Shirley

by Howard Fast

  “I’m not Carlotta!” she snapped, speaking English. “Stupid! You’re stupid! Look at me! Am I Carlotta?”

  He paused in his forward motion and grinned, a thin, humorless smile. “De veras?” he asked, his thin, pink tongue flickering over his narrow lips. “Me alegro.” He was glad. In English, he said, “No matter—I never see Señorita Carlotta. Who the hell care!”

  “I care!” Shirley cried.

  “So? Soon, you don’t care, hey?”

  “Pig!” Shirley spat on the floor in front of her. “What do you do, kill women for hire? I’ve seen better than you hooked to the rack in the pork store!”

  “Crawl, lady,” he grinned.

  “For you? Come—let’s see how you kill a woman!”

  “I hate woman. I hate you.”

  “Cobarde,” Shirley whispered. “I’m glad I remember that word—hey, coward—coward—yellow dog!” He began to sway again, the knife blade trembling. “Bullfighter, someone called you today. You hear that, cobarde? What a laugh! You’re no bullfighter—” She heard the door flung open behind her, and cried out, as the man thrust the knife forward and flung himself at her, “You’re a dirty street dog!”

  She leaped aside, and behind her a gun went off, and the small man stopped in his plunge, hung swaying on a nonexistent hook, dropped the knife-and then went down on his knees, his left hand pressed to his right shoulder. Then, as he reached for the knife with his left hand, Burton swept by Shirley and kicked him in the face. He went over and slid down the smooth tile of the hallway like a bowling pin.

  He lay there, his eyes closed now, blood wetting his black suit with a deeper stain. Burton picked up the knife, and as he turned to Shirley, she said, “You didn’t have to kick him like that. He’s half your size. Always the cop first. I bet you’re real proud.”

  Burton, silent for a long moment, panting, finally said, “I’ll be damned.”

  4. The Prince

  After the ambulance had come and had taken the bull-fighter to St. Vincent’s Hospital, and after order had been restored on Minetta Street and the crowd dispersed, Detective Burton walked up two flights of stairs and knocked on the door of Shirley’s apartment. Even through the closed door, he could smell the enticing odor of corn-beef hash being browned in the pan. He waited while something was dragged and pushed aside, and then Shirley let him in.

  “It’s you,” she said. “Well, I had a chair wedged under the door handle.”

  “And what made you think of that brilliant notion?” Burton asked with some irritation.

  “It’s not a brilliant notion and I did not think of it. It just happens that my girl friend, Cynthia Kugelman, has an Aunt Anna and an Uncle Frederick who fight all the time. That’s all.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Exactly. Is he going to live—or are you like Matt Dillon or some kind of executioner or something?”

  “He was trying to kill you,” Burton said. “Can’t you get that through your head?”

  “Everybody’s trying to kill somebody,” Shirley replied, going into the tiny kitchen to look at the cornbeef hash. “It’s like a jungle, only worse. Does that give you a license to go around shooting at everything you see? Cops are all the same. Are you hungry?”

  As with others who knew Shirley, Burton found himself ill-equipped to deal with her practice of combining several tangential ideas in a single uninterrupted flow of words. He merely stared at her and ventured the opinion that she was a remarkable young woman.

  “Thank you. So write me a letter of recommendation to Bushwick Brothers, they shouldn’t fire me when they find out I’m being chased by delinquents in tight pants and switch-blades. And furthermore, don’t think he would have killed me if you hadn’t shot him. He wasn’t any bigger than I am, and he was shaking so much he almost dropped the knife. And furthermore, I am sick and tired of this whole thing.”

  “I appreciate that,” Burton said sourly.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Well, did you eat dinner?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you feel good? You should have an appetite.”

  “I have an appetite. I will make myself plain, Miss Campbel. I have an appetite, but I also promised my wife that for once this week I would be home for dinner. Therefore, I am going to be home for dinner if it is humanly possible. Do you understand?”

