Hard City

by Clark Howard

  Linda pulled up beside him. Her car was an old Studebaker with a body that had seen better days, but as she said when he got in, “It gets me to and from school and it’s cheaper than living in the dorm, and more convenient than taking the streetcar.” When they got off campus and stopped for a red light, she said, “Sorry about your D from Crane. What’s his problem with you anyway?”

  “Beats me,” Richie replied. “Maybe he doesn’t like vets.”

  “He’s really on you. Several people in class have commented about it. I hope he doesn’t fail you.”

  “Doesn’t worry me,” Richie told her. “What bothers me is that I’m not learning anything. I took the class to learn how to write better. That’s not happening.” He looked at her. “Are you learning anything from him?”

  “I’m not sure,” Linda said. “It’s very interesting, the theory and all—”

  “But is your writing improving?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Then it isn’t,” Richie stated emphatically. “If your writing was improving, you’d know it. I can feel the writing I do outside of class assignments getting better, but as far as what he’s having us do in class is concerned, I’m getting nothing. Hey,” he suddenly expanded the subject, “I finally sent a story to a magazine.”

  “You did? Richie, that’s wonderful! When? Where?”

  “Well, there’s this magazine called The Writer—”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it in the library.”

  “It has freelance market news in it every month, telling which magazines are looking for stories, what kind, how much they pay, that kind of stuff. I dug out a story I wrote longhand on Red Cross stationery while I was in the rest camp in Korea. It was only 917 words long, but I rewrote it and made it three thousand words, and I sent it to one of the magazines on the market list.”

  “Aren’t you excited?” Linda enthused. “Actually having your own story at a magazine?”

  “I’d be more excited if they bought it,” he said. “They probably won’t, but I think it’s good experience anyway, actually submitting something. I think it’s a sign of commitment.”

  Studying him, Linda said, “God, you’re getting deep, you know that?”

  “Stop at the next corner,” Richie said. “Just drop me off at that pizza parlor; that’s where I’m having supper.”

  “Want some company?” Linda asked suddenly.

  “Yeah, sure, if you’re serious,” he said, surprised.

  “I’m serious.”

  Linda parked and they hurried into the little neighborhood pizzeria, shaking the rain off when they got inside. Richie took Linda’s coat and hung it with his own on a rack inside the door.

  Waiting for their Italian sausage and meatball pizza, Linda wanted to know all about the short story he had submitted for publication. Richie told her how he had remembered Willie Wakefield and written “Hit and Run” about a young fighter losing for the first time. Explaining how he had plotted the story, he got excited, telling her exactly how he had lengthened it, how easy it had been. No research at all had been involved; everything he needed to know was already in his mind from his own days in the gym and the club fights he had fought.

  “I think it’s marvelous,” she said when he finished. “I just know it’s going to sell!”

  “Wish you were an editor,” he told her.

  Linda excused herself to go call her mother and tell her she would not be home for supper. While she was gone, Richie’s mind went back to Stan. It seemed that whenever he had an idle moment, when he was reading or studying or working on a story, he thought of his friend. A compelling particular of his thoughts was always how many times Stan had helped him when he needed it, and how he was helpless when Stan needed help.

  When Linda returned to the booth, the pizza was there, thick with cheese, piled with meat. “I’m glad to see you’re eating stuff like this,” Linda commented. “It’ll put some weight on you. You’re too skinny.”

  “You’ve been telling me that ever since we’ve known each other,” Richie said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  They became awkwardly quiet as a mutual memory of the past swept over them. Linda colored slightly again and they both smiled self-consciously when their eyes met. They ate the pizza and talked about school and Linda told him how uncertain she was about what she wanted to do in life.

  “One minute I want to teach and be like Miss White, really make a difference with kids, you know? But the next minute I hear about you actually submitting a story you wrote, and I get goosebumps thinking maybe I can become a writer. Does that happen to you?”

