Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

Midnight Blonde by Talmage Powell

“You’re old enough to know what you want to do,” she said. “But I’m glad I warned you.”

The girl sat alone in the curved leather booth of the bar. A half consumed glass of sherry was on the table before her. She made no move to touch it. She sat with her hands in her lap. She had sat this way, absolutely motionless, for the past ten minutes.

A man entered the bar. His brief first glance at the girl became a lingering one as he slowly passed her booth. In looking at her with appreciation, he joined the company of every man in the place. There was little talk. And not a moment passed that at least one man wasn’t glancing toward the girl who sat there, unmoving and alone.

She seemed unaware of the undefinable something she had brought into the bar. It wasn’t her beauty alone that attracted attention. She was small, but very shapely. Dressed in black. She wore her glossy blonde hair cut short, with a hint of curl at the ends, and casual bangs that accentuated the dreamy quality of her large dark eyes. Her smooth tanned complexion heightened further the hint of ageless mystery in her eyes.

Yet for all the enticement and sophistication of the girl there was a quality of terrible innocence about her. This quality reached out and made men at the bar feel more masculine than they had in a long time. It reached out and touched them, and some of them would therefore remember her before they went to sleep that night, or while answering absent-mindedly the question of a wife.

Her eyes stayed on the clock behind the bar. It was a pretentious clock, ringed with orange neon, its face illuminated by a pale orange glow. The hands indicated that the time was exactly nineteen minutes before twelve. The clock was ten minutes fast, an aid in getting the last, lingering customers out of the bar by legal closing time.

Twenty-nine minutes before midnight.

The girl’s lips parted; she had small, gleaming, even teeth. The pink tip of her tongue touched her lips briefly. She sipped the sherry at last.

Twenty-eight minutes.

The man who had just entered the bar continued to look at her over his shoulder while he walked to the bar and ordered a highball.

The bartender put the drink before him. The man raised his brows in a question, making it clear by a jerk of his head in the girl’s direction that he was asking about her. The bartender glanced toward the girl and shrugged.

The man tasted his drink, turned slowly, and stared boldly at the girl.

She was still watching the clock.

Twenty-seven minutes.

Holding his drink, the man moved across the short intervening distance until he was standing beside the booth. He was a tall, rangy man of about thirty, dark in coloring, nice looking without being handsome. He stood without speaking for a moment; then he said, “Hello.”

The girl looked at him. He took a quick breath as those luminous eyes of hers met his.

“What did you say?”

He smiled. “I said hello.”

“Oh — hello.”

“May I buy you a drink?”

“I have one,” she said quietly. It was neither a rebuff nor an invitation. She continued looking at him, studying him. He took a quick pull at his drink as if he were losing his poise.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

He was the center of attention now. Not open attention. Guarded glances. Nobody was drinking right now. The bartender was busy with his bar cloth, but the movement was strictly mechanical.

The man’s face reddened a little, as the girl took a long time in answering.

“Yes,” she said finally, “I am waiting for someone, I suppose.”

The invitation was there now, in her low voice, her eyes, but the man hesitated — as if there were something he failed to understand. For an instant, as he turned his back to the bar, he appeared sorry that he had started the whole business.

He glanced over his shoulder again at her, however, caught the eyes that quickly cut away. His smile returned as he took his poise back in hand.

“We could say you were waiting for me,” he said with an attempt at lightness.

“Yes, we could.”

“Then may I sit down?”

“By all means. And come to think of it, I’ll have another sherry.”

The man sat down. Like an almost audible rustle, attention was turned from him. Men were drinking again, discussing baseball, business, women in low tones. The man had carried the ball into the end zone. He had done what every man in the place would have liked to do. He had picked up the girl, made the conquest.

Yet he was not completely at ease.

The girl was still looking at the clock.

Twenty-two minutes.

Her gaze didn’t waver even when the bartender brought her sherry. Her profile was delicate and lovely; but a large part of her wasn’t there, staring like that at the clock.

The man coughed politely.

She turned to look at him. “Oh, I am sorry,” she said. “Thank you for the sherry.”

“You live around here?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“I just came to town.”

“I hope you’ll like it here. It’s a nice little burg, though it gets pretty cold in winter.”

“I think I’ll like it very much,” she said, “for as long as I’m here.” She smiled at the man. Up close, her teeth had a faintly pointed look.

The man cleared his throat. “By the way, my name’s Larry.”

“Mine’s Jeannine.”

“It rather fits you,” he said.

“Does it?”

“I mean, innocent and yet kind of — unknowable.”

Little sparks went off deep in her eyes. “I think I like that.”

She looked again at the clock.

Nineteen minutes.

Her cheeks became pink; in her eyes the sparks became a flare of excitement.

“Do you work here in town?” Larry asked. “Transferred here maybe?”

“What?”

“I asked if you worked here.”

“Oh, no, I’m visiting a friend. A girl who was my roommate in college. I haven’t seen her since she was married. I’ve been in Florida.”

“Nice down there.”

“It depends on what happens to you.”

His brows raised. “Only something nice could happen to someone like you.”

“Is that the beginning of a line?”

“No. I mean it. Really. Anybody who’d even think anything bad about you should be treated like a mad dog. They’d be out of their minds.”

Her face pinked with pleasure. She sipped her sherry and looked at him over the rim of her glass. He tossed off his second drink and ordered a third.

Her eyes were on the clock again.

Sixteen minutes.

He tossed off his drink straight. He was beginning to feel them. He signalled for another before she had touched her fresh sherry.

“Listen,” he said. “I think that clock’s got you hypnotized.”

“Is my looking at it that noticeable?”

“I guess it is,” he said. “I just noticed, didn’t I?”

