Gilded Canary

by Brad Latham

  He obliged her desire, kissing her again, feeling as if he had been drawn into a whirlpool, sinking more and more deeply into the vortex of her passion. His strong hands began to caress her back, working up and down, each stroke bringing an accompanying sigh from her.

  His hand was under her blouse now, running up along the spine, reveling in the velvet of her skin, stroking, massaging, pressing her closer to him. He could feel the beating of her heart, rapid and urgent.

  He pushed her gently away from him and deftly undid the clasp of her brassiere. In her passion she seemed almost not to see him, lost in her sensuality. Slowly he unbuttoned the front of her blouse, until it fell open, exposing her breasts, nipples erect in their excitation.

  He removed her blouse and drew her back to him, running his hands over her as they kissed, their tongues working feverishly together.

  “I want you,” she breathed, barely able to get out the words.

  “I want you,” he answered, and stood, and lifted her, and walked into the bedroom with her, her body tremulous against him.

  He put her down. She was standing now, facing him, and he began removing his shirt. She was already pushing up his undershirt, eagerly stripping him, before he had the shirt half off, and when both had been dropped to the floor, she drew him against her, her swelling breasts tight against his chest, her open mouth frantically moving against his.

  His hands dropped to her waist, and he unfastened the button at the top of her skirt, then pulled down the zipper. The skirt hung for a moment, then descended, and he saw she was wearing no slip. She was standing there now, quivering, naked but for black silk panties.

  Her hands snaked to his belt and tugged, and the belt opened. Now she was unbuttoning his fly, small hands straining at the roughness of the cloth, the tightness of each hole around each button. As if accidentally, one hand dropped for a moment, lightly brushing the bulge that was pushing toward her. He gripped her tightly again, and she responded, while unfastening the final button.

  Now she slid her body down against him, sinking from neck to shoulder to chest to stomach, down until she had a cheek against his shorts, her head twisting back and forth, pushing her face against him, then slowly uncovering the rest of him.

  She was kissing him now, mouth hungry against his inflamed organ, kissing it, licking it, then forcing her lips over it and down, down, down, then up and then back down again.

  He lifted her, and the bit of black silk that had clung to her was removed, urgently, as, in the same motion, he swept her to the bed. He lay her down on it and drank the whole of her in, every part of her tense with anticipation, yet pliant, ready to be done to in any way he saw fit. His eye traced the line of her thighs, along her legs, down to the delicacy of her feet, then back up again, to the inviting curve that was her belly, up the young promise of her skin to her breasts, feverish-looking around the areolae, the nipples trembling. His gaze swept up to the grace of her neck, to her face, and he saw a great wanting there. Her arms reached up to him, imploring, and he sank down onto the bed and pulled her to him.

  His hands explored her now, every part of her, and it was all his, an unstated gift from her, as she sighed, and moaned, and rubbed against him.

  His hand went down to the crease between her legs, and she stiffened with excitement, then opened up to him, and his fingers drowned in the wetness of her, plunging in and then up toward her clitoris, stroking up and down, in and out, until her whole body vibrated against his, her nails digging into his back, teeth hard against his shoulder.

  “Put it in me,” she moaned, “put it in me,” and she grabbed for him with both hands, hungrily pulling him toward her and inside.

  Now she ground against him, fluid working out of her, trickling down along her inner thighs, as he thrust back and forth, filling her. He placed his hands under her buttocks, pulling her closer to him, and she moaned, as he felt the end of her, grazing it with each thrust. “More, more,” she begged, and he gave her more.

  The sweat was running down him, and their bodies slid back and forth, glistening in the muted light of the room. Now they seemed to be in a giant ocean, slipping against each other, sliding against each other, rocking in an eternity of hot, throbbing wetness.

  She began to quiver, slowly at first, then more, and more, and her body grew more desperate, thrusting harder and harder against him, faster and faster, every bit of her shaking, the flow between her legs near-gushing around his plunging tool.

  She was gasping now, and he allowed himself full freedom, no longer trying to stop his own coursing fluids, as the whole of the two of them meshed in one giant orgasm, he exploding, she breaking up into individually shattering areas, as if each part of her body was having its own individual climax.

