Intimate Victims

by Packer, Vin

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Professor Bullard was on his way up here right now,” said Battle. “There’s no point in screaming, Mrs. Carson.”

  “Just finish your coffee.”

  “I intend to.”

  “I think you’re off your rocker, if you want to know.”

  “I don’t care what you think, Mrs. Carson. Ha! Ha! You, least of all,” said Battle, and again he began to laugh very loud, as he had earlier this evening, when he was by himself. He was amazed to see Mrs. Carson laughing too, laughing and blowing her nose, and murmuring, “Drunk as a skunk!” to herself. Then, he stopped laughing. A sharp needle of pain shot through his eyelid, and tears oozed out. His right lens was stuck up in the white of his eye, and in agony he made his way out of the room to the bathroom, where he flicked on the light button and grabbed a towel from the brass holder. He heard Mrs. Carson’s footsteps following after him down the hall.

  “Don’t come in here!” he said. He knew he would be a spectacle, bending over the towel, while he pulled at his eyelid to force the object out. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Are you getting sick?”

  “My right lens!” he called. “It’s my right lens!”

  The pain was terrible, and he could hear her outside giggling. Then the lens popped out and into the towel. Raymond Battle took a step back, swayed, fell over with a great crash, and hit his head against the bathroom sink.

  The next thing he knew, Mrs. Carson was kneeling beside him, wiping his forehead with a wet towel. He could not see her features at all clearly, but her voice was quite soft, and she was still giggling a bit, between words. “You’re such a fool, Mr. Battle!” she was murmuring. “Just a ninny, really! You’ve cut your head, too. And now your right lens is lost.”

  “It’s there in the towel,” he muttered. “I caught it in the towel, just before I fell.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Battle! I shook the towel out, to wet it.”

  Battle groaned. “God help me!” he said.

  “Drunk as a skunk!” said Mrs. Carson, “Drunk as a skunk, you ninny!”

  THIRTEEN

  THE MORNING after, Raymond Battle woke up with a headache that did not allow him to remember everything right away. The first thing he remembered, as he turned over in his bed, and clutched himself around the waist to comfort his aches, was the diary. Pffft! Pssss! He made several little deprecating noises, pleased that he was able to think of something to make himself feel superior on this most inferior day. Then for a very few seconds he struggled with the code he had been unable to decipher the night before — s.w.a.m. He thought of s.w.a.k. (sealed with a kiss, a code from his younger days), then the possibilities of s: sex, sin, … some other s words, and onto w … and finally, he broke the code. Sleep with a man! Of course! Oh, Lord … Lordgod … deprecating noises … and he rolled over.

  Then it came back, the inevitable playback, right through to her helping him up from the bathroom floor, out of the apartment and down to this very room.

  “Can you get out of your clothes all right?” she had asked.

  Oh, Lord … Lordgod … and thank God, she had gone back up and left him, almost immediately!

  Suddenly (and because Robert Bowser had never once been drunk; high, but not without his senses), Raymond Battle understood the dismal facial expressions of John Hark on the morning after. He read Hark with a new language, the language of empthy and same-boatism.

  He was afraid to get out of bed and apply this language to his own reflection in the mirror; afraid, and physically incapable of doing it. He was a prisoner of the bed and thoughts-in-bed-when-one-is-too-hungover to rise from bed. Hell, was all; it was hell.

