The Woman Aroused

Chapter 6

THE DESIRE to get rid of Lee grew on me. It wasn't anything she did, she was still around the house like a stick of furniture, demanding only that I feed her and give her the weekly hundred dollars, which she hid. As a matter of fact, if I had been as clever as I thought I was, I would have been content to let her stay, for she didn't restrict my life too much: she was a stick of furniture you could dress up and take to night clubs and dance recitals... and also sleep with, if I wished. Still I longed to return to my old single routine, longed to the extent a pregnant woman suddenly gets a mad desire for some silly thing, like a certain type of candy, or unusual food.

I was pretty busy at the office and never did get around to advertising in the German papers for her family—if any. And that would be a long-range solution, anyway. The truth is, I let matters slide. I tried staying away from the house, except to come home to feed Lee. I began having my pre-supper cocktail again at the little bars in East midtown, then I'd go home and either make supper, or take Lee out to a neighborhood restaurant: the Hungarian place on the corner, or one of the French restaurants on Lexington Avenue. Then I would leave, make the rounds with Joe, maybe spend the night in the Turkish baths.

Lee didn't mind.

I was bored to tears with Lee and her personal untidiness annoyed the hell out of me. I had almost two thousand of her money left, and I thought about getting her room and board, in the country, sending her a few bucks every week. But that would still tie her to me and I wanted a clean break, and there wasn't any way of doing that except to throw her out—in which case she would probably end up in an institution. I couldn't stomach that; aside from all the humane reasons, she would certainly tell them about me and the very thought of scandal made me ill. Which was odd, for I didn't have any relations in town, or friends who would know or care, outside of the people in the office. Yet this great fear we have of that mysterious and all powerful common-denominator—“they!' “What will they say?” kept me from doing anything. And yet I had to do something, get out of this mess.

It was funny how things balanced: before, I had been on top of the world (or so I thought—sincerely) and felt sorry for poor Joe; now Joe was riding high. He was pretty secretive about it all, but Walt was in some sort of racket with a numbers banker. What Joe did beside let them use his apartment during the day, I didn't know, but he had extra money—fifty this week, a hundred the next, and was quite pleased with himself. As he said, “My kid is smart as a whip. When he was younger I thought he was a bit dopey, reading all the time, and so quiet. But he's no blip, no telling how high he'll go and old Joe is going to tag along. What the hell, got to look after my boy.”

Except for supper with Lee, and coming home most nights to spend the night with her, I was about back to my old routine, and I suppose things would have stayed at that level for a long time, if Lee hadn't brought our relationship to a climax one night.

It was about a month after Eddie had sailed, and the day I received a second letter from him—a very enthusiastic note about living with his girl in Naples, although he didn't say anything about being married. But he sounded very happy. I left the office at five, took a cab to a cocktail room near Beekman Place, where I had a few as I glanced over the morning paper, reread Eddie's letter carefully. There was more news than usual in the paper, and it was nearly eight when I reached the house.

It was cold out and Lee had a heavy robe on. She said, “George, I am very hungry.”

“Sorry I was late,” I said, taking off my coat, going to the kitchen. Slob was wailing and I said, “Okay, you're hungry too. Hold up a minute and you'll both get something to eat.”

I'd brought in liver and frozen vegetables and beer, and as I cooked, Lee stood in the doorway, smoking a cigarette, watching me. Then she went to get an opener for the beer. I was annoyed that I was late, and damn tired of being her persona! maid. I said, “Leave the beer alone. And get dressed. Comb your hair and wash your face. I don't like you sitting at the table unwashed.”

She left the kitchen and when I had the food on the table I went into the living room to call her. She was sitting in the big leather chair—ashes all over it. The robe had fallen from her , legs, exposing her strong thighs. I looked at the other piles of ashes and cigarette butts around, said, “Thought I told you to get dressed? Look at yourself. My God, haven't you taken a bath lately?”

She stood up, smiled—her little mouth becoming so big—said, “Eat first. I am hungry.” She started for the kitchen and I caught her at the doorway, held her arm.

“No. First you wash your face, brush your teeth, comb your hair.”

She was staring at me with a faint tolerant smile, as though I was an idiot she had to humor. She pointed to the food on the table. “Food... cold.”

“Then let it get cold! I told you a half hour ago to dress. Now do it.” I walked over and sat down and started to eat. She didn't move, merely stood there, staring at me. I ate some more, then got up and went over to her, said as if talking to a child, “Do as I told you or you won't....”

She suddenly said something in German that sounded like a curse, brushed past me and made for the table. As I turned I saw Slob up on the table, eating from her dish. The poor cat had never done that before, but I had forgotten all about feeding him.

Lee made a savage swipe at him with her big hand, sending him crashing against the opposite wall. He hit with a really sickening thud, dropped to the floor on his back, blood streaming from his mouth.

I cursed her as I bent over the cat. He was moaning with a weak, pitiful sound. I lifted him as tenderly as I could, ran out and hailed a cab. He was dead before I reached the vet's, and I left him there.

