Pursuit: A Novel

27

Prescott walked into Nolan’s at twelve-thirty, and the usual range of customers were there: men in sport coats, younger ones in khaki pants too well-pressed to be anything but clothes they wore to work. The bartenders and waitresses were busy getting tables set up and bottles and taps in order. But Dick Hobart was waiting for Prescott. It was easy for Prescott to see, because Hobart seldom watched the door until the dancers went on, when he could take his census of customers.

As Prescott stepped in the door, Hobart dropped his polishing rag, poured two draft beers from the tap, and carried them around to a table. He sat down and beckoned to Prescott.

“I’ve never seen you drink during working hours, Dick,” said Prescott as he sat down.

“As a rule, I don’t meet many customers I’d drink with,” said Hobart. “I just thought I’d have a quick one with you before the crowds come in.”

“Well, thanks,” said Prescott. He took a sip and smiled. “I appreciate that.”

Hobart looked around him as though checking to see that he would not be overheard. “She showed me the necklace you gave her. I was right about you. That was a thing not many sensible men have the class to do right.”

Prescott shrugged and took another drink. “It wasn’t a big deal. I’m glad she liked it.”

Hobart’s eyes made their regular rounds of the bar, the door, the stage, the few tables that were already occupied. “She told me about your problem.”

Prescott’s eyebrows went up. “Problem?”

“Yeah. She said you had a whole bunch of stuff like that. She said you’d taken them in trade or something.”

Prescott’s eyes settled on the wall across the room. He seemed to find it suddenly interesting.

Hobart said hastily, “Don’t get upset. She didn’t mean any harm, and I don’t either. I like her, and I like you, and I wouldn’t mind a bit if you two made each other happy. I actually respect you more for telling her that story.” He grinned. “It’s about as unbelievable as anything I ever heard, but I wouldn’t have any part of a man who hasn’t got the sense to feed a woman a bunch of nonsense instead of dumping the burden on her of knowing all about his business. They think they want to know, but after they do, it starts to eat at them.”

Prescott sipped his drink again and slowly nodded. He looked at Hobart evenly. “Are you working up to telling me to leave her alone?”

Hobart looked surprised. “Not at all. I just told you, I’m happy for you both. But you know, she’s not a stupid person. You give her a present, she’s kind of dazzled by the sparkle for a while. Maybe a little later, her business sense is going to kick in: that’s what she studies in night school. The story you told her may not sound as good then, and she’s going to start worrying, asking harder questions. I think I have a solution.” He leaned closer. “I can convert all that stuff to cash for you. When she can’t see it, she’ll forget it.”

“You can do that?” Prescott allowed himself to show some interest.

Hobart nodded. “I told you I have connections. All you have to do is bring in what you want moved. You wait a week or so, and I’ll have a buyer.” He added, “You do have to give me an idea where it came from—just the name of the city where they’re looking for it.” He leaned back, drank half his beer, and smiled contentedly. “I’ll get you top dollar, and that’s the truth.”

Prescott studied Hobart, but he didn’t answer.

After a few seconds, Hobart began to look uncomfortable, then anxious. He leaned forward. “Look, I know you’re not a kid, and I wouldn’t try to rip you off. I could tell by looking at you that you’ve been away.”

“How?”

“You drive up in a Corvette that’s been up on blocks in some garage for a while, and come in wearing clothes that are expensive, but haven’t been in a store in four or five years. And I can see from your face that you’ve been in a fight or two, so you probably weren’t off painting pictures at your château in France.” He lifted both hands a few inches above the table in a gesture of conciliation. “I’m not interested in knowing anything. I just figure I can do you some good. I know people who can spread your goods thin all over the place, and give you cash in full. No consignment or anything.”

“What’s your cut?”

“You and I agree on the price you want for each thing. They come to me and look at it. If they like it, they pay me, they take it away, and I give you your price in cash. I try to jack up the price they pay me just enough to make it worth my trouble. That’s no more than anybody would do.”

“What happens when they don’t make the price?”

“I give you your goods back, and you’re out exactly nothing. You don’t see these guys. They’ve seen your stuff, but not you. They don’t know who you are or where you live, so you don’t have to watch your back.”

Across the room, the warm-up music suddenly blared over the amplifiers. The small spotlights came on and threw overlapping circles on the stage. The curtain was pushed aside from the doorway and Jeanie stepped onstage. She was wearing a cocktail dress, as though she were out for the evening. As she stepped under the spots, Prescott saw the rainbow sparkle from the end of the gold chain around her neck. Her eyes surveyed the room, focused on Prescott, and looked glad.

Beside his ear, Hobart’s voice came to him. “She’s a real beauty, isn’t she?” There was a pause. “And smart, too. There aren’t many girls in this business who are as quick on the uptake as Jeanie.”

Prescott kept his eyes on her. “All right,” he said. “I’ll bring you a few pieces tomorrow, and we’ll try this thing out.”

Prescott felt Hobart’s hammy hand clap down on his shoulder. “You won’t regret it.”