  They cried out and strained together for one last moment, then collapsed, he on top of her for a moment, his tensed arms keeping most of the weight off her. Then he rolled over on his back and drew her toward him. “If you do plan to kill me,” he told her, “please do it that way.”

  She had coffee ready for him when he awoke the next morning, and she stood there by the side of the bed, regarding him silently as he drank. There seemed to be a quiet sadness about her.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, putting down the cup.

  “Nothing,” she said. “I feel so—Nothing,” she finally said, closing the door on the subject.

  “Last night it seemed as if it had been a long time for you,” he told her, arising. “A very long time.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “All right,” he agreed. “Do you still plan to stay here, to—protect me?”

  “Here, yes, or wherever you are. You will not be leaving this place today, I hope? You will stay here with me, and we can again—hold one another?”

  “That’s tempting,” he smiled gently, “more tempting than you can imagine. But I’ve a job to do.”

  “Where are you going? Who will you see?”

  “A prince of a fellow. A fine, handsome man by the name of Stymie.”

  “Stymie?”

  “Not too princely a name, eh? Of course, this is a prince who’s been turned into a frog—or closer yet, a toad,” Lockwood decided, unpleasant memories of Stymie crowding into his mind.

  “Who is this—prince? What does he do?” she asked, uncertainly.

  “He’s a fence,” Hook said, shortly. “You know what a fence is?”

  “I’m not sure…” she answered.

  “A crook with no guts, that’s what a fence is. Other people do the work for him—steal jewels, paintings, furs, whatever, and then they go to Stymie. And he gives them some money for what they’ve stolen. As little money as he possibly can.”

  “And then—?”

  Lockwood was puzzled for a moment. “Oh,” he said, “and then—and then he resells it for as huge a profit as he can make. All fences are loathesome creeps,” he added, as he walked to the shower, “but no one is as coated with slime as Stymie the Fence. And under that coating of slime—more slime!” and he turned on the shower, as if anxious to wash off even the idea of that trafficker in stolen goods.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Stymie the Fence had his shop in the Hell’s Kitchen section of Manhattan, on 42nd Street between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues. Cars drawing up and parking were a rarity in this neighborhood, especially a car as sleek and expensive as the Cord, and Lockwood and Stephanie drew stares as they alighted. He hadn’t wanted to take her, but she’d insisted. “I am your good luck talisman,” she told him. “I have decided that if I had not been along, your friend Brannigan would never have turned up.” The Hook had shrugged, and accepted her companionship. There would be no danger at Stymie’s, so he had no compunctions.

  Reaching the store, he pulled at the dirt-encrusted handle of the door, the soot-blackened, paint-chipped portal opening uncertainly on its sagging hinges, a discordant sound of bells echoing throughout the shop as it opened.
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  It was dark in the place, particularly after the brightness of the outside, and at first Stymie was a dim figure in the murk. “Yes?” came his voice, querulously.

  Then, as Stephanie and Lockwood moved farther into the cluttered, dust-ridden chamber, the tone of the voice changed. It was as if a great slathering of oil had been added to it. “Mr. Lockwood! What a pleasure!”

  “Hello, Stymie.”

  “So good to see you again,” the body dipped and scraped, unctuous and false. “And is this—whoever she is, Mr. Lockwood, she is a most attractive credit to your immaculate standards of aesthetics!” The words were bad enough, but the faint whine that accompanied them did the rest of the job. Lockwood felt his flesh begin to crawl.

  He took in the shop, the jumbled furniture crammed against packing cases, paintings hanging crookedly from the walls and ceiling, dust covering it all. His eyes came to rest in one area.

  “Ah! Ever tasteful! You appreciate Stymie’s little collection of jade!” the fence said, every sentence sounding like a question, as if any definite statement would commit him to joining the rest of the human race, a tribe Stymie avoided as much as he could, knowing instinctively that somehow he would not fit in, could never belong.

  “Very nice. What’s the price of this?” Lockwood inquired, lifting a small, dust-covered stone.

