Third Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Good cake,” the Chief said approvingly. “Rich, but light. Where did you get it?”

  “Clara Webster made it,” Monica said. “She insisted on leaving what was left.”

  “How did the meeting go?” Boone asked.

  “Very well,” Monica said firmly. “Interesting and—and instructive. Didn’t you think so, Rebecca?”

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Boone said loyally. “I really enjoyed the discussion after the lecture.”

  “What was the lecture about?” Boone said.

  Monica Delaney raised her chin, glanced defiantly at her husband.

  “The Preorgasmic Woman,” Monica said.

  “Good God!” the Chief said, and the two women burst out laughing.

  “Monica told me you’d say that,” Rebecca explained.

  “Oh she did, did she?” Delaney said. “Well, I think it’s a natural, normal reaction. What, exactly, is a Preorgasmic Woman?”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Monica said. “It’s a woman who has never had an orgasm.”

  “A frigid woman?” Boone said.

  “Typical male reaction,” his wife scoffed.

  “ ‘Frigid’ is a pejorative word,” Mrs. Delaney said. “A loaded word. Actually, ‘frigid’ means being averse to sex, applying to both men and women. But the poor men, with their fragile little egos, couldn’t stand the thought of there being a sexless male, so they’ve used the word ‘frigid’ to describe only women. But our speaker tonight said there is no such irreversible condition in men or women. They’re just preorgasmic. Through therapy training, they can achieve orgasmic sexuality.”

  “And assume their rightful place in society,” Chief Delaney added with heavy irony.

  Monica refused to rise to the bait. She was aware that he was proud of her activities in the feminist movement. They might have discussions that sometimes degenerated into bitter arguments. But Monica knew that his willingness to debate was better than his saying, “Yes, dear … Yes, dear … Yes, dear,” with his nose stuck in the obituary page of The New York Times.

  And he was proud of her. Following the death of their infant son, she had gone into such a guilt-ridden depression that he had despaired of her sanity and tried to steel himself to the task of urging her to seek professional help.

  But she was a strong woman and had pulled herself up. The presence of her two young girls helped, of course; their needs, problems, and demands could not be met if she continued to sit in a darkened room, weeping.

  And after they went away to school, she had found an outlet for her physical energy and mental inquisitiveness in the feminist movement. She embarked on a whirlwind of meetings, lectures, symposiums, picketings, petition-signing, letter-writing, and neighborhood betterment.

  Edward X. Delaney was delighted. It gave him joy to see her alive, flaming, eager to advance a cause in which she believed. If she brought her “job” home with her, it was no more than he had done when he was on active duty.

  He had discussed all his cases with Monica and with Barbara, his first wife. Both had listened patiently, understood, and frequently offered valuable advice.

  But admiring Monica’s ardor for the feminist cause didn’t mean he had to agree with all the tenets she espoused. Some he did; some he did not. And he’d be damned if he’d be reticent about expressing his opinion.

  Now, sitting across from his wife as she chatted with the Boones, he acknowledged, not for the first time, how lucky he had been with the women in his life.

  Monica Delaney was a heavy-bodied woman, with a good waist between wide shoulders and broad hips. Her bosom was full, her legs tapered to slender ankles. There was a soft sensuality about her, a physical warmth. Her ardor was not totally mental.

  Thick black hair, with a sheen, was combed back from a wide, unlined brow and fell almost to her shoulders. She made no effort to pluck her solid eyebrows, and her makeup was minimal. She was a big, definite woman, capable of tenderness and tears.

  Watching his wife’s animation as she talked to the Boones, Edward X. Delaney felt familiar stirrings and wished his guests gone. Monica turned her head suddenly to look at him. As usual, she caught his mood. She winked.

  “Tell me, Chief,” Rebecca said in her ingenuous way, “what do you really think of the women’s movement?”

  He kept his eyes resolutely averted from Monica, and addressed his remarks directly to Rebecca.