“I already don’t. Thanks,” said Prescott as Hobart stepped off to the bar. Prescott returned his attention to the stage. Jeanie had been marking time, dancing provocatively and building up the suspense by fiddling with her hair and lifting the hem of her skirt to adjust a stocking. As soon as Prescott’s eyes met hers, she returned to her act.

She looked into his eyes, her face now set in that watchful, knowing expression, the faint, pleased smile on her lips that he had seen last night. Then he understood it. She was re-enacting what had happened in his apartment last night, in a pantomime like the story in a ballet. She received the necklace, she was overwhelmed, and the gift transformed her. She lowered the top of the dress a little to show him how the diamonds looked on her bare skin, then hesitated. But this time, the story changed. The resistance, whatever its source, was easily, quickly overcome. She was free. The dress was tossed to the floor at the back of the stage. As she removed each garment, she held her eyes on Prescott.

Prescott hid his feelings behind his glass of beer, a good-natured, receptive smile fixed on his face. He could see she wasn’t doing this for spite—showing him what he had foolishly turned down last night to tease him. She was making him an offer for tonight. For the next few minutes he sat in affable agony, knowing he must not take his eyes off her, but wishing that he at least wanted to. He felt a growing, gnawing guilt and regret that he had ever seen her, let alone decided that she would be his way to acceptance. But the guilt, the laboriously learned reluctance to do anything to harm an unoffending human being, was so fragile and frail that he could not even get his mind to hold it in place. It was just a bad feeling in his chest. The sight of this woman was bright, clear, and indelible, not a vague principle he had been told forty years ago was something to consider.

She was tantalizing, and the sight of her made his regrets seem empty, distant, and unreal. He tried to tell himself that he ought to find a way to get through this episode by derailing the relationship somehow, cutting it off before she got hurt. But being able to formulate and describe what should happen was not the same as wanting. What he wanted was only to touch her. Then the set was over, and she faded into the dimness at the back of the stage, snatched up the clothes, and dissolved into the curtain. He noticed that a second beer was beside him, waiting. He placed a twenty-dollar bill under it on the table, stood, and went out into the sunshine.

The fresh air and the bright light on the metal of the cars should have made him think clearly again, but he put the thinking off. He had coldly manipulated this young woman to get Dick Hobart’s confidence, and to have her be the one who told Hobart that Bob Greene had a hoard of stolen valuables. He knew he was supposed to feel extremely happy that he had succeeded, but he was not.

He drove to his apartment, showered and dressed, then spent some time selecting the items he would bring to Dick Hobart. He put them into the zippered pockets of a leather jacket: two men’s Rolex watches and one women’s, several women’s rings and a gold bracelet that had some good Burmese rubies set in it. He put the jacket into the trunk of his car with his overnight bag, and drove to Jeanie’s apartment complex.

She wasn’t waiting outside this time, so he was able to go to her door. She was ready, but she let him come in and pick up her overnight bag. She insisted on leading him from room to room to show him the apartment. There was a bedroom, and a spare room with exercise equipment, a desk, bookcases, and a computer. When the tour was finished, she said, “There. That’s done. Let’s go.”

“Why did you want to show me your apartment? It’s nice, but . . .”

“Because I made the mistake of telling you it was a mess. I didn’t want you to think I was a pig.”

He let her into the car, and they drove to the hotel. He had chosen the large, opulent, anonymous Prince Andrew because it was a place that was unlikely to cater to anyone who had also been to the Paddock Club. Jeanie saw that this was really where they were going and looked pleased, but did not mention it. She waited patiently while Prescott registered, then seemed to enjoy walking across the enormous marble floor to the elevator behind the bellman. She took Prescott’s hand in the hallway and looked at the vases of flowers they passed at intervals as the bellman conducted them to their room. As soon as he left, Prescott said, “Would you like a drink?”

She put her arms around Prescott and kissed him. “What time is the dinner reservation?”

“Eight.”

“Good.” She turned around. “Unzip me.”

He pulled the zipper down, and she stepped away. “You were right. We’re both going to take our clothes off—no music—and meet in bed.” She stepped to the closet to get a coat hanger, went into the bathroom, and closed the door.

Prescott undressed and got into the bed. When Jeanie emerged from the bathroom, she was wearing only the diamond necklace and a pair of diamond studs in her ears. She stopped and stood under the small spotlight by the closet, reached up and pulled the pin from her hair to let it fall to her shoulders, then shook her head to make it spill down her back. Then she walked comfortably to the bed, pulled the covers off Prescott to the floor, and lay down beside him.

Prescott had not exactly planned what he would do, or guessed how she would be with him when this time came, but he had not kept himself from imagining it. Now he found that his imagination had been pessimistic and impoverished. Prescott’s mind was divided, reveling in the touch, sight, sound, taste, and smell of her, and concentrating on making her happy, then happier, trying to keep himself from giving in, to make it last. Finally, she put her hand on his cheek. “Now, Bobby, now would be a good time.” He ended it, letting the glad, delicious feeling of release take him. They lay together in a long, quiet embrace.