  “Ah! Not for sale, not for sale!” Stymie’s body hunched in supplication. “No offense to you, Mr. Lockwood, no offense of course. But these are—” his face was near now, and the foulness of his breath made the other two turn their heads. “Stymie’s little playthings.”

  “Actually, I’m not that interested in jade,” Hook said, taking out a pack of Camels. He offered them to Stymie and Stephanie, and when they each declined, took one and flicked the Dunhill under it.

  He blew out a cloud of smoke, as if to mask the decay that issued from each wheeze emanating from Stymie’s rotted mouth. “I’d really like some jewels.”

  Stymie’s eyes danced to and fro, in a Lindy of fear. “Jewels?”

  “Right. Diamonds. A necklace. Earrings. A bracelet.”

  “I may have something….”

  “I’m looking for something special. Very special.”

  “For the lady?” Stymie asked uncertainly, afraid of the answer.

  “No,” Lockwood said. “For my company. Transatlantic.”

  Stymie arched an eyebrow, a filthy finger fondling the thick moisture on his lips. He waited, uncertain and fearful.

  “Muffy Dearborn is insured with our company.”

  The finger froze.

  “Dearborn,” Lockwood repeated.

  “Ah yes, yes, Muffy Dearborn. I read about it,” Stymie gestured toward the back of his shop, at the stacks of yellowing paper. “I find the papers in the streets. All right, maybe they’re a couple of days old, but if I didn’t know about it before, it’s still news to me, right?” he cackled, and Lockwood and Stephanie instinctively backed away, unconsciously seeking to elude the odors that might pour their way.

  Stymie shuffled to the rear, then returned with a copy of the Daily Mirror. “I read this this morning. Both the story and Walter Winchell’s column. A pity that she pulled such a trick, just for the publicity.” A feigned innocence crept into the bleakness that was his eye. “But why would you be looking for them here, when obviously she must have secreted them someplace?”

  Lockwood traced a line over his eyebrow and then over his cheek. A sickly white broke through the gray of Stymie’s face as he paled. “I—I don’t understand,” he said. His hands had begun to tremble.

  “Don’t try to con me, Stymie,” Lockwood urged, voice like ice. “You know I’m talking about Toomey.”

  “Ah! Mr. Two-Scar!” Stymie grinned, stumps of yellow barely showing in the gloom. “How stupid of me to have misread your excellent charade!”

  “Don’t stall me. I know Two-Scar handled the Dearborn heist, and the word is out that you wound up with the rocks.”

  “Me? Wound up with me? But why?” Stymie asked, his begrimed hands flung outward. “I’m simply a small businessman, doing what he can to scrape by.”

  “You’re beginning to annoy me, Stymie,” Lockwood said. “Come off the innocent kick. You haven’t been innocent since you traded in your baby bottle for two sets of books.”

  Stymie coughed out a laugh, choking the last of it with phlegm. “You have a marvelous sense of humor, Mr. Lockwood, marvelous. He always has,” he added, directing this last to Stephanie.

  “Spill it,” said Lockwood.

  “There is nothing to spill,” Stymie said, triumph mixing uncertainly with fear in the sinkhole that was his face. “I don’t know anything.”

  Lockwood advanced on him. “Stymie—” he began.

  “I mean it! Search the shop, I don’t care. I admire you, you’re a real gentleman, I don’t think you’d steal anything while you looked!” Stymie made the final gesture. “If you feel you must—search me!”

  The repugnance of this final offer stopped Lockwood, as he contemplated the ruin of clothing and mottled flesh that was Stymie the Fence.

  As Lockwood considered his next move, the battered bell in the shop began to jangle, and he turned to see the door open. A man strode halfway in, then stopped as he took in Lockwood and Stephanie. There was something about him that seemed familiar to Lockwood.

  Now more accustomed to the dimness of the shop, the man looked from Lockwood, to Stephanie, and back. Only one of his eyes was moving.

  Lockwood started forward, but the man had already spun on his heel and was speeding through the doorway. He ran five steps and slammed through the opened door of a black ‘38 Buick, the car screeching away before the door was even half-closed.

