Savage Streets

Chapter Six

Chicky Detweiller slept until eleven o’clock on Monday morning. She called Mrs. White, who came in with coffee and orange juice on a tray.

“Did Bobby get off to school all right?”

“Yessum. Do you want me to phone the market? I’d better now if we’re planning on dinner.”

“Yes, please. Order anything, lamb chops, steak, you know, whatever seems like a good idea.”

“Are you going to want some breakfast?”

“No, thank you.”

When the maid closed the door Chicky drank half a cup of black coffee. She couldn’t face the orange juice. Her eyes ached and the area between her eyebrows felt bruised and sensitive. She slid back down between the covers and pulled the sheet over her face. But sleep was impossible, she realized instantly; a flicker of restless images flashed across the backs of her eyelids.

Dumb, dumb, she thought. Until last night she hadn’t realized he was dumb. Illogical, inaccurate, but not dumb. They had sat up until midnight fighting. Not arguing. Fighting. He had accused her of being a bad mother, a bad housekeeper, a bad wife, and a bad companion, a spendthrift. But he would not talk about why he hit Dick Baldwin. That had nothing to do with the case. Irrelevant, unimportant. Dumb. He wouldn’t understand it, couldn’t.

Chicky thought about Dick Baldwin. They had said little on the way to the station. But before getting out of the car he had kissed her on the cheek and told her to stop wearing yellow. “It’s the plumage of the sexual invert,” he had said, which made no sense at all to her.

She didn’t really like him very much. It was just that his teasing, off-beat manner was exciting. He looked like a grocery clerk, that was the worst of it. With his glasses and the rows of copy pencils in his vest pocket. But he had good hands, scrubbed and strong-looking, with long fingers and well-kept nails. Dick Baldwin had a scar on the big knuckle of his right hand. He had done a lot of interesting things in his life, she knew. After college he had gone to Europe. His first job with the magazine had been in Paris. He spoke French and knew all about wines. There were bullfight posters on the walk of his small apartment. You had to be an artist or a peasant to like bullfighting, he said. And he made a point of insisting that she was afraid of him. Once he had suggested she meet him in the city for cocktails and dinner. “I would like to explain in precise detail what is wrong with you,” he’d said. “But you’ll probably find it very flattering.” He had set the scene with relish. “Vermouth with lots of ice and far too many cigarettes. You’ll sit in a deep chair in a wonderful old room with draperies and a fireplace and you’ll feel frightened and illicit and probably quite pleased with yourself. We’ll go to a French place for dinner, a petite boîte on Eleventh Avenue where sailors off the French Line ships eat and drink. The air is foul with Gauloise Bleu, but the food and wine are superb. The seamen smuggle in brandy and cheeses for M. Le Chef, I’m sure. Would you like to know what I’ll suggest for dinner?”

She had said: “I’m more interested in after dinner,” and he had laughed and said, “If I have to suggest anything it means there was a flaw in the production.”

She didn’t know if he was serious. His touch was pretty heavy, she thought. If he were serious there wouldn’t be so much talk. But she didn’t know. She hadn’t much experience.

Her legs moved under the covers. Her body was hot. She lay still then, savoring a sudden falling coldness in the pit of her stomach. The room was very quiet. She sat up and reached for the telephone, but after dialing a number she put the receiver down before anyone answered and went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

She put on a bathing cap and soaped herself extravagantly. The hot water steamed the glass door of the shower stall, and she could hardly see her body through the swirling vapor. It was a pleasantly alarming feeling, as if she were hiding from someone in a safe warm place. The water rushed down her slim body and sluiced the soap into a frothy pool at her feet. She brushed her teeth, tied back the damp ends of her hair, and got back into bed, snuggling down deeply under the covers.

She decided to count up to twenty. Mrs. White would knock by then, something would make her knock. No lamb chops or steak. The dry cleaning, the laundry, the mail. But although she counted very slowly there was no interruption. She went on to fifty, whispering each number with a growing excitement. Finally she stopped counting and closed her eyes. Barbara could pick up Bobby after school...

She sat up, lit a cigarette. Then dialed Dick Baldwin’s number with care.

At the office he used a crisp, man-at-work voice: “Hi, Chick. What’s up?”

“Well, I just called to tell you how sorry I am about that ridiculous scene Det made yesterday. He’s awfully embarrassed, I think, but you know how he is — he just can’t admit he’s wrong.”

“Forget it,” he said. “He was excited and blew his top, period.” Then: “So what else is new?”

“Are you busy?”