Slowly, he became aware of the sounds of cars outside the hotel, then the quiet padding of feet moving along the hallway. She pulled away and lay a foot from him, stretching like a cat. “Now, that was really something,” she said softly, as though to herself. Then she turned to him. “You were right to make me spend all day thinking about it first.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he said. “I was kind of thinking I was stupid to take the chance of missing it. You could have changed your mind. I could have gotten run over by a truck.”

She sat up. “Good. That means you won’t turn me down next time I ask.” She stepped off toward the bathroom. “Let’s take a shower. It’s a respectable hour to go down and have a drink before dinner.”

“Respectable?”

“Well, sure. Respectable people don’t rush down to the bar at four o’clock in the afternoon. They stay upstairs in bed until seven, and then go down.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“Of course it is.” She began to run the shower.

Later, when they were in the bar, she sipped her drink thoughtfully. “This is perfect.”

He tried his, and nodded. “I suspected the reason that lady was standing behind the bar was that she knew how to make a drink.”

“Not that,” she said. “The whole thing. The package.”

“Thank you,” he answered. “I’m happy with it myself.”

“I want to be your girl,” she said.

“What?”

“You heard me,” she insisted. “I know that you think of me as a victim. Some men get a charge out of that, and if you do, go ahead. It doesn’t hurt anybody. Some women like it too, I guess. It helps them be less inhibited, because they didn’t do what they did: somebody did it to them. And it kind of makes the man seem extra forceful and aggressive—she couldn’t say no—and I can understand that, too. They want a man who’s male. You’re male enough.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I’m not a victim. I saw you, thought you looked nice, and tried to attract you—which isn’t that tough to do if somebody’s there to watch you take your clothes off anyway. You turned out to be a lot nicer than I thought. I’m smart enough to know you’re not going to be in St. Louis long. And I’m not interested in falling in love and getting married. I know exactly what I’m doing for the next five years, and could make a guess about the next twenty. I’m not in a position for a long commitment.”

“I thought you wanted to be my girlfriend.”

“I do, for now. You and I both are here on our way somewhere else. A couple of days ago, we each, for our own reasons, decided to take a step off the path because it looked appealing. It’s been better than either of us thought it would be or was ready for. And now I’m heading off trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“You’re starting to feel upset because you think you took this dumb little stripper and led her on and gave her false hopes, just to get into her pants.” She laughed. “You feel guilty because you’ve been too nice to me. Do you realize how stupid that is? Do you think it’s possible that any woman somehow manages not to know what’s on your mind?”

“I guess it’s not a good idea to answer rhetorical questions,” said Prescott.

“No, it isn’t,” she said. She placed his hand in hers.

“This is really nice. In a week or a month or whenever, one of us is going to have to move on to something else, maybe even someplace else. I want to be able to enjoy it without watching you feel guilty about it. Letting you do that would make me feel guilty.”

“Are you telling the truth?” he asked.

“Sure.” She patted his arm. “We’re each committed to what we’re doing—school for me, and for you, whatever—and a temptation came up to have some fun. I took the chance, and it worked out great. Now that it’s gone this far, I’ve gotten some worries behind me that only women feel. Trust is one. You’re not rough or weird or scary. You don’t act nice until you come, and then throw me out of bed or something. But now I have a new worry, which is that you’ll decide it’s mean to lead me on, and turn cold. So I’m making you a proposition. Your part of it is that while you’re around St. Louis, you’re mine. You take me to places like this, be sweet to me every day, whether we’re together or not. I won’t see you walking out of Nolan’s with one of the other girls.”

“And what’s your part?”

“I don’t pay attention to other men. Except for when I’m at work or in class, I’m available to you. . . . Completely,” she added with emphasis. “Now that I know what I needed to about you, I’ll do anything you want.” She smiled. “Maybe even some things you don’t know you want.”

His eyebrows went up.

“People who are interested in hurting you show it before this. And they don’t feel guilty about using people. I know you’re using me, and I’m using you too, in a nice way, to be happy. When it’s over, we’re both going to regret that it’s over, not that it happened. We’ll smile when we go. So?”

“That’s quite a proposition,” he said. “You’re my girl.” They ate in the restaurant and walked under the stars. The night was hot and the air was lazy, and the sounds of their footsteps seemed to be the only ones to reach their ears. They came back into the air-conditioning of the hotel lobby, had a drink in the bar, and went back up to bed.

For the next week, Prescott divided his time between Jeanie and Dick Hobart. When that week was over, another began and ended in a quiet, calm, and untroubled way. Hobart took each parcel of suspicious goods that Bob Greene brought him, sold it at the price he and Greene had agreed upon, and gave him the money in bills taken from the cash receipts at Nolan’s. Bob Greene was well liked, an increasingly familiar face in some of the most exclusive hotels and restaurants in St. Louis, and in one of the most obscure dives. There were times when Prescott almost forgot.