Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

New Girl by De Forbes

She wanted him to follow her. He did. It went like clockiwork...

Sylvia walked the street. Haggerty, the cop, and Mr. Tambollio of the corner grocery watched her coming, turned to watch her go. Three of the Purple Pythons, on their way to a gang meeting, offered a suggestive remark; laughed as she passed them by, head high. Sylvia was an oddity in the neighborhood. The untouchable. The word had gotten around. “She’s new,” they said. “She’s young,” they said. “So maybe she’s a virgin. There are such things,” they said. They watched and waited... an easy thing to do.

Her full-skirted green dress accentuated her young pointed breasts, clung to her slender waist, swung in rhythm with her hips. Her high-heeled sandals, striking the dirty pavement, punctuated the evening sounds. Her long, gold-brown hair curled up to lie loosely on her shoulders. Haggerty sighed, shook his head. She was an open invitation — and someday somebody would take her up on it.

She passed the brick warehouse, wearing its chalked obscenities, and turned the corner. The neighborhood lost sight of her there, went on with its business. Love, hate, live, die. Routine matters.

Sylvia knew when he began to follow her. She hadn’t actually seen him, not this time, but she knew he was there and that he was coming after her.

She paused, as she always did, in front of the windows of Solly Klein’s Pawn Shop, looking out of habit for the watch. It was still there. Little bits of fading sunlight struck its beauty, reflected back in twinkling reds, whites, greens. It lay in eye-catching splendor in its black velvet bed. The most beautiful watch in the world, she thought, encrusted with rubies, diamonds, emeralds. He was still behind her.

She turned quickly, hair swinging free, skirt swirling, went on. The sky was darkening now, getting ready for the night. She stopped, studied a display of second-hand furniture through dingy panes. She couldn’t hear him, but something moved just briefly behind her in the shadows. Sylvia smiled a tight little smile. She didn’t know how to be afraid.

She went on and as the darkness obscured the streets, they grew deserted. He was closer, she thought, and she clutched her plastic shoulder bag with both hands. Soon, somewhere in the vacantness of the concrete while the buildings listened, he would show himself. She slowed down her pace, expected him.

A man turned the corner from the opposite direction, came toward her. His legs wobbled and he clung to the buildings for support. Sylvia stepped daintily around him, felt his bleary eyes slide down her body.

“Where are you hurrying to, baby?” The words were thick, wheedling. She was almost by him and he stumbled forward, caught her arm. “I said — where are you going, baby?”

She pulled her arm away, turned the anger of her blue eyes on him.

“Take your hands off me,” she said. Her voice was steady.

The drunk leaned forward, barring her way. He smelled of dirt and urine and cheap wine. His trousers were damp down the front.

She reached into her bag when the voice came up behind her, young, loud, full of fury.

“Let her alone, you old bastard.”

He was there now, in the open, and he swung a young hard arm. The old man swayed, a look of surprise on his gray face, fell. She watched him as he lay twitching. Then she looked up.

It was the one she had expected.

He was tall, slender, with sloping shoulders and a narrow waist. He had a shock of black hair, combed into oily waves and that grew like a dark lawn before each ear. The skin on his face was stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, a long nose. His eyes were black slits. His wide thin mouth was smiling, but his eyes were wary. All the eyes she had ever looked into had been wary.

“You need somebody to walk with you,” he said and took her arm. She moved away with him. His leather jacket brushed against her. She waited for him to speak.

“I’m Patsy,” he said. “You’re Sylvia, aren’t you?”

She kept her eyes on the pavement.

“I spotted you,” he said. “You’re new in the neighborhood. I’ve seen you come by lately. Where do you go — every night?”

She shrugged. “Away. Walking. Sometimes to the park.”

He released his hold a little, satisfied with the tone of her voice. “You got a guy?”

She looked up at him then. His lips were slightly parted, like a little boy waiting for a treat. She gave it to him.

“No,” she said.

The street lights had come on, but all around them was the night. He pulled her closer.

“You have now,” he said and with an expert movement swung her around.

