Taylor made a wide turn and came to a stop. The sound of insects penetrated the stillness. He put his head on Carol's shoulder and listened.
She moved his hand to her hip, but it lay motionless.
"If you don't move around a bit," she said, brushing her lips along the side of his neck, "you might go to sleep."
Her fingers trailed up, paused, grew inquisitive.
"Need some help?" she whispered. Her breathing quickened. "That's a little better," she said.
He stirred, groaned, clutching her through the dress.
She stared at him with depthless eyes. "Want me a little bit now, sugar?" Her tongue flicked out....
TOMORROW'S CALL GIRLS
1
THE soft Southern dusk had filled all the streets of the town with purple. Clouds of flying insects were humming around the street lamps. The pavements were still hot under Taylor Latham's feet, but he could feel the cool air sliding against his skin. He walked easily-a big, wide-shouldered kid, an athlete's grace in the way he moved, Down the street he caught sight of long blonde hair, a dark blouse, white shorts. ... It was Betty, waiting for him. He moved a little faster.
"Hello, honey," she breathed, looking up at him.
"Well, hello there, little one." Taylor twisted imaginary mustaches. "How's about a little kiss?"
He reached for her, but she swiveled away from him; laughing, she began to run. "Catch me first!" she called over her shoulder.
Taylor did not move. "Come on, quit that, Betty," he said disgustedly.
She kept on running.
"Damn you! Quit playing!" Taylor shouted. He could see her white shorts gleaming up there under a street light; she always rolled them high.
"Betty!" he shouted again. She ran faster, disappeared around the corner. He followed to the intersection, looked around. "Betty!" It was getting late. He peered, saw the top of a blonde head gleaming over the hood of a black car across the street. "I see you," he whispered.
Before he could move, headlights approached from the top of the hill, growing brighter until the street was full of yellow light.
Taylor paused, wondering if this could be the car ... It roared past, then brakes squealed. It was a blue Chevy, a handkerchief tied to the aerial. Taylor walked out into the street.
He saw Betty lift her head from behind the black car.
"Who is it."
"Get down!" he called.
The Chevy raced in reverse. He stepped aside, letting it roll by him.
"C'mere," the driver ordered.
Betty sank out of sight as he obeyed. There were two men inside. Taylor leaned against the door on the driver's side, and they talked for a moment.
"Gotcha," he said finally, slapping his hand across the fender as the car pulled away.
"Who was it?" Betty asked as the taillights vanished.
"Friends."
She pouted, "Are you ashamed of your girl? Trying to keep me out of sight."
"Let's go," Taylor said.
"I thought we were going to make a night of it."
"In the street?" He grinned. She lowered her head and slipped her arms around his shoulders. "Let's go," he repeated. She reached down for his hand.
Betty's house looked cold and dead.
"Come in," she said. "Got to go."
"There's no one here-but you and me."
"There's not time."
"It'll only take a few minutes-" she whispered, pulling him closer. "Not time."
She parted her lips. He ran his fingers across her cheeks, then closed his arms about her shoulders. Her moist lips rested beneath his ear. "There's time," she whispered.
He pushed her inside the open door. "Leave the door open; I'll be back in a couple of hours."
"In a couple of hours-" She paused. "Yeah?"
"The door will be shut." She closed the door gently. The click of a key followed.
He stumbled down the steps. Why did it have to be tonight? He felt like a cat that had had a piece of meat snatched out from under its nose. And why did they pick him? Any fool could have handled it. At least there would be no trouble with cops. Would he know the guy? He would not; it would never work if he did. "I shouldn't bitch," he thought. "They're paying good."
He had been with the group for about two years. They were using him more and more-more risks, but more money. For a young fellow things couldn't be better: action, money, women with good stuff. The workers in the group were older; it made him feel apart from the school crowd. He could have graduated-passed without a book-but the group wanted him in school; he could make contacts there.
"That's the way they got me," he reflected, "through that slimy-assed Pete." He remembered the giggling, silly girls he used to hang around. "Hell, I'm lucky to be in with the bastards."
If the group would only let him in on some of the big things, or let him know more about the inside-He at least wanted to find out what the rap would be if he were arrested. All he did was test out new guys, or supply the group with broads-mostly the latter. "Tiny little part ... little tiny part," he thought,..."of something bigger."
They had told him to be at Fourth and Manchester, but there was no one there. Then heels with taps clicked on the concrete walk. A figure approached--a Negro man, wearing an unpressed coat and unmatched pants. Taylor Latham walked across the sidewalk and spat in the gutter. He looked back at the Negro across his shoulder. The man glanced at him and continued walking. "Not him," Taylor muttered.
It had been a hot summer, but now as fall neared, the evenings were cool enough for a light coat. School would start late, a couple of months from now. The school where he worked was in the city, but the starting date was adjusted to that of the county schools that never opened until cotton season was over, and this year it would be an extended season.
The thought bothered him. It was easy to be picked up in a school. Kids talked, and sometimes he found himself wanting to talk. He was seventeen, and he knew from feelings of his own that other boys might brag about the fact that they smoked one or knew a guy who was passing a few.
"You can't stomp everybody's butt," he whispered, looking down a long deserted street. "Forgive these wild and wandering cries, confusions of a wasted youth . . he mumbled. "Goddammit! I can't get that crap out of my head."
The group would roll on tabletops if he was to get drunk and spout poetry. Car lights gleamed on the street. "Sounds like the Chevy..." The lights flashed across him. Far down the street, the Negro turned for a moment, then walked on. The car slowed down, then suddenly sped past.
"They're waiting till I'm alone," he thought. He leaned back against the building.
In a moment the Chevy returned. He lit a cigarette. The car pulled to the curb on the other side and the headlights blinked once. He turned in the other direction, puffing casually on the cigarette. The door opened and shut ... there were nervous footsteps. A moment of quiet followed. He continued to puff, blowing swirls of smoke around his face. He sensed someone directly behind him.
"What's the name, fellow?" a voice asked.
"Tarzan; are you Jane?"
"Your name Latham?"
Taylor Latham circled the man and leaned against the wall on the other side of him. "You got something to say to me, man?"
"Is your name Latham?"
"I repeat, you got something to say?" Taylor slapped his fist into his hand. The man looked nervous; his eyes darted back and forth from the car to Taylor. He stepped up close, rubbing his hands together. His eyes were a cold blue. "You're in trouble, son."
"Who with?" Taylor smiled.
"The car across the street-you're in their way."
"Yeah?"
"They want you in the car-if you make a break, I'm to shoot."
"Then I suppose it won't be smart to try, huh?" He looked down at the man's coat; his hand rested halfway in his pocket. He had a gun.
"Try it, kid-stay close to the wall and I'll aim to the side."
"I don't want to make a break," Taylor said, taking out another cigarette.
The sound of a motor startled the man. "They got the signal," Taylor thought. The car wheeled up beside them. The back door swung open and two forms emerged.
One of them stepped close to Taylor and smiled. "Trouble?"
"I don't know," he answered. "This man here-he's all confused-think's somebody's after me."
"Oh?"
"Says I'm in trouble."
"Really?"
"Yeah, even offered to help."
The man dropped his hands at his sides and stood glaring at Taylor. "So you're in with them," he said softly. The two men stepped behind him. The man turned and entered the car; his cold eyes never left Taylor.
"We're going to take him for a ride in the night air," the driver laughed. "Sounds a little delirious, don't you think?"
"Be good to him," Taylor smiled. The car pulled away and vanished around a block. "A cop?" he wondered. But then why hadn't he struggled? He had just got in quietly, like he was going to church. "But to struggle would have been useless," he thought, gazing down the street. "Useless," he repeated, crossing the street.
"Betty," he thought. "The poor simple little broad-" He raised his hand and let it bump beneath the curved border of an awning. His reflection on the glass windows of stores followed him down the street. He stopped and looked at himself. He looked young; a well-groomed flattop added to his youthful appearance. "I'll let it grow out," he thought. He stopped in front of the glass. "You'd still be young, you little bastard." Even Betty, with all her child-like thoughts, at times would sicken him by playing the mother role.
The sidewalk was cracked; weeds grew beneath the broken edges. He stepped on them, crushing their green stems into the stone as he walked. "Wonder if they'll kill him?" he thought. He had gone by the stores; the street was lined with houses-only small driveways separated them. He slapped the telephone poles as he passed by. "I need her tonight," he thought, turning a corner. Betty was a broad, but more sensitive than the ones he had worked on in the past. Sometimes her playfulness made him forget, and when he remembered again, he worried about his feelings. Her face had the features and complexion of a baby; she was not exactly pretty, yet her innocent appearance combined with a mature, well proportioned body, doubled her sex appeal for him.
When he had walked several more blocks, he could see a light in the distance. "Thought she'd wait," he said aloud. A shadow moved across the light. It had to be Betty, because her mother had gone out of the state in order to settle something about a divorce or separation. Betty had explained it all in detail, but very little of what she said ever registered with him. "She is better," he thought, stopping beneath the window. "Better than anything so far."
There was a sudden change in the shadows. The light was out. He paused at the bottom of the steps. Would she answer if he knocked? Maybe that was what she wanted him to do-knock-then she would get her kicks out of watching him stand in front of a closed door.
He moved toward the door and raised his hand. "This won't get it," he muttered, letting his hand fall.
A rusty nail protruded from the cracks in the porch. He knelt down and worked it out.
The drapes in a front window moved slightly.
"Just a kid," he thought "A damn little kid." He scratched in small letters just above the door handle with the point of the nail, the letters b-i-t-c-h.
He turned and casually walked down the stairs and toward the corner without looking back. The shadows in front of him revealed the fact that the porch light had been turned on. Then the light flicked off and there was the thud of a slamming door.
2
THE next morning was hot. The sheets on his bed were sticky and irritating. Auntie had called up the stairs over a half hour ago. He was dizzy from lack of sleep, but the humidity was driving him crazy.
"You coming down, son?" The strained, low voice of his aunt echoed in the stair hallway.
"Yeah! Yeah!" His pants were crumpled on the floor. The sun had been shining on them, and they were uncomfortably warm as he pulled them up around his waist. "Shoes-where the-the foot of the stairs," he remembered. There was no real reason for Auntie to get him up; but she was the kind of person who believed no one should be in bed in the morning-regardless of what happened the night before.
His bare feet felt good on the cool floor of the narrow hallway. The kitchen was at the rear of the house. Auntie was seated at a small wooden table sipping coffee while she shelled a pan of butter beans.
"Morning," she said, never taking her eyes off the beans.
He flopped down in the chair across from her. "Yeah
-I know." He looked around for a cup. "Where's the old man?"
"Sick."
"Aw, foot-"
"A man that drinks as much as he does is sick."
"Sounds more like a drunk; don't you get a little tired of babying him."
"He's my brother."
"Oh, that's a wonderful reason," he said, reaching out for the coffee pot. "Where's the cups."
"In the front room."
"In the front room! What the-you through with yours?"
She handed him her cup. He stared at the grounds in the bottom, sloshing them around the edges before he poured the coffee. "What a housekeeper," he muttered.
She ignored him and continued to shell. Perspiration dripped from her forehead, and her plump body looked miserably hot beneath a clinging dress. Her gray hair was cut short, but kept springing over her eyes as she shelled. She rested her hands for a moment. "You going to help me shell?"
"Where's the paper?" he asked.
"The paper? When on earth did you ever read a newspaper?"
He got up and roamed around the front room looking for it. "I want to read the society page."
"Still out on the porch," she called from the kitchen.
He spotted it in the top of a bush by the driveway. "Stupid little bastard can't throw a paper straight." He scanned the front page as he strolled back to the kitchen.
Auntie watched him with interest "What are you looking for?"
"I blew up TVA, and I wanted to see if they mentioned it." He sank slowly into his chair, keeping well behind the paper.
"Must've just roughed him up a bit," he thought. "Or would it hit the morning paper?" He flipped through several more pages.
Maybe they were just testing him-it could have been someone in the group. But the man had looked too nervous for that; his hands had been shaking. "He would have been scared anyway," he thought, "but what the hell-I made a good showing, whether they were testing me or not."
He was hoping to be let in on something bigger. He was tired of bringing in girls and testing out punks. Getting involved with girls and then guiding them like puppets into the group's hands was beginning to rub him wrong. He wanted a change-even if it meant more danger for him.
"You going to drink that coffee?" his aunt said.
"Take it to Dad."
"He won't be up for a couple of hours-won't be good then."
"Auntie, are you trying to tell me you want my coffee."
"I'm trying to tell you I want to wash your cup so I can see about your father."
"Why don't you put some rat poison in his bourbon."
"You don't sound much like a son."
"He's nothing but a sot."
"If your mother were still with us, I don't think she would agree. She loved your father."
"Yeah, I know-he talks all the time about how wonderfully they got along."
"They got along better than you knew. He loved your mother very much. He never drank like he does until she died."
"That's because she handled the money."
"There's more to marriage than you think, little boy."
"And how in purple hell would you know about marriage?"
"I think you'll find out there's something to it. You'll be looking at girls in a new way before long."
"I've looked at them ever since I was in the first grade of school," he said.
"Yes, and you're an old man of seventeen," she laughed.
He held the paper up again and reached around for coffee. Even though Auntie bothered him at times, he admired the way she always came back at him. She could touch on more sensitive places in a few moments than anyone else could in a week.
He had always wondered about the relationship between his father and mother. "Love, love, love," he thought, "that's what Betty keeps whispering in my ear all during it ... poor, stupid little kid."
She would break in; he knew that. When she had had it long enough, she would be no different from the rest. She would follow the group around like a puppy waiting to be fed and petted. "Someday one of those broads is going to talk her head off," he thought. "Then they'll screw hell."
He could not help worrying that Betty was maybe going to he tougher than the rest; she took everything so seriously. Would she be willing to give herself to the group, even after she was on it?
"It'll take time," he thought. They wanted to see her next week-she would not be ready by then. She had been awful tight when he first had her, and he knew it was the first time for her. The others had not been so bad; they had already been broads.
He wondered what they used to keep them in the group. It had to be something more than sex and the smokes he passed out. "Probably keep them scared as hell, above everything," he thought.
Whenever he saw one of the girls again, they were ice-cold to him. He shook his head. "They hate me."
The thought was so strong that for a moment he was worried he had said it aloud.
It would foul things up if Betty met any of those girls now. Would the group understand that?
"There was a phone call for you early this morning," his aunt said.
"Who?" he asked, still staring at the paper.
"Phone call," she repeated.
"Well, what did phone call say?"
"For you to call back."
"What's the number?"
"Didn't leave one."
"Well, just how am I to know who to call, Auntie."
"Said you'd know who it was."
"Did he have a hoarse voice."
"She had a high voice."
"Oh God, it was Betty," he thought. 'Wonder how she took the little scratching on the door?"
Auntie's face was sparkling with curiosity.
"Must be the lady I work for," he said.
"She sounded more like she's working for you."
"If she'd pay me more, I'd hire her."
"You haven't seemed to be suffering from financial strain."
"What time is it?" he asked. "Time for me to get your father out of bed."
"Then it's time for me to get out of here." He would go to the park and call Betty from a pay phone.
Betty did not seem mad; in fact, her voice was soft and pleasant over the phone. He had not intended to make a date with her that night, but the more he talked to her, the more he thought about it. He was flat broke and there was not much chance the group had left any money for him. Sometimes it would be there the morning after a deal, but more often it would take two or three days. "The drugstore's been open an hour or more-they could have dropped it off this morning," he thought. He crammed the folding door of the booth hard against the wall, and stepped onto the dew-wet grass. The streets on the way were little used at that hour and it was hard to thumb a ride for any distance.
It took him four rides and half an hour to make the drugstore. The glass front was cracked across and pasted up with paper tape. Several kids were sitting inside at the counter, hunched over empty glasses, reading magazines. A boy about fourteen sat staring at a picture magazine while a younger girl looked over his shoulder.
At the end of the fountain counter, the soda jerk, a boy about eighteen, eyed Taylor with a grin. His handsome face was disfigured by scars, and his hair was swept over his ears in ducks.
"Sundae-hot fudge," Taylor said. He picked up a girlie magazine and stepped over a metal chair at one of the tables. He opened the magazine, thumbed through the pages without interest.
From the prescription counter, a heavy-set, elderly woman was watching him. He glanced at her, then went on looking at the magazine. He still felt dizzy, and he noticed it was hard to focus his eyes.
"Fudge sundae," called the boy behind the counter.
"I'll take it to him." The elderly woman went over to the fountain and picked up the sundae carefully and brought it to Taylor's table.
"Thanks," he said. He took the metal stand by the base and pulled it out of her hands. The woman waited, looking down at him. He glanced at her suspiciously, "Yeah?" he said.
She bent closer. "When older boys like you read material like this-you may not know it, but some of these younger kids copy your behavior."
Taylor smiled in relief. "I'll run put it right back on the rack," he said in a falsetto voice. He skipped over to the counter girlishly, placed the magazine carefully on the rack, patted it, and skipped back to his seat. The sound of muffled laughter came from several tables. The woman's face flushed, and she left without another word.
A girl at another table grinned at Taylor. He winked at her and began eating his sundae. While he ate, his fingers separated the paper container from the metal stand, spilling chocolate syrup on the tabletop. He pulled out a folded envelope, and slipped it into his pocket.
He finished the sundae and left. He walked a block away from the store before he pulled out the envelope and opened it. A note was wrapped around two tens. Twenty bucks-usually it was twenty-five or more. "Quit stalling," the note read. "Time we met her-better be broken in by the end of the week."
He would have to work out something, start pushing her tonight. "They're gonna blow it up if they keep on my back," he thought. He was scared sick she would wise up. "How can I get her ready in one night? They're gonna blow it up for sure..."
Betty was waiting on the steps for him when he drove up in his aunt's old Mercury. He pushed the door handle up with his foot, then kicked it open.
"My, what a gentleman," she said, sliding across the seat cover.
His tires squealed. She slid over and rested her cheek on his shoulder. "Where we going?"
"Along the river."
"We going swimming?" she asked.
"There's not too much to do, honey. It takes several to raise a little hell."
"So who wants to raise any hell?"
"You don't get bored easy, do you?"
"I never get tired of some things," she said, smiling.
She was wearing green shorts and a saggy white blouse. With her long blonde hair and rounded cheeks, she looked even younger than she was-just a kid, a baby. She kicked off her loafers and rested her feet on the dash, then took his hand and put it between her knees.
Almost no one knew about the gravel road that ended on the river bluff. The entrance was grown over with vines; Taylor often missed it and had to go back. Tonight he was alert and nervous. When they came to the entrance, he wheeled in without shifting gears. The vines scraped over the hood of the car.
The river was a mile or more down the road. He knew he had to talk to her, but his mind was a blank.
"You're going awful slow," she said, moving his hand up higher.
'We do a lot alone, honey."
"You don't like it that way?" she asked.
"We could do the same things with the right couples along." Everything he said sounded artificial to him. "If you like it better this way, that's the way we'll keep it," he added.
"I don't mind another couple if you have the right friends-at least, I don't mind some of the time." Her eyes were sparkling with curiosity.
He said nothing more till they got to the bluff. He stopped the car, then reached into the back seat for a couple of army blankets. They had fallen off onto the floor. Betty leaned helpfully over the seat to recover them. Taylor pulled the keys out and rested his arms on the steering wheel. Betty was struggling to get up from her awkward position. Her waist was bent over the front seat. On an impulse, Taylor gave her a playful goose. She went flying over into the back of the car. "Damn you!" she squealed, trying to get up.
Taylor climbed over after her, holding her down. In spite of her struggles, he pulled up her blouse in back, unhooked her bra, then reached under her body and cupped one big, hanging breast. Betty squirmed as pleasure mingled with her discomfort. "Dammit, Taylor, let me up!"
Ignoring her complaints, he tugged at the side buttons of her tight shorts, opened them, and plunged his other hand down inside, between her soft thighs. Holding her, squeezing and caressing her with both hands, he leaned over and nipped the tender back of her neck.
Her voice was muffled. "Oh, Taylor ... Taylor, please stop, honey. Stop it," she suddenly shouted. "You're driving me out of my mind!"
Taylor released her and lay back on the seat. She came upright, face flushed, her clothes disheveled. "Damn you, Taylor Latham," she said, breathing hard.
He grinned up at her. "Wanted some loving, didn't you?"
"You know I did, but not that way!" She swung a hand at his face; he blocked it easily, captured her wrist. He liked to see her this way, flushed and panting. He pulled her down across his body, feeling her breasts soft and heavy against his chest, the nipples punching out through the cloth. He put one hand down under her shorts, grabbed her round bottom and squeezed. With the other hand behind her head, he forced her lips down to his. She made shrill noises of exasperation. Then he was kissing her soft, warm mouth, and in a moment she sagged against him. Her arms went around his shoulders.
Taylor relaxed, letting his hands rove up and down her smooth, curved back. He liked it better when she fought him a little, but this was pleasant. She had a nice body, partly child, partly woman. After a while she broke away and raised herself on her arms, looking down at him. "You just going to he there?" she asked, her eyes shining.
"No, not just going to he here," he said. He reached up unexpectedly, tickled the tender flesh between her belly and her ribs. She shrieked and arched her back. "Taylor!" She began clawing at his belt. As they struggled, the back door popped open, and they rolled out on to the ground. Betty yelled, but kept on pulling at his pants. She had them down around his knees, then the shorts too. "Blankets," said Taylor.
"Blankets, hell," she said. She scrambled up and began shedding garments. She threw down her blouse, then her shorts. Her breasts bobbed when she leaned over to tug off her thin panties.
Taylor rolled upright, got his shoes off, then his pants and shorts. He reached into the car, yanked the blankets out and managed to spread them partway before she was on top of him again. He grabbed her around the middle, held her close, and rolled her gently over onto the blankets.
Her thighs went up then and he was thrusting while her arms clutched him and her head moved back and forth on the blankets. Taylor buried his face in the warm hollow of her neck. "Roll 'em, honey," he whispered, and her hips began to grind in time to his movements. She was good-the best. He moved faster, harder, holding back, watching her face contort, feeling her hands clutch him. Then the spasm hit her and she curled up, her body squeezing him hard, triggering him. They clung tight for a few moments. Then their bodies relaxed. They floated dreamily in each other's arms, at peace, not speaking.
After a while they separated and lit cigarettes, lying side by side on the blankets. "Betty."
"What?"
"Mm-" He paused, wondering what he was going to say. "What?" she repeated. "Nothing."
"Taylor, what?"
"Let's double tomorrow night."
"You've had that on your mind all evening. What's so important about doubling?"
"Honey, I'm afraid you'll get bored with me-us going out alone all the time."
"I love you. I'll do anything you want. Anything," she whispered in his ear.
"I love the hell out of you," he said, pulling her tight against him. He nipped her cheek gently with his lips.
At first, she had always insisted they be alone on dates; she seemed to be afraid other girls would distract him. He felt now that he could control her. Maybe the group was not unreasonable-maybe he was taking it too slow. He had spent only half this much time on the others. "We double, then-tomorrow."
"All right, all right-this is tonight." Her voice was soft. She bit the bottom of his ear and wiggled up close to him. Her breasts flattened softly against his chest. Then she was climbing over him, her thighs wide. She reached for him, but his back was already arching. She gasped.
Then they were moving again, in the same rhythm. "Taylor! ... Oh, Taylor!...
3
THE next day was cloudy. Taylor had left a note at the drugstore, hoping it would be delivered in time. He had taken pains to see that nothing was forgotten. One of the group was to meet him at nine at the Fly Club, and bring a girl from outside the group. Taylor was hoping they would send a young guy, or Betty might start wondering about his friends. It would be better if he could get her tight first, then she would be less suspicious of the other couple. She was cold to other boys when she was with him-that was the problem. It would all depend on whom they sent. Taylor was hoping to have a moment alone with the man to give him some tips. But, the more he thought about it, the less confident he was that it would turn out right
Betty was ready and waiting at the door wearing a tight, silvery evening dress. Her heels gave her height and made her look older. Taylor wishes she did not look so good. She was different from most broads. She loved him and kept herself for him. Other girls Taylor had gone with had never particularly given a damn if he showed up the next night or not. They would put out to anybody with a car, money, and a wandering hand.
The Fly Club was crowded at this hour. Taylor figured they might have trouble finding a table, but on the other hand there was less chance anybody would check his ID during a rush. His driver's license read age twenty-one, but if you looked close, you could see the roughened eraser marks clearly. Taylor carried a partly full fifth of cheap bourbon in his hand, and a half-pint of gin in his pocket. He was not planning to hit it hard, and he knew Betty would get silly on a couple of shots. She had not drunk even a beer till she met him, and she still had not developed much capacity.
They were met at the door by a good-natured bouncer who seemed a bit high. He escorted them to a table and took their order for setups personally. It was too easy, and Taylor suspected the group must have made arrangements beforehand. His eyes roamed the dance floor for familiar faces. It was a week night, and the customers were mostly older than the Saturday night crowd. There were four Negroes on the bandstand: a singer, drummer, sax, and piano player. A layer of smoke drifted over the tables and curled under dim lights.
Betty stared with moist eyes at the singer as his breathy voice vibrated to the slow rhythm of the blues. She was often moody, and music like this usually made her sentimental.
The setups came-a Seven-Up, a pitcher of water and a bowl of ice. Taylor made Betty's drink weak, poured himself a bourbon and water. Then he saw a tall, handsome boy with curly black hair appear in the doorway. Beside him was a girl in a yellow dress, with short red hair combed back to lie close over her ears. Taylor's eyes followed her as the couple moved toward the table.
"God, it's one of the group girls," he thought, amazed. It was one of the first girls he had brought in, and he knew her for a real broad-bitchy and temperamental as a cat. "I told them not to bring one of those sluts," he thought, twisting nervously at the top of the bourbon bottle. He added another swallow to Betty's Seven-Up.
"Here we are," said the tall boy. He had sharp, clear features and reminded Taylor of a cautious panther examining the corners of his cage.
"My name's Morris," he said to Betty. "Carol" he added, indicating the redhead.
Carol was watching Taylor. There was the suggestion of a knowing smile on her face. "Taylor," Morris said. Carol nodded.
"Have we met, sugar?" she asked.
"Just now," Taylor answered uncomfortably. He signaled a Negro waiter. "Couple of cokes and some more ice," he said, still staring at Carol.
"You know her?" Betty whispered.
"Drink up, kitten."
"You do, don't you?"
"No."
Morris leaned across the table. "Have I seen you around, Betty."
"No, I don't think so."
"You know him?" Taylor asked. "Drink up," said Betty.
Taylor was watching Morris with keen attention. "They couldn't have sent a better one," he thought. Morris was suave and self-assured. His mere presence seemed to arouse Betty. Taylor let himself relax. But he was still confused. Why had they brought a group girl after he had warned against it in his note?
Morris pulled out a pack of cigarettes, patting the bottom gently until one popped out. "Smoke?" he asked Betty, extending the pack across the table.
Taylor looked at the end of the cigarette. The paper was not smooth, and a little tobacco stuck out where the end had once been twisted. "It won't work," he thought. "Even if she took it, she'd throw it on the table after the first puff."
"Thank you," Betty said, drawing the cigarette from the pack.
Morris extended a lighter. She steadied his hand until it was lit.
Carol's eyes followed the pack back to Morris's pocket. Her hand lifted slightly.
"Wouldn't begin to buzz you now, baby," Morris whispered.
Betty puffed casually and turned her attention back to the combo. Taylor sat intently, waiting for her reaction. "She must like Morris," he thought. She must know what it was she was smoking. He mixed her another drink, and added water to his. Carol poured her own; Morris did not seem to know she was there.
"I think I'll run to the little girl's room," Carol announced, getting up.
"Can I help?" Morris asked.
"Oh, you can handle things later," she answered, propping one hand on her hip.
"I'll join you," Betty said. "Always like to look at the artwork in these dives."