  “Who is it?” Stephanie shouted, as she ran after Lockwood.

  “One-Eye. The guy who put me in the hospital,” Hook answered, as he jumped into the Cord. “Stay here,” he said as she tried to get in.

  “No!” Stephanie cried, her eyes screaming defiance.

  “Dammit, stay!”

  “No!”

  Lockwood swore, and shot away from the curb, with Stephanie beside him. No time to argue with her, no time to get her out of the car, or he’d lose the Buick.

  One-Eye was already two blocks ahead. The Hook slammed the car into second gear, and then third, pushing the Twin Six for all it was worth, leaving a trail of burnt rubber behind.

  He roared through a red light, narrowly missing an ice truck, weaving past two foolhardy pedestrians who were trying to cross in the middle of the block, coming so close to one that the fender brushed him, whipping him halfway around.

  “Look out!” Stephanie shouted, eyes never leaving the car ahead. “He has a gun!”

  A shot whistled overhead, and Lockwood tightened his foot on the gas pedal. He was overtaking the Buick.

  Another red light, and the Buick made it, but Lockwood had to jam on the brakes, wheeling wildly to his right to avoid the Chrysler Airflow that sailed blithely by him. Then he wrenched the wheel to the left, as cars screamed to halts, horns blaring angrily at him.

  He was on 42nd again, and two cops were running, trying in vain to chase after the Buick. One trained his gun on the Cord as Lockwood and Stephanie flashed by, but held his fire, vainly shouting out an order to stop.

  Another shot roared near the Cord, and Lockwood glanced to his right. Stephanie was okay, her hair streaming rearward as the car hurtled on.

  “Better get down!” he yelled, but she paid him no heed, her concentration fully on the headlong flight of the car ahead.

  Sirens began sounding behind them, a police car on their tail.

  The Buick ran into a wall of cars, the light on 42nd now red, and wheeled south, weaving in and out of the traffic. A Ford, thrown by the erratic darting of the large black car, went out of control and smashed into a Studebaker station wagon, the side panels of the wagon sending out shrapnel of wood. Lockwood braked, then sped past them, as the cop car slammed to a halt, cops
scrambling out to assist the injured.

  The Buick turned eastward up 37th Street, and The Hook followed, pouring it on. One-Eye swung back to them again, pistol leveled, and this time there was a hint of desperation in his face.

  From out of nowhere a handcart jabbed into the street, between the Cord and the Buick, a garment center clothes jockey shooting out between two parked cars. Lockwood hit the brakes with all that he had and stopped two inches from the petrified laborer.

  “Get back, get back,” Lockwood yelled, and the workman did so, in his agitated haste tumbling backward, as he forgot about the sidewalk behind him.

  The Cord plunged forward again. The Buick had gained valuable ground, but Lockwood knew the heavy beast was no match for his car. It was only a matter of time.

  They were down to Second Avenue now, and the Buick swerved north, probably heading for the Queensboro Bridge. The Hook followed, and finally he was gaining, gaining, yards being scissored off by the second. One-Eye fired off another shot, and another, cursing in frustration as each of them missed. Another sixty feet and The Hook would be on them.

  Suddenly Stephanie stiffened, her body shooting upright, then rocking back and forth, pitching toward the door by her side and then slamming at him, nearly tearing his hands from the wheel. Desperately, he tried to straighten the car out, but he couldn’t see, Stephanie’s body lodged between him and the wheel, convulsing, twitching, deep guttural sounds wrenching out of her. Lockwood jerked his foot from the gas pedal, then kicked aside her leg, once, twice, straining to reach the brakes. Finally, he got a piece of them, and the car skidded to a halt. Stephanie slumped back toward her seat, and as he turned toward her, Lockwood caught a last glimpse of the Buick, a tiny black dot on the horizon.

  Stephanie was inert, and he reached for her, gently. “Stephanie!” He looked for bleeding, a bullet hole, but nothing showed.

  There was no response from her, and he glanced desperately around. A crowd had formed, but was standing at a respectful distance. He turned back to her. “Stephanie!” he said again, and this time she stirred.