  “What do I really think?” he repeated. “Well, I have no quarrel with most of the aims.”

  “I know,” she said, sighing resignedly. “Equal pay for equal work.”

  “No, no,” he said quickly. “Monica has taught me better than that. Equal pay for comparable work.”

  His wife nodded approvingly.

  “And what do you object to?” Rebecca asked pertly.

  He marshaled his thoughts.

  “Not objections,” he said slowly. “Two reservations. The first is no fault of the feminist movement. It’s a characteristic of all minority or subjugated groups that desire to be treated as individuals, not stereotypes. No argument there. But to achieve that aim, they must organize. Then, to obtain political and economic power, they must project as—as monolithic a front as they can. The blacks, Chicanos, Indians, Italian-Americans, women—whatever. To wield maximum power, they must form a group, association, bloc, and speak with a single, strong voice. Again, no argument.

  “But by doing that, they become—or at least this is their public image—less individuals and more stereotypes. They become capitalized Women, Blacks, and so forth. There is a contradiction there, a basic conflict. Frankly, I don’t know how it can be resolved—if it can. If the answer is fragmentation, allowing the widest possible expressions of opinion within the bloc, then they sacrifice most of the social, political, and economic power which was the reason for their organizing in the first place.”

  “Do you think I’m a feminist stereotype?” Monica said hotly.

  “No, I do not,” he replied calmly. “But only because I know you, am married to you, live with you. But can you deny that since the current women’s movement started—when was it, about fifteen years ago?—a stereotype of the feminist has been evolving?”

  Monica Delaney slammed her palm down on the top of the cocktail table. Empty coffee cups rattled on their saucers.

  “You’re infuriating!” she said.

  “That’s true,” he said equably.

  “What’s the second thing?” Rebecca Boone said hastily, thinking to avert a family squabble. “You said you had two objections to the feminist movement. What’s the second?”

  “Not objections,” he reminded her. “Reservations. The second is this:

  “Women in the feminist movement are working to achieve equality of opportunity, equal pay, and the same chances for advancement offered to men in business, government, industry, and so forth. Fine. But have you really thought through what you call ‘equality’ might entail?

  “Look at poor Sergeant Boone there—dead to the world.” The sergeant grinned feebly. “I’d guess he’s been working eighteen hours a day for the past six weeks. Maybe grabbing a catnap now and then. Greasy food when he can find the time to eat. Under pressures you cannot imagine.

  “Rebecca, have you seen him as often as you’d like in the last six weeks? Have you had a decent dinner with him? Gone out to a show? Or just a quiet evening at home? Have you even known where he’s been, the dangers he’s been facing? My guess would be that you have not.

  “You think your husband enjoys living this way? But he’s a professional cop, and he does the best he can. Would you like a comparable job with all its demands and stress and strain and risk? I don’t believe it.

  “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t believe that feminists fully realize what they’re asking for. You don’t knock down a wall until you know what’s behind it. There are dangers, drawbacks, and responsibilities you’re not aware of.”

  “We’re willing to accept those responsibi
lities,” Rebecca Boone said stoutly.

  “Are you?” the Chief said with gentle sarcasm. “Are you really? Are you willing to charge into a dark alley after some coked-up addict armed with a machete? Are you willing to serve in the armed forces in combat and go forward when you know your chances of survival are practically nil?

  “On a more prosaic level, are you willing to work the hours that a fast-track business executive does? Willing to meet the demands of bosses and workers, make certain your schedules are met, stay within budget, turn a profit—and risk peptic ulcers, lung cancer, alcoholism, and keeling over from a coronary or cerebral hemorrhage at the age of forty?

  “Look, I’m not saying all men’s jobs are like that. A lot of men can handle the pressures of a top-level position and go home every night and water the petunias. They die in bed at a ripe old age. But just as many crack up, mentally or physically. The upper echelons of the establishment to which women aspire produce a frightening percentage of broken, impotent, or just burned-out men. Is that the equality you want?”