Taylor watched them cross the floor; Betty was weaving a little. "Getting tight," he said. "Okay, why did you bring that whore?"
Morris glared at him. "Look, son of a bitch, you don't just drop us a note telling us what we're doing and how we're going to do it. If you want to stay happy, keep your goddamn mouth shut." His eyes burned like coals.
Taylor wanted to hit him. "Will she yap?" he asked.
"She knows what'll happen if she does. Right now she's in there telling Betty about the other girls you screwed up."
"What kind of crap are you feeding me?" Taylor said incredulously.
"You're not just supposed to take 'em out and lay 'em, bastard; you're supposed to make sluts out of them, not homemakers."
"You guys don't know the deal-Betty's one of these no love, no lay types."
"Look, kid, we know the ropes. Love first, but if you don't break that happy marriage picture, it's harder for another guy to touch her. That's what Carol's in there doing."
"And I bet she's loving every minute of it," Taylor thought. Morris was right-he had primed Betty with marriage talk. Maybe he had gone soft on her. He had to toughen up. "What do you want me to do tonight?" he asked.
"Fill her up with that," he answered, pointing to the bottle. "And dance with Carol a lot."
The picture was getting clearer; the sicker Betty got of him, the faster Morris could step in; then start passing her around to the group. If it worked...
When Betty came back, her expression was a little too bright and happy. "Got another cigarette?" she asked Morris. Taylor watched her take it from the pack, and saw the momentary glint of light in her eyes.
Carol wore a smug smile. She lifted her glass and sipped. A few drops fell to the tops of her breasts. She wiped them off slowly, pushing her hand a little beneath her dress.
"Carol?" Taylor asked, pointing to the dance floor, but still watching the motion of her hand. She got up, leaning over as she did so. He caught a glimpse of her breasts, thrusting deep into the bodice of her dress. He patted Betty on the leg and winked as they left for the dance floor. Betty reached across for the bottle. Morris stopped her hand and mixed the drink for her.
Carol was warm; she danced close. Her legs rubbed his as they moved. He knew she could feel him through the clothing. Her lips caught the lobe of his ear now and then as they danced.
When they came back to the table, Morris was fingering Betty's hand and she was giggling. "Hold your hand over your mouth ... that's a girl ... breathe it in," he instructed. "Don't smoke it like a damn cigarette; and when you cup your hands, make it look like you're coughing." Betty inhaled slowly, then took a big swallow from her glass. "She's trying to finish the bottle, to keep you from drinking so much," said Morris, smiling at Taylor.
"That's right, no more for you, honey," Betty said, tipping the glass up to her mouth.
"She's gonna be sick as hell," Taylor said. "Drink what you want, kitten, but take it slow."
"I'll drink any goddamn way I please," she said, smiling.
"Don't nag her," Morris said.
Taylor watched her drink. The fifth was gone except for a couple of jiggers. Carol had had her share, but she could hold it.
"Let's all get a buzz," Morris said, reaching for the bottle.
"Great!" Betty added. "Buzz, buzz-" The last drops of bourbon fell from the bottle. The half pint of gin had gone like water., Morris left the table and returned shortly with another pint. Betty was beyond the point of restraint and was taking pride in the speed with which she drank. When Morris danced with her, she clung to him like a dead weight. Carol had slowed down to a weak highball, which she sipped between dances. Her constant talking began to make Taylor nervous.
"I'm bored," Betty suddenly shouted, swinging her hand down onto the table.
"When you date Taylor, baby, you should feel drilled,"
Carol said, then laughed so hard she nearly fell out of the chair.
Pretending to ignore her, Taylor poured a drop of his drink onto an insect. The tiny speck struggled. Betty smashed her fist across the drop. "Guilty bastard doesn't bark!" She waved her finger around in front of Taylor and landed it gently on the end of his nose. "I'm bored," she repeated. "Let's do something."
"Taylor does stuff all the time, don't you, Taylor?" Carol interrupted.
"Uh-huh, I know," Betty answered, dipping her fingers into the glass and flipping them at him. "Let's do something-I tell you what, I'll, I'll-stand on my chair and dance. Taylor doesn't like to dance-I know, he-likes to dance with Carol. She can sex him up. I'm all worn out, huh? Right, honey?"
"That's right," Taylor answered coldly.
"What'll you do if I get up on the table, huh? Whatll you do if kitten does that?"
"I'll look up your dress."
"That's love, ain't it, honey-you tell that to all the goddamn broads like me. That's love-that's lo-o-ove," she sang. She stood up unsteadily, climbed onto the chair, trying to keep her high heels from falling off. "Gonna get on the table," she sang. "I'm dril-l-led."
Morris got up and walked around the table. "Let's go for a fast ride," he said, slipping his hands around her waist to steady her.
"What kind of ride?" she giggled.
"A fast ride."
"Can I go get ridden, Taylor?", She stumbled down from the chair. The people at the next table applauded. "I mean, can I go riding?"
Taylor did not answer.
"You don't give a damn if I do or don'ts, does you?" She leaned over close to his ear. "You don't care, do you? Huh? Huh? I'm going, anyway-I'm going riding with Morris. I'm drunk and I'm going riding with Morris!" she cried in his ear.
Taylor sipped his drink.
"Let's go, Betty, he don't care," said Morris, taking her hand.
"Let's go, Betty, he don't care," she repeated. "He don't care," she screamed back at him. Morris hurried her out. "He don't care-" Taylor could hear her all the way out
"You don't, do you?" Carol smiled. "Move your chair over by me."
Taylor did so. Carol's eyes were glassy; she looked as if she were seeing visions. She had not changed as much as he had expected. She was slimmer, but it looked good-she had been a little plump. He could not understand why she was not cold to him. He had expected her to really hate him
"You're looking good, Carol," he said.
"They bring me dog food three times a day and I get petted whenever I want." She rested her arm on the back of his chair. "Did you think it would be tough when you signed over your little girl's soul?" For the first time, there was a hint of bitterness in her voice.
Taylor looked down at her fingers; they were trembling slightly. "Drink?" he asked, spinning the cap off the bottle with his finger.
"No, but you can get me something else."
He glanced up. "What?"
"Morris's cigs."
"How?"
"Tell him you want to keep the fire going in Betty."
"No wonder the slut's playing up to me," he thought.
He said, "You heard Morris. You can't get a buzz off those any more."
"Will you get 'em? Sometimes they cut my time on the other-then it's hell."
"I'll try."
"Four hours-it gets tough after that. Your stomach turns in on you-pushes your guts all around. You throw up and throw up-till your brain bursts out of your skull."
"I'll try," he repeated. "A cig won't do you much good, you know that."
She poured another drink and took a big gulp. "And then you feel weak all over-and you sweat and sweat, till-"
"Shut up!" Taylor picked up Betty's glass and played with it nervously. He stared across at the door. Would she give it to Morris? "She didn't want to go," he thought. "She wanted me to stop her."
"Don't worry," Carol said, as if reading his thoughts. "They'll have her on the stuff in a month or two. She'll get to like the stuff-it makes you float through time like a feather. You feel peaceful; you don't give a damn ... she'll like the stuff."
Taylor's eyes were stinging; he wanted to be in the ocean, let the cool water rush over his face-to forget-let the water wash Betty and everything out of his mind. He stretched his arms and yawned until his jaw cracked.
"Why don't we go for a ride?" Carol asked.
"They'll be back."
"Only for a few minutes..."
"Morris won't like it." That was not the reason-he just did not want it. But maybe it would help things if Betty came back and saw he was gone. It might put her in just the right frame of mind for Morris to step in. "Morris don't care," she said. "Okay. Hell, let's go."
Outside, the air was cool. Taylor turned the vent to make a breeze on him as he drove. Carol sat close at his side, her hand massaging his thigh. "There's a back road up there," she said, pointing. Taylor turned mechanically off down the lane. It was a blacktop, but there were potholes in it. Moonlight was reflected from a dirt road at the bottom of the hill.
"Turn down here."
The car bumped and joggled over ruts. Grass grew in clumps. The grooves got deeper, then finally, as if the worst were a promise of something better, dwindled out to a smooth grassy bed.
Taylor made a wide turn and came to a stop. The sound of insects penetrated the stillness. He put his head on Carol's shoulder and listened.
She moved his hand to her hip, but it lay motionless. His feelings were dead. For once, he just did not want it.
"If you don't move around a bit," she said, brushing her lips along the side of his neck, "you might go to sleep."
"Save it for Morris."
"Betty's taking it out of him," she whispered. "I want to feel it now."
"I feel barren, honey. I couldn't if I tried."
Her fingers trailed up his thigh, paused, grew inquisitive. Taylor stirred. "Need some help?" she whispered. Her breathing quickened. "That's a little better," she said. "Come on, sugar-" He stirred, groaned, clutching her back through the dress. She would not let go of him, and he finally had to grab her by the hair and pull her away.
She stared up at him with depthless eyes. "Want me a little bit now, sugar?" Her tongue flicked out, moistened her full lower hp. "Come on, lover-"
Aroused, he fumbled at the back of her dress, succeeded in opening it and pulling the bodice down around her waist. She loosened the bra herself and tossed it into the back seat. Her breasts were low and pointed, swaying loosely, with big, dark nipples. She moved her body provocatively.
Taylor was busy under her skirt, yanking down the panties. She raised one knee to let him get them off, then bent over him again, her mouth searching for his. Taylor fell back over the end of the seat, his hand catching the door handle and shoving it open. Her tongue nicked around the edge of his ear, and her warm belly softened over him. He grasped the curves of her hips.
"Ask me nice," she panted.
"Damn you!" His hands forced her down, and she yielded. She was ready for him, warm and sliding and wet.
"Oh, sugar!" she said.
Her hands gripped him ecstatically through his shirt. Her lips were open, shiny with moisture. She grunted, then began to moan, clutching him harder. At length she stiffened and fell over him, her damp hair in his face, her breasts squashed against his chest. "Oh, daddy-o!"
Her hips moved, grinding against him until he reached his own climax; then she relaxed. Her body grew heavy, and he shoved at her until she sat up.
The wind rushed in the open door. He lay passively across the seat as Carol dressed. For a while he closed his eyes and let his mind drift. The thoughts he had had earlier began to return, and the moments of comfort faded. Carol's hair hung down around her face; she was wet with sweat, and saliva was smeared across her cheek. He felt sick, as if he wanted to vomit but could not.
"Slimy slut," he muttered. His shirt was rumpled and smelled of perspiration. He dressed and stepped out of the car to draw in a few breaths of night air.
"I've got to get out of this stuff," he mumbled aloud. "I can't take this crap-I'm sick!" He fell against the car, resting his head on the cold metal. "They've got to give me something else; I can't bring in another one ... I can't," he whispered.
"Was this little boy's first time?" Carol called from the car.
He stepped in and started the motor. "I'm dirty, is that it."
"Yeah, that's right," he said.
In the distance, red and blue neon lights outlined the body of a huge fly. He hoped Morris was back. The parking lot was still crowded, and he did not know the make of Morris's car.
At the door they were met by the bouncer. "Two bucks, son."
"I paid once-I just stepped out to tell Mother I'd be home late."
"Well, did Mother give you two bucks?"
"I said I paid, dammit.. "
"Okay, okay, lemme see you ID."
Taylor handed him two bills. "Bastard!" he whispered, walking toward the table. Morris and Betty were there. Betty was drinking even more heavily. He had trouble understanding anything she said. Morris sat quietly puffing a cigarette. On his cheek and down the side of his neck were four red lines. Betty's eyes were red and swollen, and her hp had a slight bruise that showed when she opened her mouth. The sleeve of her dress was torn under the arm, and the back of it was spotted with dirt.
"How was the ride, sweetheart?" Taylor murmured, looking over at Morris. Betty went on talking incoherently.
Morris nodded; his tight lips conveyed a hidden smile. "So they've got her..." Taylor's mind wandered out across the dance floor. "Funny how a person can drop one night and a person can turn into a whore, just another slut."
Tomorrow seemed far off to him; yesterday and the week before were years. He could not seem to fit himself into time ... the room ... the dim lights ... music-all unconnected moments. "I'm not here," he thought, "It's false. Something's wrong. I've got to get out!" He twisted around suddenly. "Let's go, Betty."
She sat there; she could not hear him. Her hands clutched a glass. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her out of the chair. She fell over him like a wilted plant. He swung his arm around her and lifted her up. She hung limply in his arms, babbling meaningless phrases.
"Go by the drugstore in the morning," Morris muttered as he passed.
The bouncer came over beside him. "Can I help?"
"Yeah," he answered, swerving from side to side with Betty in his arms. "Open the door." He had drunk much more than he had planned to, and his head was spinning.
He dumped Betty in the front seat and tried several times unsuccessfully to fit the key into the ignition.
The white line of the highway quivered before him. He stuck close to it, afraid of driving into the ditch on the right. Betty slept beside him. The road had several tough curves. He felt dizzy and tired, as if he could lean his head over and sleep for a year.
"Got to keep awake," he mumbled. The problem was that he did not care.
It was all so useless.
The headlights of a car flashed across his eyes, and the loud blast of a horn broke into his thoughts. He was over the line.
The horn wailed in his ears and the bright fights blinked on and off. He swerved sharply to the right; the car tilted as his tires sank into a gravel shoulder. He followed the edge of the blacktop and moved slowly back onto the road.
"Bet I scared the piss out of him."
Betty began to make moaning sounds. She was deathly white and her head rolled around on the back of the seat. She swallowed several times and uttered faint gurgling sounds.
"Oh God!" he muttered, "she's going to throw up!" He slowed the car to a stop on the side of the road. When he stepped out the door, the blood rushed away from his head, and he had the blackening sensation of being dragged to the ground. He caught the radio aerial and steadied himself.
His lights were on, and when he passed in front of them his eyes seemed to shrink back in his head. After stumbling around, he got the door handle open on Betty's side. He reached under her arms to get a grip. She dropped her chin. Her eyes rolled upward and with a stifled sound she threw up. The vomit spewed across him, splattered on the car seat.
"Goddammit!" he yelled. "Wait'll I get you out of the fool car!"
He dragged her out and struggled to lean her over the car hood; another volume of fluid erupted and rolled down the side of the car. Her body jerked and more fluid poured from her mouth.
"Good God! How much of the crap did you drink!" he complained, trying with great difficulty to steady both her and himself.
She kept vomiting until nothing but air came out. A long period of gagging followed. Her face was blue-white, and her eyes widened and circled demoniacally around till almost all that showed were two white bulging eyeballs. Then she collapsed completely. He lifted her off the hood and flopped her through the back door.
Her legs slid on the slick cover until she lay half on the seat and half on the floor.
He propped himself for a moment on the open door. His white shirt was soaked, and the stench nauseated him. He fumbled with the buttons; removed the shirt. Some of the vomit had soaked through to his T-shirt, but he felt better.
When he reached Betty's house, she was sound asleep. He carried her to the door, hoping her mother was still away.
He lowered her onto the couch in the front room and got a towel from the kitchen to clean off her face. Her eyes were closed. She was breathing easily. She looked more like a little girl than ever; her round cheeks glowed with innocence. He moved the stringy blonde hair out of her eyes and pushed it around the sides of her head.
"Betty," he whispered.
She lay motionless. He picked her up once more and moved her into the bedroom. Her torn dress was almost unrecognizable. He unzipped it in the back and pulled it slowly off her limp body. She drew her legs up and gave a faint sigh.
Her slip was stained. Her hands reached to pull off her stockings ... then he remembered he had left her shoes in the car.
When he came back, she had taken off her slip and bra and was lying on her stomach clutching a pillow. "Betty," he said softly.
She managed a weak sound and pulled her pillow closer. Tears streamed down her face.
"Betty," he whispered again, "I'm sorry, honey-I'm sorry."
He pulled the sheet over her and leaned over close to her ear. His head was hot and moist. He had the painful feeling that something he wanted had been wrenched away from him.
"I'm sorry, honey," he repeated. "Can you hear me? I'm sorry." He dropped his head across her neck and cried.
She was asleep.
4
THE clouds began to gather in the morning, and by afternoon rain was falling in sheets. It was a pleasant relief from the midsummer heat. Taylor had paced the house all morning. His father was having trouble breathing, and Auntie had called the doctor. He was hungry, but had lost his breakfast and was afraid to try eating anything else.
"Taylor," Auntie called from the back of the house. He answered mechanically. The doctor was still in the bedroom with his father.
"Your father's pretty sick," she said. "The alcohol has poisoned his system."
"Bull," he said emphatically. "The only thing that's wrong with that old fool is that he don't eat nothing."
"The doctor says it's his breathing." She was hurt by his lack of concern. "He says he needs to be hospitalized."
"Aw, for God's sake, he don't need nothing but a square meal and a kick in the butt."
"Taylor, please-talk to the doctor, will you?"
"Okay," he said, "I'll talk to him the whole night if you want." He would never admit it to her, but he liked the way Auntie loved people, not just her brother, but nearly everyone she knew.
His father lay stiff across the bed. His breathing was slow and deep. The air wheezed as it forced its way out of his nostrils.
"How old's your father, son?" the doctor asked.
"I don't know-late forties, I guess. He awake?"
"No. He looks sixty. How long has he been drinking like this?"
"Nine or ten years, maybe-ever since mother died. What's it done to him?"
"I don't suppose the alcohol has done much to him, except lower his resistance and take away his need for food."
"What's wrong with him?"
"Physically? Malnutrition and congestion of the lungs."
"Can't you give him a shot or something."
"The only thing that'll keep him alive as he is now is full-time medical care."
"Can't have it-no money."
"The Bringston Hospital will take cases where the family is financially unable. The facilities may not be the best, but it'll keep him alive."
"Will it take an ambulance?"
"No, he can be moved by car."
Taylor called Auntie back into the room. "Okay, get the car. I'll carry him out the back way."
"Are you going to drive?" Auntie asked. "I'm not going."
"I'll be glad to accompany you, Miss Latham," the doctor said.
"Thank you." She did not show it, but Taylor could feel her disgust.
When they had gone, he turned on the radio and stretched out on the couch. His reaction to his father's illness seemed cold, even to him. He no longer remembered how to express sympathy, although at times his emotions would bubble forth when he least wanted them to. Actually he would have liked to go to the hospital with them, but something seemed to hold him back. He could no longer understand himself. Last night he had both hated and loved Betty; he had wanted to be free of her; yet without her there was need and loneliness.
"I'll never do another job like that," he thought. "They've got to give me a break-something new. I can't get wrapped up again." Maybe they would not need him for a while after this last work-or was he finished with Betty? "They know I want in; I've got to get the chance."
He wanted to forget last night, but it was as fresh in his mind as if he were still there, suffering. He wanted to forget about Carol and her body, forget about Betty's face as she threw up, or Morris as he sat like a statue, watching Taylor.
He sat up. The radio blurred in his mind; he turned it up loud and moved over next to the speaker. He tried to listen, but his head was spinning with returning images.
"Got to clear my head," he muttered. He did not want to go to the drugstore yet, but it could not be put off. He was afraid there would be something to do-something he could not do.
He got up impulsively and left the house. He would count the lines on the sidewalk to let his mind rest. "One, two, three, four..." He had done this when he was little, imagined cracks were canyons and that if he stepped on one he would fall a thousand miles.
When he reached the drugstore, he was relaxed. "Last night will fade," he thought, "and I'll laugh at myself for getting involved." It confused him to realize that he was depressed one moment, then calm and unconcerned the next "Human nature," he thought.
Inside the store the fan under the light whirled noisily. The soda clerk was sweeping the tile floor.
"Sundae," Taylor ordered, taking a seat behind one of the tables. The boy did not bother to conceal the package under a paper container; he just handed it to Taylor folded in a napkin. Taylor picked up a magazine and opened the envelope behind it. "Forty dollars-why this much?" he thought. He slipped it into his pocket. "Thought they were pissed off." Could they sense his feelings of dissatisfaction?
On the back of the envelope was a telephone number and a list of various times. The word "Cal!" was scribbled in large letters underneath.
"I thought there was something," he told himself. "The next job will probably take half this pack." Even so, it was a change from the regular pattern. He read the lists of times again. "I'll call at eight," he decided.
In the evening when he got to a booth, he remembered he was supposed to take Auntie to see his father. No doubt she would be upset again, but it would not take her long to forgive him. "Damn bus goes right by the hospital," he thought, putting a dime in the slot.
The phone rang twice.
"Yeah?"
"This is Taylor." There was a pause. Voices were in the background. "Taylor," he repeated.
"We hear you're no longer happy with us," a voice answered. He was silent. "We hear you don't like what you're doing. You don't want us to worry about you, do you, Taylor?"
His pulse quickened. "Can't you get sore sometimes-can't a guy get pissed?" He twisted the wire between his fingers. "All right! so I didn't like the way Morris handled things last night-so I was wrong. I'm not trying a break-I got sore, one damn night I get sore and it's a break I'm trying. You want me to come sniveling like a beaten little bitch and say I'm sorry?"
"What makes you think you're not a beaten little bitch?"
He gazed out through the wired glass of the phone booth. Gnats flew against the light above him. "Why can't I tell 'em to eat hell?" he thought, wrapping the cord around his hand. He said aloud, "I don't want to break."
"We're so happy for you, because you couldn't break with us if you tried. No one steps off the train when it's moving, but you can try whenever you want." There was another muffled silence. Taylor waited patiently.
"We have a new deal for you, Taylor," the voice resumed. "You wanted in, didn't you?"
Taylor said nothing.
"Then one more deal-if done smooth, then the new..."
His hand squeezed tight around the hard receiver. He was disappointed, yet relieved. He wanted a change, but was scared-it could be worse and drive in deeper.
"Let's have it."
"There's a girl-"
"What about Betty?" he interrupted. "She's in. Morris does his job."
"Go on."
"A girl named Mary Susan Anderson-father's doing time, mother drinks a lot; a pushover. We expect this one to be quick. She's a waitress at the Normal Cafe. They call her Sue. It's written on her uniform."
"When do I start?"
"You know better than to ask; you're a big boy-you start now."
"Is that all."
"That's all."
The Normal Cafe was poorly lighted. The large flashing signs of stores on either side made it seem closed. Dark red curtains, drawn together at the center of a small glass front, added to its dim appearance. Light specks showed through the moth-eaten holes. A sign was framed between the material and the glass. "Open: 7:30, Closed: 9:30." He glanced at a clock in the next store. It was a little after nine.
The inside was as small as the outside looked. A row of tables was centered between two lines of booths in a long, narrow room. A couple sat at the rear chatting with an elderly waitress. The rest of the room was vacant.
"Guess she's off," he thought. He sat in a corner booth at the front. "I should find out her hours."
The waitress in the rear looked over at his booth. Her deep voice rang hoarsely back to the kitchen. "Honey! Customer! All the way in the front and all he'll probably order is a damn cup of coffee."
Taylor lit a cigarette, and rested his head in his hands, eyes closed. "Wonder how the old man's coming along?" he thought. "Won't be much different if he stays alive or not, except, what would Auntie do? She can go to blue hell for all I care." He shifted his thoughts to Betty. Could they tie her up without using him any further? Could they make her like Carol? "She'll go in," he thought, "be a blob of flesh that lays when they say lay."
The sound of a skirt rustled against the table. There was a shadow across the marble surface. His eyes opened and followed a full skirt to a narrow waist, up to a full blouse, and finally to two dark, cat-like brown eyes. Short black hair framed the girl's features with a swirl on both sides. There was a certain firmness about her lips, and although the corners of the mouth were straight, she seemed to have a knowing smile.
Taylor inhaled a deep puff. The smoke clouded her image. She was something unreal in a gray mist. He was tired, and willingly let his fantasy drift.
"Your order?"
"Coffee-french fries." The red threads of the letters "S-U-E" stood out plainly over the pocket of her white blouse. "And anything else you want to bring me," he added. Her lips curved into a shy smile as she jotted across the check with a short pencil. The airy skirt spun as she went toward the kitchen.
"The group's taste is improving," he thought. "Wonder if she's as cheap as they expect." She seemed different. Her makeup was conservative, with the exception of long, slender red nails. "Bet she's particular about her bed buddies."
At the back of the room, the older waitress went on talking in loud, hearty tones to a middle-aged couple who seemed enthralled by her outgoing personality. "Yeah-but-but-" The man tried in vain to interrupt her. Occasionally she would lean down with her arm across the table and whisper something in the man's ear, while the other woman strained to hear.
Taylor looked around for the juke box. "Wish the bitch would shut up," he muttered. His glance fell on a multicolored juke box between two booths. He got up and walked over to it. His fingers ran along the song titles, coming to a halt on a card labeled: "Man Don't Live On Bread Alone." He put in a quarter and looked back toward the kitchen. His finger moved in and out on the button until the 'Select' sign blinked off. He returned to his seat and slouched up against the wall. The juke box burst into life.
Sue came back carrying a tray. "Are you listening to my song?" he asked.
"Yes, and I agree with it-a man also needs meat and vegetables."
"Cool, real cool," he said. "Is there any way to shut up that old bag in back?"
"You mean Martha?" she asked. "Not hardly-she's the boss's wife."
"Yeah? And I'm the boss's pocketbook."
"Most of the customers like her-say she breaks the monotony of eating."
"Oh, she does that, all right."
"Would there be anything else?"
"Yes, can I take you home after close-up time?"
"No, you can't."
"Well, I guess that means I'm still a lonely, friendless boy," he said, blinking his eyes with a look of profound sorrow.
"You might not be, if you weren't so blunt."
"Oh, that's it. How about this: would it be too much out of the ordinary if I asked if the way in which you are to be escorted to your abode were a pre-planned affair?"
"No, it wouldn't be out of the ordinary, and my mother is escorting me home at exactly nine-forty-five."
"But the place closes at nine-thirty."
"Yes, and I will wait patiently by the door until she arrives."
"Well now, could I guard you against strangers for those precious few minutes?"
"I really don't have the strength to run you off."
"Don't mention it, glad to be of service."
"Sue!" the old waitress called. "Quit bothering the customer and finish up in the kitchen!"
"I tried to make her leave me alone," he shouted back. Sue gave a low growl and returned to the kitchen. "Cracking the ice," Taylor thought, sipping the black coffee.
The couple in back left and the front lights went out. "Closing time!" a voice called from the kitchen. Taylor paid his check and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The door clicked and the light specks in the curtains vanished.
"She should be out by now," he thought. "It's been several minutes." He suspected he had been played for a fool. He yawned and moved away from the cafe. Footsteps from the back made him turn. Around the corner of the next store came a girl dressed in a tight black dress-Sue.
"Had to change," she said.
"Looks good, either way."
"Mother come yet?"
"Yeah-came and left."
"A woman in a green Ford?" she asked.
"That's right."
"Good. Mother drives a brown Chevrolet."
"Ummm..." He looked at her curiously. "Sharp kitten," he thought. "This is gonna be tough."
"I don't like the way you're looking at me," she said.
"Why, how could you tell?"
"You look like an evil boy."
"Do I?" he asked in a half-serious tone.
She laughed. "No, in fact, I think you're an inexperienced little boy trying to pose as a man of the world."
"What are you, a psychologist?"
She ignored him, pretended to look down the street for a car. "Maybe I should play angel at first," he thought. "Let her play angel too, then break the spell." It was hard to determine whether she wanted his attention or was playing "big girl to little boy." No doubt she was older and more mature than Betty, yet she had the fresh look of a high-school girl. The way she talked-the way she flung words around-he was not used to it. He knew he would have to use a new line, an approach that would give her credit for being smarter than other girls.
Lights of a car neared, then whizzed by. "That was her," he said. "Went right on and left you."
"Patience, sly one."
He shrugged and looked innocent. They had been there for nearly fifteen minutes, and Sue was beginning to show signs of nervousness. "Maybe she knew this mother pickup business wasn't going to happen," he thought. The night began to seem empty. "Sure she's coming?" he asked.
"No, I'm not."
