The Pusher

Chapter Nine

At three o'clock that morning, Maria Hernandez was ready to call it a day. She had thirty-five dollars in her purse, and she was tired, and it was cold, and if she fixed herself now and then went straight to sleep, she'd be set for the night. There was nothing like a nice warm fix before hitting the sack. For Maria, a shot of heroin was something that attacked her entire body. It made her tingle everywhere, even in what the Vice Squad and she herself referred to as her "privates."

The euphemistic use of the word by members of the Vice Squad was prescribed by law, since that law demanded that no arrest for prostitution could be made by a detective posing as a prospective client until the alleged prostitute's "privates" had been exposed. Whether or not Maria had picked up the term from her Vice Squad associates, or whether it was a modestly maiden expression she herself had invented was a question for debate. She did have a good many Vice Squad associates—with some of whom she had going business arrangements, and with others of whom she had got into trouble. The trouble had been either of a legal-sexual nature or a socio-sexual nature. The Vice Squad because of its unique pincerlike position was thought of by many prostitutes as the Vise Squad. Again, this was a euphemism.

There were many euphemisms in Maria's business. She could discuss sex the way most other women discuss the latest fashion trends, except that Maria's discussion would have been far more coldly dispassionate. But she could discuss sex and generally did in no uncertain terms with other women in her trade. She discussed sex differently with men.

A man seeking her body was, when she discussed him with the other prostitutes, a "John." But in the polite society of a brew shared between male and female in a polite neighborhood bistro, Maria invariably referred to a client as a "friend."

When Maria said, "I have some very important friends," she did not mean she could have a speeding ticket fixed. She simply meant that many of the men who, euphemistically, slept with her were perhaps both wealthy and respected.

Nor would Maria ever stoop to describing in a vulgar manner the services she performed. Maria never "slept" with a man. Maria, euphemistically, "stayed with a friend."

Whatever she did, and for whomever, she did it with a strangely detached attitude. There were, she realized, a good many more respectable ways of earning money. But Maria needed about forty dollars a day to feed her habit, and girls of Maria's age—unless they were movie stars—simply didn't earn that kind of money. It seemed provident to her that she had come fully equipped with a readily marketable commodity. And, following the age-old hand-in-glove practicality of supply and demand, she dutifully set about supplying whenever there was a demand.

There was a demand for Maria.

The suburban housewives, knitting and sewing, secure in the golden circle of their own wedding bands, would have been surprised to learn just how much of a demand there was for Maria. They might, in all truth, have been shocked.

For Maria had a good many friends who enjoyed the innocent, high-school-girl look about her. Being with Maria was like being a boy again, and even suburban housewives know that every man is just a little boy grown up. Maria's friends ranged from wealthy executives to file clerks, and her places of assignation ran the gamut from plush-lined private offices to blankets thrown on a factory floor. When she operated within the confines of the 87th Precinct, she generally enjoyed the rental of a room supplied at the rate of $3 per friend. The rooms were rented by various and sundry people, but usually by old women who derived their sole sources of income from such rentals. Maria did not enjoy working uptown. Her prices, because of the clientele, had to be lower there, and that meant entertaining more friends in order to accrue the boodle necessary for her daily drug requirement.

To say that Maria despised the sex act would be untrue. To say that she enjoyed it would be equally untrue. She neither enjoyed it nor despised it. She tolerated it. It was part of her job, and since there were many white-collar workers in the city who neither despised nor enjoyed but simply tolerated their jobs, her attitude was understandable. Her tolerance was helped by the peculiar ability of narcotics to quell the normal sex appetite. So, armed with the double-barreled shotgun of understimulation through narcotics and indifference through prostitution, Maria stalked her game and quite miraculously led the game to consider her a hot-blooded huntress.

Her stalking, by three o'clock in the morning, left her a little weary. She had thirty-five dollars in her purse, and an eighth of heroin in her hotel room, and hell, it was time to call it a day. But thirty-five dollars was not forty dollars, and forty dollars was what Maria needed for her next day's supply, and so her relief at the day's work being over was partially clouded by a reluctance to quit when that additional five dollars was still lacking.

It was perhaps this reluctance that led to a chain of events that put her in the hospital.

