Nemesis

Chapter I

The argument was pretty silly. It started over a dinner. Not an ordinary dinner, but a very special one.

Larry Kent was tired when he sat down to eat and he didn’t notice how special it was. He propped his paper against a catsup bottle and ate his shrimp salad without glancing from the story he’d started on the train.

When his wife cleared the salad dish and brought the roast in from the kitchen he didn’t notice the triumphant expression on her face. The triumphant expression of a bride who has worked all day on a dish and is slightly amazed and very proud that it turned out the way the cook-book said it would.

She stood in the arched doorway that led from the kitchen waiting for his admiring approval. And when he didn’t look up she said, “Look, Larry, isn’t it wonderful?”

He had been working hard all day on a tough set of figures for one of the company’s new clients. He was hungry and he felt a little quirk of irritation. There wasn’t any reason for it. It was just the way he felt.

“Well, let’s eat,” he said. “Don’t stand there with it. I’m hungry.”

He didn’t notice that her lips were trembling as she served the rest of the dinner. He ate in silence and finished the paper. Then he felt a little better.

He lit a cigarette and it tasted good. He pushed his chair back a little from the table and smiled at his wife.

“That hit the spot, hon,” he said. “Funny, how a little thing like a meal picks a guy up.”

She was very young and very lovely and her feelings were hurt.

“I’m glad you liked it,” she said. Her voice was stiff with the effort she made to keep it steady. “I worked all day in the kitchen getting it ready.”

“Well, I said it was good, didn’t I?” he said.

“You didn’t even know what you were eating,” she said. “You read the paper all through the meal.”

He felt a quirk of irritation again. “Of course I read the paper,” he said. “It’s the only chance I get to read it in peace. Let’s don’t argue about it. The meal was fine. Is that what you want me to say?”

She stood up then, and her voice shook a little.

“I don’t want you to say anything. I’d just like a little appreciation when I work all day trying to fix something you’ll like. I don’t want to be treated like a piece of furniture.”

He stood up then, and he felt a pang of guilt, for he realized how badly this little thing had hurt her. But a stubborn streak in him wouldn’t let him say the things that would have made it all right. If he had taken her in his arms then and told her how pretty she was and how well she ran the house and what a louse he was everything would have been smoothed over. But he didn’t.

He said, “Stop making a mountain of it. I’m tired as hell and I don’t feel like arguing. I feel like a quiet drink and a little peace.”

She started to cry then. She looked so helpless and vulnerable that his stubbornness melted. He started for her with the right words ready on his lips, but she ran past him into the bedroom. He heard the door slam behind her and then the house was quiet except for the sound of her muffled crying.

She was lying on the bed, he knew, face buried in the pillow, waiting for him to come in and apologize.

This had never happened before and it made him feel nervous and irritable. What the hell was she crying about?

He loved her. She must know that. They had been married only two months and it had been perfect. And now this damn thing.

He lit another cigarette and walked into the living room. He stopped mid-way between the closed door of the bedroom and the front door of the apartment and tried to decide what to do.

The idea of a drink came back to him and it was just what he wanted. He went to the kitchen cabinet where he kept the whisky, but the bourbon bottle had only about a quarter of an inch left.

That was a big thing in his life but he didn’t realize it. If there’d been a drink in the bottle a number of things might never have happened. But he had no way of knowing that.

He went back to the front room and the two doors were like magnets trying to pull him in opposite directions. From behind the bedroom door the crying had stopped. That made him feel a little better.

He decided then that she was just acting silly and that she needed a good lesson. If he didn’t take a firm hand right now she might make a habit of this sort of foolishness.

He put on his hat and coat, put his cigarettes in his outside pocket and walked to the door. There, he almost weakened. He didn’t want to go out for a drink. He wasn’t that kind of a guy. He loved his wife, but he thought she needed a lesson.

So he opened the door and was very careful to close it with a loud, defiant bang! He wanted her to know he was going.

He went down the two flights of stairs quickly, because he knew if he paused once, he’d go back. Outside the cool autumn air was bracing.

He turned his collar up and walked down the street. A gusty fall wind was stirring the leaves and making a harsh whisper through the dead limbs of the trees. It was almost dark.

They lived on Chicago’s North Side in a neighborhood that had once been very good, but it had slipped down in the Thirties and now it was about half-and-half. Cafes, apartment houses, great, sleepy mansions and the red neon signs of cheap bars winking everywhere.

He headed for one of these bars, but at the first intersection a cruising cab driver saw him and stopped. The cabby opened the back door and stuck his head out.

“Cab?”

“No, I’m just—,” he stopped. The door was open and he changed his mind. “Yes,” he said, and stepped in, slamming the door shut behind him.

The driver put the cab in gear and then looked around.

“Where to?” He was a cynical looking young man, with sharp, hard features and a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth.

Larry didn’t want the cab in the first place and he didn’t have any idea of where he wanted to go. He would have liked to climb out again, but he didn’t want to look foolish.

“I don’t know,” he said, and then irritated by the driver’s expression, he said, “make it the Loop.”