"Why wait any longer? You're wasting time."
"You're right. Mind calling me a cab."
"Aw, come off it, baby, that's my Merc right over there."
"Look, boy, let's straighten our sights-your dull comments are about as sexy as a wet rag."
"Whew!" he said, looking away. It was not so much what she said that bothered him, it was that emphasis on the word "boy."
"That's it," she said. "Pretend to be deeply injured."
"Okay, I'll level. I think you're damned good-looking and I want to take you home-not to do anything else-just meet you, that's all."
"And I'll level with you. I'm not interested." She wheeled around and walked in the other direction.
"Look-forget it," he mumbled. What good would it do to chase after her? She meant it.
His image in the restaurant window stared out at him. He raised his fingers to the side of his cheek; they followed the curve to the base of his chin. "Boyl Goddamn boy!"
5
GOOD God! That sun's burning my eyes out! Auntie! Why'd you put the shade up? Auntie!" He listened. "Must not be here," he thought, dropping his feet to the floor. "Thank God for mornings, fresh, cool mornings!"
The kitchen was empty. "Auntie! Guess she's at the hospital. Means the car's probably gone." Taylor opened the refrigerator and pulled out the remains of a ham. He slapped a slice of greasy ham between two pieces of bread, bit into it, then gently tossed the attempted sandwich into the trash can. "Better call the hospital."
The telephone was so hot that the dial left a ring of heat around his finger.
"Bringston Hospital," an operator answered.
"Room two-hundred-six."
"One moment, please."
Auntie answered the phone. She sounded upset, but then she always did, whenever there was a good excuse. "How is he?"
"Not good-not good. He's gone through several spasms, and the doctor said it may be heart trouble in addition. Hadn't you better come up?"
"Why? Nothing I can do."
"He might call for you."
"Has he yet."
"He's been unconscious."
"Well, he won't."
"Can't you stop by for a few minutes?"
"Got to work. I'll call, now and then."
Taylor put the receiver down. "Is he really sick?" he thought. "She's probably blown things up so I'll come down and pet her." He did not understand why he was worried. He had never been close to his father. "I don't think I would care," he thought. "I don't think I would care if he did die."
The thought disturbed him, and he put it out of his mind. How was he going to work things out for Sue? Last night had been a complete failure. Even Betty had been warm at first, or at least warm alongside this one.
He retreated to the front room to enjoy the comforts of the couch. Feelings of drowsiness overcame his worries. His hands slid under the cushions. The morning had left them cool; they were soothing to his body. Sleep came fast, but light, with dreams and reality intermingled.
"He's dead. Your father's dead, son." Auntie stood towering over a crowd of people. Her head moved like a blurred mass from side to side.
"He's dead," the crowd chanted behind her.
"I'm leaving, Taylor-you're all alone," Auntie said.
"Why don't you stay?" he asked.
"I hate you, Taylor," she said.
"She hates you, Taylor," said Sue, stepping out.
"We all hate you," the crowd mumbled.
"You're not really worth anything-why shouldn't we? You're just a boy," Sue laughed.
A big hand gripped his shoulder. "That's all you are, kid, just a boy!" It was Morris.
"Where do you work, Taylor?" Auntie asked.
"I work at a store," he answered. "Liar!" Morris screamed. "Liar!" Betty's voice echoed.
"I loved your mother, son," his father said, staring at him with cloudy eyes. "They said you were dead."
"No, I'm not dead, I'm alive."
The features blurred and die Auntie's face came through. "I'm not dead."
"Why is everybody here?" he asked.
"To tell you that your father's dead," they answered.
"But he was just here!" he thought, looking wildly around the room.
"No, he's dead," Auntie repeated.
Morris began laughing, in loud bursts of sound-"Ha-ha-ha-harh-arh-arf-arf, arf, arf..."
Taylor's eyes opened slowly. The dog's barking echoed in his mind. He leaned over the top of the couch, looked out the window. The dog in the next yard went on barking.
"Oh, God," he said, letting his chin fall on a cushion. He turned over on his back and stared at the ceiling. The bowl beneath the light was full of dead insects. He raised himself to a sitting position. "Sue-I've got to-I could eat lunch at the Normal," he thought. "It might not be her shift; but I have to eat some crappy place anyway-nothing to lose."
The Merc was outside. Auntie had taken a bus. "Must've been too nervous to drive," he thought. It was a little early for lunch, but he dressed hurriedly, slipping on a clean shirt and trying to make the sides of his flat-top smooth back close to his head. A few unwilling hairs sprang out on the sides.
The car had a musty smell, and the floor was covered with trash. Sunlight blazed from an open tube of hp-stick lodged in the crack of the seat.
"What slut owns that?" he wondered. He picked it up and flicked it into the yard. A red smear remained on the seat.
There was little traffic. He sped along, honking at every girl he saw. He wanted a convertible, so he could feel the wind hitting him. If he moved up in the group, he could get one. If he carried this off, they said he would be in. There was no doubt that they understood how he felt, and he did not think they were willing to risk pushing him to a break.
"Aw yeah, they would," he told himself. "They're stuck together in a big ball of stinking mud; I'm just a damn pebble they can pick up or roll on by. If I broke, I'd be kicked in the stream and the half-assed police would never know." He glanced at the speedometer. He was hitting over seventy.
"Shhhi-" he whispered. He turned sharply around a corner, cutting his speed and sliding at the same time. He did not see the cafe until he was right on it.
The curtains were drawn and the small room was fairly crowded. "Must've been better food than I figured," he thought. He saw an empty booth and moved over to it. To his surprise, there was an old man, about seventy-five or eighty, sitting in one corner. Taylor stopped and looked around for another seat.
"Aw, siddown, son-I ain't no homo or nothin', " the old man said, in a tone loud enough to make heads turn at several tables nearby. Taylor smiled and sat down.
"Off for lunch, boy?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"Where you work?"
"At a store."
"Ehh-see you don't want to talk. Can't blame you-didn't talk much myself when I was your age. Wouldn't talk so damn much now if I had anything better to do-just sit back on my dirty old butt and rake in the pension."
He must be a little deaf, Taylor thought, or he would not be talking so loud. A woman in the booth behind was making wild gestures of disgust to the man across from her. Taylor laughed.
"What's funny, boy? Can those old broads hear me?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"Don't give a filthy damn, but I guess if I'm going to eat in this rat hole any more, I'd better quiet it down a bit-that is, unless your young mind is offended by it all."
"I get shook up when I hear bad language."
"Don't suppose my vocabulary's as big as it could be, but I been getting salt when I say 'salt' and pepper when I say 'pepper' for eighty-three years."
"Must've gotten a lot of salt and pepper by now."
"Well, they've always said I was kind of salty. Heh, heh."
"Heh, heh," Taylor mocked.
"Screw you, son. Oh! Almost forgot to give you my emblem," he added, taking out a small white business card. Taylor read, "Parker Bradley," and in the bottom corner, "Sgt, City Police (ret.). "
"You're with the cops," he said.
"Yeah, and don't get shook, 'cause I ain't interested in turning in no juveniles. Right now I can't even direct traffic."
Taylor looked up. The old man's face was jovial, but his eyes held a glint of curiosity. "How long were you on the force?" Taylor asked.
"Aw, God knows-near fifty years, I reckon. Got a son on now, Parker, Jr.-well, he was on the force-detective now."
"Gets paid more that way, don't he."
"Aw, hell yes-makes three times what I did. 'Course, you got to pay three times as much for everything."
"You eaten?"
"Yep; guess that waitress thinks this table's through." He whistled.
Taylor looked down at the table. A waitress came promptly.
"Order?" It was Sue.
"Two ham sandwiches-milk," he said, looking up without expression. Her face reflected the same blankness. The pencil moved quick across the pad, and she left.
"Well, I don't know about you, boy, but if I was a month or two younger, I'd at least smile at stuff like that!"
"How old would you say that stuff is?"
" 'Bout eighteen-'round two years older'n yourself."
"Piss." He watched Sue move around to other tables. She did look older. The white uniform was partly responsible. She had looked younger in the dress she wore last night.
"Might just look older," Bradley commented. When she brought the sandwiches, Taylor did not look up.
"Anything else, Mr. Bradley."
"No, thanks, honey."
She placed a check beside his plate. Taylor looked up. "Think that's all for me, too."
She smiled slightly, and tore another slip from the pad. The old man's eyes followed her as she moved away.
"Know her?" Taylor asked.
"Yeah, ever since she's worked here. Nice girl. Seen 'em try to pick her up. It's no go. Either she's attached to something or doesn't like to play."
"Wonder why?" Taylor whispered. At least it was not just him-she treated the rest that way. But how could he make himself any different from the others?
"She's cold, that's all-can't do one damn thing till she changes," he thought "She's got to change quick; the group won't wait."
Ideas refused to come. He was fresh out of schemes. "The group wouldn't want her, not like she is," he thought, "but they don't know."
"What're you thinking "bout, son?"
"What's the difference between a nice girl and a frigid one?"
"Just because a woman don't put out on a first date don't mean she's frigid."
He looked once again at the old man's card, slipped it into his billfold and got up from the table.
"Got to go to work?"
"Uh huh."
Sue met him at the cash register. "Guess I was pushing things too much last night," he said as she rang up the check.
"Typical," she answered curtly.
"That's the last way I wanted it to look," he said, leaving the counter. He caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window; her gaze followed him out the door.
The phone was ringing when he entered the house. He moved slowly to the back room. Several seconds had gone by since the last ring. His hand touched the receiver, then drew back as the silence continued.
"The group?" he wondered. "No-they wouldn't be calling now."
On the kitchen table was a note: "Staying overnight at the hospital. Love, Auntie."
"Must be pretty sick," he thought. "I should call;"
The note had been written hurriedly. He crumpled it between his fingers and tossed it into the garbage can.
The phone rang again. It was Auntie.
"I was gonna call."
"The doctor says he could die."
"I'll come down."
He hung up, a little shocked by the word "die"-it seemed unreal to him. The memory of his mother's death drifted, into his mind. He opened the door and got into the Merc. His mother had looked much younger than his father. When they told him, he had not cried or even moved-he had been nearer laughing than anything. Even after the funeral she was not dead-she just was not home. His father said she was not dead-said she had gone away-like the morning glory closes."
The car came to a halt at a light. But after days had passed, or maybe weeks, the word "death" had become real. His mother had begun to leave his thoughts, and finally his dreams. His father never lost her; she was alive as ever. He would come in drunk and shout at her. If there was a decision to be made, it was still "ask your mother."
"But she's dead!" he would plead.
"Ask your mother."
He could see the hospital in the distance. "But what difference would it make?" he mumbled aloud. "It would be the same-dead or alive." He could not clear away the empty, raw feeling.
It was only the second floor, but his stomach hurt with the sudden lift of the elevator. He walked down the hall, calling the room numbers off to himself.
"Two-hundred-six," he whispered. The door was closed. He rapped gently. A nurse answered and led him quietly into the room. Auntie was sitting in a chair by the far corner, crying.
"How's he doing?" Taylor asked in low tones.
"Better," the nurse answered. "At least he's relaxed. I believe he'll come out okay."
"Why don't you go on home, Auntie?" Taylor asked.
She did not speak, but shook her head. The bed smelled sour, and there were stains on the sheets around his father's head. Blotches of red broke a pallid complexion. There was no wheezing, but he breathed slowly and with difficulty.
"He's not conscious," the nurse said.
"I've got to go. Tell Auntie to call if things go bad," he said softly. The nurse nodded.
Taylor stepped over to the bed. The light lay yellow on high cheekbones, shadowing the sunken eyes. "You poor damn fool," Taylor muttered. "Why don't you eat?"
He passed by Auntie's chair. "I'll see you."
The hallway was blocked by wheelchairs and service trays.
He had not been to the drugstore, but there was not likely to be anything new this early. "I should get someplace with Sue first," he thought, "then check by the store." Things were going far too slowly-the group would be wanting results. It would be tough to make a shot in the dark and call her for a date; yet, at the same time, eating at the Normal every day was getting him nowhere. It would all work much smoother if he could take it slow for a few weeks. Another try so soon might mess things up more; If she was so cold the first time, the second was likely to be worse.
"I'll call, then check by the store," he thought, pushing the revolving doors and stepping out into the wind. The street lights had been on for more than an hour.
6
THE phone booth was only a block from the drugstore. There was a chance she would be at work, but he scanned the directory for her home address. Sue answered. "Who is this?"
"You don't recognize the voice?" he asked. "It's the 'boy' that was bothering you at work the other night, the blunt one."
"Oh."
"I knew you'd be happy."
"I'm overjoyed."
"I was talking to the cop, the one I ate with-Bradley, you know?"
"Yes, I know." Her voice was cold.
"Look," he said, "I'm trying to be natural-none of this put on stuff like the other night. I'm not trying to make a pickup or anything. I just want to date you-I don't know any other way to say it, I mean, what do you want me to say?"
"You seem to think I'll go out with you if you can just find the golden words that would unlock the door. Would it be too much a blow to your vanity if I were to tell you that it's just you, just plain you that I'm turning down?"
"I get you." He held the receiver away from his ear, trying to think of something else to say.
"I must admit," she continued, "that calling me on the telephone showed much better judgment than approaching me in the cafe."
"Sue, I don't know anything about this stuff-I mean, I honestly don't know the right way to do things. I just saw you and wanted to date you, or at least try."
"You're going back to the line again."
"You really believe that? I suppose every guy you know is really an undercover bull-shooter."
"That has a little truth in it, but I'm not as down on the other sex as you might believe."
He thought for a moment. "You know, I think there's something troubling you, or something wrong-your family, or somebody, or thing; you really don't sound normal. I guess I'm just sour-I don't mean that-I'm just sour." He waited for an answer. "This is getting old, but Bradley said you were this way-cold to the fellows. In a way, I was glad to hear it, because I knew that if I could get a date with you, then I wouldn't be just any character that asked, but someone you wanted to go out with. I wanted, I wanted real bad-to ask you out Friday. I just want to see you and be with you, that's all I want; I swear it." He waited for a reply.
"I think I'm being a fool," she said, "but-okay, Friday night."
"Thanks, Sue." The warm feeling of success swept over him. "I'll call again." He dropped the receiver and slugged the side of the booth. "Hot damn! I broke through!"
It was more of a personal accomplishment than a conquest for the group. "I'm gonna like this stuff," he thought. "It's clean-good ground." He would have to make a real show. "I'll take it slow for a couple of dates, then put the make on it."
The Merc pulled away from the curb, and his mind buzzed with the names of night spots. "We'll make it some place far out," he thought. "A good, cool ride through the country-one of those spots on the road. I'll take a fifth and heat her up on the dance floor."
He pulled up in front of the drugstore. "She'll be used to drinking, with a mother like she's got," he thought. "A few setups will break the ice."
The store was crowded, and the soda jerk was busy scooping out orders from the bottom of a freezer. His white uniform was splattered with syrup. Taylor stood patiently by the counter. The boy waited on a few others, then moved over to him. "Whatcha want?"
"Something cold."
"There's nothing new." the boy whispered.
"Tell 'em it's coming along smooth."
The boy nodded and went back to his work. Taylor turned, leaned his back against the counter. Three girls were sitting at a table with an empty chair.
"Mind if I fill the opening?" he asked.
"You can sit till something better comes along," one of them answered.
"My name's Taylor-what's yours?"
The girl beside him smiled at the one across the table. "He's fast!"
"All right, I'll call you One, Two, and Three."
The girl across the table pulled a cigarette out of her purse. "Her name's Joan," she said, pointing to a girl with dark red hair that draped over a tight, yellow sweater. "That's Ann." She motioned to the girl beside Taylor. "And my name's Cathy."
"Thank you ever so much," he said with exaggerated diction, reaching across the table to light Cathy's cigarette. "And what are you nice little girls doing out all alone at this time of the night?"
"We're just three little pigs without any money," Joan answered, straightening the bottom of her sweater, "waiting for some wolf to come along and buy us all a beer."
Ann began to giggle in a shrill, unpleasant tone. Her thick-rimmed glasses made her look like an undated bookworm. Cathy, apparently the oldest of the three, looked at her with disgust.
"Behold, the wolf you have prayed for has come," Taylor said dramatically, "with money and an old Merc, a car that knows every beer parlor in town."
"Cathy has a T-Bird," Joan said softly.
"Four would be a crowd in that thing," Ann complained.
"You could stay home and giggle," Cathy said. "I guess one of you will have to sit in my lap," said Taylor.
Cathy smiled. "I bet that tears you up." She drew in a long breath of smoke and released it in Ann's face.
"I'm all for a beer," Taylor said, rising in an attempt to start the ball rolling.
"Joan," Cathy remarked, "is the only sinner who partakes."
"Oh," he said, sinking back into his seat.
"But I'm all for a night ride," she added, pushing her chair away from the table.
"This will be funny," he thought, as they left the store.
The T-Bird was red. It reminded him of a missile waiting to be launched. He envied Cathy for having the machine. The back end was not lowered. Cathy did not look like the type that drove for thrills. When they got in, the redhead, Joan, was very careful to see that Ann got in the middle and that it was herself that sat on his lap.
"Anything on it?" he asked.
"Stock," Cathy answered, pulling suddenly from the curb.
"I bet you drive it like a newborn baby," he laughed. "It's probably never been floored."
"And I hope it never will be!" Ann said.
"It'd never pass thirty if you owned it," said Joan contemptuously.
"This bug's had its kicks," Cathy said. She sounded annoyed.
"Most girls don't have the nerve to floor a deal like this," Taylor said. "They're usually young enough where they think of John Law as an adult or parent waiting behind a tree to catch them-so they hide behind a cool, dignified appearance and never cut loose."
"If you're stabbing at me," Cathy snapped, "the last time I gave it a try, it hit around one-twenty."
"Aw, come on," he said. "Not this model."
Joan was quietly smiling. "Have you ever seen her floor it, Joan?" he asked.
"I've heard her talk about it, but I've never seen her do it."
"Where's an open road?" Cathy asked.
"Madison is straight," Joan said, "but it has a couple of intersections."
"What're you gonna do?" Ann asked apprehensively. "You better not race this-"
"You want out, get out, Ann," Cathy said. "At least you won't giggle," she muttered.
"Lots of cops on Madison," Taylor said.
"Whose side are you on?" Joan whispered. She turned sideways in his lap and leaned against the door. Her arm rested on his shoulder.
"Where do you three go to school?" he asked.
"We-" Joan began.
"Cathy goes to a private school," Ann interrupted. "Joan and I go to Milan High." She took off her glasses and rubbed them on her skirt. The frames had left red impressions on both sides of her nose. "Where do you go."
"Rockland."
"Rockland has more juvenile delinquency than any school in the state," she continued. "I know, because our English teacher was talking about the increase in all the schools." She fitted her glasses back on again. "In fact, I know of several students that have been called to the office for questioning."
"My! Aren't you the informed one!" Cathy snickered. She looked at Taylor and rolled her eyes up.
"It's true!" Ann retorted. "Miss Anderson said the police are ready to make arrests in all the schools; they just want to bring them in in a group."
Taylor watched the black pavement speed by the car. "Wonder what kind of arrests," he thought. "Couldn't be the group; they only use a few in the schools." There was a wave of vandalism over the city, but it was mostly petty delinquency-window breaking for thrills, and things like that. It was not organized. The group was organized, though, and a man on the inside could mean one big sweep-up. "They would have warned me," he thought. "They'd know if things were going to blow."
"Madison's the next corner," Joan said.
"I don't guess it would matter to the group if the cops picked me up," he thought. "There's not much I know to squeal about." There would not be much they could pin on him. "No-they wouldn't warn me-be no reason for it." He swayed away from the door as the car swung left on Madison.
"Get set, all!" Cathy announced.
The car ground away in second, then screeched into high. The telephone poles whizzed by. The road was clear, and the engine sounded like a small plane rumbling down the runway.
"You're going to kill us all, Cathy!" Ann shrieked.
"Don't bother her!" Joan said sharply.
"It's up to one-ten!" Cathy leaned over the wheel. "Just now floored it."
Taylor was looking back over the seat. Two headlights rounded a corner behind. "That's them!" he said.
"The police?" Ann asked.
"No, the Boy Scouts of America!" said Joan.
"Either get the thing in second or speed up," he ordered.
"I can't! Not doing a hundred and ten!"
"Well, come on then!" Joan squealed. "This'll outrun anything they've got!"
Cathy tightened her fingers around the steering wheel. "I can't handle it-not going this fast!"
"Well, here," Taylor said, nudging Joan to sit up, "change places with me, Ann." Ann sat frozen, head in her hands.
"Move!" He lifted himself over and shoved her in the direction of Joan.
"I told you," Ann cried. "I told you not to do it!"
"Oh, shut your damn mouth!" Joan shouted.
Taylor stared back at the car. "Here, give me the wheel and slide under." The siren was getting louder, and the red flashing light winked in the back window.
"It might flip!" she said. "I better stop!"
"Hell no! Slide under!" Taylor grabbed the wheel.
"No! It'll go over!"
He squirmed over her. "Go ahead, dammit! I got it-turn loose!" He edged himself between her and the door. The car swerved over into the other lane. Cathy's fingers left the wheel and she braced herself against the dashboard.
"Hang on, girls!" Taylor centered the middle of the hood on the white line and began to weave in jerky motions.
"What're you doing to the thing?" Cathy asked. "You should have let me stop it!"
"Not on your life! They're close enough to read the numbers, I've got to break up their vision a little." Ann dug her fingernails into the top of the seat and burst into loud, gagging sobs. Taylor twisted the rear-view mirror. "Are they dropping back any?"
"Yes!" Joan answered. "We're losing 'em! There's a tough curve a few hundred yards up-take it on the inside and cut it."
"They're fading," Cathy reported.
"Hold on; we may spin." His foot rode the brake for half the curve, then slammed the gas to the floor.
"Oh hell!" Two taillights glowed not more than a hundred feet ahead. "I'm going to turn off on that road!"
"It's too close!" Cathy cried. "You can't help but roll!"
"I can't see the cops-s-s-" Joan's voice was slurred. The brakes burned, and the frame sank down on the right, jerking to the left as he cut the wheel. One side lifted and banged down against the asphalt. The rear end swung and skidded sideways over the shoulder.
Ann began screaming and wiggling frantically. The car slowed almost to a stop-gravel from the shoulder sprayed as the back tires spun. The smell of burning rubber rose as they gripped the asphalt again.
"I got her!" Taylor said. He cut the fights, threw it into reverse, and backed into a long driveway. The siren moaned past.
"Better drag out," he breathed. He waited till the sound of the siren faded to a low wail, then pulled out, cutting down as many side streets as he could. After eight or nine turns, he slowed to a stop. Ann was still hugging the seat and whimpering. Joan was sweeping the hair back around her shoulders.
He smiled at Cathy. "Thanks for letting me drive."
"You've done this before?"
"Yeah, I used to drive a bicycle for a grocery store."
Joan laughed and patted Ann on the back. "You can come up now, little girl," she teased. "Hide and seek is over." Ann sat up. Her eyes were red, and the glasses hung down on one side of her face. She turned away from Joan.
"Can't say I blame her," Cathy sighed. "If they got that license number, I'm dead."
"They didn't," he said. "And you would've been dead either way. They don't take the speed you were going lightly."
"I suppose I should thank you," she said, sliding over him.
"Not at all," he said. "Enjoyed it." He crawled over Ann and lifted Joan by the waist till he could shove himself under her. "You know," he whispered in her ear, "beer is good, but I'm glad we skipped it tonight" She laughed and draped her arm around his neck.
Taylor went home humming to himself. It had been a nice outing-nothing for the group ... just fun.
7
FOR a late summer night, Friday was cold. Auntie was home for the first evening that week. Dinner was small, because she was in a hurry to get back to the hospital. Although his father's condition was not better, she seemed to have adjusted herself.
"I got time, if you want me to run you in," he said, as she sipped a second cup of coffee.
She smiled. "There's no hurry this evening; I don't mind the bus."
"Then I'll hit the bathroom," he said, gulping the rest of his coffee. "You got any more soap than what's in there? That bar stinks."
"There's some in the sink-same brand, different color."
"Great."
He had told Sue he would be by a little after nine-thirty. The bath felt good. He rested his feet on the end of the tub and let the water soak in. "Wish this wasn't for the group," he thought. He had a tinge of regret that Sue was willing to go out with him. "Looks just like a damn cat," he thought "If I drag her in, those guys will get the highest class stuff they ever touched."
A new spider web was draped across the corner near the head of the tub. He turned to observe the fine, intricate weave that funneled down beneath the tub. "How can it build a thing like that in one night?" he thought putting his finger lightly on the edge of the web. A small spider rushed out of the funnel, came to a dead halt, and vanished as quickly as it had come.
"Frustrating, ain't it?" he whispered over the edge of the tub. "Was that the phone?" He sat up attentively. Another faint ring came from the back of the house. "Auntie must be gone, Goddammit!"
He stepped out of the water. A puddle formed at his feet. "Goddammit!" he repeated. The towel would not reach all the way around him, so he waddled half naked to the phone. "Must be about the old man," he thought
"Yeah?" he said, looking around for a chair. There was a stool across the room, but he contented himself with a seat on the edge of the phone desk.
"Taylor?"
"Yeah, that's right."
The hoarse, throaty voice was familiar. It was one of the group. "Something new for you-think you can handle a bigger deal?"
Taylor's heart began to thump. "Sure I can," he said.
"Okay, be riding alone on Brandon Road off sixty-one at around eleven tonight. Stay close to the area where the river bed bends near the road."
"Alone? I'm working on this bitch Sue tonight-"
"Drop it, you got every night in the week to hitch onto that stuff. This is a big occasion."
"But this is the night I was gonna put the make on her."
"Look, pal, who's the bitch, you or her."
"What's the deal?"
"We're gonna rough one up. You find him and give him a ride in. Clear?"
"Any half-witted fruit could handle that. What's the big occasion?"
"That's right, Taylor, any half-witted fruit. You're the one." The voice waited for a response. "Pick him up; he won't know you. Make it casual-you just happen to be coming into town on that road and you notice the guy. You make a few remarks about his condition; ask him what happened. If he wants to bleed to the cops, you advise him to. Make it persuasive-press him for details. If he clams up, take him where he wants-if not, pull into a drive about two blocks before the highway hits the city. Clear?"
"Clear. I'll be on the wheels at eleven."
"We'll be observing things," the voice concluded. There was a click. Taylor hesitated, then hung up.
"They'll be observing things all right," he thought. "They'll be observing how they screwed me up on Sue."
The first break in the ice, and now he would have to shove a couple of weeks' work back in the freezer.
"Sue will love an excuse," he thought. "Love it like sandpaper panties." If there was a solution, he could not think of it. Sue would be off at nine-thirty, but it would take him an hour to get to Brandon Road. "That would only give me thirty minutes," he thought. Could he drop by and explain things to her, or would it be better to tell her something had come up after it was all over? He hated the thought of her standing out in front of the cafe. "That'll burn her; it'll be hell to get another date."
The thought of his father in the hospital entered his mind. I'll tell her he had a sudden spasm-that Auntie called and I had to go down and be with him."
He went into the front room and waited patiently on the couch.
Just as he started out the door, the phone rang. He stood on the porch a few moments. The ring continued. "Crap!"
He reached for the door. 'It wouldn't be the group," he thought, "unless maybe things fouled up."
The ringing stopped. Taylor went on to the car. "Might've been Auntie," he thought.
The engine started. It was too late to worry about Sue, and the group would know if he was not there to answer the phone, he would be on the way. He did not care if the plans were the same or not; he was not looking forward to any thrills. Everything was becoming work to him.
The bright glare of headlights distracted him. He was on the highway. Brandon Road was only a couple of miles farther down. "Why should they pick me for this? They want to show they can get tough?"
