Benny Muscles In

Chapter Four

Pat Pendleton took Fifth Avenue south and then cut left into a maze of bleary streets that angled down to the East River. She stopped the car by a row of brownstones and entered one of the houses.

On the first floor a door was open to let the smoke drift out. People were singing Italian songs and a girl in a wedding dress stood in a crowd of people who were clapping their hands while the girl swung a wine bottle over her head. On the second floor the apartment doors were closed. A boy in a leather jacket was saying good night to a short girl in bobby socks and they were leaning against the wall by one of the closed doors. There was nobody on the third floor. Four empty bottles stood by one of the doors, and that’s where Pat stopped.

She knocked and a frowzy woman opened the door. She was wearing an apron, and the warm smell of stew came into the hall as she held the door open.

“Hi,” the woman said, and she stepped aside.

Pat went in and sat down at the kitchen table. “Anybody in?” she asked.

“A few.” The woman stood by the stove, turning the gas down. There was only the sound of the stew bubbling inside the pot.

“Is Harvey in?”

“No. Not for a while now.”

Pat shrugged and pulled her gloves off. They looked expensive and strange lying on the chipped tabletop.

“Coffee?” the woman asked.

“Sure. Black.”

The woman brought a cup from the stove and put it in front of Pat. Then she went back to the stove and pulled on a chain that hung down from a high ceiling vent. There were no windows in the kitchen.

“Harvey isn’t here?” Pat said.

“Haven’t seen him for months,” the woman said. She put a cigarette in her mouth and sat down at the table. “What you want him for, anyways?” When she talked she let the cigarette dangle, wobbling up and down.

“I don’t want him,” Pat said. “I was just asking.”

“He was riding the horse bad last I saw him. Out of his head most of the time.” The woman scratched where her corset ended. “They took him in, maybe.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Pat said. She was picking the polish off one fingernail.

They sat without talking for a while and then a record player started in the next room. Somebody scraped a chair, couch springs squeaked briefly.

“Why’d you come back?” the woman asked.

Pat looked up, a sharp line between her eyes. “Just slumming,” she said.

“You come here for a pop?”

Pat laughed, but it was just a sound. “I’m through with that stuff. Look what happened to Harvey.”

“Sure,” said the woman. “Sure.”

The door to the next room opened and a man in shirt sleeves stuck his head in. “Abe wants a small one,” he said. Then he looked at Pat and nodded to her. “Long time no see,” he said, and disappeared again.

He left the door open and a sweet reefer smell drifted into the kitchen. Then the woman went through the door and closed it. She was carrying a spoon, an eye dropper, and a little white capsule.

Pat kept picking at her fingernail. When she got up abruptly she almost upset her empty cup, but she did not reach for it to keep it from falling. She went into the next room, stepped aside to let the woman pass back into the kitchen, and walked over to the table. The two guys sitting there were nodding their heads and tapping their fingers on the tabletop. The phonograph gave out a sharp rhythm. There were two other men in the room and a lot of stuffed furniture. A weak bulb in the ceiling gave the room the tall dimness of a railroad station.

“Sit?” said the man who had looked through the door.

“Sure. How are you, Red?” Pat sat on the arm of his chair and watched him pull the smoke from his reefer. He blew it carefully back into his cupped hands and sucked it right down again. Then he rested back.

“Harvey ain’t here,” he said. He looked up at her and gave a dim smile.

“I know,” Pat said.

He slowly raised his arm, holding the thin cigarette, and when Pat took it he let his arm down, slowly again, and rested his hand on her thigh. Pat smoked the way he had done.

“Who’s on the couch?” she asked.

“Uptown trade,” Red said. “Don’t know him by name.”

Pat shifted her weight and started to play with Red’s fingers that were lying on her thigh. “I’m jumpy tonight, Red.” They passed the cigarette between them. “You alone, Red?”

They didn’t talk while one of the guys at the table changed records.

“Wait a while,” Red said.

Pat unbuttoned her jacket and shook it off her shoulders. When the jacket had fallen to the floor she took the reefer again. Red watched her. She looked good under the sweater.

The man on the couch turned over and sat up. There was a brittle look in his eyes and he was smiling. A little spasm at the corners of his mouth kept turning the smile on and off. He got off the couch and walked through a door to the back. While the door was open they heard movement in the dark room. Then the door closed. When it opened again the man from the couch came out, then another man and a frail-looking girl with frightened eyes. She was holding a coat close around her neck and the man next to her was carrying some things under one arm. A nylon stocking was dangling down.

“Still jumpy?” Red said. The three people had gone out through the kitchen. Pat looked at Red and made a movement with her lips. “I got the cure,” Red said, and they both got up and went into the next room.

The woman in the kitchen was eating stew when the hall door opened. It made a cracking sound as it caught on the latch chain. The woman had started to get up, but now she sat down again.

“Open this goddamn door,” a voice said, and a short gun nozzle appeared through the crack.

The woman didn’t move. “Who is it?” she said.

“It’s Fingers, beautiful.” The gun made a poke.

“You sonofabitch,” said the woman, saying it as if she were alone. When she had the door open the man came in and put the gun in his pocket. His face was pale and he had hardly any lips.

“Greetings,” he said, and smiled. “Is she here?”

“Who?”

“My master’s daughter.”

The woman stepped aside and went back to her stew.

Fingers didn’t find Pat in the first room, so he stepped into the next. They had turned the lights on and Pat was combing her hair.