“Anywhere in particular?”

“No just drop me down town.”

Most of the traffic at this hour was headed the other direction. The Outer Drive was closed during the rush hour so the cabby used Clark street.

Larry lit another cigarette and wondered why he had decided to go down to the Loop. No reason at all. He spent five days a week there and that was plenty.

He was worrying about Fran now. He wondered if she had discovered he had gone and what she was thinking about. Probably she’d run into his arms when he came back, and that would be the time for him to say all the right things. He wasn’t feeling so masterful now. He was feeling a little like a heel. He had wanted to teach her a lesson, but now that seemed pretty small.

Any guy could worry his wife by barging out of the house without any explanation. A woman couldn’t do that herself, and she couldn’t follow him. All she could do was sit there and stew. Probably torture herself imagining that he’d been hit by a truck or something.

The cab stopped at Madison and Clark and the meter registered fifty cents.

The driver said, “This all right?”

“Fine,” Larry said.

If the driver hadn’t been such a wise looking guy Larry would have told him to take him back home, but he didn’t want to act like a fool.

“This is okay,” he said coolly.

He paid the fare and got out. The lights were on in the Loop and there was loud blaring music coming from loudspeakers in front of the bars and cafes. Although it was a little past the rush hour, and not quite the time for the evening jam the streets were crowded.

Larry walked West on Madison street, with no particular destination in mind. He was ready to go home, but he was not feeling the same remorse he had in the cab. The crowds and the music cheered him up a little, and he decided to have at least one drink.

He turned into a bar and ordered a straight bourbon. He found a foot of space between two sailors and a tired looking old man and lit a cigarette. He drank the drink and listened to the noise coming from a three-piece orchestra. The sailors were talking about a girl they had met that afternoon, and the old man just stared at himself in the mirror above the bar.

He stayed long enough to learn that the sailors thought the girl was a two-timing wench and then he picked up his change and left.

Outside again in the crowd he walked West. The drink settled comfortably on the dinner that had started all the trouble and he felt fairly complacent. One more drink, maybe two, and he’d look for a cab.

He crossed the bridge and continued past the gloomy bulk of Northwestern station. The opposite side of Canal street was honkey-tonk neighborhood. There were garishly lighted dance halls, burlesque shows and the men were too-well dressed and the women wore too much make-up.

He passed a bar called the Pink Giraffe and then his eye was caught by a blinking neon sign which simulated the antics of a balking donkey. Underneath was a bright, foot-high string of letters that spelled out the words, The Kicking Horse.

There was music coming from inside. It was loud blatant music, but Larry went in anyway. The door opened on a narrow, carpeted corridor. There were restrooms on one side, a hat-check booth on the other. The hat-check girl was a redhead and the mascara made her eyes look purple. She was wearing a jockey’s cap, a white silk blouse that was two sizes too small, and red silk shorts.

She took Larry’s hat and topcoat and gave him back a brass check and a bright, mechanical smile.

He followed the corridor to double glass doors, pushed them open and walked into the main room of the Kicking Horse.

The place was large and dimly lighted. A bar stretched half the length of the room on his right and beyond that there were booths and tables. At his left there was an orchestra and a tiny dance floor. Flanking the band were several dice tables operated by girls dressed in the same outfit the check girl wore — jockey caps, silk blouses, red shorts.

The place was only half-full. But the air was thick with smoke and the band played as if the SRO signs were out.

Larry found a place at the bar and ordered a bourbon. The bartender filled the shot glass with the careless dexterity of the professional. He said, “Do you want me to leave the bottle?”

Larry said, “No. I’ll call you when I want another.”

The bartender nodded, picked up the dollar bill that Larry had put on the bar, took it back to a cash register and brought back forty cents. He spread the coins on the bar so they could be counted at a glance.

“Some people like the bottle left,” he said. “Like to pour their own.” The bartender was a small dark man with lively brown eyes. His hair was combed straight back from his forehead and at the hairline there was a long thin scar that might have been made by a knife. “You all alone,” he said conversationally.

Larry nodded. “Just stopped in for a quick one.”

“You looking for something? A little company, maybe?”

Larry smiled and shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve got to be getting along pretty soon.”

“That’s okay,” the bartender said. “Just thought I’d ask. You look all right to me and if you was lonely I’d fix you up with something.”

Larry felt the need to talk to somebody and the bartender was still standing there with his hands on the bar so he said, “I’ve got to go home pretty soon. I had a fight with my wife tonight and I walked out. But I’m going back now. She’s an awfully nice kid.”

“Sure,” the bartender said. “But it won’t hurt her to worry about you a little while. She’ll be all love and kisses when you walk in. Take my word for it.”

“I guess you’re right,” Larry said. The bourbon was warm and smooth inside him and he felt fine. He was anxious to get home. He knew what would happen when he got home and the anticipation gave him a pleasant feeling.

He ordered another drink and then walked over to one of the dice tables. The girl behind the green felt table was a small brunette with a carefully made-up face and a bright, empty smile.