He was never sure whether he was testing some guy, or being tested. "They bring in these guys I've never seen," he thought. "Maybe the guys that contact me are just little barks for bigger dogs." His foot was nearly on the floor. The lights flashed through thick foliage as the weight of the car shifted around curves. "I'll call Sue in the morning-no-I'll eat lunch at the cafe and see her there."
Brandon Road was at the bottom of the hill. There was a green sign on the left. There had been very little traffic in either direction, and he made the turn without coming to a stop. It was a narrow, almost untraveled road, but it stretched for miles before intersecting with
I another highway. He looked at his watch-it was nearly
: eleven. "Better take it slow." The speedometer needle
I floated down to thirty.
"The girls in the T-Bird would love this spot," he f thought. "One-twenty on this would turn it into a runaway."
He gazed out into the distance. The river bed was not far off. "What if that girl was right about the cops waiting for a roundup? I'll be in in a few weeks-that would put me down deep. The guy that was supposed to start a fight with me-he could've been a cop. That could be just one inside man they found; the group might be crawling with 'em."
His foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The needle moved up to sixty, then wavered. "This man they roughed up tonight-maybe they thought he was a cop." The needle rose to seventy. His thoughts disturbed him, and he stopped trying to piece things together-there were too many possibilities.
The lights flashed against a dark form on the left. He twisted the rear view mirror. It was a man. "Better keep going," he thought. "It would look funny to stop and go back."
Half a mile up the road, he stopped and turned around. He found the man standing in the same place. His suit was spotted with mud. He was thumbing with one hand and holding a handkerchief against his face with the other. Taylor went several yards beyond him to make it seem he had just seen him. It was not a sudden stop, but the tires screeched-worn thin. He pushed the front door open. The man's hand caught it firmly, using it as a prop to lift himself onto the seat. He kept the handkerchief over the side of his face so that all that was visible was a mass of tangled, blood-spattered hair. His blue tie was twisted and stained with dark red blotches. He slammed the door without a word. Taylor pulled out on the road.
"Couple of niggers jumped me. I was fixin' a flat." His voice was broken and came out in strained tones mixed with whispers.
"Niggers? Want me to drop you by the cops?" Taylor asked.
"No. You going in town?"
"Yeah, that's right. Wherever you say."
"Drop me off at Union and-" His voice faded into coughing. "At Union and Madison!" he blurted, angry at his inability to talk.
"Must've fought back, huh?" Taylor asked. The man did not answer.
"Took your car and everything?" The man nodded, then leaned on the door.
"You say there were two of them?"
"Look, man-it's hard to talk," he whispered.
"Yeah, sure." Taylor looked down at the man's feet. Blood was trickling down his leg until it darkened his sock.
"His face must be torn to pieces," he thought, watching the handkerchief turn red.
"I'd sure bitch to the cops about something like that," he said. The man moved the handkerchief forward, revealing a badly mangled ear. "I can take you by the hospital," Taylor offered. "No trouble to-"
"Look, fellow." Just take me to the place I asked."
"Sound like you got hit in the throat; you can get a spine cracked in your neck and never know it." Taylor slowed down to turn off the highway. "At least, for several days, then you suddenly find yourself in one of those collar deals."
The man wheezed and began coughing. "You'll never see that car again unless you report it now," Taylor said above the coughing.
"Goddammit!" the man shouted with a hoarse effort "Shutup! Will ya!"
"Okay, okay."
The weak back lights of an old model car appeared in front of them. Taylor speeded up to pass. "That ought to be enough pumping," he thought. "He ain't going to talk." Whoever the man was, Taylor had the feeling that he was plenty tough-either that, or he was not torn up as bad as he seemed. Taylor was satisfied that his job had been done. He slid forward into a more comfortable position. A rabbit scampered through the beams of his headlights and into the safety of bushes on the other side.
He lay staring at the ceiling.
"Taylor!" The voice seemed to come from the bottom of the stairs.
"Taylor!" the voice called again. He turned on his side and listened attentively. "Am I dreaming?" he thought. "Taylor!" the voice repeated.
"Sounds like Auntie," he thought, sitting up in bed. The noise of footsteps coming up the stairs assured him that it was not a dream.
"Taylor, are you here?"
"Yeah, what do you want?"
She rapped gently on the door. "Yeah, come on in." The door opened slowly. Auntie walked into the room. She was smiling.
"May I sit down?" she asked, fumbling around until she found the light switch.
"Yeah. What're you doing up? It's four a.m."
"How's the old man?"
"I Just got back from the hospital." She paused. "Your Father is-"
He turned his head to the side. "What time did he die?" The bed squeaked slightly as he sank back on his elbows.
"Did someone call?" She seemed to realize the question was foolish. "He died sometime after one," she said. "They expected it; he's been conscious only a few times."
"What caused it?" He wanted to seem as matter-of-fact as possible. He was afraid of showing any emotion.
"I don't know; the doctor said-death is death-does the cause make any difference?"
"I suppose not." A long silence followed. "I guess the funeral will be Sunday, won't it?"
"Probably so-I don't know." She got up and started for the door. "I'll have coffee ready in the morning," she said without turning. He knew why she was leaving. There was moisture in her eyes. He wanted to get up and hold her close to him-let her cry all she wanted.
"Good night," he whispered. Her footsteps stopped halfway down the stairs, then continued after a moment. "She's hit hard," he thought. That was all she had. She's an old woman-it's going to be tough all the way around. She'll be wanting pity-it'll be my damn shoulder."
She had left the light on. He flicked it off and stumbled back to his bed. The pillow made his shoulders feel hot. He pushed it to the side and let his head drop level with his body. "I really never knew the old man," he whispered aloud. "If I could've just respected the old fool." He noticed a tremor in the words. "I can't let this affect me-he was a weak nothing." His eyes began to sting.
"Quit it, Goddamn you!" he shouted aloud, slapping his own face. The sheets flew back and he hurled himself off the mattress. His fingers skimmed the wall for the switch. The light came on, causing his eyes to squint shut. A corner of the bed banged against his knee as he felt his way to the mirror above the dresser.
The reflection glared back with red eyes. "Time to get up," he said aloud, testing the tone of his voice. Time to get up," he repeated. "You're going off," he said. "You're letting it get to you." His clothes were strewn about the room. He walked around in a small circle, methodically gathering up clothing.
The electric light grew dim as it was replaced by early daylight. Downstairs, Auntie was sleeping quietly.
"Worn out," he thought. "Probably the first real sleep she's had in a couple of nights."
The kitchen had a faint odor of stale food. The sink was piled to the brim with nearly a week's dishes. Roaches scurried when the light came on. "Dawn," he mumbled, staring at the mess.
He rummaged through the refrigerator, searching for something appealing. A couple of moldy oranges stood out in front. He was not hungry, and the unappetizing sight was enough to make him lose interest in eating.
"I could stand a beer," he thought, pacing the length of the kitchen. There were places open at that time of the morning, but only one was fight on minors.
"That's way across town; Auntie will need the car-the arrangements and everything. I've got to have something to do," he thought. The cool air from an open window made him decide to take a walk around the yard.
On the front porch were a number of morning papers that had collected there over the past week. He kicked them into a pile and pushed it next to the door. "If I stay here," he thought, "it'll mean talking to everybody that comes by. If Auntie needs to go someplace, there will be somebody here to drive her around. She won't want to drive, the way she feels-she shouldn't."
The Merc was parked crooked in the driveway. It reminded him of an animal waiting to be turned loose. "The only place she might need to go would be the funeral home. Someone will take her."
His head bumped against the top as he slid beneath the wheel. The musty odor inside was a sharp contrast to the fresh morning air. It gave him a feeling of living in two worlds.
8
ALTHOUGH it was nearly six in the morning, the sign outside Mason's was still on. The street was empty of cars and people. There was one lone car in the parking lot.
Inside, the booths were empty. One customer stood at the bar. The juke box was playing a ballad.
"Small beer," Taylor said.
"Beer! In the morning?"
"What's so crappy about beer in the morning."
"Nothing, just don't make as much off beers as I do shots."
"Got any Black Beer?" As he stood there, the thought of beer became less and less appealing. "Can't get the stuff."
"Well, gimme a screwdriver."
The bartender nodded. He measured out a jigger of gin. The orange juice was in a gallon jar. Large particles of fruit floated in the thick liquid. The glass clicked on the surface of the bar.
"Are you within the age, son?" the bartender asked, keeping his hand around the glass.
"Yeah." Taylor dropped a five and took the glass. "I'll want another shot or two later. Gimme the change when I'm through." He left the bar. "Fruit knows damn well I'm under age," he thought, sliding across the long cushion of a corner booth. He slouched against the wall and put his legs up on the seat. He sipped the screwdriver. It was a sweet drink, but it was a good morning shot.
A music selector was on the wall over the table. He flicked the lever and examined the tunes.
"Don't play nothing loud on that thing, boy!" a voice called. It was the customer at the bar.
"Just going to play a couple of hymns."
"Bright boy."
Taylor picked out a loud instrumental piece. "Wonder if he'll like it three times," he thought, pushing the selector until the light went off.
The slow music lasted a few minutes longer. A quiet space followed. Then the loud beat of drums burst into the room. Taylor lit a cigarette and swallowed most of the drink. The man at the bar was staring at him. "Come on, say something, bastard," Taylor whispered, finishing the rest of his glass. The brass section came in over the drums, intensifying the sound. "Another screw," he called to the bartender.
" 'nother lady's drink comin' up," he answered, pulling out a clean glass.
"Son of a bitch," Taylor muttered. Scotch or bourbon on the rocks was good, but he could not see drinking it early in the morning.
"One screwdriver!" the bartender called in a high voice.
The other man laughed. "Take it over to the lady."
The bartender danced around the corner and set the glass lightly in front of Taylor.
"Anything else, ma'am?" he asked in the same falsetto voice.
"Yeah, kiss my butt."
"Ooo-that's unlady-like!" He shied away from the booth, bowing as he went.
"Funny as crap," Taylor thought, turning to look at the music selector.
The man at the bar laughed louder. He put down some change, and reached for his coat on a nearby rack. He went out; then looked through the window at Taylor, pulled out a handkerchief and waved.
"Funny as crap!" Taylor shouted.
The second drink was less refreshing. It was so sweet that he wondered if sugar had been added. "It's just the heckling," he thought, draining the last few drops. The loud beating of the drums made the room vibrate as the juke box repeated the selection. Taylor's fingers mechanically tapped the polished glass of the table top. "Bring me another shot of something," he called.
"Another screwdriver?"
"No, something with bourbon."
"On the rocks-that do?"
"Yeah, on the rocks." The tinkle of glass could be heard over the loud grinding of the music. "On the rocks," he thought. "That's hell for morning." He wished it were night; it felt funny to drink in the light without any crowd around. "Bourbon on the rocks," he thought. "Say, bud!" he shouted. "Change that to a Tom Collins."
"Already poured the bourbon."
"What the hell," he muttered. His father used to drink bourbon in the morning, bourbon in the afternoon and bourbon in the evening. "How can a guy do it?" He went over to the bar and picked up the glass. There was a dark speck in one of the ice cubes. "Hey, buddy, there's a bug in the ice."
"A bug in your ice?" the man asked, his jaw dropping as if in shock. He pulled a cube out of the ice-maker with his fingers, then with his other hand reached into the glass and exchanged cubes.
Taylor's face was flushed. "Crude bastard, aren't you."
"At least I hold my liquor, son."
Taylor cupped the glass with both hands and held it to his lips. "He's right," he thought, "this stuff's too much for morning." It did calm him down though-his nerves had been on edge when he came in.
"Maybe that's why the old man drank so much," he thought. "Cuts down on your nerves, lets you feel what you want to feel."
He held a piece of ice on his tongue and let the liquid glide past it. "If Auntie hadn't been so damn sympathetic with the old guy, if she'd just refused to coddle him-maybe-hell, I don't know." The glass tilted, and several large swallows went down. He shuddered.
"You take that stuff slow, son," the bartender warned.
"You know what I want?" Taylor said. "I want a pitcher full of Tom Collins. That's a morning drink, not this crap."
"Another couple of shots and you'll be on your ass."
"How many did it take you to be one?"
"Look, son, I don't care how much you drink. As long as it's paid for and there's no trouble, you can drink till your little butt falls off the stool."
"Then what's the bitch?"
"If you got sotted, you've got no chum here to carry you out, and I've got no nigger working in the morning to clean up the mess."
"You got a pitcher?"
"You got six more bucks?"
Taylor shoved a ten across the bar. The man seemed reluctant, but he took the money without comment and began measuring gin. Outside, clouds were gathering. A few drops had fallen on the front window pane.
The pitcher of Tom Collins was plain-no cherries, nothing. Taylor slid off the stool and carried it to the booth feeling a little woozy.
In spite of its plain appearance, the Collins was a good mixture-much lighter than the bourbon. The dizziness was pleasant; it took him back into the peaceful world of fantasy. Every now and then the noise of the jukebox or the small tinkle of glasses being washed brought back the present.
Taylor had to pause after a large swallow. It felt close to his lips. "Got to drink slower," he thought.
The pitcher had a small base and held much less than he expected. He reached in and pulled out a piece of ice. Light danced on the clear crystal. He rotated it, trying to catch his image. The long picture of a face appeared, then vanished with a slight turn of his fingers. He set the cube on the table and thumped it across the slick surface. It fell to the floor and shattered.
"Feeling sorry won't get it," he muttered. "I've got to stay interested in the group-forget about what Betty felt or Sue feels and concentrate-" his glass was empty. "Too fast, way too fast. Who gives a damn? It feels good."
He tilted the pitcher without lifting it. The liquid filled the glass and ran over the table.
"The old man had something-you drink and you don't care. I don't care about him, about Auntie, about Betty, and about Sue," Taylor nodded to himself.
"Drink any more of that stuff and you'll throw up on the table!" the bartender shouted.
"Will I get a refund?"
Taylor knew he had drunk more than he could hold. A pool accumulated around the pitcher. His head was spinning, and once a gush of liquid rushed up to his mouth. He could feel himself getting sick, but he wanted to get dizzier and dizzier until he could not think, until everybody and everything was cleared completely out of his mind.
"Who do you want me to call to come drag you out?" a distant voice shouted.
"Drag out? No goddamn bastard's going to drag me anyplace!" he answered. "The pitcher's empty-empty enough. I ain't sotted." He was surprised that his words came out as smoothly as they did. He could hardly even fee! the movements of his lips. "I should call Sue," he thought. "It won't be easy-it'll be tough to talk." He covered his mouth.
"If you're gonna puke, get out o' here!"
"Ain't gonna puke." The jukebox had stopped. "What the hell? I put in a quarter. Hey! I put in a quarter!"
"And it played three times-what'd you expect? A whore to come walkin' out?"
"Didn't seem like three tunes," he thought. "I can't remember-" He steadied himself on the side of the table. "I'm going to call her now-it's got to be now." He belched. "You got a phone here?"
"Not something you can dial."
"Cute bastard." He sported a pay phone in the corner. A battered directory hung from a chain. The pages were thin, and he had some difficulty separating them.
"Somebody butter the pages?" the bartender shouted. "Gonna be hard to get anybody over here this time of the morning."
"Shu-" The phone was ringing. A raspy, feminine voice answered. "Sue there."
"Mary Susan."
"Yeah."
"Who's calling?" Taylor.
"What do you want."
"I want to talk to Sue."
"This is her mother."
"Really?"
"Suppose you ain't interested in talkin' to a girl's mother."
"That's right."
"I'm not the kind of mother you think. Sue keeps her own hours and I tend to my own business."
"You're the kind of mother 'I think'. "
"And you don't like mothers like that, do you."
"I asked for Sue."
"Sue ain't here; she's gone to work-in a silly restaurant."
"That's all I want." An uprush of air broke through his words.
"When you pick her up sometime, maybe I'll meet you. I'm not so old. Sue's dad used to call us sisters. I was young when I had her. I'm not like just any mother-everything's still there; you understand?"
"I understand."
"You understand that I've been drinkin'? Sue blabs her little mouth off about her mother, don't she?"
"Sue said nothing. I don't give a holy damn if you drink. I drink-my old man died with it-and I like his attitude." He squeezed hard on the receiver. "I'll see you," he said. He wished he had hung up earlier. The feeling of nausea grew stronger. "Crap-crap, crap, crap-" he sang, staring at the bartender.
"Your chum drunk too?"
"Such insight-what prophecy!"
He walked carefully across the room, straining to give a casual appearance, then slammed his hand on the door. "See ya, fella," he said, swinging himself out
The Normal Cafe looked closed. The curtains were drawn, as was often the case, but the front lights were out, too. The door was locked. He shook it hard, then turned away.
"Just a minute," a faint voice called from the back.
Footsteps neared the door, and the fat face of a waitress peered out through the small rectangular pane. She wrestled with the lock, eventually opened it.
"We're closed-thought you were someone else."
"I am someone else," he answered. "Is Sue there?"
"Who are you?"
"I'm her father."
"I don't think she's here."
"You know goddamn well she's there!"
"If she was I don't think she'd be interested. You smell like a brewery."
"Look, bitch!"
"Who is it, Martha?" It was Sue's voice. "Sue!" he shouted.
She stepped through the door. "Oh, it's you." She started back inside. "Wait a minute," he said, grabbing her arm. "Take the hands off!"
"Last night-last night the old man was sick-real sick-"
"You'd better go home and find out if he's better," she interrupted, "because you'll probably see two of him that's sick."
"I'm serious-not only sick but-"
"Why don't you just come out with the truth? You had something better to do last night, so you said to hell with that girl named Sue."
"Yeah, that's right."
"Don't ever call, or bother me again."
"Don't worry."
"By the way," she said, stepping inside, "I hope you sober up enough to care for the old man." The door slammed.
He stared after her. His thoughts were disorganized. "Why should I be hurt?" he thought. How could she believe me when she saw me standing here like this? I can't even think straight. I was a fool to try and talk to her now." He stood still, not knowing exactly what to do or where to go. "The drugstore-I'm just teed off at her-but I'm not mad, it's just something-" He walked toward the Merc. The rain clouds had grown bigger; there was the fresh, familiar smell of a coming shower. "Still too damn tight," he thought. "Least the nausea is gone. I wonder how soon the group expects-" rain began to splatter on the walk, and he hurried to the car.
When he reached the drugstore, the storm drains were clogged; water filled the gutter and part of the street for almost a hundred yards. He parked a block from the store and stepped out on the shiny wet pavement. Rain was falling in sheets, making a fight mist rise from the hot street. The drops were cool on Taylor's face; he let the rain soak through his clothes.
Through the glass front of the store he could see the magazine rack, surrounded by a cluster of boys. The darkness outside, and the water streaming down the window, gave him the feeling of watching fish in a lighted aquarium. There was a strange comfort in knowing that he could go in and enjoy the shelter; yet he was satisfied to stand there for several minutes and let the rain drip from his face.
"I can't stand out here all the time," he thought, opening the door.
The tables were filled. There was a lineup in front of the counter. He squeezed in between two boys and signaled for service.
"Watch it, bud," the boy on his left muttered. Greased red hair was combed back over his ears and disappeared beneath the turned-up collar of a yellow knit shirt.
"Watch what?" Taylor muttered, looking in the other direction. The boy behind the counter brought over a small bag.
"If your name's Taylor, this is your prescription."
"My name's Taylor." He stuffed the bag into his pocket.
The redhead made a loud sniffing noise.
"Smell something?" Taylor asked, glaring at him. The boy's freckled face was badly blemished.
"Yeah, smells like some fruit's been drinkin'. "
"Hold off, Bob," said the boy on the other side of Taylor.
"Yeah, hold off, Bobby," Taylor repeated.
"You're crowding me. Why don't you run out in the rain and play?" the boy snapped back.
"You gonna play with me?" Taylor asked. "Or does Bobby play rough?"
"I wouldn't wise off."
"Some can wise off and some can't."
"And you think you're one that can?"
Taylor backed away from him. "That's right-until Otherwise told."
"I'm telling you otherwise."
"Okay, I'll lay it on the line." Taylor's voice was low and even. "I can stomp your butt any tine-drinking or not drinking, reason or no reason."
"I think you're full of-"
"You're invited," Taylor said.
"I don't like to go out in the rain, but I can't turn down an invitation." The redhead blinked nervously. Taylor suspected his tough dress was camouflage. The red hair dwindled below the ears of a beardless face-he looked no older than fifteen. When he stood up he was slightly taller than Taylor.
"You know-long hair don't make too much difference in a fight," Taylor whispered. "It's guts that matter-and you're shaking, Bobby."
The boy looked down at him. The muscles above his cheeks twitched, and his mouth dropped open as if he were going to speak. Taylor wheeled suddenly and walked out the door. He stood in the rain, glaring at the youth through the window.
"He'll have to come out," he thought. "He can't let this go past-not with all his buddies around."
The soda jerk was resting his arm on the cash register. His eyes were half closed, but the motion of his head was slight and meaningful-it turned slowly from side to side.
"I guess he wants me to back down," Taylor thought. "Or maybe he knows I've hit the bottle a little." The redhead turned and spoke to another youth, then approached the door. A small crowd gathered behind him and filed out into the rain.
"Well?" the boy said, stepping up to Taylor.
"Ready?" Taylor asked.
The boy doubled his fists and pulled them up under his chin. "Ready," he said.
Taylor smiled and then walked around him cautiously. "Good." The boy turned with him, twisting his head before his body followed.
"Come on!" he said nervously.
Taylor laughed and brought his hands into position. His fingers were open and relaxed. His body bounced loosely, moving in and out.
"Don't just dance-"
"Scared?" He moved in close. The boy swung clumsily, wide open. Taylor ducked, smashed his fist into the boy's face.
"Hit back, Bob!" someone yelled.
The boy rocked forward, covering his face with his hands. Blood began to trickle through his fingers. "Goddamn you-u-" His words were choked.
"Come on, Bobby!" Taylor said. "I've been drinkingI should be an easy fight, huh?" The boy took his hands from his face and stared at the blood. His lips were quivering.
"Come on, Bobby!" Taylor kept circling. The boy bent down, his body away from Taylor. "Come-" Taylor stopped. He stared down at the boy's hands, then stood in silence.
He saw the flash of a blade. "I'm coming," the boy whispered.
Taylor stepped back. "You're a fool," he said, changing his position to that of a wrestler.
"A fool with a knife," Bobby answered. The steel shook in a trembling hand.
"You better do a damn good job," Taylor muttered, "because if I get that blade, I'm gonna carve your guts out."
The boy steadied himself. His red eyes watered.
"Don't go in at him, Bob," one of the boys in the crowd warned. "That guy's in with a tough bunch-"
Rain splattered the shiny metal. Taylor's mind was whirling. "What did that boy know about the bunch he was in with?"
"You all saw what he did to me-" Bobby's voice shook. "You all saw it, didn't you?"
"Bob," a voice came from behind him, "he hit you with his fists. You're through. If he gets that knife, hell kill you-just like he beat you with his fist. Give it up-back off now, while you can."
"Back away?" the boy asked in child-like tones. The rain washed the perspiration down his forehead. Taylor waited, poised. The boy stared at the faces in the group. Several heads were shaking.
"And the cops will be here," someone added.
"The cops?" Taylor thought. "What if they pick us up-what's in that bag?" His hand felt his pocket. "What if it's-"
"Here comes a car!" a girl cried. The redhead's eyes snapped away from Taylor. Two dim parking fights gleamed in the distance.
"Cops!" the boy said, dropping the knife to his side. The group scattered in different directions.
"Come on, Bob!" a boy shouted, grabbing his arm. Taylor looked back at a row of shrubs two houses down. He darted toward the bushes. The redhead moved like a startled deer in the other direction.
"The bag," Taylor thought. The wet leaves scraped his face as he plunged behind them. The beams lit up the shiny street. Light reflected on the drops around him.
He shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out the bag. With a quick motion of his wrist he slung it into the bushes.
The noise of a motor approached, went by. Taylor stared down the street, catching a glimpse of the back end of an old model car. "That wasn't cops," he said aloud.
He crouched frozen for a few moments. "Who shouted cops?" He remembered the warnings from the crowd. "Were they trying to break it up? Or just scared silly?"
The bag was hung in a sprig of tiny branches. No one was to be seen in front of the drugstore; the street appeared deserted. The rain had diminished to a sprinkle.
The water had seeped back beyond the Merc, and it sprayed the side windows as he pulled away from the curb. He drove slowly past the store. The front window framed the quiet inside. The soda jerk had not changed his position; his arm was still draped over the cash register. The group was like that: calm and cool. "I'd rather be that redheaded ass-a chicken shit, but he had feelings; he could get mad-cry if he wanted. At least it's up to him." Taylor had been that way once: scared, nervous, always ready to fight-never actually wanting to fight, but to prove that he was there, with choice-not just a mass of jelly to be squeezed around.
Now there was only a cold feeling of meaninglessness; the group would say and he would do. He envied the redhead.
The brown bag on the dashboard slid to the floor. The paper was wet, and it tore in his fingers when he picked it up. The fight had made him lose interest, but now his curiosity was revived. The corners of a box pushed through the paper. He opened it and held it above the wheel.
A roll of bills fell into his lap, revealing a number of cigarettes stuffed around an open pack. A small folded piece of paper was lodged between the contents and the side of the box. He kept his eyes on the street, opening the note in his fingers.
"You know what it is," the note read. "Start her slow with the pack, then refill with the rest." He remembered the cafe-the fat waitress, and Sue's cold expression. The street ahead was deserted. The rising mist was beginning to break in spots. "So what now?"
9
THE funeral home chapel was small. The coffin was behind the altar near the wall. It was open, and the glow around the top suggested a light inside. A single wreath was propped on a silver handrail bordering the coffin.
Taylor was leaning against the wall next to Auntie. She got up, motioned for him to follow, then stepped onto the platform to look at the flowers. He followed her, not sure how he was supposed to act. Two men were still talking and gazing at the body.
"Looks about the same, don't he?" one commented, bending over further to see if the body was visible all the way down.
"Do you want to see him once more?" Auntie asked.
T saw him," he said. Auntie's eyes pleaded. "Yeah, I'd like to see him once more.
One of the men moved over so he could step next to the light.
The lips were tight and the face was expressionless. He had never thought of his father's face as being made up of features; he had always known him as someone who looked as he acted. It was almost another person he was observing-a stranger. "Maybe it's the way they fixed him," he thought.
There was a pin on the lapel, an American Legion pin. The hair was gray, neatly combed back over sparse areas. Every little blotch in his complexion stood out, even though his face looked as if it had been powdered. Auntie put her arm through his and looked affectionately at the body. He wanted to leave, or at least to stop looking at the body.
She seemed to sense his restlessness. "You ready to sit down, son?"
"Yeah."
"Are you Taylor?" one of the men asked as they turned away. "Yeah."
"My name's Stewart Whitten-I used to work with your father."
"Yeah?"
"Well, I just thought I'd introduce myself."
"Oh."
"I'm Taylor's aunt, Mr. Whitten. It's nice to meet you." She looked curiously at Taylor. "Do you want to sit down, son?"
"Okay."
"The kid's stunned," one of the men said.
"What'd he want me to do?" he thought. "Throw my arms around his neck and say, 'My, I'm so glad you were daddy's buddy'? " Auntie took a seat at the front and patted the place beside her. "Must think I'm a damn puppy..."
A man in dark gray stepped out on the platform and seated himself at a small organ. He propped the music in front of him and carefully turned the sheets.
Auntie sat patiently with hands folded in her lap. Taylor turned part-way around. Behind him were Auntie's friends, sitting the way she did. The men were a little further back, and looked as if they were waiting for a bus. "Don't want to come to this damn thing any more than me," he thought.
The organ music was hollow; it left him with an empty, sick feeling. The music faded until it was barely audible. A large man rose from a chair on the corner of the platform and moved behind a pulpit on the same side. It was a small rostrum and a large Bible was opened so that its pages hung sloppily over the sides. A red marker dangled down in front.