She was walking with her head ducked against the wind, wearing high-heeled shoes and an unlined raincoat. She wore a smart blue silk skirt and white blouse under the raincoat. She had dressed in her best because she'd had a call downtown that afternoon, one of her important friends, and she'd hoped to cop the entire forty from him. But he'd been short on cash, and he'd asked her if it couldn't wait until next time, and knowing he had done this before, knowing that payment had always followed the next time with perhaps a little bonus thrown in for her patience, Maria had smiled and said certainly next time, and then gone uptown to see what could be hustled. Dressed in her finery, she had managed very well. Still dressed in her finery, she headed now for the subway kiosk, anxious to get home for her fix, yet reluctant, but still anxious.

When she heard the footsteps behind her, she became a little frightened. Muggings were not uncommon uptown, and she didn't want to lose the thirty-five dollars she'd worked hard for all day. Her fright ebbed when a voice behind her whispered, "Maria."

She stopped, and then turned and waited, squinting into the wind. The man walked directly to her, grinning.

"Hello, Maria," he said.

"Oh, you," she said. "Hello."

"Where are you going?"

"Home," she told him.

"So early?"

There was a lilt to his voice, and Maria had been in the business a long time, and whereas she had never been very fond of this particular man, and whereas she really did want to get home to that waiting fix, she nonetheless considered the five dollars or perhaps more which could just possibly be earned in a very short time, and she accepted the jilt in his voice and answered it with a mechanical smile.

"Well, it's not really so early as all that," she said, still smiling, her voice somehow changed.

"Oh, sure," he said, "it's very early."

"Well," Maria answered, "it depends on what you do with your time, I suppose."

"I can think of a few things to do with the time," he said.

"Can you?" She lifted one brow coquettishly and then moistened her lips.

"Yes, I can."

"Well, I'm curious," Maria said, stalking her game carefully now, knowing there was no joy to the hunt unless the hunted felt he was being chased. "If it was early enough, and I'm not saying it is, but if it was, what would you like to do with the time?"

"I'd like to lay you, Maria," he said.

"Oh now, that's vulgar," Maria said.

"Is twenty dollars vulgar?" he asked, and suddenly Maria had no desire to play the game anymore. Maria wanted that twenty dollars, the game be damned.

"All right," she said quickly. "Let me arrange for a room."

"Do that," he told her. She started away from him, and then she turned suddenly.

"I'm a one-way girl," she warned him.

"Okay," he said.

"I'll get the room."

It was very late, she knew that, and perhaps she could not get a room for the usual three. But with twenty dollars promised, she could afford to risk five on a room, oh, this was wonderful, this was more than she could have hoped for. She climbed to the second flight of the tenement and knocked on one of the doors. At first, there was no answer, and so she knocked again, and then knocked repeatedly until a voice from within called, "Basta! Basta!" She recognized the "Enoughs" as having erupted from the mouth of Dolores, and she grinned in the hallway, picturing the old woman getting out of bed. In a few moments, she heard the slap of bare feet approaching the doorway.

"Quien es?" a voice asked.

"Me," she answered. "Maria Hernandez."

The door swung open. "Puta!" Dolores shouted. "Why you break down the door at… qué hora es?"

Maria looked at her watch. "Son las tres. Look, Dolores, I need…"

Dolores stood in the doorway, a small thin woman in a faded nightgown, her gray hair straggly and hanging at the sides of her face, her collarbones showing sharply where the gown ended. The rage began building inside her, finally spread into her face, and then exploded from her mouth in a string of epithets. "Puta!" she screamed. "Hija de la gran puta! Pendega! Cahapera! Three o'clock in the morning, you come here and…"

"I need a room," Maria said hastily. "The one downstairs, is it…?"

"Bete para el carago!" Dolores hurled, and she started to close the door.

"I can pay five dollars," Maria said.

"Me cago en los santos!" Dolores went on, still cursing, and then the door stopped. "Cinco? You said five?"

"Si."

"The room downstairs is empty. I get the key. You stupid whore, why didn't you say five dollars? Come out of the hallway, you'll get pneumonia."

Maria stepped into the apartment. In the kitchen, she could hear Dolores opening drawers, cursing mildly as she searched for the key. In a few moments, Dolores came back.