  “Never,” Richie said unequivocally. “I don’t want to be anything but a writer.”

  “You are really getting deep,” she said again.

  It was just becoming dark when they left the pizzeria. The rain had stopped and the air was cool with a hint of winter. “I love the way the city smells after it rains,” Richie said. “It’s the only time I consciously enjoy breathing. Hey, I’ve got to get my books out of your car.”

  “I can drive you home,” Linda said.

  “I just live right here, the fourth building,” Richie said. He paused a beat, indecisively, then asked, “You want to come up and see my place? It’s nothing fancy, but I’ve kind of fixed it up.”

  Linda’s expression became softly solemn. “All right, Richie,” she said.

  He got his books and took her up to the little efficiency that he had settled into so comfortably with his books and movie posters and radio and a small study desk he had bought. Everything was in its place and in order, as he had been taught in the Marine Corps, and Linda was immediately impressed. “What a nice place, Richie. And how neat you are. I’d be embarrassed to show you my room.”

  Richie put his hands on her shoulders from behind. “You should never be embarrassed about anything with me,” he said. “We go back too far for that.”

  She twisted away from his hands. “Don’t, please. I didn’t come up here for that.” Facing him, her eyes became accusing. “I hope you’re not going to be like all the rest, Richie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told you the day of our first class why I put my wedding ring back on—so I wouldn’t have to fight off the guys who think divorced women are pushovers.”

  “You know me better than that, Linda,” he said quietly. “I’m the guy you used to sit in the back row of the Paradise with, remember? I always stopped when you wanted me to.”

  She turned away and he barely heard the sob that she choked back. Richie went to her again, put his hands on her shoulders again.

  “What changed you, Linda? Was it Glenn?”

  She did not answer at once, but he sensed that she was trying to, looking for the words, so he waited. Finally she said it.

  “There are some . . . things. . . that I didn’t think I should have to do. Some things that I didn’t want to do. But he made me. He was very ugly about it. . . .”

  Richie put his lips close to her ear. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.”

  Turning again, she came into his arms. “I haven’t been very fair to you, have I?”

  Don’t look for life to be fair. Stan had told him that years ago.

  “You haven’t been fair to yourself,” he said. “You can’t cut yourself off from someone who cares for you, because of someone else.” He lifted her chin and made her look at him. “I’m not Glenn, Linda. I won’t ever make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Promise,” she said, swallowing nervously.

  “Promise,” he assured her.

  Helping her out of her coat, Richie hung it with his own in the closet. Flicking off the overhead light so that only a small reading lamp was on, he turned back and unbuttoned her cardigan sweater all the way down, exposing a white bra and part of her breasts. They put their arms around each other and kissed softly, gently, and then Richie pulled his own sweater over his head. As Linda took off her skirt and sa
t in his reading chair to remove her shoes and stockings, Richie turned on the radio and found some music and pulled the bed out of the wall. Undressing, he saw Linda turn her back and slip her panties from under the half slip she wore. Dropping the straps of her bra, she twisted it around and unclasped it in front.

  When he was naked, Richie sat on the side of the bed and drew her to him. He started to pull the half slip down but she stopped him. “I want to leave it on for now,” she said. “I’m self-conscious about my thighs; they’re heavy.”

  Drawing her onto the bed, Richie lay partly over her and they began to kiss in earnest, sucking each other’s lips and tongue wetly. Moving his face down, he kissed and licked and sucked her nipples, while with one hand he stroked between her legs through the slip. He ran his tongue along the underside of each breast as he held them up, then drew a line of wet down to her navel and spiraled the tip of his tongue into it. Gradually he moved his mouth to the soft mound under the slip and kissed it through the thin material, alternately blowing his warm breath between her legs. When finally he pressed his tongue to her and began licking her with the slip still between them, he heard Linda moan softly and felt her relax. Spreading her legs, he felt the slip becoming wet as he pressed his open mouth onto her and started to suck.