"Let us pray." The man's full cheeks quivered with his deep voice. Taylor bowed his head slightly, keeping his eyes focused on the chaplain.
"Dwell in the hearts of the living, comfort the pain of their loss. We return one of Your sheep, oh loving Shepherd..."
"That's what the old man was," he thought, "a sheep." Why were men supposed to be like sheep? His eyes opened and he stared at the wreath. "Why can't I just cut off-from everybody and everything? Just smear out everything and step out?"
He looked at Auntie. The prayer was over. The chaplain had taken his seat and a woman was standing, holding a sheet of music.
The singer had an alto voice. It resembled the organ, drippy and trembling. Taylor willingly gave up the effort of listening. Auntie put her arm behind him.
"Oh, what the hell," he thought, twisting a little. "She thinks I'm about to bawl or something." The singer glanced down at them; her eyes were glazed. "Looks just like one of those group bitches-foggy eyes and all. Makes me almost glad I fouled up on Sue."
He could not picture Sue like that, drained of all her vitality. This was the first deal he had blown; he knew there would be trouble with the group.
The soloist was almost through, closing her eyes as she held the last note. "What a pitch for tears," he thought.
She walked off the back of the platform and out a door. "She don't care who's in the box," he thought. "Just picks up her book and leaves."
The chaplain cleared his throat and looked out over their heads.
"There is a trickle of water," he began. "It springs from the earth, small at first, then, as the rains come, races along the ground."
"Least he's not hired like the organist or the damn singer-or is he?" Taylor wondered.
"And the stream twists along gullies and pours over slate edges-growing, widening, deepening-"
"He's not reading," Taylor thought, watching the man closely.
"And then, as with all things within the bounds of time and space, the strong river rushes to its end-not to death, but to a union with the sea."
"People can't be satisfied with dying," his thoughts continued. "They've got to have him going on or stepping into some fairyland. He's dead."
"In the sea the water mingles, but remains the same-the same, with no banks to hold it, with no river bed to follow-the barriers of past existence are gone. The sea is its release."
Auntie's makeup was blotched with tears. He looked away.
"And when a loved one has flowed into the sea of eternity-" The chaplain lowered his voice. "There is in us the barren, dry banks of a once green earth. But in time, God returns the trees, the grass and the blue waters. The suffering, the parched feeling of meaninglessness is filled with a new spirit and becomes, as all past, a sad memory."
"Shit," Taylor thought. "Why doesn't he just say you forget ... that's all the hell it is; time goes by and you forget." He stared at the coffin. " 'Sea of eternity . . a bunch of worms, worms and smell."
"Attend now to the words of our Lord: I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live...'" Auntie had stopped crying. "And now by the grace of God, in Whom we find the source of all peace, we depart from this hour." The chaplain stood there for a moment, as if he had left out something, then walked off the platform, staring blankly at the floor. Immediately, there was coughing and the shuffling noise of people moving in their seats.
Taylor looked around him. "Why don't they go ahead and get up?" he thought. The hesitation made him uncomfortable. "Auntie," he whispered, "Let's go."
"All right, son. We'll go."
He followed her to the door. The room had a sweet smell about it, as if it had been sprayed with deodorant He knew the flower scent could not be that strong.
"Taylor, someone's speaking to you," Auntie said.
"Yeah?" A strange sensation came over him.
It was the same black dress, the same one she had worn that first night, after the cafe closed. In the shadow of the doorway, two spots of light gleamed from her dark eyes, like sunlight on coal.
"Hi-Sue."
"I'm sorry," she said. Her voice was soft and almost tender. "I read the death notice."
"You couldn't have thought anything but what you did."
"No," she said. "I quit trusting people. You start looking for lies after awhile. I didn't believe you, even before you came and tried to explain."
"Don't apologize. I don't want you to do that."
"It's not an apology-it's just saying I was wrong. I'm glad I was. I'm glad to see I've been foolish-foolish and self-centered."
"I could've explained it some better way. Showing up loaded was brilliant," he said.
Her eyes were wet. He wanted to tell her how things really were. He felt sick inside. "I've almost got to talk to you."
"I'll be free any time you need."
"Thanks."
A small hat hid the swirls of her black hair; high heels accentuated the curves of her ankles. He wondered why she had not come in for the service. "Maybe she was late," he thought, "or maybe she felt it was too personal." The thought of turning her over to the group gnawed at his insides. "I can't get involved," he reminded himself.
"Do you mind if I go to the burial?" she asked.
"Burial? Yeah-I'd like that."
Drive-in movies always bored Taylor. He had asked Sue to go there because he expected her to be an iceberg, and drive-ins, if nothing else, were good warmers. She kept turning her head and looking at him out of the corner of her eye, as if she were trying to catch some expression on his face. He had hoped that all this was her way of flirting, but in spite of a few gentle tugs on her shoulder, she sat fast on her side of the car.
"Taylor, you're not watching the show."
"It's no good."
"Why did you take me to a drive-in?"
"To talk." He began fidgeting with the ashtray.
"You came here to neck, didn't you?"
"If you know, why are you asking me?"
"I thought-" She looked up at the screen and pretended to be lost in curiosity, as if the show had suddenly come to a climax. He reached into his coat pocket, felt the two packs of cigarettes pressed together. He took a cigarette out of the front pack and fumbled with it until he was able to stick it part-way into the other pack. He had been careful not to get the two confused.
"Cigarette?" he asked, extending the pack.
"I don't smoke."
"Have you ever smoked?"
"No."
"You ought to try one and see if you like it."
"If I did like it, I would probably be swallowed up in the habit. I have tendencies to depend on things."
"I can see that."
"What do you mean?" She shifted around, facing him.
"Well, your family and all-you never could depend on them, so I guess it's natural for you to want something to lean on."
"Then you understand why I must keep away from things like smoking?"
"Sure, I understand, but you can't really hurt yourself smoking."
"It might encourage me into other habits that could hurt me."
"Like trusting people."
"I don't think that's fair."
"Sue, you're as cold as ice."
"There's a difference between trusting people and being intimate with them," she snapped. "That's right, there is."
"And I don't think we know each other well enough to-"
"To what?" he interrupted.
"To do what you want."
"Look, all I want is a little huggin."
T know."
"Well, what the hell is wrong with that? God, if girls grew up like you, the human race would die out in the next twenty years."
"Why don't we watch the show?"
"Yeah, why don't we?" He shoved the pack into his front pocket. "How the crap am I going to start her on the stuff if she won't even smoke?" he thought. "If the group knew the trouble I've had, they'd laugh their butts off. They think I'm pluggin' her. The only thing I've gotten is moral lectures."
In the car in front, a couple were clinched together. "Boy, have I got a lemon," Taylor thought.
"Taylor-"
"Yeah."
"I'm not cold. If anything, I guess I'm passionate. I want to do these things-to experience those feelings. I have them."
"Aren't you proud!"
"It's not pride. It's just that when there is marriage, whoever it is that I marry, I want him to know that my feelings or my deepest expressions are for him. I just want to know something about a boy before, as you put it-before I even let him kiss me."
"In that case I better take you home, because if you look up my record all you will read is louse'. "
"That's not what I mean. I want to know what you are with me."
"I don't get you at all, kitten."
"Well, right now your feelings are just physical; you haven't had time to really know me."
"How in hell do you know what I feel? You think you're some kind of soul piercer. You don't know one damn thing about what I want or what I think."
"That's right. I don't."
"What do you want me to say? That I haven't found any girl like you-that my mind is all torn up because I think about you all the time-"
"When I know you mean that, you won't have to say it."
"But that's the way you feel about me, isn't it."
"No, it isn't.
"You know what I think? I think you're not being honest with me, yourself, or anybody."
"And you know what I think?" she asked. T think you're being a little foolish and a little naive."
"Naive!" The word struck him funny. "Is that what hurts you most? For me to say that you're inexperienced?"
"Hurt? You're right, honey. You don't know a damn thing about me!"
"I'm not talking about what you say, or want me to think you know about sex." She pulled her legs up under her. "You don't understand feelings, deep feelings that last, not the kind of thing where you snap your fingers and poof! It's over!"
"Look, I know what you mean, and that's okay. I mean, so that's the way you think, but you can't look at every guy that comes along like there's my husband. You say we don't know each other, and then you say I'm naive, or don't know about all these deep feelings-you don't know me, then you know all about me-be consistent, will you?"
"Taylor, if-Oh, never mind."
"Sue, you're screwy! You're right, I don't know you; does anybody?"
Her brown eyes darted up at him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean that."
"I think you did, but thank you for the apology."
He sat staring at her. The whole thing was hopeless. "This is real cute," he thought. "What a lemon!" He sank down in his seat. "And the group said no trouble on this one." He unscrewed the gearshift knob. "Sue," he said aloud, "I'm not really this way. Dad and I were close." He dropped his head against the seat and rolled it toward her. "When he died, it was like losing a brother. I mean it."
She said nothing. Her face was blank.
"Everything I was leaning on was knocked out from under me. He helped me in school-every time I needed advice or someone to depend on, he was right there. When Mother died, he realized that I had to have something I could count on."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know you were that close to your father."
"Right now I feel like I haven't got anyone to think about. I know I've only known you for a little while, that it hasn't been long enough to develop those feelings you were talking about-but can't you see that right now I'm empty? There's nothing. When I met you, I just kind of swallowed you in like an animal with an empty stomach. I knew Dad was going to die-more than a month before. Believe me, I'm not this way with other girls. I like decency just like you."
Her eyes were moist. "I think I'm beginning to like you." Her lips were tight, and her eyes glittered. "It's hard for me to say that." The tears spilled over, running down her cheeks.
"I know," he said, "there are lots of guys who don't want anything but what you expected. Why should you have thought I was something different?"
"I'm sorry, really I am."
"Yeah, I know."
"I am!"
"I know, I'm not being sarcastic." Taylor glanced up at the show. It was in color. "What's this thing about?"
"I think it's about the Korean War. This Red Cross worker-that woman on the left-gets trapped behind the front lines and is forced to..."
Her voice faded out. "Actually I've seen it," she said.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would it have made any difference?"
"I guess not." There was a little trail through her makeup where the tears had run down her face. She was smiling. Maybe she was not as complex as he had thought-it might be some type of simplicity he had never run across.
"Would you like to go to a drive-in?" he asked. "A drive-in?"
"A drive-in restaurant," he broke in. "I'm not really hungry."
"Thirsty?"
"Yes, I am-a little."
"Let's go." He started the motor and backed out between two lines of cars. There were several honks. "Your lights are on," she reminded him. "Damn, I forgot."
He wove in and out of the lanes and swung around the gate, thinking. He usually went to a place called Pete's, a drive-in barbecue where some of the group hung out They liked for him to come by there. He could not park in the place fifteen minutes without a couple of them coming over to the car on the pretense of a friendly chat. They would pile into the back seat and joke with the girl. It was their way of feeling out the progress he was making.
"I'd be a fool to take her there tonight," he thought. A filthy comment or two, and he knew Sue would freeze. "I'll take her down for a pizza or something-hell with the drive-in." He reached into his pocket and absently pulled out a cigarette. Sue pushed in the car lighter, waited attentively until it popped out
"I got it," he said.
"No, I want to do it." She laughed. "You'll probably light my nose."
She laughed again and waved the lighter around in front of him.
"It's going to go out," he mumbled.
She pressed it against the end of the cigarette. "No, it isn't." The blue puffs of smoke rose in front of his face.
"Thanks loads," he said. "Oh God!" he thought. "I fouled up-it's one of the crapped-up ones; I must've stuck the damn pack in front." He rolled down the window and slung tile cigarette out.
"Taylor?" She looked at him in amazement.
"Quittin the cigs. I can't have some dame waving fire in my face every time I take her for a drive."
"I bet you don't stay quit."
"Bet I do, kitten. See this pack? he asked, pulling it out of his pocket. "Never again!" He crumpled it up and tossed it out on the street.
She lifted her chin and patted him on the shoulder. "Fine gesture!"
"Let's go get a pizza."
"What? No drive-in?"
"Well-of course," he said, "if you want to go to one."
"I think I'm hungry after all."
"Shall we get some wine to go with the pizza."
"No, thanks."
"Oh, I forgot, you're a Sunday school teacher."
"I am-really."
"You're kiddin."
"No."
"Lord!" The neon sign of a pizza house was visible a block down the street. "I should have known-"
"What's so funny or different about being a Sunday school teacher?"
"Nothin, I guess."
"Don't you believe in God?"
"Who he?"
"Taylor! Get serious!"
"No, never think much about stuff like that."
"Then you're an agnostic."
"I'm not a damn thing; quit pressuring me. I don't sit back and ask you questions like that all night." He turned into the parking lot. "Do you want to go by and get some wine-oh yeah, I asked you that. I'm out of it."
"You certainly are." She wore a peculiar half smile. It was hard to tell whether she was amused or disgusted. Taylor yanked the hand brake forward and hopped out "Let's go."
"The door, Taylor."
"Oh, balls," he whispered, walking around to the other side. He opened her door and bowed. "My, what a gentleman."
"Are you laughing at me?"
"No," she answered. She slid across the seat and took his hand. Her light blue sweater stretched tight as she stood up. It was the first time he had seen her in a sweater. It was not a close fit, but he could tell there was plenty underneath it.
The table was covered with a red and white checked cloth, and had a Chianti bottle for a centerpiece. The place was not crowded. "Early, I guess," Taylor said, pointing to a corner table. "I'll take your coat."
"I don't have a coat on."
"I'm teasing."
"Silly!"
"What do you want?"
"You like sausage and mushroom?"
T like anything. Sausage and mushroom, regular," he shouted at a nearby waitress. He took a cigarette from the remaining pack.
" 'I'm quittin the cigs', " she mocked.
"Off my back, woman."
Sue ate only three or four small pieces of pizza and nagged him till he finished the rest. They stayed past closing time, talking. On the way home, Sue kept talking about the various customers she had waited on in the cafe. Taylor only pretended to be interested at first, but before long he found himself amused at her nonsense. When they reached her doorstep, he was laughing so much that she warned him about waking the neighbors.
"Oh, let 'em wake up," he said. "It's the best time of the morning."
"And Mother might be asleep," she added, putting her finger to her lips.
"Why don't you take me in to meet her?"
She turned toward the door. "I better go in."
He took her gently by the arms, then let go. "Oh, yeah, I forgot, Sunday school teacher." He shrugged. "What shall I do? Shake hands?"
Her arm slipped around the back of his neck and pulled him into her. "I think I know you," she whispered. Her lips covered his mouth; they were soft and responding.
"Sue," he said, pushing her away, "I've got to tell you something. Dad died a drunk-I hated his guts. Do you understand?" He walked quickly down the steps. She had not gone in. He could feel her watching him, all the way out to the car.
10
"A SATURDAY night!" Taylor mumbled, putting the receiver down. "Why did they pick Saturday, when everybody and his brother will be out on the streets?" He wanted in, but now that it had come, he found himself more disturbed than pleased. It could not be anything big, or they would have called him earlier. They had told him to be at the corner in less than an hour.
Sue was off tonight, and he had planned to stop by and see her. He dialed the number from memory.
"Hello."
"Sue?"
"Yes."
"This is Taylor."
"I know."
"You're not mad or anything."
"No."
"You sounded a little cold. I thought maybe last night."
"Last night?"
"Well, you know, I thought maybe you were-"
"Mad?" she asked.
"Well, not mad, but-well, I don't know-"
"Feel differently?"
"Yeah, that's it."
"Yes, I feel differently."
"What do you mean, kitten? No games-not now."
"I feel that I made a mistake last night. You lied to me, but then you told me that you lied. You told me something that I understand, but you also told me that it will be awhile before we know each other."
"Are you tied up tomorrow night?"
"Tomorrow is Sunday."
"That's right," he said.
"Are you going to church tomorrow?"
"I don't usually do things like that."
"Really? I don't usually go out with boys on Sunday night."
"What is this, a bribe?"
"Sort of," she said.
"Okay, I'll go to church. What time tomorrow night? Seven-thirty?"
"I don't know. Is ten-thirty all right for tomorrow morning?"
"You mean go to church with you?"
She laughed. "Certainly, how else would I know if you went?"
"Now wait a minute-"
"All right, no date tomorrow night."
"Look-I-Can't I just go to a church of my own choice?"
"Yes, what church do you choose for us to attend?"
"Yours, baby."
"Ten-thirty?"
"Ten-thirty," he said. 'I'll see you then."
"Goodbye."
"Bye." He thought, "God! Church!"
"Taylor!" Auntie was calling from the front room. "Taylor."
"Yeah, yeah."
"I'm leaving."
"Okay, Auntie."
Auntie was working three nights a week. She seemed to be taking the attitude that she was helping a poor parentless boy through life.
"What's in store for tonight?" he wondered, glancing at the clock on the other side of the room. "An hour is short. Suppose I better fuck on down to the corner."
A rush of warm wind greeted him at the door. The end of the block was only three houses away. He was so occupied with his thought that he was not aware of the distance. He relaxed against the signpost and stared at the streetlight. It was cloudy, and the beams seemed to reach out further than usual, as if there were smoke close to the bulb. He looked up at the gray ceiling of the sky. The wind was strong, and the lower clouds rolled along like balls of cotton.
He always felt uncomfortable and lonely when he waited for anyone at night, even in town. Forms would pass by lighted windows, but they were more like shadows of waving branches than people.
He looked down the street. A car came into view. He put his hands in his pockets and looked in the other direction. It had been over an hour, but then the group was usually late. The car slowed down, but did not pull over to the curb. It was a '54 Pontiac.
"Get in!" a voice ordered.
He hurried to the car. The back door was open. There were six young men inside.
"Aren't you going to start asking little questions?" one of them asked. "Like where are we going or what are we going to do?"
"I figure I'll know soon enough."
"Sometimes you never know. You can go through a whole evening and every damn thing that happens is completely meaningless. Right, boys?" There was no answer.
"Is that the way things went for you?" Taylor asked.
"That's right, and that's the way things will go for you-most of the time. Tonight, however, since you're so young and sensitive, I will give you the privilege of unwarranted knowledge. The group has cordially invited you to one of its frequent gang-bang parties."
"Nice of you to ask me," Taylor said. He thought, "A gang bang! So we're all going to rape some unsuspecting bitch and make her bleed half to death!"
"I think you will enjoy it," the man laughed.
"And what did our unknown guest do to deserve this coming affection?" he asked, imitating the man's manner.
"She did a very disturbing thing. She had the delusion that she was an uncontrollable addict and decided to submit herself to hospital authorities, which would inevitably lead to "further developments."
"In other words, she might rat," the driver spoke up.
"She wouldn't tell, not on our sweet little family," Taylor said.
He wondered how often something like this happened. It seemed likely that out of all the girls the group doped up, at least a few would attempt a break.
"Usually they feel the need for little boosters of the spirit so intensely," the man continued, "that they seldom care to leave the nest."
"The nest, that's a good name for this group," Taylor thought. This was not the big deal he had expected, but it was some encouragement. They had never put him into action before with a crowd of .this size.
"Take it slow," said one of the men in front. "Might blow things if we were lit on a speeding charge."
"How far up?" the driver asked. "About four more blocks."
"There will be a bed, I hope," Taylor said. The young man laughed. "Why? You tired? You're working on a girl-Mary Susan Anderson, right."
"You mean Sue? Yeah, that's right."
"How's she coming."
"I'm not sure."
"You're not sure! She's smoking the cigs."
"Yeah, she was on 'em, but I ran out."
"Have you checked your point."
"The drugstore."
"If that's it."
"Not recently."
"Does she know what she's smoking."
"I think so," Taylor answered nervously. "If she's smoked one, she'd know. What about the sex bit?"
"It's regular," Taylor said, sliding back in the seat.
"That's good-then she's almost ready."
"I'm not sure; she's got an attachment to me that'll take a little time to wear off."
"You've been in long "enough to know how to avoid that situation."
"That's right. I have."
"You sound rubbed."
"No rub-" He looked out the window as if he distracted by a passing car. He did not want to think about Sue. The idea of a gang bang made him sick. "Maybe they'll have trouble finding the bitch," he thought. "No, that's stupid; they're organized like ants-they know where she'd be twenty-four hours a day."
"That's the place ain't it?" the driver asked, pointing to an unlighted house. He pulled into the driveway. It curved around behind the house and ended in an alley in front of a garage apartment. There were thick curtains on the windows, but light cracks gleamed through where they hung short. Two other cars were parked diagonally across the grass. "Out!" the driver ordered.
"Good place," Taylor thought, filing through the doorway with them. The bottom floor was concrete, unfurnished. In the back of the room was a wooden stairway with someone standing on it halfway up. It was Morris.
At the top of the stairway were two doors. One appeared to be a closet door; the other led into a room a little smaller than the one below. The only light was a small lamp that Morris had flicked on as they had entered. The floor was covered with mattresses; about five of the group were there. A naked girl with bleached hair was stretched out on her stomach. Her shoulders were scratched and bleeding. Her face was buried between mattresses, and she was sobbing.
"We couldn't wait, so we went ahead with dinner," said a man across the room.
"Can she take any more?" the young man asked. "Look's like all the homework's been finished."
"She's not out of it, are you, sweetheart?" a rough voice blurted. "Turn out that light!"
The girl pushed herself up a little and turned her face toward the doorway. Her cheeks were bruised, and her eyes glared beneath tangled strands of hair.
"Betty!" Taylor whispered. "Oh, God! I can't do it to her!"
The light flicked out and the room was coal black. Taylor felt a nudge in his side.
"Get over there, boy," someone whispered.
He moved slowly, stumbling across the corners of mattresses. "They're bastards for pulling me in on this! They knew I brought her in!" His eyes were getting used to the darkness. He could see profiles and the outlines of the room. It was like a nightmare-things were hazy, then clear. "You first, Taylor."
"Taylor?" It was her voice, only low and hoarse. "Taylor?"
"Think she knows you, boy." There was laughter. Taylor wheeled. He could feel the heat in his hands, and his fingernails dug into his palms.
"Get down. She's waiting."
"Yes, Taylor. I'm waiting!" she hissed.
"Betty?"
"Yes, Betty!" Her voice was hard and bitter.
"That's enough introduction-there's six more in line." The voice burned into him like a lighted match. His eyes were blurred; he could feel hot tears beneath the fids. Outside, rain splattered against the roof.
"I said get on it, boy!" the same voice repeated.
"Shut up, goddamn you!" he shouted.
The back of a hand smacked across his face. He could see the man standing in front of him, waiting with feet apart and hands at his heels.
Taylor was trembling. "Okay," he breathed, "I lost my head. I couldn't help it-I lost my head."
"That's right, kid, you lost your head and everything."
"Aw, let him by." It was the young man who had ridden beside him. "Every guy blows up once."
"Then he's blown up once," the man answered. "Get down there, kid. Your old girl friend is waiting."
"Okay," he answered. "Okay." He knelt down beside Betty, clasping her arms.
"And for a moment, I thought you were even going to be human," she said.
"I'm sorry, Betty," he whispered. "When I start to go with it, push me a little-I'll pretend I can't get in."
"Oh, no." Her smile widened. There was pain in her face. "I want my blood to cover you. I hope it dries, and rots-and smells on your skin." She broke into uncontrollable sobs.
"Get with it, Taylor," another voice ordered. "The Anderson girl leave you sterile?"
"Sure-" The name sank into his head. He thought, "This is what they want-to make Sue he here like this, hating me." His head ached, and his cheeks were wet. He did not know whether it was sweat or tears. His arms and legs felt like rags. He dropped loosely across Betty's body. He could not move. If he was trembling, he could not feel it. The heat of her body soaked his face like a hot towel.
"I think he is sterile. Roll him off and let's put some real pumpers on."
A hand grabbed his wrist. His body bumped across the mattresses and sprawled like jelly on the bare floor. He heard Betty gasp suddenly. He felt a stunning blow on his cheekbone. Someone had kicked him in the face.
"Got to snap out of it," he thought. "Got to be able to walk out of here when it's over."
"All right, boy?" It was the young man who had ridden beside him.
"I can't move," he whispered.
"Sure you can. Can you feel this?" he asked, pinching his arm.
"Yeah, I can feel. I just can't move."
"Lift your head."
"Yeah." He raised his head slightly. He could see his arms and legs. Strength began to come into his muscles. He pulled himself into a sitting position. "I'm okay," he said.
"Stay that way," the man warned. "I will."
Betty was making gurgling sounds. After a moment he heard something else.
"Siren!" he thought. "Cops wouldn't be stupid enough to turn on a siren!"
"They're out front!" someone shouted, rushing up the staircase. "There's a car blocking the drive and more on the street."
"Let's clear! Get the girl. Make sure you get the girl!"
"Got to get off my butt," Taylor thought, rolling over on his side. Feet were scrambling over him. He grabbed hold of someone's belt and tried to pull himself up. An arm swung back and hit him on the side of the neck. He twisted dizzily to the side and staggered forward.
There was a push from behind, and he fell through the doorway, stumbling down against several more. An explosive sound echoed in the building.
"They're firing at 'em!" he thought.
"The front's full of spotlights! Get back up the stairs!"
"Upstairs?" he thought. "That's like backing into a cage!" He turned with the rest and ran back up. A shot rang in his ears. The noise was too near to be cops; it could be one of the group firing from the door.
At the head of the stairs, they were crowding through what he had thought was a closet door. There was a rough, wooden rail outside. Wind and the smell of rain blew past him.
"Stairs!" he thought.
Below were two cars. Betty was being shoved into one. Taylor struggled against a mass of reaching arms to get into the back of the other. His head was splitting. More shots came from the front. The first car started and bumped over soft ground.
"Where are we going?" he croaked. Some of the group were still trying to get in; hands beat against the closed windows.
"Take the other car!"
"We can't! We used it to block the drive!"
"Then run!" the driver shouted, starting up and following the first car.
A flimsy wire fence lay flat on the ground. The car rolled through a yard and out a driveway on the opposite side. "Did they get the girl?"
"Yeah, she's in the other car." They bounced into the street. The sirens had stopped.
"There's still some of the group on the other block."
"Tough titty," the driver said. The streets passed before them like a blurred, endless maze.
"We don't have too much to sweat," someone said. "They could all be on the other car."
"Yeah, and if they get that one, they get the girl-that means spilled beans."
"What about the guys we left? Don't that mean spilled beans?"
"Might. Would it mean that if you were one of them?"
"I think you and I would do the same thing," the other one answered.
"Okay, shut up," the driver interrupted. "At the next corner, I'm going to start unloading. Taylor, I'm dumping you first."
The car slowed to a stop.
"Out, boy."
"Yeah."
"Oh-and Taylor, it might be good if you dropped by Pete's drive-in-at your convenience."
"I'm working on this girl Mary Susan-"
"Really? Maybe it would be a good idea for both of you to drop by."
"Yeah, I guess it would." He turned and started to walk away.
"Taylor," the man called back. "We mean be there; you know that."
"Yeah," he answered as the car pulled away. "I know that." He limped down the walk, letting his heels scrape the concrete. He was not sure where he was going or what part of the city this was. The downpour had stopped, but there was a light, cooling mist
11
IT had been some time since Taylor had used an alarm clock. When it rang, it startled him so that he sat up in bed, staring around the room, trying to discover why he had been awakened.
"Oh yeah," he thought. "Church!" He swung his feet to the floor. "Boy! If she only knew what a pain in the butt it is for me to get up this morning."
The kitchen was directly below his room, and he could hear Auntie shuffling around. She always went to church. If she missed, even if she was sick and flat on her back, she would feel guilty. Taylor turned on the radio beside his bed and twisted it from station to station. "Gospel hour ... gospel hour ... gospel hour ... crap."
An hour later he turned into Sue's driveway. She was ready and met him at the door. She looked different with a hat, like a little French girl. She had a great shape, but the only way he could think of her, even in a dream, was just being close to her in a mild and almost sexless embrace.