She smiled; there was a trace of invitation in it now. “Why don’t you have another drink?”

He hesitated, as if there were something he didn’t understand. Something strange. Something that only a deep seated instinct reached out and touched. Then he gave a what-the-devil shrug and ordered another drink.

“If you’re planning to find work here,” he said, “maybe I could help you. I run a fairly good real estate business. Belong to some clubs. Know quite a few people.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

She smiled. “You hesitated. You are married.”

“Well, I don’t see much of her.”

“Misunderstood husband?”

“No, I just don’t like her. But there are two kids and...” His voice trailed off.

“It makes no difference,” she said. “But aren’t you gambling a lot?”

“You mean, just sitting here, talking to you?”

“Well, you’re a respectable businessman, you say. A family man. Scandal would hurt you very much.”

“My wife knows how I feel about her.”

“Oh, well, that does make things simpler for you, doesn’t it.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Simpler for us,” she said softly.

In the dim light of the bar, she was a gifted artist’s most beautiful creation. Almost too lovely to be real.

His breath quickened. “I think we’re going to understand each other.”

“You’ll never understand me,” she said.

“I’ll try.”

“You shouldn’t try too hard. I warn you.”

“Instead of a warning, I’ll have a drink,” he said.

“You’re old enough to know what you want to do,” she said. “But I’m glad I warned you.”

He smiled expansively. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“How did you know?”

“I know you quite well.”

“How could you?” he laughed. “I only met you minutes ago.”

“No, I met you a long time ago. In many different places. There are a lot of men like you in the world, Larry. Wife, couple of kids, a business — all pretty light stuff when they’re weighed against a thrill.”

“Hey, you need a drink.”

“All right.”

“None of that lecture stuff. How do you like that — we meet the way we did, and you start a lecture.”

“I just want to make sure I really know you.”

“You know enough. I’m a nice guy. I go for you in a big way. That’s all you need to know.”

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll never mention it again.”

“That’s fine,” he said. He paused. One of his words had been thick. He laughed. “Another drink, I need. And you’re beautiful.”

“Am I?”

“Positively.”

“More beautiful than your wife?”

“Make her look like a frump,” he said.

“Beautiful enough to die for?”

“Say now...”

She became cool, remote.

“Look,” he said. “You throw a question like that at me...”

“Yes, Larry?”

“Well, in a manner of speaking, I guess a guy could say you’re that beautiful.”

She leaned back in the booth, began laughing softly.

His eyes sobered. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Cut that out,” he said.

“Why?”

“It gives me the willies. It’s— You’re like two people, Jeannine. One of them little and delicate and innocent. The other...”

“Yes, Larry? Tell me.”

“I dunno. Mysterious, kind of. Puts ice in my blood.”

“So you’re afraid?”

“I’m not afraid of anything! Why should I be afraid of you?”

“Yes, why should you be?”

She turned her attention once more to the clock behind the bar.

Seven minutes.

A faint shudder, like a caress of strange pleasure, passed over her.

“Listen,” he said. “I got to know about that clock.”

“It’s only a clock,” she said.

“Not to you. It ain’t to you.”

“I’m waiting, Larry.”

“Yeah, until when?”

“Midnight.”

“What happens then? The coach turn into a pumpkin?”

Her dreamy eyes searched his face. “You’re beginning to get drunk, Larry.”

“So what?”

“Sure you don’t want to go home?”

“Nope. I’m sticking with you. Meantime, I want to know what’s with that clock.”

“It’s telling me something, Larry. Every tick is a whisper. Like soft, dragging footsteps, taking a last walk.”

He was silent a moment. He blinked at her. His eyes cleared somewhat, came into focus.

“Last walk? Let’s not talk morbid, doll.”

“You asked me.”

“Yeah, but this last walk business. Why should the clock remind you of that?”

“It paints a scene for me, Larry. I can see every detail. Wouldn’t it be funny if the clock stopped at midnight?”

“That clock won’t stop, not unless the electricity goes off.”

“I know — it will keep going. On and on. One midnight is just like another to the clock.”

“That’s right — and what’s so different about this one?”

She didn’t answer him. Her eyes were on the clock.

Four minutes.

A pulse was beating in the hollow of her throat. She glanced at him. “Meet me down on the corner, will you?”

“Now why should I—”

“I don’t want to be seen leaving with you. Leave, Larry. Now!”

“Well, okay,” he said rather stiffly.

“I won’t be long,” she said. “You’ll be there?”

His face lost its sudden touch of ill humor. “Sure, but don’t keep me waiting.”

Larry slid out of the booth, paid the tab, and left.

The girl watched the clock.

One minute.

Light came and went in her eyes. Her teeth gleamed.

Midnight.

She slumped back in the booth, as if exhausted.

In a far off state penitentiary a man had been seated. A switch had been thrown. Impulses, like unleashed demons, had crashed through wires, relays. The man had died, for the capital crime of rape.

Larry was standing impatiently on the corner. He came forward to meet her. She stopped, waiting. At her left was the mouth of an alley.

Larry reached out to take her arm. But as he looked in her eyes, he became frozen, hand outstretched.

“Beast,” she said. “You beast.”

Her hand went up and tore the shoulder of her dress. Then she began screaming.

Larry grabbed her, tried to shut her up by shaking her. They were like that when the shout of the cop came toward them.

Larry stood in confusion a moment. Then he broke and ran. He heard the shouted command to stop, two sharp cracks of a gun... pain, a falling into a deep black pit of pain...

Jeannine was crying when the cop reached her. “That man... He... I was going home... I...”

The cop loomed big and stalwart over her innocence and delicacy. He looked at her misty eyes and his jaw muscles knotted.

“There, there, little lady. He’ll never hurt nobody no more. Now, try not to think about it...”