Kill as Directed

Eight

She wore a white linen dress: short sleeveless; white needle-heeled pumps; no stockings; she carried a white linen jacket and a small white purse.

Her long legs and bare arms were the color of warm fresh toast. With her copper hair pulled back in a ponytail, with just a touch of pink on her lips and no other make-up, she looked very young.

The dress was tight, and she tugged at the skirt in getting into his car. He caught a flash of brown thigh and felt his throat thicken and his heart pound and a stirring in his groin. Then she was sitting beside him, close, pulling at the skirt, lips parted.

“Hi.” She had a deep voice, intimate, hardly more than a whisper.

“Hi,” he said. “Hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Me, too. Where would you like to eat?”

“Not Giobbe’s,” she said.

He looked at her, startled.

She laughed. “Tony phoned me today,” she said.

“Then you know the place.”

“Of course. You know Tony. Always discovering places, and what Tony discovers Tony gives a real workout. Yes, darling, I’ve been to Giobbe’s. I’ve been, and been, and been.”

The car was cruising up Park Avenue. “Where, then?”

“Up and out,” she said. “Up and out and far away, where it’s cool. In the country. I want to eat with you, drink with you, dance with you and sleep with you. I want all night with you tonight. I’m not going back home.”

“Westchester?” he said. “Connecticut?”

“I know what. Jersey. There’s a place — Heavenly Grotto. Hellish name, but a heavenly place. Good music, good décor, good food, good candlelight. Kurt took me there once before we were married. There’s a heavenly motel nearby, too. Kurt and I stayed there in separate cabins. Tonight, one cabin.”

Did she expect him to believe that? “Do you know how to go?” he asked.

“Cross the George Washington Bridge. I’ll direct you from there. God, I’ve been longing for this. It’s so damned hot. The weather’s been beastly.”

“Yes.”

“Cool, where we’re going. Cool and delicious.”

He made a left turn and drove across the park and over to the West Side Highway. Already it was cooler in the breeze coming from the Hudson. They could see the bridge in the distance, thin as a lavaliere displayed in space.

“Miss me?” she said. “Since Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“And before Sunday? Miss being alone with me?”

“Yes.”

“Like my idea?”

“What idea?”

“Heavenly Grotto, and the Golden Cave.”

“Golden Cave?”

“That’s the name of the motel.” She giggled. “Isn’t that the craziest name for a motel?”

“I wish I’d known,” he said.

“Known what?”

“Motel.”

“Look, my laconic lover, you’ll have to stop being cryptic. You wish you’d known what about the motel?”

“That we were going to say overnight.”

“Why?”

“I’d have brought a change of clothing, a bag, something.”

“Oh, now please, Doctor, you’re not preparing, for surgery. This is off the cuff, an impulse, fun! How come you’re so romantic in bed, but with your feet on the ground you’re nowhere? How come?”

“Cut,” he said.

“You won’t be wearing your clothes much, anyway, sweetheart. Mostly they’ll be hanging. We’ll check in first at the Golden Cave, mister and missus, and freshen up; then we’ll go eat and dance and drink and talk; then we’ll go back to the cavelet and hang up our clothes and let ’em hang. Love me, lover?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why my servants don’t sleep in.”

“What?” he said. “What?”

“Servants who sleep in know when the lady of the house sleeps out.”

“Yes,” he said, and he thought: You’ve been married for two years, and you know me for four or five months; with whom were you sleeping out before me, my love? “We’ve got a lot to talk about tonight,” he said.

“You bet,” Karen said cheerfully. She opened her purse and took two cigarettes from a pack and lit both, putting one between his lips.

She moved away from him, snuggled down, stretched her legs, laid her head on the back rest, and half-closed her eyes.

They smoked in silence until they crossed the bridge.

The Golden Cave was gold; all the cabins were gold with white roofs. Harry parked in front of the office and went in and signed the register: Mr. and Mrs. Harrison Brown.

“How long you staying?” asked the clerk. He was a small, neat, sunburned man.

“Overnight.”

“That’ll be thirteen dollars.”

Harry paid.

“Cabin 4, this way, please,” said the man. Outside he said, “Park in front of the cabin. I’ll walk.”

He walked. Harry drove. Karen sat lazily.