I was chilled to the bone and in a furious mood when I returned. Lee wasn't in the kitchen, although the light was still on. She had eaten her supper and most of mine, and several crushed butts were on the dirty dishes. I ran into the bedroom. She was propped up on the bed. “You bitch, you killed Slob!”

“Eat my food,” Lee said casually.

“Goddamn you, that was my cat!” I tried to control my voice.

“In Europe no katzen—people eat katzen,” she said. Her robe was open, showing her big breasts and she seemed the most obscene creature I'd ever laid eyes on. I said coldly, clearly, “Lee I want you to get out. To-night, you understand? This is my house and I want you out!”

She shook her head. “No.”

“No? Get up and start packing or I'll throw you out!” I screamed.

She opened her robe farther, smiled up at me.

I cursed her, words I hadn't used since I was a kid. I grabbed her hand, yelled, “You're getting out, bag and baggage and...!”

She suddenly pulled me down on the bed, on top of her, and I struck her across the face, a loud hard slap. For a moment we wrestled and her eyes seemed very bright. Then her hands were at my throat as I frantically punched and clawed at her.

There was no mistaking the look in her eyes, she was going to strangle me with her powerful hands!

I twisted and pulled at those hands, but she was too strong and big for me. My throat seemed on fire and the room started to become hazy as I battled her. I must have worked my way to the side of the bed, for suddenly I fell off the bed. The sudden jerk of my body broke her hold on my throat. As I gulped air, I rolled away from her clutching hands, scrambled to my feet. She jumped off the bed, a crazy sneer on her face.

I ran for the door and the street but moving with startling speed, she cut me off. I crossed the living room, made the kitchen. I knew I'd never have time to open the back door, and I grabbed a large bread knife, turned to face her. The sight of the knife slowed her up, but didn't stop her. She advanced toward me slowly and I knew I'd have to kill her or she would certainly kill me. I was sick with fear, and without knowing I was saying it, I suddenly shouted, “Achtung! Achtung!” and waved the knife at her.

She stopped stock still, her big face turned pale, the anger left her eyes and the usual blank look returned. All I needed was the Nazi double-cross on my arm. I felt relieved, and ashamed, it was pretty low, even to save my life. I think the words meant, danger, or attention. I remember seeing them in war pictures of mined fields.

Lee reached over and took a cigarette from the pack on the table, lit it, thumbed the match at me, then turned and walked leisurely out of the kitchen. She sat down on the couch in the living room, blew out a cloud of smoke. I looked down at the knife in my hand and nearly fainted. If it was a shock to think I had been ready to kill, if it was more of a shock to think of the Nazi role I had taken, the greatest shock of all was the thought deep in my mind, bursting to the surface: Lee had killed Hank!

My hand was trembling so I couldn't hold the knife. I rested it on the kitchen table for a moment, then picked it up, went into the living room. I sat facing her—and near the door. For a long moment we stared at each other, this semi-nude giant of a woman and I, and the big bread knife gave the scene melodramatic, almost comic overtones. The past few minutes seemed a fantastic nightmare that had never happened—yet they had.

She smiled, “George, everything okay. We forget, hey boy?” She had that damn drawl back in her voice.

I said, “I'm giving you ten minutes to pack and get out, or I'll call the police. You understand... police... cops... p-o-l-i-c-e!”

She shook her head. “I stay here.”

“The hell you will! I know damn well you killed Hank. You were supposed to be in the basement using a washing machine! Why they'd have to beat you to make you use a washing machine!” I sounded like Marion. “I'll have something to tell the police—if you don't get out.”

She kept staring at me in that odd, puzzled way she had, as though trying to understand what I was saying. Then she said, “No, I stay here. Police tell Lee have no reason to kill Hank. Police say Lee finish with that. I stay here, like it here. Maybe you have reason to kill Hank.”

“Me!”

She nodded. “Lee not very bright. Hank say so, you say too. Lee have no reason push Hank from window. Lee downstairs. Maybe you push Hank? Possible, it is... moglichkeit.”

“What the devil are you talking about? Look, you're wasting time.” I glanced at my wrist watch. The crystal had been broken during our fight and the watch had stopped, but I told her, “You have just seven minutes to pack and leave, or I call the police.”

She shrugged her heavy shoulders. “Lee stay, maybe George go. Maybe Lee ask for police. Police be... how you say... want to know why you kill Hank. But you say I no go, you give me money.... all weeks... like before, Lee forget why George kill Hank... you and Lee be... okay. Good here, okay here, boy.” She looked around the room, lit a cigarette calmly, then blew out a cloud of smoke and laughed in my face. Her laughter was shrill, unreal, and made me shiver.

I didn't know what to say. It didn't make sense, nor had I ever heard her talk so much before. And all this stupid talk about my killing poor Hank... I suddenly wondered if Lee had gone completely off the beam. And there was something about her eyes... something... they seemed far from blank, seemed to take a certain shrewdness.