He kissed her, breathing hard. His lips were rough. She was quiet in his embrace, testing her emotions. Then she moved. She brought her knee up sharply, accurately from long practice. As he reeled away from her against the building, she went for her bag.

“You God damn little bitch,” he said, and crouched, moved to spring.

She brought her hand forward where he could see it. The scissors sparkled dully, their blades open in her clenched fist.

“They’ll pick the eyes right out of you,” she said coldly. “Nobody takes me over, just like that.”

He hesitated a moment, then moved toward her. She stood her ground, readied her weapon. He stopped.

She thought a minute, then began to speak, choosing her words carefully. “I’ve been waiting,” she said, “for the right guy. But it isn’t going to be just any big stud that I put in with.” She ran one hand down the curve of her body. “I’ve got something to offer. Something special.”

He started to say something, to move to her. She brandished the scissors.

“Patsy,” she said. “I’ve heard of you. You’re the big wheel of the Robber Barons. I’ve heard of you.”

A puzzled expression crossed his face. “I’m the bossman,” he said.

“Yeah. Big rep you got. Anything for a ride and Patsy’s the conductor. That’s what I heard.”

His confidence was coming back. White teeth gleamed in the dark oblong of his face.

“You’ve got the word,” he said. “It isn’t just any skirt that gets this boy. I take only the best.”

She nodded. “I’m the best. I’m something special, I am. Choice merchandise, wrapped up in a pretty package. Just waiting for a buyer.”

His tongue came out. He licked his lips. “I’ll buy,” he said. “How much?”

She laughed, a gay tinkling laugh.

“I come high,” she said. “I come dear.”

He moved a step closer. This time she did not stop him.

“Anything,” he said and his voice was hot. “I made up my mind when I saw you, when I heard you weren’t shelling out. Anything.”

“You’re the one who made the offer,” she said, opened her bag with her other hand, dropped the scissors in.

He swarmed over her.

She looked up at him and the night became blacker. “Anything?” She asked softly.

“Anything,” he said and they moved at the same time. Their mouths met, moved against each other like living things.

His hands roamed her body. He whispered against her hair. “Where? Where?”

She melted into him. “I don’t care.”

He tried to control himself. “The park? It isn’t far.”

She shook her head. “Cops,” she said. “An alley?”

He kissed her. He couldn’t keep his mouth away, his hands still.

Together they moved — further and further into the darkness...

She chose a comb from her bag, fluffed her hair in the light of a street lamp. He smoked a cigarette, looking down at her. His eyes and the cigarette glowed.

She put the comb back in her purse, snapped it shut. She lifted her head. “Now,” she said. “The payment.”

“What’s the deal?” He stood against her. He wanted to be in debt.

Her face looked like an angelic child’s all set for the Christmas tree.

“There’s a watch at Solly Klein’s. In the window. I want you to get it for me.”

He smiled. “All I need is a brick. And a dark night.”

She smiled back at him. “I don’t want it that way. I want you to go in, and take me with you. I want you to pull a gun on him and take it from him. While I watch.”

His smile faded. “But I ain’t got a rod.”

Her expression changed to scorn. “Welcher,” she said. “You said anything.” She turned to walk away.

“Wait,” he caught her arm. “I’ll get one. When? When, do you want to do it?”

Her face was soft, happy. “Tomorrow night. I’ve watched. He’s all alone at ten, just before he closes. The cop is way down at the end of his beat. That’s when we’ll do it.”

He nodded, slowly, then with vigor. “And after—” he said. His hands wanted her again. She pulled away.

“After,” she said. “After I have the watch.”

They waited in the shadows. He kept feeling the shape of the gun in the pocket of his dungarees. He felt just the same way he did before a rumble, like ants climbed up and down his back, in his stomach. She was calm, quiet, there beside him.

At five minutes of ten they moved across the street, arm in arm. Solly Klein sat behind his cage like an oily Buddha. A little bell tinkled from atop the door when they opened it. Solly Klein looked up.