"The five," she said.

Maria opened her purse and gave her five dollars. Dolores gave her the key. "Good night," Dolores said, and she closed the door.

He was still waiting in the street when Maria went to him. "I got a room from Dolores," she said.

"Who?"

"Dolores Faured. An old woman who…" She stopped and grinned. "Come," she said, and she led him to a room at the rear of the ground floor. She opened the door, flicked on the wall light, and then locked the door behind him.

He reached for her almost instantly, and she danced away from him and said, "I heard a proposal of twenty dollars."

He took out his wallet, grinning. He was a big man with big hands, and she watched his hands, and she watched the methodical way in which he counted out the bills. He handed her the bills and because she didn't want to seem cheap—even though she'd already laid out five for the room—she didn't count them. She put them in her purse, and then took off her coat.

"Last time I saw you," she said, "you didn't seem interested in me personally. You were more interested in cards."

"That was last time," he said.

"Well, I'm not complaining," she said.

"I've been looking for you all night," he said.

"Really?" She walked toward him, wiggling suggestively. Now that the twenty dollars was in her purse, the game could proceed again. "Well, you found me, baby."

"I wanted to talk to you, Maria."

"Come, baby, we'll talk horizontally," she said.

"About Gonzo," he told her.

"Gonzo?" She seemed puzzled. "Oh, are you still saying that silly name?"

"I like it," he said. "Now, about your arrangement with Gonzo."

"I have no arrangement with Gonzo," she said. Slowly, she began unbuttoning her blouse.

"Ah, but you do."

"Listen, is this all you want to do? Talk, I mean? You didn't have to pay me twenty dollars to talk."

She took off the blouse and draped it over the back of a chair. The chair, a bed, and a dresser were the only pieces of furniture in the room. He studied her and then said, "You're small."

"I'm not Jane Russell," she answered, "but I'm in proportion to the rest of me. For twenty dollars, you don't get movie queens."

"I'm not complaining."

"Then what's the holdup?"

"There's more to say first."

Maria sighed. "You want me to undress, or no?"

"In a minute."

"This room ain't exactly warm, you know. Whatever I got, I don't want to freeze 'em." She grinned, hoping he would grin back. He did not.

"About Gonzo," he repeated.

"Gonzo, Gonzo, what's with you and Gonzo, anyway?"

"A lot," he said. "I asked Gonzo to make that arrangement with you."

"Wha…" She stared at him, surprised. "You? You asked him to…?"

"Me," he said, and now he was grinning again.

Warily, she asked, "What arrangement are you talking about?"

"The arrangement with Gonzo and your brother."

"Go ahead," she said, "tell me more."

"Where you promised Gonzo you'd swear you saw your brother and this Byrnes kid arguing."

"Yeah?" she asked suspiciously.

"Yeah," he answered. "Gonzo was working on my orders. He gave you twenty-five dollars, didn't he?"

"Yes," Maria said.

"And he said there'd be more, didn't he, if you swore you heard them arguing."

"Yes," Maria said. She shivered and said, "I'm cold. I'm getting under the covers." Unselfconsciously, she slipped out of her skirt, and then ran to the bed in her brassiere and panties and pulled the covers to her throat. "Brrrrrrrr," she said.

"Did Gonzo tell you what it was all about?"

"Only that this would be a good deal, and that my brother was in on it."

"What about since your brother died? Has Gonzo said anything about that?"

"He said my brother fouled up the works. Listen, I'm cold. Come on over here."

"Do you feel any differently about the deal since your brother died?" he asked, walking toward the bed. He took off his overcoat and draped it at the foot of the bed.

"No," she said, "why should I? He committed suicide. So why should…"

The man was grinning. "Good," he said. "You keep thinking that way."

"Sure," she answered, puzzled by his grin. "Why shouldn't I? The deal had nothing to do with Aníbal's death."

"No," he said. "But just forget there ever was a deal, do you hear me? All you know is that your brother and this Byrnes kid argued, that's all. Do you understand? If anyone asks you—cops, reporters, anybody—that's your story."

"Who is this Byrnes kid, anyway?" He was sitting on the bed now. "Aren't you going to take off your clothes?" she asked.

"No, I'll leave them on."

