Sin In Their Blood

FRIDAY

I awoke at nine and it was the start of a bright sunny day. I sat up and looked over at Mady and she was lying there with her eyes open and she looked like hell. I kissed her lightly. “What's the matter, been awake all night?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Thinking—about us.”

I stretched and grinned. “How did we come out?” I asked, yawning.

“I don't know. Matt, last night... what happened... frightened me.”

“Forgot about Harry, he...”

“I never knew Harry.... I'm thinking of you. You can't live with that slogan.”

I yawned again and swallowed to get wide awake. “What slogan?”

“Protect yourself at all times. Life isn't a boxing match.”

“Well this is a new side, Mady the philosopher.”

“Matt, I'm serious, you sound like everybody in the world was trying to... to... fight each other.”

“Not fight, merely get a foothold on the other guy's back.”

She sat up, and I helped her prop a pillow behind her back. “How about us? Do you have to protect yourself from me, too?”

“Yes and no. Loving and having you love me is a kind of protection. Look, I've been living by that slogan long before I ever thought of becoming a fighter. Ever since I was old enough to be called a Wop or a Dago. Then it was Pops who kept drilling it into me.”

“He must have been a hard man.”

“Pops? No, he was soft. The only true friend I ever had—man friend. He was a little skinny guy in a worn gray suit, battered brown felt hat, no tie, and a torn dirty sweater. His face was leathery, his hair all gray. He was a wino and stunk most of the time. But he wasn't a lush. And if he had a tin ear, a busted nose, a cruel mouth... his eyes were fine, quiet peaceful eyes. Like your—a little.”

Mady said, “You sound like you were in love with him.”

“Lack of sleep makes you nasty. He was like a father to me.”

“I meant love him like a father. He adopt you?”

“Guess I adopted him. I was about seventeen then, a big tough kid, living with a second aunt. I weighed 185 and I figured I'd go into the ring, make the big money the heavies got. I was working as a shipping clerk and going to night school, taking all the civil service exams I could—I wanted a steady income.”

“Like Joe.”

“With this big difference... I was hungry most of the time.”

“Really hungry? You look like the kind that will always get along,” she said.

“What's got into you?” I asked, lying down and pulling her on top of me. Under the cover I ran my hand over her leg and she said, “Slap me on the can, Matt. That's all I'd need—the he-man touch!”

“What is this?”

“I don't know... sorry... I'm jumpy,” she said, kissing me. She lay across my chest and after awhile said, “You were talking about this Pops.”

“Yeah,” I said, wondering what had come over her. “I went to a gym, began to work out. But I could only go between five and six in the afternoon, after work and before school. Pops was an old-time lightweight—he once fought Wolgast, and Leonard kayoed him when Pops was going out and Benny was starting up. Now, he was a porter at the gym, on the bum, doing anything to make a buck. But he knew boxing—knew it like few guys know it today. He wanted to be a manager, but every time he found a kid to manage, began to teach him, bring him along slow, the kid would get overanxious, leave Pops for the two-bit managers who rushed them into a lot of quick bouts. The kids made small change, took too many beatings, and were usually finished in a year or two. See, Pops never had a contract with them. That's the way he was, said if two men had to be bound together by law, they weren't worth being partners to start.”

“Then he didn't believe in that—protect yourself at all times,” Mady said to the hairs on my chest.

“Well... yeah, Pops sure didn't protect himself with his pugs. But then if a guy is going to rat, what will a contract get you but a lawsuit? Pops watched me working out, began to give me pointers. When I told him I wanted to be a pug he said, 'Why? It's a tough way to make a buck—the worst way.' So I asked him, 'You know an easy way to make the dollar?' That tickled him and he said he liked the way I moved about and if I wanted to, he'd be my manager. We shook hands on it. Every day for ten months I was at the gym and he coached me. During the winter he looked so bad I bought him a suit and an overcoat, told him it was old stuff my uncle was throwing away. And every payday I took him out for a decent supper.