He put a quarter on the table and picked up the dice box. The game was twenty-six, and the odds were about seventy to thirty in favor of the house but no one seemed to care. He played three games and didn’t win. The girl kept score and glanced at him occasionally.

Finally she said, “My name’s Corinne. What’s yours?”

“Why?” Larry smiled.

“I just wondered. You don’t seem like the rest of the guys that come in here. Most of ’em ask my name before they start playing. Then they ask for a date before the first game is over. You seem different.”

“Maybe I should say thanks,” Larry said.

“I meant it for a compliment,” the girl said very seriously. She glanced at his shoulders and at the lock of black hair that hung over his forehead and gave a little sigh. “Just my luck. A guy comes along that I like and he don’t even ask my name. Fifty guys will be trying to go home with me tonight and they’ll all be lady-killers with padded shoulders and eyes like shoe buttons.”

Larry felt a little uncomfortable, but it was a vaguely pleasant sensation. He had always done all right with women but since he’d been married that was something he considered a part of his past. He grinned at the little brunette and said, “Thanks for all the kind words. If I ever need a shoulder to cry on I’ll look you up.”

“I got more than a soft shoulder,” the girl said, and she was stating a fact, not being coy. She took a match folder and scribbled a number on the back, then pushed it toward Larry. “You can reach me there if you ever get lonesome.”

Larry picked up the match folder and dropped it into his pocket. He smiled at the girl and made a mental note to get rid of the folder before he got home.

“Thanks,” he said.

The brunette sighed and shook her head. “You won’t get lonesome. I can tell. But thanks for acting so polite about it.”

After another game Larry went back to the bar. He ordered a final drink and drank it quickly.

He was ready to leave when the bartender came over and put another drink in front of him.

“On the house,” he said with a smile.

Larry hesitated. He didn’t want the drink, but he didn’t want to appear unfriendly, so he said, “Thanks,” and sat down again.

There was a blonde sitting two stools from him and the bartender gave her a drink too, and then he looked from her to Larry and said, “You two people ought to know each other. You’re both alone and I just bought you both a drink and that’s as good an introduction as you’ll ever get.”

Larry glanced at the blonde and nodded amiably. She looked at him and said, “Hello,” without any particular expression and went back to her drink.

Larry felt a little piqued. He looked at the girl again and he realized that once she had been quite lovely. She was about thirty-five now, he guessed, and she was still all right. Her features were finely chiseled and she wore enough make-up to make her look interesting but not cheap.

Her clothes looked like money. The steel gray suit she wore was a hundred dollar model and it fitted her slim body as if it enjoyed the job. She wore nylons and ankle strap sandals and her legs were the kind that would have looked good in anything. Even hip boots.

He felt unreasonably annoyed that she didn’t consider him worth more than a brief, uninterested glance, so he moved the next stool beside her and tapped her on the arm.

She looked at him and said, “Yes?”

“Look,” he said, “I don’t chase young children or have coughing fits. My hair lip is practically unnoticeable and I have a pound of butter in my back pocket. So I’m really a nice guy and you should be nice to me. Or don’t you think so?”

She looked at him for a moment with a puzzled expression and then she smiled. “You win,” she said. “You’re a nice guy. For a pound of butter I’d write mash notes to Rasputin.”

“That’s better. Can I buy you a drink?”

She shrugged. “We still have one, but you can buy another if you like.”

Larry waved to the bartender. “Two more of the same.”

“Fine,” he grinned. “I knew you two people would get along.”

They finished the drink and then had the next one. And that was when Larry realized he was getting a little tight.

His face felt hot and when he lit a cigarette it took him a long time to find the end of the cigarette with the lighted end of the match. He laughed about that and he wondered who was making all the noise.

When the girl told him to be quiet he realized that he had been listening to himself.

A little while later the girl suggested that he come home with her. He didn’t even know her name and that struck him as funny. Here he was being propositioned by an absolute stranger. Ridiculous.

He couldn’t go home with her, of course. He tried to explain very logically that it was simply impossible. Fran was getting dinner for him and he had to be there to tell her how much he enjoyed it. She didn’t understand. She told him to stop mumbling and finish his drink.

There was another drink in front of him and he didn’t know where it came from. He put it to his lips, but he couldn’t force it down. He wasn’t feeling so well now. He had to go home. Dinner was ready and Fran wouldn’t like it if he stayed out all night.

He felt cold wind on his face and he knew he was outside. His top coat was over his arm and someone had put his hat on his head at a crazy angle. The blonde was standing beside him, holding his free arm.

He didn’t remember getting into the cab, but its lurching motion almost made him sick. He leaned forward and tried to tell the driver to take him home, but the blonde pulled him back beside her.

“Just put your head on my shoulder,” she murmured. “We’ll be home in a little while.”

He tried to tell her he couldn’t go home with her, but he had trouble with the words. They choked up in his throat and stuck there like tennis balls.

He put his head on her shoulder and he knew he was going to pass out. His head was spinning and his body felt numb.

He made a last attempt to tell the blonde that Fran was waiting for him and then he gave up. He sank back against her and that was all he remembered.