"I like the way you look," he said.
"You mean you like the dress or the hat?" she asked with a smile.
"No, just the way you look-the way you stand in the doorway and all."
"Thank you, even if you are flattering me."
"Ready to go?"
"I go to a Methodist church; is that all right with you?" T don't know-is it Christian?"
"Let's go," she said, laughing. "It's downtown; it's a very old church, built almost when the city was founded. It's on the corner of Main and Jefferson, but you better go down Union; Jefferson turns into a one-way just before you get to it."
"This is the craziest, stupidest town-streets run all over the place, a one-way on every turn, stop signs on thoroughfares-"
"It's an old river town," she said, getting into the Merc. "Any city that started a long time ago near the river had to have its center near the bank where barges could load and unload."
. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said mockingly, "this morning WHHR, your Sunday morning educational TV, brings you a detailed account of the history of our little river metropolis..."
"Oh, shut up, stupid. You've got a red spot on the side of your face."
"My mother hit me 'cause I wouldn't eat all my vegetables."
"Have you been in a fight."
"Not exactly."
"Well, what happened."
"Can't a poor guy have no privacy."
"Have you been in some kind of trouble."
"No, I haven't been in some kind of trouble! Drop it, will you."
"You have, haven't you?" she persisted.
"A guy was drunk-he bothered me, I told him to go away, and he hit me-satisfied?"
"I suppose I'll have to be," she answered. "Taylor, please stay out of anything that could get you in trouble."
"You mean like the Boy Scouts?"
"Yes, Taylor, the Boy Scouts."
"That's Main Street up there. I take a left to get to Jefferson, right?"
"Right. It's only a block or so down."
"It's a pretty big church," he said, pulling into a parking lot. He slid out and held the door for her.
"That's a good boy."
"By the way, is there a cover charge in this place?"
"Yes, but they don't collect it till after you're seated." She pointed to a side entrance.
"You don't seem to take this church stuff as seriously as I thought."
"Yes, Taylor, I do. I was just showing you that I won't be shocked by anything you say. I believe a person uses humor to hide deeper feelings."
"Be careful, you might be reading between the lines."
The church was well lighted, but the quietness inside made him feel like it was dark. Most of the seats were filled. An usher seated them on an inside row near the middle. He hated going all the way down there, and he hated even worse crawling over half a row of people in pass by lighted windows, but they were more like order to squeeze into a tiny space. He did not like people behind him that he could not see.
The organ music had started. On the back of the bench in front of him, he noticed little indentations in the wood where somebody had pressed their fingernails. He looked at his own nails; they were rough and bitten. Sue's hands were not smooth, but her nails were carefully manicured and polished. On the backs of her hands were tiny irregular scars-they looked as if hot grease had splattered over them.
The minister stepped in front of the pulpit. Somehow, he did not look like what Taylor had expected. He was a tall, well-built young man. His hair was light brown with a few streaks of white. He opened the service, speaking in normal conversation tones. When the first hymn was over Taylor felt less self-conscious. The minister approached the pulpit and thumbed through the Bible. He read it as if someone had just handed him a business letter.
" 'And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the wayside. ... Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth:'
"What am I supposed to be," Taylor thought, "the seed, or the stony place?"
" 'And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and because they had no root, they withered...' "
"Now I could be the root, the sun, the stone, or the seed-that's ambiguous as crud." He stretched his arm out behind Sue. She looked at him as if he were distracting her attention. "Sorry," he whispered.
The stained glass window behind the pulpit had a loud mixture of colors. Christ was standing in the middle of a bunch of sheep holding a lamb in his arms. The body was rough, without any trace of effeminacy. The face was elongated, and the eyes looked down at the lamb with an affectionate but somewhat reproving look.
"I still hate to be considered a damn sheep," he thought.
The next hymn began. Taylor felt curiously guilty for enjoying a safe, comfortable sensation. The memory of the night before, the soreness in his cheekbone and the side of his neck, the warning to be at Pete's, made a lie out of the whole thing.
" 'Come unto me and I will give you peace,'" he thought. That was a line that Auntie often quoted. "Okay, here I am. Give me peace."
Sue's foot was moving back and forth. "Come unto me and I will make you feel peaceful, when tonight you'll probably get your butt stomped," he thought.
Sue's foot was still. The minister had begun the sermon. A little boy three rows farther up stared at Taylor over the rounded edge of the bench; it made him feel naked. He glared back, trying to look as mean as possible. The peering eyes sank back out of sight, and only the top of a dark, curly head could be seen.
'It is common to approach this parable with Christ as the sower..." The minister's voice interrupted his thoughts. "With His message as the seed, and man as the condition of earth to receive the seed or His message."
"I suppose he's gonna give us the real inside story," Taylor thought. He picked up the bulletin that was lodged between his body and Sue's. "Henderson," he thought, running his finger under the name of the minister.
"I will not pretend to be opposed or in favor of this interpretation..."
"Face it, you don't know," Taylor thought.
"I do believe that there is value in presenting a possibly new approach-if for no other reason than to bring deeper meaning into the one that you hold. Let us picture the ground as being homes, schools, businesses, newspapers, nations-the condition in which the soil rests."
Taylor settled into a more comfortable position.
"And let the seed be-any man as he is born-the child at birth, without setting or placement. We like to think of man as being what he is because of his own choice. This is not altogether true. If a child, or seed, falls in a broken home, one where there is tension, or one where the parent presents an undesirable image for a child to follow, then the ground is shallow-there are stones."
"I bet Sue's eating this up," Taylor thought, observing her rapt attention.
"If the child begins life on this stone and walks into the external world where there are perverted ideals, hate that hardens into a lack of concern for life, then the child steps from one stone to another, unable to grasp with deep roots. He must cling to the rocky edges, sometimes falling, sometimes finding soil beneath the cracks. If he finds fertile ground in these cracks, he may grow like the tree, and break the hard rocks around his trunk."
"And what if he can't?" Taylor thought.
"How easy it is for some of us who have fallen on fertile ground to condemn the brush that bares its tangled roots on the surface of hot stones."
Taylor observed the people around him. Some were gazing out the window. A few were sleeping. "So who gives a goddamn?" he thought.
Sue's foot was swinging again. "How do they walk in those damn tiny heels?" he thought. A woman several seats down was also swinging her foot. "Must be an epidemic. God, I hate those thick heels. They look too chunky or something. And red! God! I'm glad Sue's are black." He leaned over to her. T like your shoes," he whispered.
She gave him a peculiar look.
"Guess that sounded pretty silly," he thought. He assumed a position of profound interest, and let his thoughts drift. The sermon seemed surprisingly short, but then he was no judge. The shuffling after the benediction was like a mild roar of thunder.
"Well?" said Sue.
"Well, what? You mean did I like the service."
"Yes."
"I think so. I didn't get quite all of it. I went to sleep after the opening hymn."
That evening they went to a musical. When the show was over, he drove around the city for more than an hour, as if he could solve everything by stalling long enough. Sue kept asking him where he was going, why he was just driving aimlessly about the streets. He wanted to explain, but he hardly knew how to begin.
"I was supposed to meet some acquaintances later tonight," he said.
She smoothed her skirt over her knees. "Oh?"
"Well, the thing of it is, it's some people I don't want you to meet."
"Why not?"
"It's just some guys I've known a long time-sort of grew up with them. I don't like them and I don't want to see them ... but, you know, you can't just tell some guys you've known a long time you don't want to get together or anything. You understand? I mean, I want to take you someplace, then after I drop you off, I'll go by."
"That last part sounded like a sudden decision."
"Where would you like to go?"
"Where are your friends?"
"At a place called Pete's," he said.
"Then I want to go to Pete's."
"I don't think you would, Sue."
"I would. You've told me you don't particularly care for these friends, and I don't expect to see Southern gentlemen. I should be able to go with you anyplace you go. I want to be able to do this."
"No, Sue, we're going someplace else-I'd like to talk to you."
"We could talk later, couldn't we?" I suppose so." Then let's go to Pete's."
"Look, honey, they come up to your car, get in, and just sit there like stray dogs. They're crude as pigs."
"Taylor, we get kinds like that in the cafe all the time. I simply ignore them."
Then why don't we both ignore them tonight, huh?"
"Will you go back later?"
"Yes, goddammit! I'll go back later!" He felt a sudden shame. "I'm sorry-I didn't mean to be that way. I just hate to be nagged, know what I mean?"
"You're in some kind of trouble, aren't you?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"Then I want to go with you."
"Well, it's not trouble exactly; some of the guys drink a few and they get a little tough to be around. Sometimes there's a fight or two-"
"I want to go. If anything starts to happen, we can leave."
"I said no. Please don't be a kid about the thing. I can't take you-that's all."
"Why?"
"You've been a real pain tonight. Can't you lay off."
"All I want to know is why."
"All right, we'll go."
Nothing more was said until they got to Pete's. "Maybe it'll all be okay," he thought. "It could just be a warning or something...." He pulled into the double drive and around the smoky brick building. There were three cars in back. He recognized two as belonging to the group. The third was a black Buick. Morris was standing outside, propping himself against a pole that supported an awning.
"Hey, the bastard's here!" he shouted. Taylor passed by and parked several spaces down. "He's got the broad with him, too!"
"You hear that, Sue?" he said, noticing her puzzled look. "That's partly why."
"My, my, who's being screwed in this old Mercury?" Morris said, coming up. "Let's see-the light's bad. Well, well, it's the Taylor boy!"
"That's right."
"With a sexy little girl."
Sue stared at him. Her eyes darted back and forth, resting for a moment on Taylor, then flickering back at Morris. "Let's go," she whispered.
"Go?" Morris laughed. "I want to sit a spell and listen to Taylor tell you about old times."
"Lock the door," Taylor said. Before she could obey, Morris slapped his hand across the window opening. Taylor shoved the gear knob up, grinding it above the noise of the engine. Morris jumped back as the car jerked into reverse. The clamor of smashing metal rang across the drive-in.
"Right behind you, Taylor!" a voice shouted. He looked out the rear window. He had rammed a black Buick, breaking its headlights. Another car raced up beside him, screeched to a stop.
"Who are they?" Sue cried. He ignored her, turning quickly around. Shiny bars of a steel fence stood out in front. The car was boxed in. His hands dropped from the wheel and he leaned back.
"This is why, Sue-this is why."
Two colored waiters stood at a safe distance. A third was hurrying inside.
Morris rested his arms on the window. "Cigarette, Sue?"
She was watching Taylor. His eyes stared dully ahead. "Don't you smoke?" Morris asked, leaning closer. "No, I don't smoke."
"Why, Taylor told me you smoked all the time, didn't you, Taylor?"
"Who is he?" she asked, clutching Taylor's arm.
"Introduce us, Taylor," Morris said, staring down at her knees.
"Who is he?" she repeated. He did not answer.
"I'm a friend of his," Morris said, opening the door. "We used to punch some of the same girls." He put his arm behind her and sat on the edge of the seat. "He's told me about you, Sue," he continued, "about what a nice warm girl you are." The car doors behind them opened and shut. Sue moved over next to Taylor. Her skirt slid several inches above her knees.
"Bet it felt good, Taylor," Morris muttered. "Nice legs."
Taylor threw his fist suddenly across the width of the car. "You filthy son of a bitch!" Morris's head flew back as the blow connected. He grabbed Taylor's arm and dragged him over Sue. The door swung open. Taylor's legs bumped off the floor and hit the ground with a thud.
"I got him!" Morris shouted. Arms grabbed Taylor around the neck and shoulders, lifting him to his feet. Sue began screaming and blowing the horn.
"Lock the ca-" A heavy fist struck his lips, mashing them against his teeth.
"Shut her up!" one of the group directed.
"You bastards!" Taylor screamed. His mouth began to clog with blood and his voice faded into choked cries. He felt himself being dragged upright.
"Lay it on him!"
A dull thumping sound ran through his temples. His head rocked back, and a heavy blow struck him across the middle of his throat. His lungs felt crushed; he gasped for air. "I can't breathe!" he thought. Warm streams of blood trickled down his face, and a stinging blackness passed over him. "I can't pass out!"
"Get him good!"
"They're kicking," he thought. The hard leather gashed into his legs. He hung limp in their hands. "He's out."
"I don't think so. Kick him where it hurts!" A driving pain shot through his groin.
"Oh, God!" he shrieked. The muscles in his stomach knotted together, drawing his body up into a ball. He lay trembling, and his. lips moved without sound.
He was dimly aware that he was being lifted. The car seat felt like jagged metal as they flopped his bruised body down in the back.
"Taylor, are you-" The voice was muffled. It was Sue.
"She in the front seat?" he wondered. "Unconscious-better act unconscious." The far-off wail of a siren filtered into his thoughts. "So they called 'em." Why had it taken so long-or had time passed that slowly? The motor started. The seat shook beneath him.
"We better take 'em out of here quick." It was Morris's voice. Taylor opened his eyes a slit. Sue was between two blurred forms in the front seat. His eyelids were swollen, and the blood around the edges forced him to closed them. The lower half of his body slid to the floor as the Merc swerved out of the drive and onto the street. The sirens grew louder.
"They're getting closer," he thought.
"That's them ahead," the driver said. "Shall I turn off?"
"Keep straight."
Taylor strained to open his eyes. A light encircled by bright red rings reflected on the rear window. The howling, piercing siren left a dull ache in his battered ears.
"It went by," he thought. 'It went right on by us!"
"Now turn off. Better give out with a signal-the other guys are pretty far behind."
"The other guys?" Taylor thought. Parts of his body began to burn as more feeling returned.
"What about the girl?"
"Ha-what about her?" Low laughter followed. "I think we ought to check into the merchandise."
Her weak moan aroused Taylor. His eyes opened wide enough to see the back of her head twisting from side to side and her arms thrashing wildly. A heavy rag was clamped over her mouth.
"Those bastards!" he thought. He tried to shout. His throat was swollen, and nothing but a wheeze came out.
The car shook with Sue's squirming.
A bright light filled the car. Someone behind was aiming his high beams at them.
"Better lay off-" the driver warned. "Some of the boys behind are wondering what the hell."
"Hold still, sweetheart, just taking your measurements." There was more laughter. "Ow-oo-she kicks."
"I'll kill them," Taylor swore to himself. His thoughts began to cloud.
"Better lay off," the driver repeated. "They might think things are out of hand."
"Just sexing her. Wonder how our little worker in the back is? Awake, boy? This is mother."
Taylor tried to see. His mashed eyelashes blurred like red bars across his view.
"He's out like a miscarriage. Face looks like it's been slapped with chains. We did a pretty job on this one."
"Don't let her see him," the driver said, "not now." The car slowed down, making Taylor slide further off the seat.
"I'm going to pull over after one more turn," the driver said.
Taylor's head began to clear. He wanted to stop and get it over with, but he was worried what might happen to Sue. They were bound to know that she was not ready to go in the group. His mind whirled; he was not sure he could hold together. The car had stopped. Some of the group were standing around, but only their shoulders and necks were visible.
"No sense in running up chances," a voice warned. "There's stuff waitin for us. It's all the same."
"To you, maybe, but I like the looks of this."
The back door opened. Taylor's feet flopped out on the ground.
"We really knocked him." A form bent over him for a closer look. Taylor stared blankly forward.
"His eyes are open-" A hand waved across his face, forcing him to blink. "But he's out, out like a light."
"He saw me blink," Taylor thought. The man's face was familiar. "The one they roughed up-the one I picked up on Brandon Road."
The man leaned forward, touching the cuts around Taylor's mouth. "We've done the job," he said. "Let's leave him and the girl out here."
"They're gonna spoil our fun," one of them whispered to Sue.
Doors opened and slammed. Voices faded into a murmur.
"Taylor?" Sue was leaning over the front seat. "They're leaving." A beam flashed across her face as the car behind turned around on the road. "They're going," she cried.
"Thank God," he said. She slid across the seat and out the door. The inside light flicked on and she hovered over him. Her face twisted into shock.
"Taylor, hold on-I'm going to take you to a doctor."
"No! No doctor." Tears stung the cuts on his cheeks. He sobbed. "I can't help it," his voice choked. "I'm trying to stop."
Sue helped him onto the seat. His face and clothing were covered with dirt from the floor. She brushed off his forehead and gently moved her fingers over his hair.
She was trying to soothe him, but her hand felt like a burning rake.
"Go ahead. You're hurt bad-there's nothing wrong with tears."
"Let's go," he pleaded. "It's not the pain."
"To the doctor?"
"No." He lifted her hand from his head. "Let me out at my place, then take the car on. I'll pick it up in the morning."
"I'm going to take you to my house-then in the morning, I'm calling a doctor-no matter what."
She got into the front seat and started the engine. He drifted into unconsciousness.
12
WHEN he awoke, Sue was gently blotting his cheeks with a towel. The sheets were stiff and uncomfortable. Over the closet door he could see his blood-soaked clothes.
"What time is it?" he asked, rearing up from the bed.
"Stay down," she whispered. "It's about four in the morning-you've only been here half an hour."
"Oh, God," he muttered. "How did you get me here?"
"You walked in yourself; you walked in, sat on the bed, and passed out."
"Who undressed me?"
"I did." A little color came to her cheeks.
"Learn anything?"
"I don't think you're hurt as bad as you look."
'Where's your mother?" He scanned the room, pushing himself part of the way up with his elbows. His head throbbed. It was obviously a woman's bedroom. Dark red drapes blended into rose-colored walls. Dresses were visible inside the closet.
"I don't know. She should be in."
"Is this your room or hers?"
Mine.
I'm getting your sheets bloody."
"I'm terribly concerned about the sheets. Taylor-" Her voice was serious. "What kind of trouble are you in."
"I sell lollypops to minors."
"Get serious." She sat on the side of the bed and leaned over him. "Things like tonight just don't happen, unless-"
"Would you believe me if I told you that I don't feel like talking right now."
"Wdl you ever?"
"I am in trouble, but there's nothing you can do, absolutely nothing-except stick with me."
"Are you afraid I won't?"
"No. I don't understand why you have this long."
"It's because-everything I think about-everything-is centered around little things, like the comments you make about my dress, or something you've said. . . " She was looking away from him.
"Sue-" He turned and held her arm. "If you weren't there to think about, I couldn't stand it. I swear I couldn't."
She pulled back and sat up straight. He could almost feel her crying. It gave him a warm, deep feeling. He slumped back on the bed, breathing heavily.
"Something's wrong," she said, getting up. "Something's very wrong. In the morning, you're going to tell me." She left the room for a few moments and returned with a small bottle. "Better take two," she said, emptying several of the pills into her hand.
"I'm sorry, Sue." His fingers gripped the tiny white disks and he dropped them into his mouth.
"There's nothing to be sorry about. Close your eyes."
He sucked in deep breaths and let his head fall back. Her cheek brushed against his, and her warm breath blew in his ear.
"The doctor will be here in the morning," she whispered. Her lips pressed lightly on his ear; the springs squeaked as she got up. The red glow under his eyelids vanished. The light was out, and she was gone.
He took the partially dissolved pills out of his mouth and rested for a long time. "Wonder if she's asleep?" he thought.
The bed was warm, and he hated getting out of it. The blood on his clothes was almost dry. They were like stiff burlap rags as he pulled them on. "I've got to go," he thought. "A doctor would mean questions." He still felt weak and dizzy. He fumbled his way to the back door, limping slightly. "Did she leave the keys in the Merc?" he wondered.
The air outside chilled him pleasantly. It was early morning, and there was plenty of light to see his way around. He cracked the car door open quietly and slipped in. His hand felt for the ignition. The keys were there. "Now if the damned engine don't wake her up-"
The tires crackled over sticks in the driveway. He shifted into low and pulled slowly down the street.
A warm, moist sensation moved from his nose to his lip. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it under his nostrils. A flat object underneath him made him shift his position. "My wallet," he thought, pulling it out. He fingered through it nervously as he drove. "A card," he mumbled. The stiff edges broke the smoothness of his palm.
"Parker Bradley," the card read.
"Who the hell?" he wondered. "Oh, the cop-"
The car shook suddenly. "I'm off the road!" he thought. A row of white concrete posts bordered a curve. He cut the wheel sharply to the left. The rear end slid, bouncing to the side. The front swung directly in line with the posts. There was a loud clash of metal and he felt himself flung against the windshield.
His mind was blank. He pushed open the door and held his head in his hands. He waited until his vision cleared then staggered toward the front of the car. There was a heavy dent in the center of the bumper, and one end was protruding. "Oh, God." He lifted himself back into the car and rested. The windshield was marred by a circle of fragmented glass. His fingers sank into a small groove above his right eye. "There's no blood," he thought, looking at his hand. He had to steady himself with the wheel. "Get back-how?" His mind faded out for a moment.
The keys were still in the ignition. The engine turned over, but failed to start. "Flooded it." The thought struck him as funny. He turned the key again. The engine started. He backed slowly away from the posts, then pulled onto the road.
When he reached the house, his front wheels were scraping against the bashed fender. Blood was beginning to clot on his forehead. He could still feel bits of glass mixed into the hardened streams.
The sun was up and morning was on its way. "So what am I going to tell Auntie?" he thought. He took one step at a time and moved carefully to the door. He had felt almost nothing when he hit the windshield. "Won't be able to tell which cuts are which," he thought. There was a momentary image of fists swinging into his face, the kick crushing upward. "Why mention the mauling? Just tell her the car messed me up."
The smell of bacon floated into the front room. Auntie was in the kitchen, finishing breakfast.
"Auntie," he said in a soft voice.
She gasped. "Taylor! Oh, dear heaven, what's happened to you? Sit down, I'll call Dr. Watson."
"No, don't call a doc-Watson? Dr. Watson-Yeah, call him." He slumped into the chair and closed his eyes.
Somehow he would have to explain to Sue. The group would still be riding him, and the next lie would make it even harder. "They're going to want her in," he thought. "I can delay it, but it won't help a purple damn. This thing's going to blow. If I tell her now, she'd bomb it in a minute. I can do that or wait, wait and let it bang when it bangs."
A slow ache had started in his groin. He tried to overhear Auntie's phone conversation. The door was closed and all he could catch was a few meaningless words.
"Bradley," he thought. He reached back for his wallet. "Parker Bradley-phone number and all-his son's a cop. If I was to tip him off.It could mean protection for Sue, or maybe it would mean hell for both of us. I can't just sit here on my wilted-" Auntie was through with the phone; he heard her drop the receiver.
"Taylor, he's coming-said lie down till he gets here. Said you may have a concussion and not know it. Suppose I help you move to the front room?"
"I can make it."
"I'll help you."
"I can do it myself, understand."
"I'll put a pillow in there for you."
"Do that." He walked slowly to the couch and sat down.
"Better rest, son. The doctor may not get here for some time."
He settled down into the soft couch. "I just don't give a holy goddamn. Sue and the whole bunch can flush themselves." He was tired for the first time. Saliva ran from his mouth onto the blue cushions. "Stupid to sleep now," he thought. He closed his eyes and turned his head to one side.
He lay there, not sure at times whether he was awake or asleep. Sue kissed him softly on the ear. He wanted her to stay, but everything was changing. He was out in the woods now. Pine needles were on the ground, but the trees looked like willows. He could see, even though it was dark. He was awake; he knew he was awake. He knelt down and scraped up a handful of pine needles. They were dry, and stuck in his hands like pins. They were dropping from the trees; he could feel them stinging his face. He lay flat on the ground. It was hard, and rocks pressed into his body. "Rock," he thought. "The pines are dying-that's why needles are falling. Stone. Everything will die ... stone..." He seemed to walk down from the woods away from everything. The air was cool and blacker, and even blacker still ... almost swirling blackness...
"Taylor-Taylor, the doctor is here. Are you awake?"
"Yeah, I'm awake," he said, staring around the room. It was a moment before he was sure.
"How you feel, son?" the doctor asked, squatting by the couch.
"Fine. Never felt better."
"Get caught in a tornado?"
"Naw, fell off my bicycle."
"Must've been riding on the roof."
"Yeah, I do things like that."
"Sit up and take off your shirt." He fingered through his bag. "Had a little light in this thing someplace. I'm always leaving stuff when I'm making my house calls. Usually get it back, but not till some kid has left teeth prints in the thing. Where'd you have the wreck?"
"On a curve."
"Any other cars involved?"
"No, just me, a few posts, and a windshield."
"Did you call 'em?"
"The cops?"
"Uh-huh."
"Hell, no."
"Supposed to, son."
"Why? Didn't wreck anything but my own car."
"It's just the law."
"Then it's a stupid law."
"Can't blame you," the doctor said. "I wouldn't call 'em, either. There the thing is." He pulled out a small black instrument with a bulb in the end. "Open your eyes wide." He rolled the top eyelid back on a small stick. "Now, roll your eyes down."
"I got both eyeballs, if that's what you're huntin for."
"Don't talk while he's looking," Auntie said.
"Don't matter none," the doctor said. "Glad he's able to talk."
"Got some pains around the gut," Taylor said, waving his hand over his stomach.
"What are pains doing down there? You hit the steering wheel?"
"I hit everything."
He pressed lightly around the edge of Taylor's rib cage.
"Sore around there," Taylor said.
"Uh-huh, just bruised up a little." The doctor reached into his bag again and took out a pad. "You can put your shirt on. I'm going to give your aunt a prescription and let her pick up some stuff at the drugstore, if she doesn't mind."
"Not a bit, Dr. Watson. I'll go right now. What about those cuts on his face?"
"They look worse than they are. He's more bruised than cut. The blood's coming mostly from his nose. Some doctors would sew those scratches up. All they'd be doing is decorating his face. A cut's got to be just so deep before it'll scar. I'm going to slop some medicine on them. Keep your hands away from your face and it won't be necessary to gift wrap you. I might stretch a little bandage over your eye."
I'll get the medicine," she said, opening the front door. "Remember what he tells you, Taylor."
The doctor waited until the door closed behind her. "You got a mild concussion, son. That means you better keep quiet for a few days. You can't tell about these kind of things. If it were a bad one, I'd have to stick you in the hospital. If you sort of lay around in bed and you don't have any further trouble, I think it'll be all right for you to stay here."
"You say I've got a mild concussion-what-"
"Your brain floats in kind of a liquid sack; if you jar it, you shake things up in there. It can be real dangerous."
"I got a pain down there, know what I mean."
"Pull down your pants and let me check."
"Want me to cough?"
"Yeah, just for fun," the doctor said, jabbing his finger in. "Hurt."
"Naw, just sore as hell."
"Got a couple of swollen gonads there. I suppose you're going to tell me you hit them on the steering wheel."
"I don't know what happened."
"Well, I do. Your leg is bruised on the side. You've been kicked. Looks like you've been in a brawl. A windshield just don't black up a face like that."
"I've been in a little trouble. Rather you wouldn't tell Auntie; you know how she is.
"I suspect more than one guy put a fist to you."
"Yeah, it was a gang deal. I might call a cop."
"I think that's probably a good idea. Takes more to do that than it does to take the beating."
"I'm not tied up in anything. It was just a run-in with the wrong guys."
"Didn't say you were," the doctor mumbled, swabbing Taylor's face with a cotton applicator. "You wouldn't tell me about it anyway, and frankly, I don't give much of a damn-unless, of course, you were in something serious. Most boys cut up a little before they get out on their own. We used to shoot holes in mail boxes when I was a kid. Got any other pains you want to confess?"
"Naw, that's it."
"When your aunt brings the medicine, you'll find the directions on the bottle. If that face gives you trouble, or you get any bad headaches, don't hesitate to call."
"Yeah."
"I'll see you, son. Get some rest."
"Okay, Doc."
"Don't give up that idea of callin in."
"You mean the cops?"
He paused in the doorway. "Uh-huh, the cops."