  After a while, the half slip became so soggy that she allowed him to take it off. By that time she was holding on to his head.

  55

  Bobby Casey parked the stolen car at the curb across the street from one of the housing project buildings. Next to him, Richie looked out at the long line of uninspired and uninspiring ten-story low-rent buildings that stretched, run-down and overcrowded, for blocks in all directions. Bobby had parked the car deliberately under a streetlight so that it could be seen from the windows of the nearest project building.

  “You ready?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” Richie replied, just as quietly, “let’s go.”

  Getting out, they tried to act casual as they crossed the street and started along the sidewalk leading to the building. It wasn’t easy to do; each of them had a gun stuck in the top of the army surplus combat boots they wore. As Richie walked, the trouser leg covering the boot with the gun seemed to drag uncomfortably; he nervously wondered if it could be detected by anyone looking at him.

  Richie had waited two weeks after visiting Stan Klein before going back to Solly’s to see Bobby. “Do you think Stan might have a chance at a life sentence if we get that lawyer you told me about?” he asked.

  “There’s always a chance,” Bobby replied. “Not much of one, I don’t think. But even one in a million is worth having when a guy’s looking at the fucking chair.”

  Sitting on a rear spectator bench again, Richie buried his face in his hands for a moment, as if girding himself for what came next. Then he looked up, sighed resignedly, and said, “Okay, tell me about the dope peddler heists.”

  He and Bobby took a walk in the park. “The way Stan had the thing figured,” Bobby explained, “was that individual dealers had to be hit hard and fast, before they could get together and work out any protection. Stan had six apartments picked out, all in different buildings; he located them through a little Filipino junkie that lived at the Parkside Hotel for a while; he used to pay Stan to go with him to make buys ’cause he was scared of getting jumped and rolled by the spades in the projects. Anyways, Stan’s idea was to hit two of these places early Monday night, after the heavy weekend trade; then hit two more late Tuesday night when business was just about over and they was starting to relax. Then lay off for a couple nights, see, like it’s all over, but come back for the last two early Friday evening when the dealers have cash on hand to make wholesale buys.” Bobby paused to light a cigarette. “It’s been a while since this was planned, so I’ll have to case the places. But if everything’s okay, and if we can average twelve-fifty each hit, that’d give us what we need for the lawyer.”

  “You’re sure he’ll take the case?” Richie asked.

  “Solly checked with him over the phone, without giving no name. The guy said if seventy-five hundred was left at his office with Stan’s name on it, he would figure it was a retainer and go see Stan right away.”

  Richie took the final step quickly, before having a moment to evaluate the senselessness of what he was committing to.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” he said. “Set it up.”

  “Solid!” Bobby Casey said. He came close to smiling at Richie for the first time ever. “I’ve got a rod stashed for myself, but I’ll have to get one for you—”

  “No, you won’t,” Richie said. “I’ve got a forty-five automatic. I brought it back from Korea.”

  “No kidding?” A cynical expression settled on Bobby’s face. “What for? An ace in the hole in case you didn’t make it in college?”

  “A souvenir,” Richie told him.

  “Sure, sure,” Bobby Casey said mockingly. “Naturally you never intended to do nothing illegal with it, right?” He grunted derisively. “You know something, Richie, underneath you ain’t no different from Stan and me. Never have been, never will be. No matter how much you pretend.”

  Glaring at him, Richie had said coldly, “Just set up the jobs, Bobby. I’ll check back with you in a few days.”

  Richie had been nagged by Bobby’s words. Why had he stolen that pistol from the Marine Corps and brought it home hidden at the bottom of his seabag? Was it because somewhere deep in his subconscious he knew he would someday revert to his former self and have need of it? Was Bobby Casey right: was he really no different from them?