“I was getting pretty good as a boxer and Pops thought I was ready for the amateurs. Had five fights, won them all by knockouts. They'd give me a watch for winning and after every fight we'd 'eat the watch,' as Pops called it... hock it for ten or fifteen bucks. In my sixth fight I got a small cut over my eye and Pops stopped it. I was sore, was beating the guy easily when he threw a lucky punch I didn't pull away from in time. Pops exploded at me. 'Anytime you get a cut eye— even if you're fighting Louis for the championship, I'll stop it! Hell with the fans and the sports writers, you can't buy eyes.' He used to hate the fans something awful.”

“Why?” Mady asked sleepily. “They support fighters.”

“Called them a pack of bloodthirsty animals, cowards scared to fight themselves, and a couple of fancy cuss words. Anyway, I fought this guy a month later.”

“And of course you won?”

“Stop riding me. Kayoed him in one round. When summer came and there wasn't any school, I got a job working nights and started training during the day, with pros, for experience. Big demand for heavies and all the chiseling managers tried to get me away from Pops, but he kept telling them I wasn't ready for money fights yet. I never double-crossed Pops, but I was getting impatient. Kind of frustrating, sparring with guys I knew I could beat, and reading about them getting five hundred or a grand a fight, and I hardly had coffee money. Then... it was a Tuesday. Guess I'll never forget that day. Got a letter in the morning that I was appointed a cop. That same...”

Mady sighed, got off my chest and nestled up to me.

“You listening?”

“Aha.”

“That same day a big-time heavy named Porky Sanders came into the gym on his way East for a fight with Louis. Louis later knocked him kicking in three rounds. Sanders' manager was a shrewd guy with a big in, and he was looking for sparring partners—ten bucks a round. Pops said no dice, and one of the hustlers hanging around said, 'Get old Pops turning dough down. What's the matter, your big boy made out of cut glass? Pops so high and mighty... and thrown out of his fleabag room two weeks ago. Ask Pops where he's been sleeping at nights, Matt? Right on the gym benches!”

“I told Sanders' manager I'd go three rounds, told Pops, 'Hell, might as well see how good I am—one way or the other.' Only time Pops and me had words. Well... Porky was a big name and at first I was too cautious, but when he floored me in the second round, I got mad. I outboxed him, floored him and had him hanging on the ropes, when his manager stopped it. Didn't want his boy cut up, spoil that big payday with Louis. Ranzino was the white-haired lad around the gym that day! As I was dressing and Pops was clucking over me like a mother hen, I told him about getting the cop job, but of course that was out... now. You know what Pops told me?”

Mady sighed, “What?”

“Why, he bawled hell out of me, told me to quit the ring and become a cop! Said I was a cinch to be police department champ, get myself a soft racket. When I argued, Pops shouted, 'Get out of this dirty racket—if you have the chance! Man shouldn't make his living beating people, taking punishment. And they all get their lumps... Louis, Zale, Robinson... they get punishment. The good ones just take less. Man only becomes a fighter because he can't make porkchops any other way. Get out of the game while you have the chance. It stinks! I know.'”

“Hell of it was, Sanders' manager offered Pops five grand for my contract, then offered me the dough when he learned we didn't have it in writing. When I insisted Pops was my manager, he offered the old man three grand for a half interest. I was tempted to take it... five grand and this guy could get me the right bouts. But I kept thinking Pops needed the dough worse than I did and if he could turn it down, so could I. So that was the end of my career as a pug—before it ever started.”

Mady's even breathing told me she was sleeping. I lay there and thought of the time I'd kayoed Max for the department championship a month after I was on the force. Pops had been right, about the soft details. I was made a plainclothes man, given desk jobs... all the time I wanted to train. I was a pretty honest cop, I only took a few bucks in graft—enough to give Pops fifteen a week. I added another ten out of my pay. Pops, that strange old man. Once we were having supper— we always ate together a couple times a week—and I asked how the mugs at the gym were. He winked at me, said, “Them dumb studs. They keep asking me, 'Pops, where's that good heavy you had, the speed kid with the punch?' And I don't say nothing and they laugh and say, wise-like, 'He ran out on ya, become a dumb bull. Old Pops lost hisself another boy.' I don't bother answering 'em, Matt, a because these jerks don't know at long last I've really found me a boy.”