  He decided to have nothing more to do with the occupants of apartment 3. Not that he had ever had anything to do with them really. But now he would hire a man to take care of the upper floors. That part of his routine was over. He would keep entirely to himself, even though he knew he was going to have to fight off his loneliness. He would spend his time planning ahead. So far there was very little he could do but plan, since he was still too new to the police’s Wanted sheet and since Plangman would certainly help the police to find him. But it would take a lot of planning anyway; a lot of very careful planning. He wanted to buy a book on Canada; more and more, Canada seemed the place. He wanted to get someplace far away; he wanted, perhaps more than he wanted anything else, to get out now from under Plangman’s thumb. He would have to admit to himself that Plangman’s plan was a working one, that it was a safe hiding place — probably the safest Bowser could ever hope for. Still, Bowser was beginning to hate the fact that, in a sense, he was the victim of the type of person he had always been repelled by, afraid of — which one was it? Perhaps it was fear — it was knowing how close he was, pushed a little this way and a little that, to being the same sort of fool — simply a more substantial sort. But it was not just the feeling of being Plangman’s victim now; it was the almost certain knowledge that in the future, Plangman would victimize him much, much more. He knew Harvey thought he had a great deal of money; Harvey, he knew, would be back for it. Yes, he had to escape Plangman. He had been a Lotus-eater long enough, far too long. He decided that right this very moment, he was in grave danger — danger that was moving in very slowly, like some lazy but inevitable fog — coming at him. The newspapers had not played up the thing very big at all — a mention or two after the initial announcement of the embezzlement — a photograph — not very much more. Things, on the surface, seemed to go along too smoothly. Plangman was bringing off his end of the bargain with suspicious placidity. Something was in the wind; Bowser just had that feeling.

  He would not write Bud Wilde. He trusted Bud, but by this time it seemed not unlikely that Wilde’s mail might be watched. Whatever he planned, he would have to accomplish on his own. In a moment of extreme weakness, he played with the idea of sneaking back to New Hope, of walking in his back door and simply confronting Margaret and asking for her help.

  He groaned. No, no, no! On his own. On his own.

  He turned over on his side again and thought of Mrs. Carson and her banjo player. Probably, within a year, Margaret would have run off with someone or moved someone in. La donne mobile … Well, let her! Let them both run around, for that matter. He decided that he hated Mrs. Carson. She was a cheap, little, redheaded slut. He wished he had told her so last night, since he would not be speaking to her again. He wished he had added that he had never in his life before encountered such an insipid, meaningless, boring, stupid person, with her diaries and her me again — nite nites!

  Lordgod, he was so very far away from anything he knew. He shut his eyes. He could see a desk, a report — his own words on it, his own pure, mathematical, quick, clean logic: “… and the board of directors should reduce the quarterly dividened because of disappointing operations in the fiscal year ended — ”

  “Yes,” he said aloud. He murmured to himself: “The company will pay a dividend of 25 cents a share to stockholders on record of … No, no, no … on my own now.”

  His “on his own” voice echoed in his memory:

  “Go ahead and marry your banjo player, for all I care, Mrs. Carson.”

  Raymond Battle decided that the first thing he would do, would be to go into St. Louis for new lenses. He had an insurance policy just in case something like this happened. He would take a bus and get new ones; there would be no reason in the world why he would ever have to be confronted by Mrs. Carson again. If she were to knock on his door to say she had found the lenses, he would simply not answer her. Cut her off cold, out!

  As soon as he was able, he dressed and put on his rimless glasses, and arrived in St. Louis shortly before four that afternoon.

  He returned very late that evening, too late even for the late show on television. Before he went to bed, he wrote an angry letter about his extreme poverty to Plangman, destroyed it, and then studied a map of the United States. He fell asleep looking at it, dreamed of meeting Bud Wilde in Me
xico (Bud told him that he had paid back all the money Robert had embezzled; Robert was free!), and woke up in the morning feeling better.

  He was in the kitchen, timing his tea to be done by the time his toast was buttered, when he heard the pounding at his door.

  “Hallo?” he called. “Who is it?”

  “You let me in!” was the answer, the command, really — and a very angry one. Mrs. Carson.

  “I’m having my breakfast, Mrs. Carson,” said he. “I’m hiring a man to do the work around here. I’m not available any more.”

  “You goddam well make yourself available, or I’ll kick in your door!”

  “What?” Raymond Battle said it to himself in a whisper. His face was pinched up with utter confusion. He walked very gingerly to the door and opened it a crack. The next thing he knew, the door was slammed into his jaw, slammed shut — and there she was.

  “Look here, young lady,” he began. He was stunned into silence by a swift, hard punch on his nose.

  “You listen to me, you creep!” said she, “Don’t sit up in my place writing letters about me to people! The next time you write one of your stupid letters about me to people, don’t leave it around in my wastebasket!”

  “That’s a nice habit,” said Raymond Battle, “reading other people’s mail.”