“Not particularly. Why?”

“Well, you sound kind of preoccupied. I picture you at the typewriter with your sleeves rolled up and a cigarette in your mouth. Pounding out the big story. Is that what you’re doing?”

“Not exactly. I was dictating some notes on car production. Very boring stuff, you’d find it.” He paused. “And you’re busy as a little suburban bee, I imagine.”

“Not exactly. I’m still in bed actually. I’m too bored to get up.”

“Boredom is a luxury I can’t afford, unfortunately. So relax and enjoy it.”

“I’m just at loose ends, I guess. But I wanted you to know how sorry I am about yesterday. Det’s got such a hair-trigger temper. But he really feels awful about it, I know.” She paused. “Am I keeping you from anything?”

“No — nothing earthshaking, that is.”

“I like talking to you at work. You sound so irritable. I should hang up, I know. But oh, I feel like a change of scenery. I’d like to have a job in a factory or be going up to Alaska.” She laughed and said quickly: “Do you remember that little French restaurant you told me about?”

“French restaurant? Oh, sure. The one on Eleventh Avenue. It’s at about Forty-fifth Street, I think.”

She waited, but he said nothing else; and she could hear his slow even breathing. Her fingers tightened on the receiver. “How about taking me to dinner?”

“That’s a marvelous idea, Chicky. I’ll tell you what. You meet me at... oh damn! What lousy timing. I’ve got a business date tonight. Some character from the UAW is girding himself to convince me that wages can go up while car prices come down.”

He went on talking, repeating his regrets and damning his luck. Chicky could see herself in the mirror across the room, small blonde head, bare shoulders and breasts, sitting clean and scrubbed in her bed. She looked very white and small.

“It’s all right, Dick,” she said. “It was just a stray thought.”

“Well, wait! Do I get a rain check? Supposing I call you when I get my desk cleared away. Okay, Chicky?”

“That will be fine.”

“Say hello to Slugger Detweiller for me.” He sounded brisk and busy again. “Tell him I’m begging for a return match. With double Martinis at thirty paces.”

“I’ll warn him. We’ll see you soon, Dick.”

“Fine. Maybe we can take in a show. I’ll talk to our theater guy and see...” He stopped and she heard him draw a sharp breath. “Chicky, I’ll call you tomorrow. I’ve got to think... Do you understand?”

She put the phone down on his worried voice and smoked a tasteless cigarette. It was really funny, she thought. If you looked at it a certain way it was quite funny. He was scared. It was all talk, safe, uninvolved talk. And she hadn’t known it. She had thought it was her decision to make. Yes or no. Say the word. She wondered fleetingly if lots of women thought about having affairs without thinking if I can. If anyone wants me.

But she had made a start. She realized that. She had tried. And one time it wouldn’t be just talk. She had to prove it could happen; otherwise nothing would be right again. And with that knowledge cold and hard inside her she turned on her face and began to cry.

Barbara Farrell finished lunch at one o’clock. From the windows above the sink she looked up at a steel-blue sky tinted evenly with the pale copper light of autumn sunshine. It was more like spring than fall, she thought. The big brown leaves drifting to the ground were an incongruous sight in the soft, warm air.

She took a steak from the freezer and put it out to thaw. After yesterday’s roast this was an extravagant choice but she felt John needed cheering up. Last night he had hardly touched dinner. He had been worried about Malleck, she knew. But what worried her was that he seemed to have a reluctant respect for the man. Malleck didn’t bluster; he was coldly and toughly sure of himself. He didn’t sugar-coat his fanatic opinions, or rationalize them with bargain-basement philosophy. He put them flatly and quietly, a big cold man with a deceptively soft voice and features that looked as if they had been hacked out of a block of wood. And John had heard him out; not courteously, but with something like respect.

Usually their family meals were festive. John enjoyed sitting with cigarettes and an extra cup of coffee and listening to the children prattle about their day’s activities. This had been the custom in his own home, she knew. The dinner table had been a forum for opinion and discussion and argument.

John’s father (whom she had met only a few times before his death) had been a positive but courtly old man, with the firm notion that vigorous talk over food was a fine aid to digestion. He had been in the contracting business but from John’s stories she had the impression he would have been happier building medieval cathedrals rather than modern houses. He disliked the deft and functional. He distrusted people who ate quickly and silently. He approved of missed trains and forgotten anniversaries; the inevitable imperfections of life amused him. People who tried to draw neat patterns in the almighty confusion of existence struck him as fools.

