Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

Past Imperfect by Frank Gay

She was an ex-stripper... with a capital “X”. Then Widget came on the scene.

Widget decided he would go for die flesh this time, and not the money. He made three circles of the block, then parked in front of the house. He was squat and flabby, almost beetle-like in the big car.

He thrust his head toward the windshield to get a better look at the blonde digging in the garden. His face was a melon of freckles decorated with puffy eyes and a bulbous, hairy nose.

He emerged from the car with his sample case and strode aggressively toward the blonde.

“You Mrs. Gideon?” he asked bluntly.

The woman rose from her knees and puzzled a look at him.

This was the way he remembered her, lean and petite with full hips and breasts. She had a beauty that took his breath. She also had a dignity about her that made his lip curl — he could recall her in less dignified postures.

“You’re the encyclopedia salesman?” she asked.

“That’s me. Name is Widget. I’d like to show you samples.”

They moved toward the house, a large brick and cedar shingle colonial on a lot planted with maples and oaks.

“So you got yourself a doctor,” he said when they were in the living room. “Some furniture! Did all right, didn’t you? Got yourself a real deal.”

She was looking at him again with the same puzzled expression.

“Are you selling encyclopedias?” she asked sharply.

His mouth was amused this time. “Come on, Pepper,” he told her, “don’t get sassy with me.”

Only her eyes changed.

“Pepper Patsy,” he said, “The Hottest Tomale This Side Of The Border! Remember that tag?”

He let it sink in, then twisted the knife again. “You were my favorite stripper. I saw your dance in strip joints in Baltimore and Chicago. I even bought you a drink in Chicago.”

She still showed no reaction, but she watched him and listened to him carefully.

“About three years ago you disappeared from the circuit and were never again heard from.”

Now she lit a cigarette and said, “And then one day you happened to walk down the street in Akron, just by luck, on your way to the grocery store to buy anchovies and walnuts and you happened to see your favorite stripper disguised as the wife of a respectable doctor with her hair dyed blonde.”

“Not quite,” he said. “I make a business of finding people who used to live it up and are now trying to live it down. Profitable business too.”

“You’re wasting your time. My husband knows.”

“How about your neighbors? your husband’s patients?”

She turned away from him, drawing heavily on the cigarette, and walked twice back and forth along the length of the handsome living room. The body had mellowed and the lines softened, but she was still the same exquisite piece. The blonde hair made her, if anything, more striking.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Not a cent. Like I said, you were my favorite stripper.”

“What then?”

“You,” he told her. “Just you.” He watched her bite her lip. Sweat beads ran down his own round face between and over the freckles.

“All that is behind me,” she said finally. “I have a good marriage. I might give you some money, but that’s all.”

“You’ll give me what I want!” A drop of his sweat splattered on the hardwood floor. “I’m no amateur. If I go to work on you, you’re done in this town. Finished. Both of you.”

She walked the length of the living room again and drew deeply on the cigarette, the body still lean and firm.

“Money,” she said. “Money I’ll give you, but nothing else.”

“What’s one more man to you?”

“It’s different now. I’m in love.”

He laughed, but there was no joy in his face. “I’m going to have you or I’m going to get you. Which is it?”

She turned to him with a plea. “Won’t you leave me alone?”

He shook his round head slowly and coldly.

She took another trip down the living room and back before she nodded to signal her defeat. “When?” she asked.

“Now. Here and now. Upstairs.”

“Impossible. My maid’s due.”

“Maid?” he laughed, his face sarcastic. “In my motel then.”

Widget showered, lighted a cigar, tossed down a banger of scotch and sat impatiently in the comfortable motel room. He wore a long, handsome, blue silk robe, but he was still squat and flabby.

He did not have to wait long. He smiled at her knock, and walked briskly to the door, the cigar between his teeth. He turned the knob and pulled the door open ceremoniously.

A big, muscular man pushed into the room. He closed the door and took special pains to twist the smaller knob of the night lock.

When he faced around Widget saw that he was wearing gloves.

Not hurrying, the big man moved steadily toward Widget.

Widget backed off, moving automatically, keeping precisely the speed of his pursuer. He was too manly to scream, too frightened to utter any more normal sound.

He wanted to ask questions, but his instinct knew every answer, and pure terror strangled each word as it rose in his throat.

Abruptly a wall touched his back and held him.

The big man took him by the throat, driving powerful thumbs into the Adam’s apple with a strength and sureness that made Widget’s struggles so many flappings of a butterfly.

When the big man had squeezed out both the breath and the life, when the fat face was no longer just repulsive, but pathetic too, he laid Widget gently on the bed.

The big man walked six blocks to another motel, went in by a side entrance near the swimming pool unlocked the door to Room 26.

The woman who waited there for him in a negligee was petite and blonde. Her tense, beautiful face held a single question.

“He won’t bother you again,” he announced.

He pulled her to him, reached under her garment and ran one big hand up and down her naked back, saying, “I’ve gotten used to you and your husband being together, but the thought of you with any other man drives me crazy, even a toad like that one.”

She shivered in his arms and nestled closer.