  “It’s my habit to empty my wastebasket! And I don’t need letters in it about how vacant I am, or about my hay fever! I could write a few hundred letters about you too, you know, Mr. Battle! About your silly lenses and your wine drinking, and that goddam baseball cap you wear around! You’re so superior, are you? You old creep!”

  “Is that all you have to say to me?” said Battle. “Because I’m about to eat my breakfast!”

  “You can shove your breakfast!”

  “You certainly are a nice young lady, Mrs. Carson.”

  “You can take this and shove it too!” she said. She threw the wadded-up piece of stationery at Battle, kicked his ankle, and slammed out the door. The door sprang open again with the force.

  “Little bitch!” Battle said, hopping on one foot, holding his ankle. “Dirty little bitch!”

  He hobbled over to close the door and heard her shouting from the third floor: “And after I was nice to you the other night! Well, you’ll get yours, Mr. Battle!”

  FOURTEEN

  HARVEY PLANGMAN rushed about making last minute improvements in an already elegant scene. He was serving highballs in his new scorecard glasses, for which he had sent away. Each one bore the crest of a luxurious country club. He saved the one from the Seminole Club, in Palm Beach, for Hayden Cutler. That was the most impressive of the lot; anything connected with Palm Beach impressed Plangman.

  On his desk, under the initial-P paperweight, with the rich Florentine-gold finish, he had placed four or five travel folders from B.O.A.C., Panagra, Air France, and the Cunard Line This was to tip off the Cutlers that Harvey was interested in a trip abroad, just as they were. Yesterday, Harvey had gone over his finances and figured out that he had $3700 left of the ten, including ownership of his new MG. If it were necessary, he could sell the MG. If things moved as slowly as they were, it was possible he would have to finance his own European trip in order to go along with the Cutlers. But first things were first; first, he must be invited to join them. When either one noticed the folders (he had placed them smack in the middle of his desk; who could ignore them?) he would simply say, “Yes, I’ve been thinking of taking a leave of absence from school. I feel the need of travel. Broadens the horizons, y’know.”

  In his kitchen, at the leather-covered bar from which he served drinks, Harvey had the liquor bottles lined up, with their labels showing. He was particularly proud of his bottle of Zubrovka vodka.

  “It’s a very interesting vodka,” he planned to say, “flavored with buffalo grass, you know.” He had read that in the advertisement for Zubrovka, and sure enough, the bottle itself contained a single blade of grass. Then there was a bottle of Old Smuggler, naturally, and Dry Sack, Beefeater gin, Old Bushmills Irish whisky, and Grand Marnier liqueur. The bottles had been delivered from the liquor store only that afternoon. Harvey had opened each one and poured out a little, to give the impression they were everyday items around his place, and not special for the Cutlers.

  In the hall mirror, he checked his appearance. He was wearing his new Burberry jacket, his Sulka shirt, and a dark blue Countess Mara tie (the crown and C.M. showed better against a dark background, he had learned). Since Boy Ames had complained that Pour Un Homme smelled like perfume, he had switched to St. John’s Bay Rum aftershave, which he had splashed on his face and the backs of his hands after showering. His hair style was changed too, from the longish, high-swept look to a very severe short-cropped style. The latter had been Bowser’s suggestion, one of his few. For all Bowser had helped, Plangman might still be very much the same person. But he had not stood still, or stopped at Bowser’s few crumbs. He had most definitely taken things into his own hands.

  At the sound of his downstairs bell, his heart thudded. He hummed a little snatch of “Some Enchanted Evening", and glided across to press the release on the front door.

  “Now, I’ve taken you at your word,” he planned to say. “I haven’t fussed with dinner. It’s a very simple Roman meal. Everyday fare, in Rome.”

  He chuckled to himself while he waited for the elevator to deliver them. “When in Plangman’s,” he said aloud, “do as the Romans do.” La, la, de, da, la — he felt tip-top tonight; tip-top!

  • • •

  To his surprise, Lois Cutler was alone. “Where’s your father?” he said. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

  He stepped back and held open the door. “Is he joining you here?”