  Rebecca Boone was usually a placid dumpling of a woman. But now she exhibited an uncharacteristic flash of anger.

  “Let us be the judge of what makes us happy,” she snapped. “That’s what the movement is all about.”

  Just as surprising, Monica Delaney didn’t react with scorn and fury to her husband’s words.

  “Edward,” she said, “there’s a lot of truth in what you said. It’s not all true, but there’s truth in it.”

  “So?” he said.

  “So,” she said, “we recognize that when women achieve their rightful position in the upper levels of the establishment, they will be subject to the same strains, stresses, and pressures that men endure. But does it have to be that way? We don’t think so. We believe the system can be changed, or at least modified, so that success doesn’t necessarily mean peptic ulcers, coronaries, and cerebral hemorrhages. The system, the highly competitive, dog-eat-dog system, isn’t carved on tablets of stone brought down from a mountain. It was created by men. It can be changed by liberated men—and women.”

  He stared at her.

  “And when do you figure this paradise is going to come about?”

  “Not in our lifetime,” she admitted. “It’s a long way down the road. But the first step is to get women into positions of power where they can influence the future of our society.”

  “Bore from within?” he said.

  “Sometimes you’re nasty,” she said, smiling. “But the idea is right. Yes. Influence the system by becoming an integral part of it. First comes equality. Then liberation. For both women and men.”

  Sergeant Abner Boone rose shakily to his feet.

  “Listen,” he said hoarsely, “this is really interesting, and I’d like to stay and hear some more. But I’m so beat, I’m afraid I’ll disgrace myself by falling asleep. Rebecca, I think we better take off.”

  She went over, took his arm, looked at him anxiously.

  “Sure, hon,” she said, “we’ll go. I’ll drive.”

  Chief Delaney went for hats and coats. The women kissed. The men shook hands. Farewells were exchanged, promises to get together again as soon as possible. The Delaneys stood inside their open front door, watched as the Boones got into their car and drove off, waving.

  Then the Chief closed the front door, double-locked and chained it. He turned to face his wife.

  “Alone at last,” he said.

  She looked at him.

  “You covered yourself with glory tonight, buster,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She glared, then burst out laughing. She took him into her strong arms. They were close, close. She drew back.

  “What would I do without you?” she said. “I’ll stack the dishes; you close up.”

  He made the rounds. He did it every night: barring the castle, flooding the moat, hauling up the drawbridge. He started in the attic and worked his way down to the basement. He checked every lock on every door, every latch on every window. This nightly duty didn’t seem silly to him; he had been a New York cop.

  When he had finished this chore, he turned off the lights downstairs, leaving on the outside stoop light and a dim lamp in the hallway. Then he climbed the stairs to the second-floor bedroom. Monica was turning down the beds.

  He sat down heavily in a fragile, cretonne-covered boudoir chair. He bent over, began to unlace his thick-soled, ankle-high shoes of black kangaroo leather, polished to a high gloss. He didn’t know of a single old cop who didn’t have trouble with his feet.

  “Was it really a good meeting?” he asked his wife.

  “So-so,” she said, flipping a palm back and forth. “Pretty basic stuff. The lecture, I mean. But everyone seemed interested. And they ate. My God, did they eat! What did you have?”

  “A sandwich and a beer.”

  “Two sandwiches and two beers. I counted. Edward, you’ve got to stop gorging on sandwiches. You’re getting as big as a house.”

  “More of me to love,” he said, rising to his bare feet, beginning to strip off his jacket and vest.

  “What does that mean?” she demanded. “That when you weigh 300 pounds I won’t be able to contain my passion?”

  They both undressed slowly, moving back and forth, to the closet, their dressers, the bathroom. They exchanged disconnected remarks, yawning.

  “Poor Abner,” he said. “Did you get a close look at him? He’s out on his feet.”