"Well, Jesus, I…"

"Ill leave them on."

"All right," she said quietly. She took his hand and guided it to her breast. "Who is this Byrnes kid?"

"That doesn't matter. He argued with your brother."

"Yes, yes, all right." She was silent for a moment. "Now, that's not so small, is it?"

"No," he said.

"No," she repeated. "That's not so small at all, is it?" They were silent for several moments. He lay back on the bed, holding her.

"Remember," he said again. "Anyone who asks you; cops, anyone."

"I already spoke to one cop," she said.

"Who?"

"I don't know his name. A good-looking one."

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing."

"About the argument?"

"No. Gonzo said I should wait until I got the word on that. He said I should keep quiet until then. This cop…" She frowned.

"What?"

"He said… he said maybe Aníbal didn't commit suicide."

"What did you say?"

Maria shrugged. "He must have committed suicide." She paused. "Didn't he?"

"Sure, he did," the man said. He held her tighter now. "Maria…"

"No. No, wait. My brother. He… he didn't die because of this deal, did he? This deal had nothing to do with… I said wait!"

"I don't want to wait," he told her.

"Did he commit suicide?" she asked, trying to hold him away from her.

"Yes. Yes, damnit, he committed suicide!"

"Then why are you so interested in making me lie to the cops? Was my brother killed? Was my… oh! Stop, you're hurting me!"

"Goddamn you, can't you shut your mouth!"

"Stop!" she said. "Stop, please, you're hurting…"

"Then shut up about whether he was killed or he wasn't killed, who the hell gives a damn about that? What kind of a whore are you anyway?"

"He was killed, wasn't he?" she asked, bearing his weight now, the pain disappearing. "Who killed him? Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Did you?"

"Shut up! For Christ's sake, shut up!"

"Did you kill my brother? If you killed him, I'll never lie. If you killed him for one of your deals…" She felt something warm on the side of her face quite suddenly, but she didn't know what it was and so she kept talking. "… I'll go straight to the cops. He may have been a crumb, but he was my brother, and I'm not going to lie to…"

There was more warmth on her face, and then her throat. She reached up suddenly and then, over his body, she studied her hand, and her eyes went wide with terror when she saw the blood. He's cut me, she thought. Oh God Jesus, he's cut me!

He backed away from her, arching his body, and she saw the knife in his right hand, the blade open, and then he slashed at her breasts and she rolled with all her strength, flinging him off her. He caught her arm and flung her back into the room, coming at her with the knife again. She held out her hands to ward off his blows, but he slashed, and then slashed back, and she began screaming as he continued swinging the knife, cutting the palms and fingers of her hands. She rushed to the door, groping with the lock, her fingers slashed, fumbling with the lock and unable to open it because her fingers would not do what she wanted them to do.

He swung her around, and she saw him pull back the knife, and then thrust forward with it, and she felt the blade when it tore skin just below her rib cage and then ripped across her body and slashed upwards. She fell back against the door, and he slashed at her neck and her face, and then he shouted. "You don't have to lie for me, you bitch! You don't have to say another word, anymore!" He threw her away from the door, and he unsnapped the lock, and then he scooped his coat from the bed, and went to her and stood staring at her for a moment, staring at the blood-smeared caricature that had once been Maria Hernandez, and then maliciously he thrust the knife deep into her breast and brought it across her body, sure he had struck her heart. He watched as she fell to the floor, and then he ran through the door and out of the building.

She lay in a pool of her own blood, thinking He killed my brother and now he has killed me. He killed my brother because of his deal, I was to lie, I was to say Byrnes and Aníbal argued, Gonzo told me that, a good deal he said, he gave me twenty-five dollars, more to come, he killed my brother.

And miraculously, she crawled to the open doorway, naked, running blood every inch of the way, and she crawled into the hallway, not screaming because there was no strength in her to scream with, crawling the long, long length of the hallway while her life drained out of her, running red into the bare brown wooden floor of the building, and then into the entryway with its mailboxes, and she reached up and managed to hold the doorknob in her tattered fingers, and managed to twist the doorknob, and then fell face forward onto the sidewalk, still bleeding.

A patrolman named Alf Levine found her a half hour later as he was making his round. He called an ambulance immediately.