  “My God,” Shirley said, “you talk like I’m trying to kidnap you or make a pass at you. Please rest assured, Lieutenant, that I don’t make a practice of making passes at men twice my age. Also, I am the last person in the world to prevent you from going home and having dinner with your wife.”

  “All right. The point is that you are going to remain right here in this apartment, with the door locked and with a chair wedged under the door handle, if you so desire—and you are not to set foot out of this place until I return.”

  “Oh? All of a sudden we have totalitarianism. Since when are you supposed to tell me where I stay and where I go?”

  “Since right now. What do I have to do—take you with me and lock you up in a cell?”

  “I like that! For what?”

  “For my own peace of mind. Maybe it would be the best thing to do at that.”

  “OK,” Shirley sighed. “What do I do?”

  “Stay right here until I come back.”

  “When will that be?”

  “I don’t know—but before midnight. Pack a suitcase with whatever you need for a few days, and meanwhile I’ll see what kind of arrangements I can make and what we can get out of the knife boy. If it makes you happy, he’ll live.”

  “I’m glad. What kind of arrangements are you going to make?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll put you in a hotel where we can keep an eye on you—or maybe a cell. I think the cell would be better.”

  “Big joke,” said Shirley. “There’s nothing as wonderful as a cop’s sense of humor.”

  Only, after Burton had left, it occurred to Shirley that he might well have been quite serious, and that from here, her next stop would be a cell. She looked around her apartment, and decided that never before had it looked as warm and snug and comfortable as it did right now, even allowing for the fact that one of the kitchen chairs was wedged under the doorknob.

  The apartment was the story of Shirley’s life and the culmination of her life. It marked each step upward in her struggle for existence, and it underlined her independence and her taste and her stability. The simple, effective lines of the inexpensive modern furniture, the bright, boldly chosen colors, the prints on the walls—all of these were as revealing as a book about Shirley would have been. The net effect was bold, unblushing innocence and comfort as well, and the thought of leaving it for a cell brought her as close to tears as she had ever been.

  She stood in the kitchen now, regarding the well-browned cornbeef hash without enthusiasm, and then she turned off the light under the pan. Anyway, she was not hungry, and she hated to eat alone, and she was as bored with cornbeef hash as she was with cornbeef sandwiches and pizza pie. She was bored and unhappy and irritated that a series of lunatic events should choose her as the center of attention, and at this point she was too provoked to be afraid. So provoked, indeed, that when the doorbell rang, she strode over to it and snapped:

  “What now?”

  Her first thought was that Burton had returned, and she was framing a proper and sufficiently caustic greeting for him when the doorbell rang again.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Please, Miss Campbel, may I come in?” a young, respectful, nervous voice inquired. The voice had an English accent, and Shirley, like so many other Americans, had admiration and the highest regard for an English accent. No matter what role a British actor played, Shirley could never actually dislike him. An English accent automatically evoked trust. She and Cynthia had once double-dated with two British sailors, whom they met at the cafeteria at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Shirley had bee
n of the opinion that she and Cynthia were going a little too far by allowing themselves to be picked up, especially by sailors, but Cynthia held that something that happened in a museum could hardly be called a pickup—and it turned out that the two boys were very polite and the evening fairly pleasant. It confirmed Shirley’s feelings that people who talked this way were of necessity reliable characters; but tonight she was none too quick about opening the door, and demanded to know who this person on the other side of the door was and what he wanted.

  “I must talk to you,” he said. “You wouldn’t know who I am, but I take my oath that I mean you no harm. I know you’re in very great danger, but so am I, believe me.”

  “There’s a cop outside, so how did you get in?”

  “I was in. I was on the floor above. I came here with Seppi, the man who was shot. Please let me in. It’s dangerous for me to stand out here on the landing.”

  “Dangerous for you? I assure you, Buster, the way things have been happening, it’s a lot more dangerous for me to open this door. I’d like to help you, but I can’t. So beat it.”