He wore steel-framed glasses. Their thick lenses made his eyes look like grey-blue marbles down a well. He stood up and came around the cage, behind the counter. He put fat stubby hands with dirty nails on the counter top, leaned his weight on them.

“Yes,” he said. He had a little lisp. “What can I do for you?”

Sylvia spoke. “I’d like to see the watch in the window.” She had a blue ribbon around her hair. She looked very young.

Solly moved forward on flat feet. He wore leather slippers with hard heels that slapped when he walked. He took the jewelled watch from the window, brought it to them. His face wore a smile, like a pumpkin.

“Very nice,” he said. “The lady has good taste.”

Sylvia took the watch from its case, slipped it on her arm. The lights from the ceiling twinkled in the stones. It winked and blinked up at her. It snuggled on her wrist.

She looked up at Patsy. “Now,” she said and moved back.

The gun came out of his pocket, pointed its snub nose at Solly Klein.

Perspiration suddenly broke out on Solly Klein’s forehead.

“Thanks,” said Patsy and started to turn, still with the gun on its target.

Solly Klein’s fat hands trembled, began to move.

“Patsy!” screamed Sylvia. “Shoot! He’s got a gun.”

Patsy’s gun spoke and a thin trail of smoke came from its muzzle.

Solly Klein’s eyes, magnified in their wonder, grew larger, then slipped away. The round body quivered, swayed slightly from side to side. The knees bent, the arms fell and the body of Solly Klein slid, not without grace, to the dusty floor. He made a little sound as he landed, as though he’d been socked in the stomach, had the air knocked out. Then there was no sound.

It was Patsy who moved first. He felt his Adam’s apple rise and fall. “He — he reached for a gun.” His voice sounded high. Not like his voice.

Sylvia’s eyes were still on the body. “He reached for his handkerchief. It’s there — in his hand.” She might have been making conversation on a street corner.

“You’re nuts,” cried Patsy. “You told me he had a gun. And I thought he did, so I shot him. He reached for a gun!”

She tore her glance from the still form, looked up at him with clear eyes.

“I got the watch,” she said, held it up for him to see. She looked down again. “Look, he’s bleeding.”

Patsy stared at the watch. “It looks like a phony. Dime store stuff. Come on, we got to get out of here.”

She moved slowly, her eyes still on the dead Solly Klein.

“What does it matter,” she said and he thought her eyes were shining. “The stones are pretty. Red like blood.”

Patsy turned and bolted from the pawn shop. She followed — slowly. There was no one in the street, but he grabbed her hand, and ran.

She stopped him after a little way. They leaned against a wall, breathing hard. Then she stepped close to him, fitted herself to his long body, and put her face on his chest.

“Thank you, Patsy,” her voice was sweet. “You paid in full.”

She raised her face, put a wet, hot mouth to his. She wiggled against him, moved his hands to her breasts. “Now,” she said, “another installment.”

Patsy raised his head, moved it from side to side in disbelief. “I killed him,” he muttered. “I never croaked a guy before.”

“You will again,” she said and kissed him.

His mouth was slack against hers. He pulled away, violently. “No! No!” he cried. “It isn’t worth it.” He turned then and ran, and his running footsteps faded away in the night.

She walked home slowly, and as she walked she felt the sharp coldness of the jewels set around the watch.

At her home she let herself in quietly, went down the hall to her room. She closed the door softly behind her, turned on the light.

The sparkles leaped at her eyes and she smiled. She took the watch from her wrist and held it in her hand. Then she went to her dresser.

She saw herself in the mirror. Her mouth was parted, her eyes wide and dreamy. She smiled at the mirror as she dropped her hands and opened a drawer.

Without looking, she dropped the watch into the drawer. It lay there with its fellows. Gaudy squares, triangles, circles of bright glass. Rings, bracelets, pendants. Sylvia’s collection.

Sometimes when she came home like this she undressed completely and took them all out, put them on all at once, but tonight she closed the drawer.

Then she went to the living room and waited for her father. She would cry and tell how she’d been raped and beg her father to leave town with her. And, like all the other times, she knew that he would do just as she asked.