He was a swell old bum and when I was busted from the force he was heartbroken, wouldn't take a dime till I convinced him I was making more as a private dick. In the army, this last time, I kept sending him his weekly dough. When he died—in his sleep—Max sent me the little packet of money orders they'd found in his crummy room. Never cashed a one, even though he was back to scuffling for eating money. I was in the hospital then and I lost all the dough in a crap game the day I got the packet. I almost wanted to lose... seemed to me the money was no good. If he'd used it for food he might have been still alive.

I stroked Mady's soft hair, ran my hands over her strong neck... she'd have liked Pops. Whenever I thought of him I also couldn't help but wonder how I would have made out with Louis, what it would have felt like being heavyweight champ of the world. Or would I now be a broken-down has-been, working as a bouncer in some dive?

I got up, took a pill and went to the bathroom and then back to bed. Mady slept till eleven.

It was a hot day and we took a quick dip in the Pacific—the water as cold as I expected it to be. Mady seemed to have snapped out of her mood. She was a good swimmer and I clowned around with my few strokes and worried about the cold. Then we dried ourselves and raced across the sand to the cottage and the hot coffee that was waiting. There was a small item in the papers about Harry's death. Joe called and still was jittery, but nobody had been to see him.

I took the camera and went down to the corner drugstore and put in a long distance call to Atlanta. My boy said, “Been waiting for you. Got all the answers—and in one day.”

“What'd you learn?”

“First, that there's another seventy-five bucks due me.”

“I'm good for it. I'll wire it to you immediately.”

“Sure, Mr. Smith. Or is it Brown or Jones this morning?”

“Stop playing and tell me what you have. Captain Daniels will vouch for me. I'll send the money at...”

“I have a better idea. Suppose you wire me the rest of the bundle, then call back? Even let you reverse the charges for prompt payment. Best you buy that, Smithie.”

“Okay, you great big believer in your fellow man.”

“Says on a buck, In God We Trust, and that's good enough for me. Be waiting. Don't be too long, I have a big day ahead of me here.” He hung up and I was sore but I couldn't blame him. Besides, I didn't want him calling Max.

I took the bus to town, returned the camera and got my deposit. I almost patted the dumb clerk for giving me the wrong bulb—he'd done us a favor. I wired the dick another seventy-five, and having a few hours to kill, I dropped in to see Max. His face looked too neat, he must have taken a store shave. He said, “Flo was in, looking for you. Kept nagging me for your address.”

“Bet she wants to cry on my shoulder because poor Harry is gone.”

Max grinned. “She slings some fine stuff. Man be kind of tempted to try it—even a happily married man like me.”

“You wouldn't have to try very hard with Flo.”

“I know,” Max said sadly. “The tough part would be shaking her off.” He bit into a cigar and shook his head, all in one impossible motion. “Man goes after a new woman like she was something unknown, all the time expecting to find it different. Think women go after it the same way?”

“Why don't you ask Libby?”

Max laughed. “I can see that—she still blushes when I pinch her ass. Speaking of ass, Flo said to call her at Harry's office.”

“Anything new on Harry?”

“What can be new on a suicide? That jerky office boy he has—had—a Mr. Austin—was ranting about the Reds must have pushed him out the window, but that's crazy. You think Harry was on the stuff and his junk told him to jump? Sometimes his eyes looked as watery as a hophead's.”

“Maybe. Always was on the verge of blowing his top —last night he did it. Always nervous.”

“You mean he was always jumpy!” Max said, roaring with laughter.

“Television is calling you, Max. Maybe I'll see Flo, maybe not. If she calls, just say you told me.” I went out and stopped for a glass of milk and took another pill, then walked slowly over to the Grace Building. Flo couldn't know anything, but it was best I see her.

The bag of bones at the reception desk was red-eyed and there was a wreath of flowers on the office desk with some small black lettering across it. Harry would have been astonished that anybody cried for him.

She said, “We're closed today due to the death of....”

“Where's Flo?”

“Miss Adler?”

“Miss Florence Daisy Mae Adler.”

She tossed her head, asked, “Who's calling?”