  “I wish Rebecca wouldn’t wear green,” she said. “It makes her skin look sallow.”

  “The cheesecake was good,” he offered.

  “Rebecca said she’s lucky if she sees him three hours a day.”

  “Remind me to buy more booze; we’re getting low.”

  “You think the cheesecake was as good as mine?”

  “No,” he lied. “Good, but not as good as yours.”

  “I’ll make you one.”

  “Make us one. Strawberry, please.”

  He sat on the edge of his bed in his underdrawers. Around his thick neck was a faded ring of blue: a remembrance of the days when New York cops wore the old choker collars. He watched his wife become naked.

  “You’ve lost a few pounds,” he said.

  “Does it show?” she said, pleased.

  “It does indeed. Your waist …”

  She regarded herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door.

  “Well …” she said doubtfully, “maybe a pound or two. Edward, we’ve got to go on a diet.”

  “Sure.”

  “No more sandwiches for you.”

  He sighed.

  “You never give up, do you?” he said wonderingly. “You’ll never admit defeat. Never admit that you’re married to the most stubborn man in the world.”

  “I’ll keep nudging you,” she vowed.

  “Lots of luck,” he said. “Have you heard from Karen Thorsen lately?”

  “As a matter of fact, she called yesterday. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, she did. Wants to get together with us. I told her I’d talk to you and set a time.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Something in his tone alerted her. She finished pulling the blue cotton nightgown over her head. She smoothed it down, then looked at him.

  “What’s it about?” she said. “Does Ivar want to see you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “All he has to do is pick up the phone.”

  She guessed. She was so shrewd.

  “What did you and Abner talk about—a case?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Wait’ll I cream my face,” she said. “Don’t fall asleep first.”

  “I won’t,” he promised.

  While she was in the bathroom, he got into his flannel pajama pants with a drawstring top. He sat on the edge of his bed, longing for a cigar but lighting one of Monica’s low-ta
r cigarettes. It didn’t taste like anything.

  He was a rude, blocky man who lumbered when he walked. His iron-gray hair was cut en brosse. His deeply lined, melancholy features had the broody look of a man who hoped for the best and expected the worst.

  He had the solid, rounded shoulders of a machine-gunner, a torso that still showed old muscle under new fat. His large, yellowed teeth, the weathered face, the body bearing scars of old wounds—all gave the impression of a beast no longer with the swiftness of youth, but with the cunning of years, and vigor enough to kill.

  He sat there solidly, smoking his toy cigarette. He watched his wife get into bed, prop her back against the headboard. She pulled sheet and blanket up to her waist.

  “All right,” she said. “Tell.”

  But first he went to his bedside table. It held, among other things, his guns, cuffs, a sap, and other odds and ends he had brought home when he had cleaned out his desk at the old headquarters building on Centre Street.

  It also contained a bottle of brandy and two cut-glass snifters. He poured Monica and himself healthy shots.

  “Splendid idea,” she said.

  “Better than pills,” he said. “We’ll sleep like babies.”

  He sat on the edge of her bed; she drew aside to make room for him. They raised their glasses to each other, took small sips.

  “Plasma,” he said.

  He then recounted to her what Sergeant Boone had told him of the two hotel murders. He tried to keep his report as brief and succinct as possible. When he described the victims’ wounds, Monica’s face whitened, but she didn’t ask him to stop. She just took a hefty belt of her brandy.

  “So,” he concluded, “that’s what Boone’s got—which isn’t a whole hell of a lot. Now you know why he was so down tonight, and so exhausted. He’s been going all out on this for the past month.”

  “Why haven’t I read anything about it in the papers?” Monica asked.

  “They’re trying to keep a lid on it—which is stupid, but understandable. They don’t want a rerun of the Son of Sam hysteria. Also, tourism is big business in this town. Maybe the biggest, for all I know. You can imagine what headlines like HOTEL KILLER ON LOOSE IN MANHATTAN would do to the convention trade.”