Beast in View

Chapter 6

It was nine-thirty.

The woman had been in the telephone booth for half an hour and Harry Wallaby was still waiting to call his wife in Encino and tell her the old Buick had broken down and he was going to spend the night with his brother-in-law.

“You’d think the dame’s tongue’d drop off,” Wallaby said over his third beer.

The bartender, a middle-aged Italian sporting a bow tie in Princeton colors, shook his head knowingly. “Not hers. The more exercise it gets, the stronger it gets. Phoneitis, that’s what she has, phoneitis.”

“Never heard of it before.”

“It’s like a disease, see. You gotta phone people. With her it’s bad.”

“Who is she?”

“Just a dame who comes in once in a while. Every time it’s the same routine. A couple of drinks and it hits her, wham. She gets a buck’s worth of dimes and parks herself in the phone booth, and there she sits, yackity, yackity, yackity. I’ve often wondered what in hell she talks about.”

“Why don’t you find out?”

“You mean go over and listen?”

“Sure.”

“It wouldn’t look right, me being the owner and proprietor,” the bartender said virtuously.

“The same don’t go for me. Is there a law says a guy can’t stand beside a telephone booth, innocent-like?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Damn right it’s a free country.”

With an elaborate pretense of casualness, Wallaby slid off the bar stool, walked towards the front entrance as if he intended to leave, and then crept up on the telephone booth from the left side. He listened a moment, his hand cupping his ear, and returned to the bar, grinning a little sheepishly.

The bartender raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

“She’s talking about some guy called Douglas,” Wallaby said.

“What about him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you hear anything?”

Wallaby flushed. “I must of heard wrong. I mean, I must of. Jeez, I never heard nobody talk like that before.”

“Well, for Pete’s sake, tell me.”

“I need another drink first.”

At a quarter to ten Evelyn Merrick stepped out of the telephone booth, stretched her left arm to relieve the cramp and smoothed her skirt down over her hips. Usually, after making a series of telephone calls, she felt a certain relief and relaxation, but tonight she was still excited. The blood drummed double-time in her ears and behind her eyes, and she lurched a little as she made her way back to the bar. Her old-fashioned was untouched on the counter. She didn’t pick it up, she just sat down, staring at it suspiciously, as if she thought the bartender had added something to it in her absence.

“O.K., Wallaby,” the bartender said loudly and pointedly, “you can phone your wife now.”

“Evelyn caught his meaning at once and looked up, a flush spreading across her cheekbones. “Did I use the telephone too long?”

“Just nearly an hour, that’s all.”

“It’s a public phone.”

“Sure, it’s a public phone, meaning it’s for the public, for everybody. Someone like you ties it up and the rest don’t get a chance. If this was the first time, I wouldn’t beef.”

“Do you talk to all your customers like this?”

“I own the joint. I talk how I please. People that don’t like it don’t gotta come back. This includes anybody.”

“I see.” She stood up. “Is that your liquor license beside the cash register?”

“Sure, it’s my license. Paid for and up to date.”

“Your name’s Florian Vincente?”

“That’s right”

“Well good night, Mr. Vicente.”

Vicente’s jaw dropped in astonishment at her pleasant smile and friendly tone, and he felt a little ashamed of himself for being so brusque with her. After all, she was harmless.

Outside, the first rain of the season had begun, but Evelyn Merrick didn’t notice. She had more important things to think about. Mr. Vicente had been rude and must be taught a lesson in manners.

She began walking along Highland towards Hollywood Boulevard, repeating the bartender’s name to imprint it on her memory, Florian Vicente. Italian. Catholic. Very likely a married man with several children. They were the easiest victims of all, the married ones with children. She thought of Bertha and Harley Moore and threw back her head and laughed out loud. The rain sprayed into her open mouth. It tasted fresh and good. It tasted better than Mr. Vicente’s old-fashioneds. Mr. Vicente should serve drinks like that. Give me a double rain, Mr. Vicente. In the morning I will phone Mrs. Vicente and tell her that her husband is a pimp.

She tripped down the slippery street, her body light and buoyant, bobbing like a cork on the convulsed seas of her emotions.

People huddling in doorways and under awnings looked at her curiously. She knew they were thinking how unusual it was to see such a gay, pretty girl running alone in the rain. They didn’t realize that the rain couldn’t touch her, she was waterproof; and only a few of the smart ones guessed the real reason why she never got tired or out of breath. Her body ran on a new fuel, rays from the night air. Occasionally one of the smart ones tried to follow her to get her secret, to watch her refueling, but these spies were quite easy to detect and she was always able to evade them. Only in the strictest privacy did she store up her rays, breathing deeply first through one nostril and then the other, to filter out the irritants.

She turned east on the boulevard, towards Vine Street. She had no destination in mind. Somewhere along the way there would be a small bar with a telephone.

She hurried forward across the street, not seeing the red light until a woman yelled at her from a passing car and a man behind her grabbed her by the coat and pulled her back up on the curb.

“Watch your step, sister.”

She turned. The man’s face was half-hidden by the collar of his trench coat and the pulled-down brim of a green fedora. The hat splashed water like a fountain.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

He tipped his hat. “Welcome.”