In Cabin 4 the sunburned man said, “Anything you want — soft drink, cigarettes, telephone — just ask at the office. Somebody’s there all night. Check-out time is tomorrow morning, eleven o’clock. Here’s your key. Thank you very much. Come again.”

Alone, they freshened up. They did not touch each other. They talked about the beautiful night, the comforts of the spic-and-span cabin.

They drove over to the Heavenly Grotto, which was not a grotto but a two-story stone building with a purple neon sign outside. The candlelit restaurant was a maze of small rooms. The tables were covered with lavender tablecloths; there was a dance floor and a string orchestra and, rimming the room, a balcony with a wrought-iron grille. The place was crowded with well-dressed diners.

The white-jacketed maître d’ immediately said, “There’s more privacy in the booths on the balcony, sir.”

“Balcony,” Harry said. Were they that obvious?

He led them toward the steep wrought-iron stairway. “The captain upstairs will take over. His name is Danny.”

“Thank you,” Harry said.

The stairway was narrow, and Karen preceded him. The maître d’ remained at the foot of the stairs; Harry knew without glancing back that the man was admiring Karen’s legs. And why not? he thought. She has beautiful legs. She’s a beautiful woman. Let him enjoy himself. For him it’s free.

The upstairs captain led them to a booth, lit new candles and left them in the lavender glow. A waiter came with lavender menus. “Drinks first?”

“Gimlet,” Karen said. “Double.”

“Two doubles,” Harry said.

The waiter went away. The music was soft and professional. The place was clean, airy, not noisy. Even before the drink came, Harry felt himself starting to relax. After the drink, he was in complete command.

The waiter came again. “Do you wish to order now?”

“No,” Karen said. She pushed aside the menus. “I’ll have another gimlet.”

“Double again?” said the waiter.

“Double,” Karen said.

Harry nodded.

They drank more slowly this time. Their knees were touching. “All right, Karen, let’s have it,” Harry said.

“What?” Karen said.

“‘You’re in terrible trouble, Harry.’” He mimicked her voice and intonation.

“Oh, that,” she said.

“That,” he said.

“I’ll have to start from way back.”

“Go ahead.”

“Would you rather eat first?”

“There’s plenty of time.”

“Funny. A drink is supposed to stimulate the appetite.”

“Maybe two drinks kills it.”

“How about four?”

“Four?”

“Actually, darling, we’re on our fourth. Doubles.”

“Karen, you’re stalling.”

“You bet I am.”

“Why?”

“Trouble isn’t pleasant. You’re in a lot of it. I’m in trouble, too, but not so much, and anyway, I’m used to it.” She smiled crookedly. “I’ve been stalling for weeks now.”

“Well, you can stop right now. What did you mean, Karen?”

She put down the gimlet and reached for a cigarette. He held a match to it.

“Thanks, darling. Well, it starts with a kid going to college in Los Angeles. Me. Father dead, mother working as a waitress. She was an old woman; it had been a late marriage, I was an only child. Well, I was graduated with a B.A. from U.C.L.A. Now what in hell does a girl do with a Bachelor of Arts degree?”

“Any number of things.”

“All of them piddling.”

“What did you want?”

“Money. Real money, and the sooner the better.”

It was Dr. Harry Brown’s turn to smile crookedly.

“We were always just scraping along. Even as a kid I dreamed of living easy and rich, à la Hollywood pipe dreams. How does a girl with a Bachelor of Arts degree make a pipe dream come true? Get right up there in the big money?”

“She marries it, if she’s pretty enough.”

“Do you think I’m pretty enough?”

“You’re beautiful,” he said bitterly.

“I went where the money was. I’d taken stenography and typing, and I got good secretarial jobs in big outfits, with big people. I kept looking for a rich husband, and I struck out. The loaded ones were either already married or gunshy; they all wanted to sleep with me, but without benefit of clergy. Then my mother died. I chucked the whole secretarial bit and became a dancer.”

“Dancer?”

“A stripper.”

“You?” Harry stared at her. “Wasn’t that a waste?”

“Look, Junior. My high I.Q. and my B.A. degree found no customers. I took inventory and decided I had more negotiable assets — what you lechers call a luscious hunk of stuff. And I was twenty-five by then, and time was awastin’.”

“No love?”

“Pardon?”

“Twenty-five, and you hadn’t fallen in love?”

“I thought so, two or three times. They turned out to be jerks. I can’t stand a jerk. I’ve never been in love.”