John was a lot like him, she knew. It was all toned down, a bit wry and derisive, but underneath the humor there was the same contempt — or was it fear? — for ambition and authority, for people who rode hard at life, who managed their affairs forcefully and shrewdly. It was why he poked fun at Sam Ward and Grace. It was why he kept out of the dogfights at the office. But was it the reason for his seeming respect for Malleck? Was John afraid of him?

Barbara went into the living room to get a cigarette, and tried to put the worrisome thoughts from her mind. She knew that her distinctions were critical, and she didn’t enjoy them; it struck her as graceless to pry at some suspected weakness that was unimportant and irrelevant to their happiness.

The house was clean and quiet. Angey and Jimmy would be home soon, and John a few hours after them, bringing in the touch of evening chill on his topcoat. She lit her cigarette and walked out on the small, tile-floored terrace that adjoined the dining room. She was wearing shorts and one of John’s old shirts, and the sun was almost hot on her bare legs. The summer’s tan hadn’t faded yet, she saw, looking down at her smooth knees; her skin was still an even August brown.

She stretched out on a lounge chair with her hands behind her head. It’s a tough life in the suburbs, she thought, savoring the warm sun on her legs and face. She could imagine John’s reply to that, and it made her smile. Would you rather go downtown and listen to the big men talk? Bracket the idea clientwise, candle some eggs to see who’s chirping. What a thrill! And then home to the tunafish casserole and studio couch and the black and red abstractions on the wall. Pulse with the city’s beat. Lift sharp, hopeful breasts to all the tomorrows.

The doorbell rang and she sat up with the faint smile still on her lips. It was probably Chicky, she thought. Eager to get the word on her performance yesterday. Waiting for the reviews. I am a bitch, she thought, and swung her legs off the lounge.

She assumed they were delivery boys or salesmen at first; they smiled when she opened the door, a pair of large, well-groomed teen-agers with the sunlight shining on their healthy skin and hair. They seemed at ease; their manner was authoritative but pleasant.

“Mrs. Farrell?” The taller boy inclined his dark head politely.

“Yes, that’s right. What is it?”

They moved forward as if on cue, brushing by her before she could protest, then strolled casually into her living room.

“Now what’s all this?” she said, turning to watch them with a puzzled smile. “Salesmen used to be content to get a foot in the door. Is this some bold new approach?”

They didn’t answer; they were looking about the room, hands resting on their hips, occasionally nodding to one another as if comparing their appraisals of the pictures and furniture.

“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” she said. “I don’t believe I know either of you boys.”

“That’s all right,” the taller one said. “We’re friends of your husband.” He studied her thoughtfully, as if she were another item in the room to be classified and appraised; but underneath his surface gravity she felt the impact of a mocking sarcasm. He was older than she had judged at first, nineteen perhaps, with a slender, springy body and darkly handsome features — a sullen face, knowing and scornful, lighted now with deliberate malice. She felt an unpleasant little shock run through her as she noticed the Indian head that was sewn to the front of his red sweater.

The other boy, blond, bulky and powerful, wore a white T shirt and a gaberdine windbreaker. “It’s nice here,” he said thoughtfully and sauntered into the dining room. “Elegant as hell!”

“What do you want?” Barbara said. She knew who they were now. “What do you want here?”

The dark boy, the one she knew was called Duke, said: “Why, this is just a social call, Mrs. Farrell. We’re just here for a little chat.”

The big blond boy had turned out of sight into the kitchen. Barbara was still standing with a hand on the knob of the front door. Duke grinned at her and said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mrs. Farrell.”

Barbara closed the door. She forced herself to breathe evenly. Then she said, “Aren’t you being a little bit ridiculous?”

Duke widened his eyes. “We’re just repaying your old man’s call. He stopped by my house yesterday while I was out. He’s quite a guy.” Duke grinned as if this were a joke they might share. “Friend of the delinquent boy.”

“He simply wanted to talk to you,” Barbara said.

“Well, that was nice of him. I can’t think of anything I’d like more. A good long talk with your old man.” Duke leaned against the back of a sofa and lit a cigarette. “Maybe I could help him. He’s kind of mixed up, I think.”

“I don’t find this funny,” Barbara said sharply. “Whether you have the sense to believe this or not, he went to see you as a friend. He’s willing to do anything to prevent trouble.”

“What kind of trouble is he in, Mrs. Farrell?”

“You know precisely what I mean,” Barbara said, almost grateful for his insolent little smile; it sent a hot anger through her body. “Now if you’ve finished showing off will you kindly get out of my house.”