  “Please,” the voice begged her. The voice was defeated and afraid—more afraid than Shirley had been since it started. That was the only explanation Shirley could offer herself as to why she opened the door. She couldn’t be afraid of anything so frightened and forlorn as that voice; but though she felt that, the actuality went deeper. There are people who can live behind locks and with an injunction against opening doors; Shirley was not among them. It was her door, she would have said.

  She opened the door then, and a boy came into the room, and then she locked the door behind him with the assurance that this was no one to be afraid of. Fear was too much a part of him. She wedged the chair back under the doorknob, faced the young man and said to him firmly:

  “Now suppose you just tell me how you come to be upstairs with that juvenile delinquent bullfighter downstairs—and just what is the connection between the two of you?”

  He stared at her, and shook his head. He was slender, fair and tall, and no more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old, if that; Shirley would have guessed closer to twenty-one. He had sandy hair, blue eyes, a long, straight nose and a nice mouth. At least, that was Shirley’s definition for his mouth; she put great store in mouths. She didn’t have to think about people any more than she did about dresses, pictures, books or cops. Either she liked them or she did not like them, and she liked this boy, admitting that he wanted some stiffening. He was scared, and she tended to be impatient with people who were scared, and she told him that he was safe now, the door locked behind him, and that he might just as well relax. He continued to stare at her, his look including amazement, disbelief and worry.

  “Well,” Shirley said, “I suppose I should be flattered. I still want to know your connection with that half-witted bullfighter?”

  “Who?”

  “Seppi, you called him.”

  “Oh. Seppi.”

  “That’s right, Seppi.”

  “He brought me here.”

  “That’s no recommendation,” said Shirley. “Where I come from, they judge people by the company they keep.”

  “He’s no friend of mine,” the boy protested.

  “That speaks for your character. Why did he bring you here?”

  “To look at you, I think. I didn’t know he would try to kill you. He did, didn’t he?”

  “Kill me? No, not yet,” Shirley smiled. She had to smile at the boy. He was terribly serious—frightened and intent and serious—and she couldn’t help thinking how lovely his speech was.

  “I meant—didn’t he try?”

  “You might say so,” Shirley agreed.

  “I didn’t know he would try. I mean, I knew that they would, if they were pressed—”

  “They would what?” Shirley asked.

  “Kill you. I mean, they’re going to kill me too. I’m not sure that Seppi wasn’t meant to. But they wanted me to look at you first and make sure—if you follow me?”

  “Like you were a seeing-eye dog.”

  “Oh?”

  “They’re going to kill me—they’re going to kill you. Like in those Hollywood pictures where everybody punches. You say two words and they punch. Here they kill. What have they got against you and me? Or is it the whole human race?”

  “Just you and me.” He managed to smile. He seemed to have a pleasant smile, but Shirley was not completely sure. The smile was too quick—too eager.

  “That’s a comfort. I still don’t know what you were doing upstairs. Where upstairs? You got friends in this building?”

  “I was on the landing upstairs. Seppi told me to stay there. He said he’d call me when he stopped you.”

  “And you stayed,” Shirley said, less with contempt than with amazement.

  “Where could I go? Seppi was downstairs. Is he dead?”

  “Why are you so afraid of him?”

  “Wouldn’t you be afraid of someone who could kill you any moment—any time?”

  “I’ll tell you something,” Shirley said. “There was a heavyweight fighter called Joe Louis. Maybe you heard of him?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Well, this Joe Louis was a colored man, and when his first big fight came up, the manager of the boy he was fighting came into his dressing room and began to tell Joe Louis how his boy would do this and that and everything else to Louis. So Louis listened for a while, and then he said, ‘Mister, while your boy is doing all that to me, what do you suppose I’m going to be doing?’”

  The boy thought about it for a moment, and then he said, “I’m not much good for fighting, Miss Campbel. Is Seppi dead?”