"I'm going to call 'em." He lay back on the couch. The screen door slammed. "Must think I'm still playing with slingshots," he thought. He fastened his belt. "The old veterinarian, he ought to have an office on a farm. Wonder why Auntie-likes the old guy so much? A good thing she called him instead of some curious little bastard. He must be pretty good. Was it ... no ... yes, it was Dr. Watson Dad called when Mother-died. I guess that's why Auntie's so fond of him. Doesn't sound like he knows much about medicine. Probably just acts the way he does to appeal to people like Auntie."
He sat up and yawned. His throat still hurt. "Not so bad," he whispered. "Thought for awhile I was near ... sometimes I want to die. I could call this guy Bradley's son. That wouldn't be the same as calling the cops. Might even work at it from the inside. If I called him and just told him a few things-just enough for a stick in the wheel, the group would bust-no more pressure to drag Sue in, no more damn dirt. If I could just go somewhere and drop everything. I don't know; hell, maybe I like a stone ground to stand on. I want to move; I don't want roots of nothing. A girl says no-then she sits there like you're ignoring her, hoping to hell you'll run your hand down her blouse. I don't know ... shit ... Sue, she-aw, God knows what she wants. Wonder if she's all that good? I wonder what the great, clean angel would be like if she were me? Aw, hell, who knows-I don't, nobody does-if they say they do, they're a bunch of goddamn liars. It'd be stupid for me to call Bradley. The cops aren't going to pat me on the butt and let me go like a little school kid. It'd be just like turning myself in. The group's handed out their punishment; I'm in no trouble with them so long as I play ball. Sue doesn't mean that much-not enough to say the hell with everything I've got."
A sudden pain knotted his stomach, forcing him to draw up his knees. "God, stop!" His breathing eased. "If they'd let me drop her-start on some slut that'll lay and don't give a damn. I can do that. All they want is a broad for sex and to push a few cigs-they couldn't use a girl like Sue. But now she knows too much. If I'd just dropped her to begin with!"
He sat up and slapped the edge of the couch. The pain threatened to return, and he lay back again. "I've got to call the damn guy-I've got to. I want to call the son of a bitch! Nobody's gonna kick my guts out like that, and nobody's gonna touch her!" He lifted himself once again. "So I call him," he thought, taking the wallet out of his pocket. "I tell him about the group-don't give my name or nothing-just straight stuff about the group. Bradley," he muttered, drawing the card from between several bills. "It would be Jr.-no trouble to find."
The phone book was on the desk beneath a pile of magazines. He was weak all over, and even the short walk to the back room had made his head split.
"Wonder if the doctor will really keep his mouth shut to Auntie?" he thought. "Police department," he thought, sliding his finger under the names. "Yeah, Detective division, BR 6-9398." He scribbled the number down and tossed the phone book on the magazines. "He should be in at this time of the morning," he thought, dialing the number. The phone rang twice. A male voice answered.
"Bradley there?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, could you hold that line a moment."
"Yeah." He could hear voices and the clicking of a typewriter. "Yes."
"This Mr. Bradley."
"That's right."
"I think I can give you a few tips."
"What's the name?"
"That's not important. I'm just giving tips."
"Tips don't interest me; if you want to come down and give a full bark, okay."
"Don't pull a bluff. You cops will swallow any bit you can grab."
"Then call another one; I'm one that won'. "
"Look, this is big."
"If you know something, you know more than the little fraction you plan to spill. Let's lay it on the line, bud, you're in the red and want to save a gut."
"So? You're stupid enough to turn down information?"
"That's right. If you want to sell puzzles, go elsewhere. I got a piled desk."
"What'll it get me if I bark?"
"It'll mean something."
"Like arrest?"
"Might."
"Okay, Bradley, what do you wan."
"Be at my office in the morning."
"I'm bunged up-bad."
"Bad enough to stop you from coming."
"What time?"
"Morning. Don't bother yourself with remembering an hour. I'll be here. What's the name?"
"This is not what I wanted," he thought. But he said, "Name's Taylor-Taylor Latham."
13
IT was almost noon when Taylor got to the building. He looked at the directory in the lobby. "Seven-twenty," he thought. "Seventh floor-office twenty." He noticed a clock at the end of the hall. It was nearly twelve-thirty.
"Who are you lookin' for, son?" The voice came from behind him.
He wheeled around. A tall young man in a business suit stood there, observing him like a hunter. "A guy named Bradley."
"I'm Bradley."
"That right?"
"I'd given you up. Just came down to grab a bite to eat."
"So I'm late," Taylor said, brushing his handprint off the polished surface of the directory. The man looked younger than he had expected-so young that he hesitated to say anything more.
The man seemed to sense his suspicion. "I'll eat later," he said, showing Taylor his card. "Let's go up, all right?" There was an elevator waiting. "Seven, please," Bradley said, poking the elevator girl in the side. "Coming, son."
"Yeah."
"Seventh floor," the girl smiled. "Take yourself off my elevator."
"Down the hall, boy," Bradley said, pointing to' an office at the end. "You a school boy, Taylor."
"Yeah, one year overdue."
"Didn't expect a young fellow; what's the age? Sixteen? Seventeen."
"Seventeen."
"Messed up with a ring, right."
"Yeah, that's right."
"That's my office on the left. How long you been in? A year?" Two.
"You see that sign on the door? Says Lt. Parker Bradley Jr. For God's sake, why does everybody call me Mr. Bradley?"
"Maybe you don't look like a cop."
"What does a cop look like?"
"Nice office you got here. There are two desks."
"One's for the secretary-she's on her lunch hour. Hour, hell, she takes two. Have a seat. Suppose we skip details for now. Just give me the crux of the thing."
"Sorry, don't know the crux. I'm in with the group and I can spout some names; I just do little jobs and bring in girls."
"Well, what's the group's main interest."
"As far as I know, most of the business is pushin the stuff. I start a few girls off light."
"Marijuana?"
"Suppose so. Stuff in cigarettes?"
"That's the stuff. Are you on anything?"
"No."
"Ever smoke any marijuanas? Not that they're addicting-"
"I'm not on anything."
"If you are, tell me."
"I said I'm not on anything."
"Ever handle any heroin?"
"No." Taylor got up from his seat and walked over to river, a wide gray river, lazy-flowing and white-streaked by sand bars.
"No heroin?" Bradley repeated.
"No. AU I do is make contacts."
"I'm not trying to throw a rap on you, just want to find out how much you know."
"I'm not holding back. All I can tell you about the inside is guess work. I date a girl, see; I get her drunk, lay her as much and as quick as I can-"
"Then when you've made a bitch out of her, you drop her in the ring. Right? We know some of the broads you handled."
"You know?" he asked, turning sharply away from the window.
Bradley watched him intently; a puff of smoke hid the keenness of his features.
"Then I suppose you don't need me any more." Taylor looked down at the floor. "So you know everything," he said, dropping back against the window.
"We know a lot, but not enough. I checked your name after you called. Your station is a drugstore. Right?"
"Yeah, that's right. I suppose there won't be much else to blow."
"We need details-names, numbers, places-got me."
"I've seen a lot of faces-"
"And you'll probably see more. Will you agree to keep a line open."
"What do you mean?"
"Keep in contact with me. Let me know all you can find out." Bradley took a pack of cigarettes out of his desk drawer and offered Taylor one.
"Thanks. Yeah. I'll keep a line open."
"Play it safe. If they get on to you-you know what can happen."
"Yeah, I know the bit." He lit the cigarette with the desk lighter. "Guess I'm in pretty deep, huh?"
"It's not like you were cutting up in Sunday school. But it could be worse. Seventeen is young. Coming up here was a healthy step. You can plead circumstances and what not. The biggest thing that's going to pain you is yourself. Think about the people for awhile, what you've done to them. If you don't get sick, then I pity you. That's more punishment than the court will give."
"Yeah, maybe so."
"Why did you call in? They roughed you up, but you don't seem to be in too much hot water."
"Like you said, you can get pretty sick. This all for now?"
"Wait a minute. Don't see anyone but me. The Department might not go for it if they knew. You're a little young to let run around-understand?" I got you.
"One more thing. Thanks."
"Yeah."
The next morning was warm and clear. He did not understand why he had let Sue talk him into going to the zoo. It bothered him that she had suggested it when she knew he needed rest. He noticed that as he got into the car, bending over made his head throb. When he arrived at her house, he was careful to keep straight and get out slowly.
Sue was waiting in the yard. She was wearing a yellow sweater and a loose skirt to match. With her brown eyes, it looked good.
The zoo was several blocks from her house. It took only a few minutes to make the drive.
"Won't you feel a little silly walking around in this place?" he asked, pulling into a space on the gravel lot.
"Why? I like the zoo," she said, getting out by herself.
When he stood up, the soreness told him that walking was going to be tough. "Let's sit on that bench over there by the goldfish pond."
"Lazy?"
"No, goldfish fascinate me. You know what a coatimondi is?" he asked, throwing a small rock into the water.
"A what?"
"A coatimondi."
"You're making up names."
"No. It's a little animal from South America, sort of like a raccoon."
"There's no such animal," she said, walking over to the edge of the goldfish pond.
"Yes, there is. They're real affectionate-not like you."
"These goldfish are big," she said, breaking up pieces of popcorn and dropping them on the surface of the water. "Look at them eat. That big white one over there, the one under the spray, he looks like he's dead."
"He's not white and he's not dead."
"He is white-white and orange. If he's not dead, why doesn't he come over for food?"
"Maybe he's too tired to play with little girls."
"No, I think he's an outcast from the rest of the fish. He's the only one over there-all by himself, just rolling around under the spray."
"I think it's the spray that's rolling him around," Taylor said, slipping his arm through hers. The atmosphere seemed unreal. She was acting like a happy little child.
He wondered if she was trying to help him forget. He could not forget-there was too much whirling around in his mind. The sky was clear and the air fresh, but what difference did it make? Beyond the sky was darkness, and the air would change with the wind.
"Is there really such an animal as a coat--? "
"A coatimondi?" he asked. "Yes, they're in a cage behind the lion house. Tell you what," he said. "We'll make a bet. Are you chicken?"
"Name it."
"Okay, if you don't find a cage labeled 'Coatimondi' over there, I'll go so far as to go to church with you again, but if you do, you've got to steal that white and orange goldfish out of the pond."
"Now, that's a stupid bet."
"Coatimondi are very intelligent animals."
"All right, little boy. It's a bet."
"Go ahead; it's only a little ways."
"Aren't you coming with me?"
"Why? I know what's over there."
"I won't take the bet if I have to go by myself."
"All right, I'll hold little girl's hand, if that's what she wants. Wait till I get some peanuts at that stand."
Taylor was trying not to limp. He rested his arms on the counter and gave the boy a dollar, hoping it would take a few moments to make change. Sue did not realize that it was not just a cut over his eye that was bothering him; but how could he tell her that he was hurting down there?
"You see that little flat building?" he asked. "I see a little flat building with some dogs in it."
"Those are wolves; the coatimondi are on the other side. Step around this corner, please ma'am."
"Looks like an empty cage."
"They're behind that little stone opening. Hand me a peanut." He stepped around to the side of the cage.
"Watch this." He tossed a peanut in front of the opening.
"Here they come." A brown furry animal trotted out like a dog and put his front paws against the bars.
"It is! It is one!" she said. "They look almost like raccoons."
He took a handful of peanuts from the bag and placed them one at a time in the animals paws. They were tiny, almost human hands, with long black claws.
"Hate to see them caged like that," he said, giving her the bag. "It's like prison."
"But they're animals, Taylor."
"So are we." He stood up. "We're not supposed to be behind this railing, you know."
"Is it all right to feed the animals?"
"I don't care if it is or it isn't."
"You would if you were caught," she said.
"The law would be hard on me for that, wouldn't it? Speaking of laws, it's time for you to steal that goldfish."
"Are you serious?"
"We made a bet, didn't we? You going to back out, honey?"
"How am I supposed to get him out."
"Oh, I dunno. Drain out the water, or wade in and get him. It's only a foot deep or so."
"Let's go," she said with a smile. "You're really going through with it? "Sure ami"
"I don't believe you."
"Well, come on and I'll show you."
"They might get you for indecent exposure."
"I don't plan to expose that much."
"From the fish's point of view you might," he said, slowing down his pace.
"At least there's not many people at the zoo today. That's one reason I suggested we go."
He pointed at the pond. "There's a little girl over there."
"The kid's only two or three," she said. "She's too young to know about fish-kidnapping."
"It's not like you to go in for swiping goldfish."
"I admit it's crazy, but I'm going to do it."
"Remember, it has to be the big orange and white one."
"Don't worry," Sue said, patting the little girl on the head. "Hi, honey. Mommy around?" The little girl stared at her as if she were about to cry. Sue kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Have we got something to put him in?" she asked, slipping off her shoes.
"Here's an oil can," Taylor said, picking up a rusty container. "Probably their food can, but you might as well swipe twice as once."
"Here goes," she said, wading out in the water. She held her skirt above her knees. Her legs were smooth and graceful.
"How are you going to get him out from that spray?"
"Don't bother me with minor points. He's swimming over to the corner of the pool; this is going to be like taking goldfish out of a pond."
She pulled her skirt up higher, and Taylor whistled softly. "Better hurry, or I know a zoo keeper that's going to take a crazy girl out of a pond."
She let the bottom of her skirt drop into the water. "No hurry," she said, cupping her hands around the sides of the fish. She splashed them together. "Got him! Got him on the first try!" She waded toward the bank, tightly clutching the squirming fish.
"Whoops!" she shrieked. Her feet slipped and she fell backwards in the water. The little girl began giggling.
"I've still got him," Sue laughed, holding up the fish in both hands. Taylor helped her out of the pond.
"Put him in this," he said, dipping the oil can in the water. The splashing had left Sue's light yellow clothes almost transparent, and the firmness of her body excited him. "Don't you want to throw it back? It's kind of small."
"Not on your life!" She dropped him in the can and smoothed back her hair. Her dark eyes shone like crystals. "You didn't think I'd do it, did you, Taylor?"
"As a matter-of-fact, I didn't, but look who's coming."
"Uh-oh, looks like the little girl has a mother. Don't you think it's time to go?"
"Okay, let's go."
When they got to her house, there was a wet blotch on the car seat where Sue had been sitting. Her hair was still damp and stuck to the sides of her head like wet fur. They stood on her doorstep, laughing. Sue was holding the can with the goldfish in it, trying hard to look disgusted. She was pretty, even thoroughly soaked.
"I'm almost glad you suggested the zoo," he said, leaning over to look in the can.
"You were a peculiar escort, with that bandage over your eye, and all those bruises."
"I've got a bandage?" he said. "I'd almost forgotten."
She smiled. "We had fun today, didn't we?"
"Yeah. We did."
"I'm still bothered about the other night, Taylor. Even at the zoo I knew you were thinking about it."
"That's the last time anything like that will ever happen," he said. "You can believe that."
"I like you, Taylor. Our friendship means a lot to me."
"Friendship?" he asked, stroking her shoulders. "Without you, I'd be completely worthless."
"I don't want you to lean on me," she said. "I want more than that."
"Sue, you're the only thing I've got. Without you I could never pull out."
"Pull out of what?" she asked.
"Out of how I feel. You make me feel that there is something, something further, or-just something. Know what I mean?"
"You remember what you told me?" she asked. " 'Don't read between the lines.' That's what I'm telling you now."
"What do you mean?"
She looked down at the steps. "I want you to think, sometime, well-what it is you are looking for?"
"I've found what I'm looking for," he said, gripping her shoulders.
"A nice line, but you haven't-at least, not what I'm talking about." She opened the screen door.
"You're a hard one to figure out."
"I'm not trying to be." She smiled. "I'd better go in; this fish is getting chilled."
"Well, I'll go."
"I would ask you in, but I've got to go to work in a little while. I'll just have time to take a bath."
"I'll be glad to help," he said.
"I think I can manage. So long," she whispered.
"So long," he whispered back. He walked down the steps and across the yard.
"That's a crazy girl," he thought. "Wading in a fish pond-He rubbed the blotch on his car seat. "I'll tell Auntie I had a date with a mermaid."
He took some Kleenex from the glove compartment and pressed it into the wet material. His fingers ran over two dark spots. "Blood," he thought.
The motor was hard to start. The pedal would not feed gas until it was nearly halfway to the floor.
"Better check the drugstore," he thought. "It's been a while." He pulled away from the curb and made a U-turn where the street widened.
14
HE parked in front of the drugstore. The sun was in his eyes and he could not see through the window. He jumped out on the sidewalk, then slowed suddenly as his legs wobbled.
The store was empty. A radio played behind the prescription counter in back. The soda jerk was leaning against a mirror, reading a magazine. Taylor took a chair at one of the tables.
"I was supposed to call you if you didn't stop by today," the boy said, taking an envelope out of his pocket. He twisted it and tossed it across the counter.
Taylor opened the envelope under the table. "Anyone else here?"
"Nope, me and the radio; that's it."
"What time did they give you the envelope?" he asked, tearing off the top.
" "Bout three hours ago."
"No sweat, then." He pulled out a note and two pennies. The note turned out to be a "With Sympathy' card. On the back was scribbled "Pick you up at eleven P.M."
He stuffed the note into his pocket and threw the envelope back at the boy. "Hope it's something light," he thought. He got up and stretched. "See ya, soda jerk."
"So long, playgirl," the boy muttered.
"I should call Bradley now," Taylor thought. "There's a pay phone across the street; I'll have to find one further away."
He drove for several miles and stopped at a park. There was a phone booth on the corner near a wading pool. It was getting to be late afternoon and the water was partially drained. There were still some kids splashing each other and running around the shallow edges.
The door of the booth was knocked loose and there was no way to shut out the noise. He fumbled in his pocket for a dime, then thumbed quickly through the directory. "Probably left the office," he thought, dialing the number.
The glass on the folding door was cracked. There was wire running through the glass. He pulled loose a strand, and a few chips fell to the ground.
"Mr. Bradley?"
"Yes."
"This is Taylor Latham."
"What's up?"
"Got a sympathy card from the group. They're planning a party at I don't know where, and it's for I don't know who. Said they'd pick me up at eleven."
"That's all you know?"
"That's it."
"Where did you get the message."
"At the drugstore."
"Well, we know more than you. There are two dope rings involved. The larger one's yours. The other one is small and out of town-just doing a little job here tonight. What we think is going to happen is that your group is going to hijack the other's truck. Somewhere on it, there's enough heroin to knock the city off its feet. Get the picture."
"Yeah."
"One thing we don't know-where?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"I'm not sure. We've got a man on the deal who is higher up in the group than yourself. Can't say who it is. If he gets the chance, he's supposed to give us a ring. He probably won't get the chance."
"And you want me to try the same?"
"It's up to you."
"I'll give it a try."
"The number to call is BR 6-9396. Get a location over the wire and we might be able to pick up enough to have this thing split"
I'll try."
"Use your head, son."
"Yeah." There was a click and then silence. "BR 6-9396," he whispered.
The evening had passed slowly. At ten-thirty, he found himself pacing back and forth in the front room. Auntie was touching up the sides of the bathroom sink with white enamel. The paint fumes could be smelled all over the house. That and being nervous made him irritable. He tried to center his mind on something else, but a hazy picture of the group was embedded in him. Nothing seemed right-the time, the phone number he was supposed to call, two groups ... it was all out of place. Bradley did not trust him, or he would have told him who the other guy was. Was it a cop, or someone in the group that had talked?
He walked out on the front porch. "So why should they trust me?" The evening paper was still on the doorstep. He picked it up and unfolded it. A breeze rattled the edges. He put it behind the screen door.
"Summer's almost over..."
A light flicked off in the back of the house. "She must be gone to bed. Better go down to the corner. It won't be long. Wonder how many are in on it? It ain't gonna be easy to stop a truck."
When he got to the intersection, there was a dark car parked nearly a block down. There seemed to be people in it, but it was too deep in shadow to tell. He walked a little way down and stood under a street light. There was a dull, constant ache in his groin. Earlier in the evening he had noticed that the swelling was larger, and small red streaks extended out from the puffed area.
He put his hands into his pockets and leaned against a lamp post. The car's parking lights flicked on and off. "That's a signal?" he thought.
The lights blinked again. He waited a moment longer, then walked toward the car. There were two figures in the front seat. What looked like a full back seat turned out to be a blanket rolled up behind the rear window. The engine started, and the car drove up beside him.
The front door swung open. "You're late, Taylor."
"Not eleven yet," he answered, getting in the front seat and slamming the door.
"Shouldn't have to wait," the driver mumbled.
"Sorry." Taylor recognized neither the driver nor the man next to him. Neither was wearing a hat.
"You know how a gun works, kid?" the man in the middle asked.
"Yeah. You pull a trigger."
"Don't get wise. I'm giving you a thirty-eight. Think you can use it?"
Taylor took the pistol, pulled out his shirt, and stuffed the barrel under his belt. "Where're we going?"
"You'll know when we get there," the driver said. "Answer the man's question. Will you use that gun?"
I can use it.
"There's three bullets in it," the man in the middle continued. "If it takes more than that, then you loused up.
"Loused up on what?"
"In a while, a truck is going to pull out of a warehouse. You and I are going to hop it. Understand."
"I'm cloudy."
"We'll let it roll for a couple of miles-there will be a two-car tail. We get behind the cab of the truck, stick the rod up to the glass, and if he's smart, he'll pull over."
"What if we flub and miss the hop?"
"We won't."
"How many are in on it?"
"I've told you all you need to know."
"There won't be a chance to call," Taylor thought. "BR 6-9396," he repeated to himself. "It'll have to be the other guy." He stared out the side window, trying to catch the names of streets. "Somewhere in the south of the city," he thought. It was in an industrial area. He recognized a plant.
"You're watching street signs," the man next to him muttered. "Why are you concerned about where we're going? Does it make a difference?"
"Like to know where I am," he said.
"Why?"
"Wouldn't you if you were me?"
"I don't know," the man said, grasping his arm. "Would I-if I were you?"
"Don't piss me off."
"What's there to be mad about?"
Taylor did not answer. "They're pressing too hard," he thought. "Maybe they know-"
"Too shook to talk, Taylor?"
"I get shook easy."
'Even if there's nothing to be shook about? Or is there?"
"Hopping a truck is plenty to get shook over." He turned and glared at the driver. "Nothing else is bothering you?"
"No, nothing else is bothering me," he said, moving the man's hand off his arm.
The driver's lips were straight, but his smooth, shadowed face seemed to be smiling. "You remember the drive-in? When you were-the night we gave you a little advice? You remember the car you backed into when you tried to pull out? It was a Buick, a black Buick."
"I remember," Taylor mumbled. He scanned the dashboard and looked out over the hood. "See you have a Buick."
"Yeah. The front bumper's dented. You still have a few bruises. It was thorough-the corrective method that was used. It was effective?"
"It was effective," Taylor said hoarsely.
"Sometimes it makes a person a little bitter," the driver said. "You're not bitter, are you?"
"I'm not bitter."
'Wouldn't help if you were, would it?"
"If you've got something on your mind, why don't you say it?" Taylor said. "You waste time this way."
"We've got nothing to say, Taylor, and we've got time to waste. We're just driving to a warehouse. Conversation don't bother you, does it?"
"Only when there's no reason for it."
"It takes up time. That's reason enough. We're almost there. You want to look around and see exactly where we are, Taylor. We're stopping at that corner. The posts will have names. If you look close, you can read them."
"I know where we are."
"What streets are we on?"
"South Third and Bellevue," he answered, keeping his eyes on the dashboard. "That's right. Work hard to forget."
"Yeah."
The driver turned to the man in the middle. "I'll let you out here. It's around the block. You should have about twenty minutes. Brief the kid. Don't foul up."
"Just do your own job," the man answered.
They got out next to a private parking lot. The streets were bare except for a laundry truck parked outside a company store. They walked down to the corner and turned right. A green building with a wooden front was several lots down. Across the street was a phone booth next to a closed drugstore. "That must be it," Taylor thought.
"That wooden building down there," the man said, "that's the spot. We'll go between it and the next building. When the truck rolls out, we trot along behind, then swing on. Simple. Two car loads will be watching us. Everything clear?"
"It'd be better if one of us waited on the other side of the street," Taylor said, looking away from the phone booth.
"Why?"
"If one of us was across the street, he could see the front of the warehouse. He'd be able to signal the one over here. That way one of us would be certain to get on.
"Sounds good, but no."
"But if it'll work better-"
"Look, kid, didn't you learn? It's tough when you don't do as you're told. Right."
"Yeah."
"There's not much room between these buildings. It won't be long. You got the gun?"
"Yeah."
"Remember, the second it rolls out, we grab on. Ready?"
"I'm ready. Where are the other cars?"
"They're around. Keep quiet. It won't be long."
"It won't be long enough," Taylor thought. "There's no way for me to phone 'em. BR 6-9396..." He rested his back against the side of a building while the man peered nervously around the corner.
"This guy must not be much in the group," he thought "This is the worst end of the deal...."
"Heard something," the man whispered.
"Yeah," he whispered back. "Is it a truck?"
"Has to be-noise's coming from inside the warehouse."
Taylor turned his head. "Yeah. They're warming the engine."
"Better put the gun in your hand," the man said. "Looks like they're opening the doors. Get set."
Taylor crouched behind him. "I'm ready." He felt the gun still tight beneath his belt. "I'll wait till we're on," he thought, dropping his hand.
"Here she comes! Let's go!"
"Right behind you," he whispered, following the man around the side of the building. A big truck with a canvas back bumped slowly out of the drive and turned in the other direction. They traded behind, trying to stay out of line with the rear-view mirror. The man ran slightly ahead of Taylor, waving a gun at his side. He grabbed one of the canvas ends and motioned Taylor to do the same. They both swung into a dark opening at almost the same moment. Taylor dragged his legs over the edge and flattened his body on the floor of the truck. The man stooped near the rear corner.
"Okay, Taylor, get up there behind the cab," he whispered, looking back at the street.
The floor was covered with feed sacks and rolls of chicken wire. There was a small rear window in the back of the cab. Taylor crawled next to the canvas, keeping as close to the floor as possible. He stopped suddenly. Someone was lying under the window. "Go on!" the man whispered.
"It could be just a sack," Taylor thought. He felt the gun under his belt. "It's moving-or is it? If it is somebody, then he knows we're on."
"Get up there!" the man ordered in a low voice.
Taylor remained still, staring hard. He could make out the figure's knees, and light reflecting off the barrel of a pistol. He tightened his hand around the corner of a feed sack.
"I'm going up," he whispered back. He stood up suddenly and hurled the sack at the figure on the floor.
A man sprang up and dived behind a pile of sacks on the other side.
"He's got a gun!" Taylor shouted.
The man behind fired at the sacks. The truck shook and came to a noisy stop. Taylor bolted for the opening. An explosion echoed behind him.
"Stay on!" the man called after him.
Another shot followed. Taylor hit the pavement with his hands and knees. The man who had been with him rolled part-way out of the opening. His body dangled loosely from the back of the truck. The gun dropped from his hand and clicked on the street.
Taylor scrambled to his feet and ran in a jagged line toward a building. Two beams of light came around the corner and lit up the sides of the warehouse. "It's the group," he thought, darting in between buildings. A pistol went off, and wood splintered close behind. He ran along the sides of the buildings and out into a rear parking lot. "The phone," he thought. "The group will be busy with the truck. If I can get across the street up near the booth-"
He fell suddenly to the ground. His foot was caught on the remnants of a wire fence. "Goddammit," he muttered, stumbling to his feet.
He ran through the lot and followed an alley back to the street. Behind him were a collection of headlights and the dark silhouette of the truck.
The phone was about fifty yards up on the opposite side. He glanced back at the truck, then sprinted across. Another car rounded a corner two blocks away. He stopped himself against the booth and fumbled his way inside. "BR 6-93-96-" he breathed, pushing a dime into the slot. His fingers were shaking and it was hard to dial. "Come on, damn it," he whispered. "Ring!"
A voice answered.