“Greetings,” Fingers said.

Pat whirled around, but her face stayed even. She arched back and threw the small comb at the man.

He ducked and said, “Your father wants you.”

There was a pause and then Pat yelled, “No!”

Fingers only smiled.

“No!” she said again.

Red got off the bed and came toward Fingers, who took his hands out of his pockets. When Red was close enough, Fingers swung at his face, and Red fell back against the bed. He stayed there, smiling in his dim way.

Pat shrugged and let Fingers take her back to her father’s apartment. It was four in the morning, but Pendleton looked the way he always did. He sat straight in his chair in the library, hands placed on top of the desk.

Pat leaned over the desk and looked him in the face. “Well? I’m back. I was through, anyway.”

Pendleton stiffened, but either he didn’t know what she meant or he tried to ignore it. “Please, Pat, sit down. Please.” He smiled weakly.

She sat on the edge of the desk, dangling one leg. Pendleton got up and started to pace. “Patricia, please understand me. When you are unhappy it makes me unhappy too. And when you left earlier tonight, our misunderstanding-”

“Misunderstanding! My whole rotten life is a misunderstanding! Ever since I can remember-”

“Patty, please! You know I must be both a father and a mother to you. I have always tried my best to give you all that other children have and more. I-”

She laughed. “Children! Who’s the child around here? Who’s ever been a child around here?” Her voice got that high, metallic ring. “I’m over twenty-one, I get thrown out of parties, and I’ve got a father who sends his crooked underlings spying after me.” She jumped off the desk and stood, fists balled. “What is it you want from me? What is it you’re trying to do?” She stopped for breath.

“My dearest,” Pendleton sounded pained. “Only my best-”

“Your best?” It was almost a sob. “You call it your best to give me a name that’s like a stink to people who really count, a name that’s suspected behind every big and rotten thing that’s ever come this way?” She flung her arms in a dramatic gesture. “Oh, sure, among your cronies Pendleton probably means something big and holy, but to me it’s nothing but a mess, a muddle, and a lot of muck on my face.”

“Patricia!”

“Don’t Patricia me!” she shouted. “And then you even have the gall to send your creeps around to keep me pure and out of trouble. I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say there are certain places your daughter is not to go, and certain people she isn’t to see. Bah! You’re a fine example. My daddy is such a fine-”

“That’s enough, Patricia!”

His tone stopped her for the moment, but it didn’t scare her. “How did you know where I was, Daddy?” She gave him a cold smile.

“I didn’t I simply sent-”

“Do you know where I was, Daddy?”

“No, nor do I care. I suspected, considering your mood, that you ran out to consort with these jazz people you have been seen with. I instructed my man to make inquiries.”

She laughed again, and reached for a cigarette in her pocket. “Your man wasn’t inquiring. He busted in on me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She lit the cigarette and dropped the match on the floor. “Don’t worry. I was dressed.” She blew smoke.

“Patricia!” There was angry, old-maidish shock in Pendleton’s voice. “Where did he find you?”

“A private club.”

Pendleton drew himself up and walked behind the desk. He sat down. “I am not interested in the details, Patricia, but didn’t you meet a man named Harvey in that-that crowd once?”

“Not tonight.”

“Of course not.” Pendleton sounded now if he were talking on the telephone. “This Harvey, Patricia, is no longer a free man.”

“Do tell.”

“It may come as a shock to you, but I happen to know he was a dope addict.” Pendleton paused and Pat didn’t answer. “That is the kind of scum I want to protect you from!”

She crushed out her cigarette. When her head came up and she looked at her father there was a small smile on her face. “You sell the stuff, don’t you?”

Pendleton jerked up out of his chair and for a moment he seemed about to strike her. Pat held still. Her face never changed. “Don’t you?” she said.

Then he turned away and he stood almost motionless, except for his breathing. When he turned to face Pat again his face was a hard mask. He rubbed his hands together slowly, producing a sound like that of scales.

“As your father I forbid you to see certain things, say certain things, do certain things. If you wish, you can try to oppose me. It will do no good, Patricia, and will hurt my love for you. I even tell you what I would do. First, I would stop your allowance. Next-”

She threw her head back and laughed. “I can always-”

“I’m not finished. Next I would send you back to the sisters. That school has-”

“You think I’d stay?”

“I have asked you not to interrupt me. However, you tell me that you would not obey.” He came around to stand before her and his voice was ominous, so that she held still while he took her hands. “Patricia, do you remember where your mother died?” He lowered his head to hers. “In a sanatorium, Patricia.”

The girl stared at her father, her light eyes large and anxious.

“And if I cannot guide you, my own daughter-”

He did not have to finish his threat, because Pat crumbled. She leaned across the desk, head down, and pounded her fist on the top with the insistence of an automaton. Her teeth were clenched and she held her breath.

Then Pendleton put his hands on her shoulders and spoke with the gentleness he kept for his daughter. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m sorry to frighten you. I only want your happiness, your well-being.”

“I understand.” She sounded surprisingly controlled, and there was a weird matter-of-factness in her tone. “May I go now?”

“My dear-”

“Please. Let go. Can I have the car to drive back to school?”

“You’ve had no sleep, Patricia.”

“Exam week. I’ve got to get back.”

“I’ll have someone drive you.”

“Thank you.”

“Good night, my dear.”

“Good night,” she said, and closed the door when she left.