  She swept past him, handing him her coat. She said, “Daddy’s not coming. He has some business. He’ll pick me up later. I told him to just beep the bell twice, as a signal.”

  “Beep the bell twice! You mean, he’s not even coming up?”

  “Mais non, Monsieur. Pas de tout.”

  “Well, that’s a fine thing. I was expecting him for dinner.” “You can freeze his portion, Monsier, or have it for lunch tomorrow. Old love-head can’t make it.” “I certainly didn’t expect this,” said Harvey. “Dumkins is not exactly predictable.” She settled herself on the couch, while Harvey hung up her coat, noticing the label as he put it on the hanger. Bloomingdale’s? He was surprised, let down. The whole evening was starting off badly. He walked into the living-room and said, “Come into the kitchen while I make us a drink.”

  “Oh, cheri, I’m too bushed! Make it for me, hmm, and bring it in?”

  Harvey sighed. “Very well.” “Well, is it such an effort?”

  “Nein, nein, Frau Cutler,” said Harvey. “I just wanted company. But nein, never mind … Would you like some vodka? I have some very interesting vodka with buffalo …"

  “Scotch,” said Lois. “On the rocks, s’il vous plait.”

  “Buffalo grass,” Harvey finished. “Then you want Old Smuggler?”

  “Please, on the rocks.”

  “Ganz bestimmt?” said Harvey smiling.

  “What?”

  “It’s German. I said, are you sure? This vodka … wait, let me show you the bottle …"

  But she waved the idea away with her hand and said, “No, no, no, I really don’t want vodka.”

  • • •

  Harvey fixed her a Scotch and took it into her. Then he put ice and tonic in the scorecard glass from the Seminole Club, and carried the glass and the bottle of Zubrovka into the living room. He set them on the marble-top coffee table, and turned to Lois, who was standing by his desk.

  “Ah,” he said, “noticing my travel folders, hmm?”

  She wandered back to the couch and sat down. “Are you going away?”

  “Yes, yes, I might. Travel is broadening, as the cliché puts it.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Oh, I haven’t anything definite in mind.” He glanced do
wn at the desk and saw the top folder, the one from the Mediterranean Black Sea Cruise Corporation. He took in five or six names fast, picked up his glass from the coffee table, and said, “Perhaps to Las Palmas, Casablanca, Malta, Alexandria, Haifa — I don’t know. The Greek islands, perhaps. Rhodes … the Greek islands.”

  Lois Cutler said, “Daddy says none of the Greek islands, none of them, can hold a candle to Nantucket. Daddy says, if you want to go to an island, why go halfway across the world when there’s Nantucket, where at least the food is edible. Daddy likes cities. Rome, Paris, Florence.”

  “My little dinner this evening is a Roman dish,” said Harvey.

  “Daddy and I will probably go to Europe in November. Have you ever heard of Adair Trowbridge?”

  “No, who’s she?” Harvey held up the bottle of Zubrovka and poured the vodka into his glass. He pointed to the blade of grass and murmured, “Buffalo grass,” smiling at Lois.

  “It’s not a she, it’s a he,” said Lois, ignoring the blade of grass in the bottle. “Adair Trowbridge. He’s a horticultural photographer. He’s the one who wrote me from Europe, in French.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard of him. As a matter of fact, I like cities better myself. I was telling this buddy of mine — name of Boy Ames … he’s on the Mercantile Exchange … I was telling him the other night at the Plaza, that I have a yen to see Paris, Rome, Belgium, Florence. I like cities better myself.”

  “Was this the other night that you called?”

  “Yes. I explained that the next day, didn’t I? I guess we had a little too much to imbibe. I hope your father wasn’t — angry.”

  “He said you said he was beautiful.”

  Harvey felt his face flame. “I said he was a beautiful person. I certainly never said he was beautiful! Do you think I’d call a man up and tell him he was beautiful? That’s very unfair of your father, Lois!”

  “Dumkins was only teasing. You know old love-head!” She laughed and traced the sweat bubbles on her highball glass, as though she were running her fingers along Hayden Cutler’s cherished brow. “He’s just a big dumb,” she said in a dreamy voice.