"This is Taylor-truck's near Third and Bellevue." A shadow passed across the folding doors.
He dropped the receiver and huddled in one of the corners. "Someone's out there-someone's out there!" He jerked the pistol from his belt and shoved the door back. A young man dressed in a fight suit stood in front of him.
"Get the hell out of here," Taylor said, holding the gun in plain sight. The man turned and walked slowly in the direction of the truck. Taylor took a few steps back, then ran the other way. His side was hurting, and he knew he could not run much farther.
He turned sharply up an alley. "Where?" he wondered. A light fog had thickened the air and his lungs were heaving. He stopped, his eyes searching the sides of the alley. Next to him was a wooden flight of stairs. "Up there," he thought, stumbling up the steps. The door at the top was locked. A wall surrounded a platform where the stairs ended. He flattened himself on the rough surface and lay there breathing hard. In the distance, the high wail of sirens penetrated his thoughts. "They got the message," he thought, closing his eyes. His breathing came easier.
He waited for an hour or two. His groin ached, and when he tried to get up, pain shot through his temples. He dropped to his stomach. He was tired, very tired. The breeze at the top of the stairs was soothing. He closed his eyes again and rested his head on his arm.
15
MORNING came suddenly. His eyes opened and he stared wildly around. He had no idea where he was. He sat up on the wooden platform and rubbed his face. The door at the top of the stairway was still closed.
"It's pretty early," he thought, "or maybe this place ain't in use." He stood up, supporting himself on the wall. The rumble of a train vibrated in the stairs. Black swirls of smoke curled out of the stacks of a distant plant, and the unpleasant smell of sulfur was in the air.
"What a hell of a place to go to sleep," he mumbled, stretching his arms above his head. He went slowly down the stairs and into the alley below. The river was nearby; he could smell the sour mud.
"It's early," he thought. "I've got time to kill." He let the strong odor and a hazy sense of direction lead him to the river.
It was not far-closer than he had realized. The river was low, and the dirt was smooth and soft. Sand bars broke the surface of the water near the banks. The noise of the city faded behind him.
The thick green woods and the solitude gave him the feeling that he was entering an unexplored region. Now and then, a bottle or can washed up on the bank would break the spell. The slight breeze of the night before had changed into a brisk wind that roughened the water and caused it to splash white foam on the mud.
Sand bars became more frequent and occurred farther from the bank. A protruding point of land blocked his view of a bend in the river.
When he rounded the point, he could see for miles. A structure on a sandbar caught his attention. It looked like a wrecked car. When he got closer, he saw that it was some kind of loosely constructed shelter. Three Negroes sat under it. Another was standing on the bank across the bar. A small flat boat was pulled up next to the bank.
"Morning," Taylor said, waving. The Negro waved back, as he pulled the front of the boat halfway out of the water.
"What's that they're doing on the sand?"
"Fishin', " the Negro answered. He was an old man. His white kinky hair contrasted with the shiny black of his face.
"What's there to fish for in this water?" Taylor asked. "Catfish-best fish you can eat."
"Don't see any poles."
"Ain't using none."
"What are they using?"
"Jest a long ball of cord and some big hooks."
"How do they know when they get a bite."
"De string is tied to de bell. When de bell rings, we pull in de cord."
"What are they using for bait?"
"Shore is early in de mornin' fo' so many quessions," he smiled. "We're using dough, dough and a little fivuh."
"Oh, liver. You catch many? Sorry, don't mean to be asking no more stuff."
Tse jes' joking wid you, son; don't mind talking none. We don't ketch so many, as we do ketch big'ns. Sometimes dey gits to be half as long as you is."
"And you eat 'em?"
"Does dat an' sells 'em. You gits tired o' jes' fish."
"Can I go across."
"Over to de sand."
"Yeah."
"I dunno. Wat you wanna cross fer."
"Just to watch you fish. Not going to start any trouble or nothing."
"Dis boat ain't a good'n."
"I don't mind."
"I'll yell over and see if it's all right wid dem. Hey, ya!"
'Wat you want?" a voice called back. "White boy over here say he wanna watch you fish!" he shouted. "Can he come over."
"Over here?"
"Yeah! Can he?" the old man yelled. "Bring him on if he wanna."
"Thanks," Taylor said.
The current was strong, and even with two paddling, the force of the water caused the boat to drift down near the end of the sand bar before it finally landed.
The woman was nursing a baby on a flat breast that hung over an unbuttoned dress. A little boy, about five or six, ran naked up and down the sand. The father was a young man with a short untrimmed beard. The shelter they were under was made from the hard top of an old car propped up with six tree poles. A muddy army blanket was spread out under it. "What do you do with this when the river gets high?" Taylor asked, feeling the supporting poles.
"We pulls dat in when we's through," the young Negro answered, pointing to a rope tied to the metal top and dropping to a thick coil on the sand.
"What's it for?"
"Keep de sun off."
Taylor sat down beside them. A cow bell was tied to the top of a stake in the sand. A cord ran from the bell into the river.
"Easy life," he thought. "No, don't guess it is-kids naked and dirty, living off practically nothing." The bell tinkled softly. "That a fish?" he asked.
"Jes' wind."
"Hard to make a living this way?"
"Naw suh, ain't hard. Ain't jes' easy like it look neither. De rivuh's good to us-rich dirt. You can grow food on de bank up dere; it's good mud. Tall corn, big vegetables-yessuh, good dirt, black an' rich."
"Fertile," Taylor murmured.
"Yessuh, black dirt's good."
"What's that?" Taylor asked, pointing to a cord on the other side of the bar. "Dat's fish."
"On the cord?"
"Yessuh, it's run through de gills and mouths. Jes' one big'n and some little ones," the young man answered. "Gonna eat 'em for lunch meal." He looked up at the little boy near the water's edge. "You wanna eats wid us?"
"I'm pretty hungry," Taylor answered, walking over to the cord. He pulled it in slowly until he could see the fish. "They all look big," he said. He sat down next to the water and watched the boy playing in the sand.
The Negroes cooked the fish in corn meal. They wetted them in the river, dropped them in the meal, and held them over a small, low fire. To Taylor's surprise, the fish was good. The sun was at its peak, and he began to understand the need for shelter.
He stayed the rest of the day. The Negroes grew friendlier and more trusting as time passed.
When the sun dropped lower and it was almost too dark to see, the young man untied the poles beneath the shelter while the old one paddled the woman and her children to the bank. Taylor helped him drag the car top to the edge of the water.
They stopped and pulled in the hooks. A small cat was on the line. The old man brought the boat back across and the three of them, unrolling the rope as they went, crossed over to the bank. The battered metal sank beneath the surface as they pulled it off the bar, then reappeared in the soft mud next to the shore.
Taylor left them and walked back toward the city. It was dark, but the bank was easy to follow. The lights of the city bridge glittered over the river. It was like entering a dream.
A thought came suddenly. "Bradley! Hell want to see me." He quickened his pace. "I could call him-yeah."
His limp had returned, and the swelling could be felt against his clothes. When he got to a phone, it was after nine.
Bradley's voice was harsh. "Why haven't you called? Phoned your aunt, and she's worried. Where the hell you been?"
"You talked to her? She don't know nothing, does she?"
"No, I didn't say who it was. I just asked for you. She said she hadn't seen you since you left last night. Where in hell you been?"
"Just roaming around."
"We got your call last night, and we may have this thing busted."
"It's wrapped up?"
"Time is the only thing holding us up. We left your boy, your contact, at the drugstore. He's just a punknot much in the group. We left him in case they tried to leave you any word."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Nothing until I call you. Go by the drugstore now and then. If you get any messages, bring them to me. You're through playing along. Ignore anything the group says, but stay in touch with me. Don't get a swelled head and try something on your own. Don't accept any offer they make. Got me?"
"Yeah."
"That's all then, son, except-go home."
"I'll do that." Taylor hung up and stepped out into the street.
It was late when he finally got to the house. The lights were on in the front room and the back of Auntie's head was visible through the window. He paused to gather his thoughts, then stepped inside.
There was a painful moment of silence before Auntie spoke. "Where have you been?"
"I spent the night with a friend."
"Why didn't you call?"
"Should I've?"
"There's a letter here for you," she said, getting up. "No stamp, no name or anything, just an envelope in the mailbox with "Taylor' written across it."
"When did you get it?"
"It was in the box this morning when I went out for the mail. Also a girl called just a few minutes ago."
"It is from the group," he thought, tearing the envelope open. "It must be them. Yeah, it's them."
"Go out Millington till it turns into Highway 51," it read. "Be on foot. No car. A truck will pick you up. Be there before one A.M."
"Bradley will like this one," he thought, stuffing it into his pocket.
"Taylor, a girl called a few minutes ago," Auntie repeated.
"Who was it?"
"She said to tell you that Sue called."
"Yeah. Okay, thanks, Auntie."
"She wants you to call her as soon as you get in."
"Okay, I'll call her. It's late."
"She said it was important."
"All right, Auntie, I said I'd call her." He walked into the back room and sat down in front of the phone. "I'm tired," he muttered, putting his head down on the phone desk. "Why would she call here?"
He rested for several moments, then dialed her number. "I was supposed to call her today. Maybe that's why-" The phone rang twice.
"Hello." It was her voice.
"This is Taylor. I'm sorry I didn't-"
"Come over."
"To your house?"
"Yes."
"It's late, Sue. It's been a tough day-you know I work-"
"Are you coming or not?"
"Yeah. Give me a few minutes." He dropped the receiver. "Something's wrong," he thought. "Her voice was trembling; she's been crying." He hurried to the front room.
"Where are you going?" Auntie called after him.
"They wouldn't be over there," he thought, slamming the door behind him. "Bradley said most of them were already in." He started the Merc and shifted nervously into reverse. "They might have called and got her shook."
He floored it on every straight street until he came to her house. The hand brake was partly out, and the smell of burning rubber filled the car. The bottom of the frame scraped the incline of her driveway.
He moved quickly to the porch and pounded on the screen door. The light came on and the door opened. Sue stood there staring at him. Her face was blank. She said nothing.
"What's wrong, Sue?"
"Come in." She held the door back. Her hair was out of place. She had obviously been crying-her eyes were wet and red. "Do you know her?" she asked, pointing to a chair across the room.
He stopped, dumbfounded. At first he was not sure. "Betty!" She sat there smiling. There were scabs where her cheeks had been scratched.
"Then you know her," Sue said, still standing by the open door.
"I'm pregnant, Taylor," Betty said, patting her stomach lightly.
"I didn't notice-"
"You didn't notice any swelling when you and your buddies stretched me out in that little garage apartment? That what you were going to say?" She crossed her legs and sat back in the chair. "Sue don't believe me," she giggled.
"What did you tell her?" His eyes switched to Sue.
"Answer him, Betty."
"I told her about the time we used to go together." She forced a laugh. "And I told her about the nice people-how you introduced me to them-and about the other nice girls you dated-and I told her-didn't I, Sue? I told her all about your plans for her-why you were dating her-how you got paid for taking her out. Everything, Taylor, every damn thing I know. And that's one hell of a story, ain't it? Huh, kitten?"
Sue's eyes were dry and hard. "What about it, Taylor?"
A sick, stifled feeling came over him. His thoughts whirled and his lips trembled. "Sue, I would have never done it to you. This thing's being cleaned up. I talked to this fellow Bradley-the son of the old cop who eats where you work; you know the one-he's a-"
"What she says is true, isn't it?"
"Not the part about you!"
"But the rest?"
He paused once again, straining to find the right words. If only Betty had left after she talked! He could not think with her sitting across the room, smiling. "Look, I spilled to the cops. I just got back from a deal where-"
"Is what she says true?"
"Sue-" He lifted his hands, not knowing what to say. "Sue, I would never have done that to you. That's why I talked. Do you understand?"
"Then what she says is true?"
"Yeah, it's true, but not-"
"Get out."
"Go on, Taylor," Betty laughed. "Get out."
"Sue, it's all over. I'm clean now."
"You're dirty," she whispered. "Get out."
"Out on the stones, huh?"
"I don't care where you go. I hate everything in you."
"Poor Taylor," Betty giggled. "Just think, this baby could be your son. It'll probably be a nice strong boy, just like whoever his dad is; and when he gets old enough, his mother will tell him all about the fun she had." She began sobbing as she spoke. "He's going to be just like you, Taylor-loving, tender, and so loving!"
"Sue, please-listen!"
"You're going to tell me that out of all the rest it was different with me, right? You think that's going to change everything, don't you-like it was just a little misunderstanding."
"Yeah, that's right."
"You think I'll swallow anything."
"Yeah, that's right."
"You thought good, sweet Sue was going to hold out her arms-"
"Yeah, that's it," he said. "You've covered it."
Betty giggled again. "He takes it all like a real man!"
"Thanks, Betty," he said. "Thanks for everything." He walked past Sue, stopping for a moment to look at her. Her lips were straight.
"Don't come near me," she whispered, "as long as you live." There were no tears; her eyes were frozen and her face was stony. It was all over-he knew that.
He went out. "Good night, Sue."
He sped out of the driveway and onto the street "Drive," he thought. "Drive where?" What was he supposed to do, go home and sleep? He swerved around a corner, hitting the edge of the curb with a back tire.
"Shit!" he shouted. "Shit! Shit! Shit! 'I'll stick with you', she told me. Sue, Sue-Oh, God," he muttered. "Should've stuck to the group. I got paid-I was a fool to break."
16
WHEN he reached the house, he had a weak, dizzy feeling. His muscles were limp and something in his left shoulder ached. He got out of the car and started up the porch steps.
"A warm, clear night," he whispered, stopping to look at the sky. "Feel better if it rained like hell."
He walked out into the yard, still looking at the sky. He could not blame her; she had had to sit there and look at Betty's face.
"I did it. Sue knows I did it-but never to her. She was all-there's nothing else." He could not just stumble around and feel nothing. He was dead and walking. He could not hate-he could not cry.
"Stone," he mumbled. "All around-no earth, everything is gray, hard stone. Just a seed blowing over it, no roots, no green leaves-bouncing, rolling, tumbling over nothing. Forgive these wild and wandering cries..."
When she had told him to get out, if he could only have hated her, not just walked out and still wanted her. If she knew how he needed her-but she did know.
He leaned against a tree. "Don't know where to think.
Oh God, it's sick-" He rubbed his face on the rough bark. The pain of the scratching was almost wanted. "Oh God, let me cry or something-"
A breeze made the branches brush against each other. "I'm still not out," he thought. He walked away from the tree. "They don't know nothing about the damn cops. They wanted me on the job tonight; they wouldn't have asked if they were onto me."
He grabbed his cheeks and shut his eyes. He was trembling; his body wavered. "There's nothing wrong-they roughed me up once and that was it-"
He turned around and stared back at the house. "Bradley was lying-the group is still there-they left me a note. Oh, God! As soon as I spilled she says get out ... get out away from her ... not a damn about the stones. I'm dizzy." He held his hands out. He stooped down, swaying his head back and forth. "If I go tonight, I can tell them-no, not about the cops-they'll take me back..."
He wandered out into the street. "Millington. Milling-ton turns into Highway 51. Don't bring a car-no ear-probably don't have much time-hitch a ride or something-got to hurry."
He broke into a trot. A street light threw shadows over him as he ran. "Gnats! Goddam gnats!" he shouted, waving his arms in front of him. "Better hurry-Milling-ton-" His lungs wheezed as he ran faster. "They'll be there-they'll wait."
He came to a corner and stopped. Headlights drew his attention. "Hitch a ride," he mumbled. He stood in the street and waved his thumb over his shoulder. "Stop!" he shouted.
"Another one," he muttered. Two specks of light became visible near the end of the street. He held out his thumb again and waved his other arm. "Come on, stop, you bastard!"
The car curved to the left as if it were going by, then came to a sudden halt. "That's good," he whispered, running to the car. It was a late model Plymouth. The back fender was badly dented.
"Hop in, son." It was a middle-aged man. A stack of envelopes was next to him on the seat. His tweed suit and well blocked hat suggested that he was someone in a small business. He had a pleasant smile.
"Thanks," Taylor mumbled, trying to close the door.
"You got to slam the darn thing. Something's fouled up in the catch-hadn't had time to get the thing fixed."
"Hadn't had time to get a fix?" Taylor asked blankly, slamming the door hard.
"Yeah, a fix," the man laughed.
"Never had any of the stuff," Taylor muttered. "Been around a lot."
The man looked at him curiously. "You've been around dope?"
"Oh yeah, I forgot. You lead the good, clean, Christian life-"
"I think I know what comes off in the world, son," the man answered. His face became serious.
"I didn't mean to get you shook or nothing," Taylor said. "Things have blown for me tonight-I don't want to be nasty or nothing-you understand?" He felt dizzy again. He wanted to get out and walk. "I'm not talking logically," he thought.
"Sure," the man said, turning on the radio.
"Got bumped in the fender," Taylor mumbled.
"Huh?"
"Noticed your back fender's bashed in. You get in a wreck?"
"Lady got the damn thing in a parking lot," he said, switching stations on the radio. "The parking attendant said she insisted on backing the thing out herself. 'Nobody drives my car! she said-then she rams the hell out of my fender. God Almighty, I don't care what those damn statistics say. A woman driver is like unleashing a monkey in a glass menagerie."
"They're stupid," Taylor affirmed.
"Yeah, but you know, you can't live without 'em."
"There are other things-"
"Like what?" The man laughed.
"Something big and moving," he answered, staring out the window. "A group where nobody wraps their feelings up in any one person, like a bolt in a machine. I know I'm needed; they have to have guys like me. You don't have to like the rest of it."
"And what if the machine breaks down?"
'It won't, not unless somebody gets inside."
"What kind of machine are you talking about?"
"Just one that turns and grinds and pulls you along with it."
The man was looking at him strangely. "You had anything to drink?"
Taylor rubbed his mouth. "Yeah, a half pint or more-" His throat was dry. "Can't make sense," he thought. "All the words are running off."
"You sound like you've had a fifth. What happened? Get the shaft from your woman?"
"Shaft? In a way-sort of broke up with them."
"You all right, kid?"
"Don't call me no goddamn kid!"
"Okay. If you needed help, I was offering it." The man look away.
"I just want to get where I'm going."
"Where are you going?"
"None of your damn business," Taylor snapped. "I mean-I almost forgot-Don't get sore, please-I'm just sort of out of it-know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I think I do." The man kept glancing at him, as if he were afraid. "You ain't been drinking, after all, have you, son?"
"No, don't drink much-just when I'm out with one of the sluts."
"One of the sluts?"
"Yeah, you know how it is."
"Yeah, I know how it is," the man repeated in almost the same voice.
"Out on Millington. You know where Millington is? It turns into a highway. I'm late. They wanted to meet them out there. A truck will pick me up-a pickup truck." Taylor laughed. "Oh God," he thought "Words-can't make them right."
"What does this machine do?" the man asked. Taylor did not answer. "What does the machine do?" the man repeated.
"Nothing. Jobs to do and stuff like that."
"And you work for them?"
"They want me out there on the highway-highway 51-Millington turns into that. Know what I mean?"
"Yes. Are you sure you want me to take you out there? I mean, you don't look too good. Maybe they wouldn't want you if you're not feeling well."
"They don't care." Taylor looked at a signpost. "Millington," he thought. "This ride is killing me."
"Okay, then, I'll drop you out where you want. What's your name, son?"
"Taylor-my mother gave it to me." He laughed, and the man laughed too.
"Taylor's a good name. You tell me where you want out, Taylor. We're on the highway now."
"Yeah, I saw a post back there-Millington's turned into a highway. Funny how things can change."
"It is, isn't it?"
"Yeah, Sue changed. She thinks I'm a seed-know what I mean?"
"I know exactly what you mean. Where do you want out?"
"Out? I want out."
"Right here?"
"Highway 51? Yeah, this is Highway 51. They said any place after Millington. I should get out. I want out."
"Okay," the man said, stopping next to a gravel shoulder. "Wait for them right here, buddy. Don't wander off or anything, okay?"
"Wander off? You don't think they're coming, do you? You want to wait and see?"
"No-I'm sure they'll come."
Taylor got out. The car pulled slowly away. The sound of the motor drifted. "Doesn't think they're coming ... God, I feel dizzy ... groggy." Taylor watched the red taillights dwindle into dots. The sky was coal black and the stars stood out against it like white specks of fire.
"It's warm-hot, even-and I feel cold." One side of the highway was smooth ground, as if it had been leveled off for farming. The other side was eroded. Gulleys wove in and out as far as he could see, leaving trees leaning nearly to the ground with their roots exposed.
The highway was wide. A fresh white line had been painted down its center, and the gravel shoulders were soft. "Look at all the stars, sweet, damn little stars-way up there and cold as hell. You should be there, Sue, way up there."
He could see for miles in both directions. "Yellow eyes," he whispered. "Bright, yellow eyes coming. I'm not late."
A small buzzing sound got slowly louder until it was almost a roar. "God! Stop the noise!"
A car whizzed past. The stirred air rushed against him. The grass on the side of the gravel leaned flat. The sound faded.
"Quiet. Complete silence ... no, not complete ... small noises. Crickets? No, frogs or something. The group should be here. It's cold."
He stepped out onto the middle of the blacktop. "Miles and miles of stone-hard-" He pushed his foot down and tried to make an impression on the black surface. "Stone. A seed could go for mdes and never cross a crack. The white line-keeps the seeds from going off."
He laughed. The sound of his voice echoed around him, and it scared him. "You just don't talk loud when you're all alone..." He whistled. It was a faint noise. He whistled again. "I stopped the frogs. Come on, sing, you cowardly bastards!" he yelled. "That's right, everybody stays quiet as mice-nobody rats."
He was aware of two headlights almost on him. "Is it them?" he wondered. "On the highway-better get off. God, so dizzy-hard to see."
He stared at the lights; they blinked down, then up. The motor roared louder and louder. The lights hurt his eyes, and he staggered in several directions. The vibrating blast of a horn rang in his ears.
"Goddamn you!" he screamed. The lights swerved over, and a blast of air nearly knocked him off the highway. "Sons of bitches!" he shouted at the vanishing tail-lights.
"All quiet again ... loud, loud-then silence ... God, it's awful!"
He kneeled on the edge of the pavement. "They got to come-can't stay on any longer-pants are cutting into me. God, I'm dizzy ... leave me alone you damn-"
Two headlights appeared in the distance. "Another-" It was louder than a car. "A truck," he thought. "Two rows of lights on top; it's them, in a truck!"
He stumbled to his feet and stood on the pavement a few feet from the shoulder. "That's them." The highway rumbled beneath his feet. "They're going too fast. No-they're slowing down. They're going to stop! I'm not too late...."
He stepped farther out on the pavement. The lights flicked low, then high. He walked to the center of the lane and waved his arms. "They're speeding upl This is Taylor! Stop!" He thought for an instant that he saw the driver-even his eyes-black beads. The lights were centered on him. "Not going to stop-" He ran back a few steps. "They're going to kill-"
He spun suddenly and ran toward the edge. The truck swung down, bumping over part of the shoulder. Taylor dropped his head and leaped. The wheels cut close. He felt himself tumbling down an incline. The high shrill of air brakes and the screeching of heavy tires shattered the quiet air.
He got to his feet and looked over the gravel surface. "They're getting out!"
He stared around him. "Those gullys," he thought, looking across the highway. He ran up the incline and bolted across the pavement. "I've been crazy-they want to kill!"
A loud report echoed from the side of the truck. He glanced back at the highway. "More lights-there's going to be more of 'em."
He ran down the shoulder and up an embankment. Another shot was fired. He rolled down into a gully. "I tripped," he thought, struggling to get up. "Got to run!"
Another shot followed. The dirt in front of him burst into a small brown cloud. "Run-Oh, God, I've got to run!" He struggled for air. An aching sensation spread through his shoulder.
"Can't go farther-it's over-" There were more shots behind. The glow of lights reflected off trees. "It's over-" he cried.
Sirens screamed meaninglessly in his ears. Running feet clumped against the ground. He was crawling in the bottom of a gully. A pool of water soaked into his shirt. His chest burned. "Got to stay down," he whispered, turning his cheek to one side and flattening his body. The mud oozed around his chin. "Bradley ... should've listened."
He slipped his hand under his clothes and grabbed his armpit. There was a warm, sticky texture there. His fingers ran around the edge of a small sunken place.
He turned on his side in the mud. The dark color of blood mingled with the water. "Feel it now," he whispered, holding the flesh around the wound. "Burns-"
A yellow glow lit up the puddle of water. More shots came from the highway. "They've found me," he thought, struggling to turn on his back. The bright beam of a flashlight blinded him. His body shivered. "Filthy sons of bitches-"
He rolled over and his face fell in the water. A foot nudged beneath his stomach and shoved him over.
"He's alive," a voice whispered.
The mud on his face felt cold and good.
"He's been shot all right; looks like it went through the armpit and into his chest. It looks bad."
"You need the flashlight?"
"No. One of you get the stretcher and well carry him out."
"Did they get the two in the truck."
"One of them is shot up pretty bad, but we got them both."
The muddled sound of voices twisted in this thoughts. "Please, God, not now," he whispered. "I wouldn't have done it to you, Sue." He was dizzy again, and the ground began to turn slowly around.
Taylor knew where he was long before he knew why.
In a hospital, a thing is either unreal or extremely real. He remembered waking several times and being unable to keep his eyes open. Occasionally, he was aware of someone's presence and even a few unrecalled moments of conversation. A tightness around his shoulder led to the discovery of a broad bandage that passed beneath his arm and over his chest.
The walls of the room were light green, and the air had a fresh but antiseptic scent. A window by his bed was partly open. Red-streaked clouds told him that it was late in the evening.
A breeze passed over his face, and he closed his eyes. The green leaves of a plant dangled around the edges of a small bed table.
"You awake again?"
"I'm awake," he mumbled, not even sure that he had really heard the question.
A nurse straightened the sheets over him. "You may see him for only a moment," she said. A blurred figure stood in the doorway. He tried to turn, but his neck muscles tightened and forced him to relax. Taylor.
"It's her," he thought, "really her." He felt too sick to answer.
"I don't think he's fully conscious," the nurse said. "Maybe it would be better if you waited till later."
"No," he managed to whisper. "Taylor-this is Sue."
He smiled. He wanted to answer, but his words sank back in his throat.
"They will only let me stay a moment," she said. She was close to him; her breath passed lightly through his hair. "I don't want to remind you of what's done and in the past, but try to hear me-please, try to listen. I didn't understand-I don't understand, but I want to."
She held his hand loosely in hers. "Please, Taylor, when this is over-let me try to understand."
His fingers stroked her palm with a tenderness that conveyed his feelings.
"I-" The nurse paused. "I don't believe he hears you."
"He heard."
"We should let him rest now. You'll have time to be with him later."
"Yes," she said softly. Her fingers slipped from his hand.
How much time had passed, he was not sure. He realized that he was awake again and not dreaming. Except for the quiet form of a nurse standing near his bed, the room was empty. He raised his head from the pillow and stared around him.
"Would you like to sit up?" the nurse asked.
"Yeah."
She turned a handle till the front section of the bed lifted him to a half-sitting position. "Can you swallow these?" she asked, holding out two small tablets and a glass of water.
He took the tablets from her hand. She held the glass to his lips and tilted it slowly. It hurt his chest to swallow, but he was hot and the water was cool. He relaxed his head in the soft folds of the pillow and drew in several deep breaths.
"Tired," he whispered.
The window curtains swelled with the force of a brisk, night wind and the leaves of the plant on the table by his bed brushed across his hand. He touched the stem and followed it down to ,its base. A small ball of dark earth crumbled between his fingers. "It's fer-" His voice choked.
The nurse leaned close to him. 'It's what."
"Fertile," he mumbled.
"Did you say 'fertile'? " She turned the handle slowly till the bed sank back to a level position, then turned out the light.
"Yes," he said peacefully, as the door closed behind her.