“Matt Ranzino.”

She announced me over the phone, then buzzed the door. As I opened it, the creep came out of what had been Harry's office, and solemnly ushered me in. Or he could have been playing guard. He had on a dark suit and a black tie and didn't look any more dismal than usual. The jerk had his honorary tin cop's badge pinned to his vest, for some reason.

Flo was sitting behind Harry's desk, a cigarette pasted to her sultry red lips. There wasn't anything funereal about her, or the dress that seemed cut down to her belly button. She said, “Matt baby! Take a seat, I have much talk for... us.”

I sat in one of the new chairs that felt like you'd fallen into a bucket—at first. Thatcher blinked and didn't sit down. “Miss Adler,” he said, “I don't think it's proper to discuss business so soon after Mr. Loughlin's tragic death. Couldn't this wait?”

“Oh, shut up,” Flo said. “And beat it!”

Austin looked as though he was going to whimper, but took a walk. When he was gone Flo flashed a happy smile at me. “How do you like the set-up? I'm boss here now.”

“How come?”

“Harry had some old judgments against him, so he kept his stock—75%—in my name. Now it's all mine.”

I stared at her. “Harry did that?”

“Sure.”

“Come, Flo, Harry wasn't that simple.”

She shrugged. “He was covered—had something on me, a real tough rap that.... No sense telling you about it. Why do you think I stood for his being a louse?”

“For the car, the clothes.”

“That helped, but he had me against the wall. Oh, I had to make out a will in his favor, lot of other legal razzle-dazzle, but he didn't bother changing anything before he tried the wild blue yonder. That's something I can't figure. Harry wasn't the kind to...? Hell with it, and him. Matt, I want you as a partner.”

“No.”

“Harry was knocking down a clear twenty grand a year, and he was only starting. I'll give you ten— that's a good shake. And if we're together, we have all the twenty.”

“Baby, I don't want any part of this outfit.”

Flo shrugged again and everything was like jelly. “I don't know what it's all about, but it's big dough, from the back pocket. Matt, I need you to operate. Need a strong man to run things.”

“What's the matter with the creep?”

“Him? You kidding? Look, this racket is all a bluff. I need a hard guy who can walk a tight-rope, drive hard... and know when to pull in his horns. Harry always used to say, a good libel suit would ruin him. In short, I need a tough guy with common sense. That's you. My God, Matt, we'll live big, plenty of jack coming in for a few hours' work, time to travel and...”

“Look, honey, we're done, I told you that.”

“You have another girl, I know it. That's okay. I still want you. Let me hang around long enough.... I'll take my chances. You'll be a part...”

There was a knock on the door and Thatcher came in, holding a file card. He whispered something into Flo's ear, his eyes trying hard not to travel down into her dress. She said, “Oh, for God's sake, shut up, you!”

“But it's true,” he said loudly, waving the card before her. “In 1946 a Matt Ranzino signed a petition to the governor, asking that the use of tear gas be outlawed in strikes and...”

He was bending over the desk, his can within reaching distance. I gave him a little goose and as he jumped and turned to look at me, I slapped his thin face. He and his glasses went sailing across the room. As he picked himself up, I got up and took the card out of his hand. Tearing it into little pieces, I told him, “Don't stick your nose into my business, junior.”

“But that proves,” he began, as he put his glasses back on, “that...”

“It proves what it says, I signed a petition. Now get out of here.”

He turned to Flo. “We can't hire anybody who...”

She waved him away, crushed her cigarette in a fancy bronze ashtray shaped like a nude woman—probably one of Harry's pet possessions. “You heard the man— get out.”

When he left, I asked, “The creep own much stock?”

“Naw, he's just an employee. I can fire him any time.”

“That's an idea. By the way, what's the time?” I asked, nodding toward the tiny diamond-studded watch on her wrist. It was a corny way of getting out of there, but it was time to call Atlanta.

Flo held up her hand so I could see it was two-twenty. “Don't rush off, Matt.”

“Got to.”

“Then think it over. It's important, for both of us.”

“I told you I don't...”

“You don't lose nothing by thinking it over. Let's talk again, tomorrow. Okay?”

