds— you attack.”
“That is far and away the most unfair thing I ever heard in my life. I most assuredly did not attack.”
“Not directly, maybe.”
“Oh, go shrink your head.” I stalked out of her apartment, seething. There might have been something in what she said, though. I felt less like a raging bull than one pierced by picadors. As soon as that thought entered my head another one did: Goddam, she makes me mad!
Well, the hell with her. I stepped in the shower.
And because I still hadn’t given her the damn key, had to get out when she came down and knocked on the door.
She’d changed into a caftan sort of thing— kind of azure and mesmerizing— and she had a bottle of wine. “Go dry off and I’ll open this.”
I hate being easy. But I confess that a sudden desire for a couple of drinks and a talk overwhelmed all inner resolution to get back at her by withdrawing my incredibly sterling self. Anyway, it wouldn’t have worked. Sardis just laughed when I got tough with her.