“Never?”

“Until you, of course, darling.” She leaned over and smiled and squeezed his hand.

After a moment Harry withdrew his hand to light a cigarette. “So you were twenty-five and you became a stripper.”

“With my equipment it was the easiest way in. There’s a lot of money in knowing how to take your clothes off. It’s an art. In fact, there are schools that teach it.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Dr. Brown. “There’s a lot I don’t know.”

“Well, there are. I had some money saved, and I went to the best school I could find.”

“And you learned how to take your clothes off.”

She laughed. “There’s more to it than that. And if you’re any good, they place you after graduation. I was good and they placed me. I did the whole wheel.”

“Wheel?”

“Los Angeles, San Francisco, Reno, Vegas, New Orleans, Detroit, Chicago, Dallas, Houston, Miami, New York, Philly. The strip circuit. I earned three, four hundred a week, which gave me the kind of clothes I wanted. And I met well-heeled Johns and hooked them for cars, apartments, furs, jewels, bank accounts — while all the time I kept my line out for the one big fish with the ring in his nose. Pardon me if I brag a little, darling. There were few strippers around with my equipment. I’m not talking about merely body — I’m talking about the I.Q. and the degree, too. I was really a rarity in the profession. A gal who could discuss Renaissance painting and the Angry Young Men as well as bump and grind. Oh, I knocked around, and got knocked around — an educated bum, you might say. But I was a lady, and they all knew it.”

She was silent for a while, and Harry beckoned the waiter. “Another round,” he said. “Make these singles. Go on,” he said to Karen.

“I found myself working in a Philadelphia club. A man named Kurt Gresham showed a great interest in me — he was there very often. I didn’t find out he owned the joint till a long time later.” She laughed again. “He was big, the kind of fish I’d dreamed about, a millionaire. He’d obviously gone overboard for the whole woman — the body, the face, the youth; later I found out that he checked out my background, U.C.L.A. the B.A., everything. I played him very cool, darling; he got the stiff arm all the way. And he flipped. Grabbed hook, line and sinker.”

She picked up the fresh gimlet. “My luck had finally turned. But I knew I had to play Kurt carefully, or he’d get away. He got nowhere with me sexually. I hooked him in the head, where he lived.”

Harry sipped his drink very slowly. He did not want to get drunk. Not yet, anyway.

“He was more than twice my age,” Karen murmured, “and three times married — divorced from his first wife; the other two had died. The more he pitched, the more reserved I got. When he was hot, I was cool. The more physical he got, the more intellectual I got. I think it was the brains that finally landed him. He pulled me off the floor and made me assistant manager of the club. I played along; the salary was good; I knew my fish was hooked and having his run. And then he propositioned me.”

“With what?”

She looked at him coolly. “You know damned well with what.”

“I do?”

“Coyness doesn’t become you, you hairy ape. We’re letting our hair down now, my love.”

“We are?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “For our mutual protection.”

Harry finished his drink. He was fighting the happy feeling. “So?” he said.

“Bit by bit, he sounded me out. Oh, I know him now. He’d done all the checking; he knew money was my weakness. I was his pigeon — just as you are, Harry. Of course, I had one advantage you and the other pigeons don’t have. He wanted to use me, as he’s now using you, but he was also in love with me. Finally, he let me in on the whole story, and I was either in or out. Do you know what out means with Kurt, Harry?”

“What?”

“It means you’re dead.” When he did not reply, Karen said, “Where was I?”

“You had the whole story. You were propositioned.”

“He knew — don’t ever underestimate him, Kurt is a genius — he knew with me, just as he knew with you, that I wouldn’t refuse him. I didn’t.”

“You became manager of the club.” He was tearing a cigarette butt to shreds.

“With all the duties appertaining thereto. I state here and now that in the entire illustrious career of Kurt Gresham, I have the unique distinction of having been the only lady-manager of any of his night clubs. My salary was a thousand bucks a week cum bonus. I hadn’t yet gaffed my fish, but I had him banging his snout against the boat. When I got him, it was on my terms.”

“What terms?”

“I’m hungry now, Harry.”

“Oh. A cliff hanger.”

“The next episode will concern you. But you’d better eat first, my love.”

He shrugged and tried to catch the waiter’s eye.

“I want us to eat, and I want us to dance, and I want us to get just a little bit drunk. We’ve got all night.”