“I'll think about it.” I waved and Flo blew a kiss at me as I went out.

I dropped into the first phone booth I passed, called Max, asked if he'd ever heard of Flo being wanted for anything, or in a jam.

“Not that I know of,” Max said. “I'll check if you want. What's up?”

“Nothing. But check.” I hung up and called my expensive buddy in Atlanta, reversing the charges. He said he'd received the money, and in a few short sentences told me what I wanted to know.

I took a cab out to Mrs. Samuels' and we had another little talk. “Can you leave town?”

“Do I have to?” she asked.

“I don't know. Be better if you do. Could you move to L.A. or Harlem, get lost there? I know it's a lot to ask and if you can't, why...”

“Why is it a lot to ask? Haven't anything to hold me here.”

“Any relations?”

She shook her head. “I'm nearly 62, all my kin has died. Had two boys but they never growed up, never reached twelve. Lost one at childbirth... hospital didn't want no colored. Other, got sick when he was eleven... one of these flu epidemics. Guess can't blame that on his being colored. Maybe I'll go to L.A. Sick of this old town anyway.”

“Need money?”

“I have some savings.”

“Listen carefully, then forget what I'm telling you. I'm going to see that Saxton gets the works. I don't want you to return if you should read about the case, even if it says they're looking for you. And we never talked about this. Get that?”

“Yes.”

“Now, in case they should bring you back to testify, you never had an idea Henry Wilson was colored. They'll cross-examine you pretty hard on the witness stand, but you must stick to your story. And don't worry about perjury. After all, you haven't any proof Henry was passing. It's merely an idea of yours. From now on you must think Henry was white.”

“All right... but he wasn't.”

“You just think he wasn't. Tell me, in all good faith, could you swear in court that Henry wasn't white?”

“Shucks, I'm sure... pretty sure... he was passing. I can tell. What you got in mind to do?”

I was afraid to tell her, you never know when and why a person will talk. I said curtly, “You're wrong, I have definite proof he was white.”

“You sure?”

“Are you?”

“Well... if you say...”

“You see, you're really not absolutely positive. The thing to do is convince yourself—from now on—that he was white. I can't tell you what I'm going to do—less you know, better off you are. Understand, I don't mean I don't trust you, but I can't have anybody else in on this. It's my play.”

“I believe you.”

“And if you ever do get on the witness stand, you left town to look for work and you never even suspected Henry of being colored. Chances are you won't be called back, but if you are...”

“I only saw you that one time out at the house and I'm surprised anybody should think Mister Henry wasn't white.”

I grinned. “Fine. And don't write to anyone, not even me, telling them where you are. You have to disappear.”

“Who'm I going to write to? Got a few friends I see in church, that's all. Just Sunday friends.”

I stood up. “How soon you leaving?”

“Tonight. Haven't much to pack. When you work as a maid you don't have no real home. The house you work in is a sort of home, only it isn't. This... this is merely a room.”

We shook hands. I said, “Good-bye, Florence. You're quite a woman.”

“You look mean and nasty, but you're a good white man, Matt. I hope we win.”

“We'll sure give it a good try.”

At the door she asked, “You really got proof Henry was white?”

I winked at her, put a finger across my lips... like a kid.

When I reached the bungalow Mady gave me a big kiss, asked, “Everything all right about... this Harry?”

“Sure. Forget it.”

“We got a gift.” She pointed to two bottles of bonded rye on the table. “Liquor-store kid brought them. Said Saxton called and had them sent over.”

I examined the seals, the bottoms of the bottles. “Don't seem to have been tampered with. Wouldn't put it past that bastard to send you poisoned rye—although that would be too obvious.”

“Think he's going to visit us?”

“No. Probably doing it to annoy me, keep you lushing it up.”

“I'm not a lush. How are you doing with Saxton?”

“Don't know yet.”

She said, “Don't be so clam-mouth about it. What are your plans?”

“Tell you when it's done.”

“Why? Because I'm a woman? Maybe I can help you and here you...”

“I'm tired, baby, don't start that woman line. I don't tell you because you're not a dick. Hell, I haven't told Joe, either. Being a detective, despite the movies, isn't a game; it's a business, a trade.”