“You probably saved my life. I don’t know how to...”

“Forget it.”

The light turned green. He brushed past her and crossed the street.

The whole episode had not taken more than half a minute, but already it was expanding in her mind, its cells multiplying cancerously until there was no room for reason. The half-minute became an hour, the red light was Fate, the touch of his hand on her coat was an embrace. She remembered looks that hadn’t been exchanged, words that hadn’t been spoken: Lover. Dear one. Beloved. Beautiful girl.

Oh, my dear one, wait for me. I’m coming. Wait. Lover. Love dear.

Soaked to the skin, exhausted, shivering, lost, she began to run again.

People stared at her. Some of them thought she was sick, some thought she was drunk, but no one did anything. No one offered her any help.

She refueled in an alley between a hotel and a cinema building. Hiding behind a row of dustbins, she breathed deeply first through one nostril and then the other, to filter out the irritants. The only witness was a scrawny gray tomcat with incurious amber eyes.

Inhale. Hold. Count four.

Exhale. Hold. Count three.

It must be done slowly and with proper care. The counting was of great importance. Four and three make seven. Everything had to make seven.

Inhale. Hold. Count four.

By the time she had finished refueling, she had completely forgotten about lover. The last thing she remembered was Florian Vicente, who had called her wicked names because she had discovered his secret, that he was a pimp for niggers. What a shock it would be to his wife when she found out. But the poor woman must be enlightened, the truth must be told at all costs, the word must be spread.

Shaking her head in sympathy for poor Mrs. Vicente, Evelyn walked on down the alley and into the back door of the hotel bar. She had been here before.

She ordered a martini, which had seven letters.

A young man sitting on the next stool swung round and looked at her. “It’s still raining, eh?”

“Yes,” she said politely. “It doesn’t matter though.”

“It matters to me. I’ve got to...”

“Not to me. I’m waterproof.”

The young man began to laugh. Something about the sound of his laughter and the sight of his very white, undersized teeth reminded her of Douglas.

“I’m not joking,” she said. “I am waterproof.”

“Good for you.” He winked at the bartender. “I wish I was waterproof, then I could get home. Tell us how you did it, lady.”

“You don’t do anything. It happens.”

“Is that a fact.”

“It just happens.”

“Is that a fact.”

He was still laughing. She turned away. She couldn’t be bothered with such an ignorant fool who had teeth like Douglas. If he persisted, of course, if he became really rude like Mr. Vicente, she would have to get his name and teach him a lesson. Meanwhile, there was work to be done.

She paid for the martini, and without even tasting it she approached the phone booth at the rear of the room and opened the folding door.

She didn’t have to look up any numbers. She forgot other things sometimes, she had spells when the city seemed foreign as the moon to her and people she knew were strangers and strangers were lovers, but she always remembered the telephone numbers. They formed the only continuous path through the tormented jungle of her mind.

She began to dial, shaking with excitement like a wild evangelist. The word must be spread. Lessons must be taught. Truth must be told.

“The Monica Hotel.”

“I’d like to speak to Miss Helen Clarvoe, please.”

“I’m sorry. Miss Clarvoe has had a private telephone installed in her suite.”

“Could you tell me the number?”

“The number’s unlisted. I don’t know it myself.”

“You filthy liar,” Evelyn said and hung up. She couldn’t stand liars. They were a bad lot.

She called Bertha Moore, but as soon as Bertha recognized her voice, she slammed down the receiver.

She called Verna Clarvoe again. The line was busy.

She called Jack Terola’s studio, letting the phone ring for a full minute in case he was busy in the back room, but there was no answer.

She called the police and told them a man had been stabbed with scissors in the lobby of the Monica Hotel and was bleeding to death.

It was better than nothing. But it wasn’t good enough. The power and excitement were rotting away inside her like burned flesh, and her mouth was lined with gray fur like the tomcat’s in the alley.

The cat. It was the cat that had ruined everything. It had contaminated her because it saw her refueling. She liked animals and was very kind to them, but she had to pay the cat back and teach it a lesson, not with a phone but with scissors. Like the man in the lobby.

The man was no longer part of her imagination but part of her experience. She saw him clearly, lying in the lobby, white face, red blood. He looked a little like Douglas, a little like Terola. He was Douglas-Terola. He was the symbol of their marriage. He was dead.

She returned to the bar. One of the bartenders and the young man who had laughed at her were talking, their heads close together. When she approached they pulled apart and the bartender walked away to the other end of the bar. The young man gave her a hurried, uneasy glance and then got up, and he, too, walked away towards the back exit.

Everyone was deserting her. People did not answer their phones, people walked away from her. Everyone walked away. She hated them all, but her special hate was reserved for the three Clarvoes and, of the three, Helen in particular. Helen had turned her back on an old friend, she had walked away, first and farthest, and for this she must suffer. She couldn’t hide forever behind an unlisted telephone number. There were other ways and means.

“I’ll get her yet,” Evelyn whispered to the walls. “I’ll get her yet.”

The fur in her mouth grew long and thick with hate.