  That thought continued to plague him even now as he walked side by side with Bobby Casey into the project building. Then, as they got into the self-service elevator, as all else left his mind except that they were about to do it, he felt his stomach knot up and his hands begin to tremble. Glancing at Bobby, he saw him wet his lips, and saw that his hands were trembling also. Bobby caught his eye.

  “You okay?” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah,” Richie said. “You?”

  “Yeah. Be glad when this first one’s over.”

  On four, they left the elevator and found the apartment where Stan’s Filipino friend had once gone. Bobby knocked softly. A voice on the other side said, “Who is it?”

  “Junior sent us,” Bobby replied. That had been Stan’s original idea. “There ain’t a nigger alive who don’t know somebody named Junior,” he had told Bobby,

  The door opened not on one chain but three. An unsmiling black face peered out and asked, “Junior who?”

  “Junior from over to the other building, man. Come on.” Bobby flashed a roll of bills and shifted from foot to foot as if he might be on edge for a fix. “Come on, man,” he said again, half whining. Jesus, he’s got balls, Richie thought with grudging admiration.

  The door opened and they stepped inside to face three black men, one of whom held a small chromed revolver on them. “Got to search you, boys,” he said, “No offense,”

  “Okay man. just don’t take all night,” Bobby said irritably. He and Richie raised their hands and one of the other men quickly felt around their waists and under their arms. If whoever patted them down found their guns, Richie and Bobby were agreed that they would not try to score, merely say the weapons were for their own protection, then make a buy and leave. But as Stan had predicted, the search was cursory; if no guns were found above the knees, they would pass inspection. And they did.

  “They clean,” the man who searched them announced. The one with the pistol smiled and put it away.

  ‘What you need, boys?” he asked.

  “Five dime bags,” Bobby said, peeling off fifty dollars, tossing it on a table, “Okay if I sit down?”

  “Make yourself comfortable.” One of them took the money and went into the bedroom, Bobby sat at the table. Richie, leaning against the wall, knew Bobby had pulled his trouser leg up as he sat down, uncovering his gun. The man with the chrome pistol in his pocket stood near the windows, wat
ching them closely.

  Presently the first black man returned to the room with five glassine envelopes which he put on the table. Bobby started to reach for them, then looked across the room and said, “Hey, man, somebody’s looking in the fucking window!”

  The man with the pistol whirled around and the other two snapped their faces open-mouthed toward the windows. Then they heard Bobby say, “One move, just one, motherfuckers, and you are gone!” He had them covered in an instant, and Richie was pulling his automatic out of his boot-top to back him up. Disarming the man with the gun, Bobby had two of them lie on the floor with Richie covering them, while he took the boss dealer into the bedroom.

  In five minutes, the drug money had been found, the men’s wallets and pockets cleaned out, and all the glassine envelopes of heroin collected in a paper bag.

  “Okay, get up and stand by the window, all of you,” Bobby ordered. “Look out the window. See that blue car under the streetlight? That’s our car. Now listen carefully ’cause I’m gonna make you a deal. My partner’s gonna take your dough and your dope down to the car while I stay here with you guys. When he gets down there and signals me, I’m gonna go down the fire stairs and you guys are all gonna stand in front of the window where he can see you. If nobody follows me, when I get out to the car, we’ll leave your junk on the curb and drive off. That way, you’ll only be out the dough. But if anybody tries to follow me, I’ll shoot the motherfucker and we’ll take the fucking shit with us; then you’ll be out everything. It’s up to you.” While they were digesting the deal, Bobby nodded brusquely to Richie. “Go.”

  Sticking the automatic in his belt, leaving his coat unbuttoned so he could get to it quickly, Richie left the apartment and started down the enclosed fire stairs. He walked briskly, passing two young black boys reading comic books on one landing, a teenage boy feeling up a girl in the dark corner of another. When he reached ground level, he pushed open the fire door and cut across the bare, grassless front yard of the building to their car. Looking up, he saw Bobby’s face at the window and waved; then he saw Bobby move away and the three black men kneel side by side, looking out.