“I think you ought to let me try and help you. After all, suppose you were a... a butcher. You'd talk your problems over with me, even though I don't know a lamb shoulder from a hole in the ground.”

“Okay, okay, I can trip Saxton if I locate a certain letter he has. That's it.”

“A letter? This letter will prove he murdered the-Wilsons?”

“No, that's easy to prove. You're not much as an alibi. Then there's the water in the cabin, that was off. And if Max digs a little, he'll find a lot of other things that won't check. But the letter... will make the murder rap stick.”

“I don't get it,” Mady said. “What's in this letter that...?”

“I'm not too sure myself. And forget I ever said anything about a letter. All I have to do now is figure how to get it.”

She thought for a moment. “He sent those bottles, suppose I call him now, say I want to see him. While I'm stalling him, you can look his apartment over.”

“Look, hon, Saxton is a killer—a little off his balance probably—but a killer all the same. I don't want you dead.”

“I can handle him.”

I laughed and kissed her big mouth. “That's what I mean about the layman not knowing what he's talking about. But your idea might work. Maybe he is coming out. After supper I'll leave the house, watch outside. If Saxton should come, I'll flatten him, search him. Can always say I was jealous, and he won't know I hit him to search him. Can't let him know I know about the letter. It either has to be on him, or in his apartment.”—

“Or in a safe-deposit vault?”

I kissed her again. “Then I'm screwed.”

We had supper and listened to the radio for a while and Mady complained about my never taking her dancing and I said maybe next week. And how did I know she loved to dance? At eight I left the house and took a plant in the corner drugstore. Sitting in the phone booth, I could see the front of the cottage down the block. The movies ought to show more of the routine work of a detective, like the dull hours you spend watching a house. I sat there for about a half an hour and the druggist looked at me suspiciously, so I dialed Max's home, talked to Libby for a while, then Max got on the phone. I put in another nickel, asked if he'd found anything about Flo.

“Nothing certain. Remember Slip MacCarthy?”

“No.”

“Guess he was a year or two before your time. Slick con man. We knew he took a sucker for ten grand, using, the old horse-wire gag. We knew and couldn't do a thing—the sucker never pressed charges. Flo was in on that.”

“How? You know how she gabs—never mentioned it to me.”

“She was a kid then, working in a fancy call house. You knew she worked in one for a while?” There seemed to be that nasty delight in Max's voice that all men get when talking about whores.

“I knew. So what?”

“Slip took a fancy to her, kept her for a time. He was one of these old school con men, smooth, polished, big front. His specialty was the horse-wire con. He'd have a buddy, and a store fixed up as a telegraph office... the supposedly crooked telegraph employee giving them the track winners before the bookies got it. You know how it works—they still pull that ancient gag now and then, even these days.”

“I know. Where does Flo fit in?”

“Slip latched on to a sucker, let him win a few bucks —the old come-on, then took him to the cleaners. In this case they put the finishing touch on the mark by having Slip put a bag of chicken blood in his mouth. He let the mark sock him, fell down hard, played dead, blood flowing from his mouth. Old stuff again. Scares the sucker so bad he'll never talk about it, keeps a million miles from the cops... thinks he's a murderer.”

“You still haven't told me about Flo?”

Max laughed. “She was bait for the mark, and of course in on the 'kill,' only they forgot to tell her it was a fake. Slip must have been tired of her and saved her cut by not telling her, skipping town. Technically, she thinks she's a party to a murder.”

“Slip still alive?”

“He's doing five to ten in a Federal pen out in Kansas. That what you want to know?”

I said thanks and hung up. The operator was asking for another jit. I sat there for another half hour and Saxton didn't show. The druggist was looking at me again, so I took a walk around the cottage. There was a little chill in the air and I knocked on the back window, told Mady to give me a shot of rye. It was the first drink I'd had in a long time and it warmed my guts, felt good. Mady said, “Does rye always put that contented smile on your face?” and laughed.

“Don't let the bottle get too good to you—leave the stuff alone. It gives you a silly expression,” I said, giving her the glass back. She slammed the window and I went back to my prowling.