Jerry sauntered back from the kitchen. “Hey, Duke, Mr. Farrell is having steak for dinner. Now what do you suppose is the matter with him? He’s got a nice home, a nice wife, cute kids. How come he’s all mixed up?”

Duke blew thoughtfully on the tip of his cigarette. “These things are pretty deep sometimes. Everything may look nice and pretty on the surface, but underneath...” He shuddered theatrically. “Underneath it’s a snake pit. Now how about his job, Mrs. Farrell? He seem happy with his work? Does he have a good relationship with his boss? And has he had a raise lately? Things like that can get a guy stewing, you know.”

Barbara said, “I’ve asked you to leave. Are you going?”

The big blond boy was looking into the study. “Oh, oh,” he said. “Here’s a trouble spot. A TV set. And a bar.”

Duke snapped his fingers. “Now that might be it, Mrs. Farrell. Does he watch a lot of those unhealthy crime shows on television? Those stories about crooked cops and bank tellers running off with a blonde and a pack of dough, they can get a guy all stirred up.”

“And there’s all that booze in there,” Jerry said, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “I see him sitting there night after night watching them unhealthy shows, so tanked up he can’t hit the ground with his hat.”

“Get out of here!” Barbara said, trying to control her voice. “If you don’t leave I’m going to call the police.”

“And tell them what, Mrs. Farrell?” Duke said coldly and contemptuously; he had discarded the air of elaborate mockery, and now his eyes were sharp with bitter anger. He took a step toward her, his slender body tense with emotion. “We’re not getting out until I’m finished talking to you. Your husband thinks it’s all right to snoop around my house. Grilling my old man like he’s a cop. Asking about me. Where do I work? Who do I pal around with? Snooping around my bedroom. When do I come home at night? Where do I spend my time?”

He grinned scornfully. “Then he checks into my club with more questions, chumming up to a girl young enough to be his daughter. So I’m repaying his call. I got the same rights he has. What’s wrong with him, that’s what I want to know.”

They were standing between her and the phone, she saw, and she didn’t know whether this was accidental or not; but she did know that their manner had changed subtly in the past moment or so. She was conscious of their young male arrogance, the speculative shine of their eyes. “I’m sure Mr. Farrell had no idea there’d be any misunderstanding,” she said slowly. Jerry, she saw, was leaning against the jamb of the study door, his hands in his pockets. He was staring down at her bare legs. “Perhaps... if you like... I could ask Mr. Farrell to call you tonight.” She felt vulnerable and exposed; she hadn’t had time to put on fresh make-up after lunch, and there was an unpleasant shiver of gooseflesh on her legs. She hated her fear, but she was wise enough to respect it. She knew the meaning of the still, heavy feeling in the room, understood better than they did that a careless spark could ignite it.

Her lips were dry but she willed herself not to moisten them. She said as easily as she could manage, “I’m expecting the children home shortly, so you’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid.”

Jerry was still looking at her legs, still smiling softly. “You know, Duke,” he said, “there’s things beside booze and TV shows that get a man all stirred up. Too much or not enough — it can cause problems.”

“I know what you mean,” Duke said. “They’re called repressions. Get the cork in the bottle too tight, and wham!” He pounded a fist into his palm and the abrupt, metallic crack of flesh against flesh made Barbara start; she stepped backward quickly, almost tripping, and Jerry laughed and said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Farrell. I’ll catch you if you fall.”

“Get out of here!” she cried, and even in her fear she was humiliated at the entreaty in her voice. “Get out, get out, please.”

“Sure, sure,” Duke said. He made a placating gesture with his hand. “There’s nothing to be upset about.”

They had made her cringe, she realized; that was what they must have wanted. This was what they had done to Jimmy.

“Get out of here,” she said bitterly, close to tears now. But she wasn’t frightened any more. “Get out,” she cried in sudden fury. “Get out.”

“Come on, Jerry,” Duke said. “This is what you get for trying to help out these rich mixed-up people.” At the door he turned and looked at Barbara. “What you’re afraid of is in your head, not mine. And one other thing: if you call the cops what will you tell them? That we stopped by to see what your husband wanted to talk to us about? Come on, Jerry. Let’s drift.”

When the door closed Barbara ran across the room and slipped the burglar chain into its metal runners. She leaned against the door then, breathing unevenly, listening to the rapid stroke of her heart. She resisted an impulse to run to the phone. She waited a full minute, getting control of herself. Then she walked across the room and called her husband’s office.