  “He’s not dead, no, but before a cop called Burton gets through with him, he’s going to wish he’s dead. Anyway, his right shoulder is all smashed up, and it’s going to be a long time before he gets to playing with knives again, even if they ever let him out of jail.”

  “Thank God,” the boy whispered.

  “Good. Now can you relax for a little while without thinking about being killed?”

  “No.” The boy shook his head. “They will kill me in any case. There’s no way out of that, really. Only it won’t be Seppi and that knife of his. God, I was so afraid of that knife of his—”

  “Why do you keep looking at me that way?” Shirley asked, thinking that the subject of how soon he was going to be killed would profit neither of them.

  “Because you look so much like her. And then you don’t. You’re better-looking than she is, really you are.”

  “Who is she?” Shirley asked.

  “My cousin Carlotta. She’s dead, you know. I told them that, but they wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Sit down,” Shirley said. He did so obediently, never taking his eyes off her face. “Now,” said Shirley, “we will take it from the top, clean and sweet.”

  “Oh?”

  “From the top.”

  “I don’t quite understand,” he replied, shaking his head.

  “No, of course not. Only tell me one thing. You talk English like Lawrence Olivier, but nothing I say seems to register. What is it? Do I have a talent for confusion?”

  “No. Oh, no. Nothing of that sort, really. I think you’re quite wonderful.”

  “Why?” Shirley asked bluntly.

  “Well, really—I don’t know. Simply the way you are. The way you talk. The way you react to me—well, to everything.”

  “I’m wonderful, but I can’t make myself clear—is that it, Buster?”

  “No. The fault is mine, you see. I was educated in England. That obscures some of your expressions. When you said, take it from the top—”

  “That means we start at the beginning,” Shirley said patiently. “I ask some questions, and you answer them.”

  “Of course,” he said eagerly. “If I can.”

  “Like so. Who are you? Where do you come from? Who untied you and told you to run loose? Where is your mother and why did she abandon you? Who
wants to kill you and who wants to kill me? Who is this creep Seppi? And who were those poor idiots who stopped by last night with the big black car. That’s for a beginning. Afterward, you can tell me who Carlotta is and why her picture was in Fatty’s pocket. Also, what is your name and are you hungry?”

  His smile was better now. It lit up his whole face, and it occurred to Shirley that she had never seen a face that was quite as ingenuous, open and defenseless.

  “If I may begin at the end,” he said, “I’m very hungry. They had me locked up for three days. I had a sandwich this morning—but nothing since then.”

  “Do you like cornbeef hash?”

  “I’ve never tried it, but I’m sure I would like it.”

  “All right—hash, eggs, frozen french-fries, which you don’t eat frozen, in case you haven’t run into them before, but I warm them first, and milk and bread. As a nutritionist, I leave something to be desired, but I guess it’s better than pizza pie. What’s your name?”

  “Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy what?”

  “Well, Miss Campbel, my full name is James Charles Alexander de Montort de Bernard, but it’s a rather long name, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a long name,” Shirley agreed, studying him dubiously. “We’ll settle for Jimmy. Look, I don’t know whether my kitchen has a living room or my living room has a kitchen. You’re in one, you’re in the other. So you just sit where you are, and we’ll talk while I get things ready.”

  “Can’t I help you?”

  “Just sit where you are and get your breath back,” Shirley told him. “I’m already too damned efficient for my own good.” She lit a flame under the cornbeef hash and took out her large frying pan for the eggs and started it heating. Five eggs, she decided, three for him and a pair for herself. Now that she didn’t have to eat alone, her appetite was returning. It was true that James Charles Alexander had that half-starved look about him, but in Shirley’s experience, this was the type that frequently came up with a bottomless pit where the stomach should properly be. She observed the motherly approach in herself, and found that it irritated her. The last thing in the world that any man had ever accused her of was a motherly attitude.