I sat on the back steps for another hour and nothing happened. I called for another shot; it was really chilly. I walked around some more, then sat on the back steps again, thought about Flo. Harry had sure played her for a fall guy. Poor Flo, if she'd been born plain, or ugly, she would have had a happier life.

A couple of times I heard a car stop, or people walking near by, but it always turned out to be some neighbors coming home.

By midnight I was chilled to the bone and afraid I was getting a cold. I decided Saxton wasn't coming out. I went in through the kitchen door, stopped in the bathroom to take my temperature. It was normal. There was a light in the living room, but Mady didn't call out to me. I figured she was asleep.

I was right... she was sleeping off a load in the big chair—the big history book about Billy's outfit open on her lap, the remains of a bottle on the floor beside the chair. I tried to slap her out of it but all she did was open her eyes, say in that loose way a drunk talks, “You got no right... right... no... order me about. Tell me not to drink. I... I... can... handle it. I...” Then she passed out again.

I have a blind spot about drunks. Don't know why— maybe I need a couple of sessions on the couch. I was so damn mad at her I picked her up and carried her into the bathroom, and she was heavy as hell. I stood her up in the tub, under the shower, but she kept slipping. I got her balanced against the wall for a moment, ran back into the living room and got the thick military history book. Jamming that against the tub and the side of her legs, I had Mady nicely balanced... sleeping standing up. I pulled the curtains and held my arms around them—in case she fell—and turned on the cold water.

For a moment nothing happened, then there was a gasp, a choked cry, and a scream. I grabbed her, turned off the water. I lifted her out of the tub, her clothes sticking to her body, her hair wet and stringy—she looked awful.

Mady sobered up fast, began to cuss me, her voice very clear, her eyes getting angry bright. She came at me, punched me a few times before I pinned her arms down. “What the hell's the idea?” she asked loudly.

“The idea is simply that I don't want you getting loaded and sentimental sloppy every time you smell a cork. I...”,

“You don't! What do you think I am, a pet dog you own and can order around!”

“Get your clothes off before you catch a cold.”

“Suppose I want to get a cold?”

“Stop talking like a child,” I said. “Look, Mady, we'll hit it off swell, and I want us to, but it has to be you and me—not the bottle makes three. You know I can't stand seeing you drunk. It means.... Aren't you happy with me?”

“Yes... only... Matt, sometimes I feel like a total stranger to you. As though you'd withdrawn into that tough shell of yours. Last night you were so... hard... and now, out there, when I gave you the drink, you barked at me not to take a shot like I was your servant. Matt, sometimes I feel you don't need me.”

“Don't think that—ever. I need you badly,” I said, kissing her. I took off her wet clothes and rubbed her down with a big towel and she didn't talk, then she said, “I didn't mean to get high, but I felt so... so... alone and lost when you barked at me, that I...”

“Honey, I was working, watching for Saxton. There wasn't any time for sweet talk.”

“I know but... I took a few to relax me and then...”

“You started mooning over Billy's picture,” I added.

“What else have I to turn to when I feel you don't want...?” For the first time she saw the soggy book at the bottom of the tub, colored inks streaking out of it.

“The book!” she sobbed. “You've ruined it!”

I grabbed her shoulders as she bent to pick it up. “That's right—it's ruined. Now you have nobody to lean on but me. I want it that way, because I haven't anybody but you and all we need is each other!”

“Matt... Matt, don't be so tough... so hard,” Mady said, crying.

I slid my hands off her shoulders, her skin so fresh and cool, as I hugged her, whispered, “Baby, I'm not tough, and I don't want to be. I'm not hard, but you're all I have and I'll hold on to you with everything I've got.”

We kissed each other hungrily, her big lips exciting demanding, as they fiercely covered mine. As we started for the bedroom, I thought I heard a noise at the front door. I told Mady to go to bed and I turned off the lights and went over to the living-room window. There wasn't anything to see. I tried the door and it was locked. Probably the wind rattling the door.

Mady was calling softly and as I passed her chair, I picked up the bottle arid took a quick swig—to cool off this time—and started to undress.