We stared at each other for a few minutes, then I glanced at my broken watch again. “Only three minutes left, Lee. Start packing.”

She knocked the ash from her cigarette on the floor, got up and went into the bedroom. I sighed with relief as she opened a drawer, pulled out one of her old pocketbooks. It was all over, I was rid of her. First thing I'd have to do, as soon as she was packed, would be to call a hotel, arrange for a room for a week or till I figured out where she could go.

I put the kitchen knife under the chair, wondered if she would be better off in a small hotel or a big one, would her odd behavior be more conspicuous in a....

She walked back into the room, sat down again. She was completely nude. She held up her left hand.

For a moment I didn't get it, then I saw she wasn't completely nude—she had her wedding ring on. “I thought you were packing?” I said coldly.

“Oh, no! You like, you go. No Lee go. Police... police maybe no like George taking Hank's wife. Me, Lee, no bright... George very bright, George do everything. This look very bad. Also... maybe... this and other reason... why you push Hank.”

“Goddamn it, get out of here! I'm tired of talking—get out! And stop all this crazy nonsense about my having a motive for killing Hank. Certainly living with you isn't any. You were starving. I was only helping you. I warn you, if I'm forced to call in the police, you'll get the worst of this, you'll...”

She glanced casually at the wall... and then it all came to me. Oh brother did it come to me! I thought I had been outsmarting her and all the time... I was the spider who instead of asking a fly into my parlor had merely asked a bigger spider in! I was some spider.

I ran over to the wall panel, fumbled with the damn thing till it slid open. It was empty... of course! She had the note I'd written for Hank's seven thousand.

I turned and stared at her and now I was the one sporting the stupid look.

She said—almost gently, “Police say no reason to kill Hank. Now... you take Hank's wife and Hank's money... What police say?”

“Where's that note, you bitch?” I shouted. “You know damn well you killed Hank. Give me that note!”

As I walked toward her she threw her cigarette on the coffee table, burning it, got to her feet. I stopped. I didn't have the slightest doubt in my mind that she could (and would) not only beat me, but kill me.

I turned and went to the closet, took my hat and coat. She walked over to the door, asked, “Where you go?”

“You can stay here, I'm leaving.” I said, full of fear as I walked by her, expecting those big hands on me as I opened the door. A draft of cold air hit her naked body.

“George!”

I was safely outside. I turned and asked what she wanted, or maybe I merely opened my mouth and tried to talk: I was so upset my mouth was cotton dry.

“On Montag... Monday... you bring Lee money like before? Yes? No?”

I wanted to scream, tell her to go straight to hell, but she had me over a barrel. I nodded and walked away from my own house.

I walked down Park Avenue, trying desperately to think. I was in a rough spot. Would the police suspect me of murdering Hank? I didn't have an alibi, or even the faintest idea where I was on the night Hank was murdered. In fact I didn't know the exact date. I was probably out at Southampton, but that wasn't an alibi. Would the police really suspect me? For all I knew the note for the money, my living with this backward girl, might be enough to convict me, hold me for trial. Actually, I wasn't worrying about a murder rap so much, I was worrying like hell about the mess it would stir up, the juicy newspaper stories... as if I had been found robbing and sleeping with a ten-year-old girl. That note made it much more than merely an affair.

If this ever hit the papers, got out... what could I do? Run away? Kill myself? I could see the whole world staring at me; “they” would be pointing a million fingers of shame and scorn at me. (Actually, if I had been able to reason it out I would have realized that the worst the scandal could do to me would be the loss of my job, my few friends. As for the murder angle, it would never stand up in any court, but the very thought of a trial made me hysterical.) My comfortable velvet rut was being smashed to tiny pieces.

As I walked I thought of a hundred outs: call a mental institution, tell them there was a lunatic living in my house; get in touch with Ellis Island, Lee was certainly an undesirable alien; I even considered something as “basic” as getting her out of the house by a money ruse, then changing the locks and let her raise hell. And all the time I knew I couldn't do anything as long as she held that damn receipt. Without that piece of paper it might not be too bad, her word against mine. Living with a backward girl wasn't a crime, but with that note, my great “cleverness” exposed, that meant I was a heel of the first water... they might even call it some sort of forced prostitution, with the girl getting paid with her own money—which, as the old joke says, makes it rape. I wondered just how “backward” Lee was, when she had found the note, how long it took her to understand its power?

I had a headache by the time I reached 42nd Street and it suddenly occurred to me I was homeless, had to find a place to sleep. I was also hungry. I had a sandwich and coffee, walked west till I reached the Turkish bath. I took a room for the night and didn't even bother with the baths.

But I couldn't sleep and in the middle of the night I went downstairs, sat in the pine steam room and brooded. I was really in hell.

In the morning I realized I didn't have a clean shirt and I bought one and a pair of socks, changed in the men's room of a hotel, throwing my old clothes away. After breakfast and a shave, I stopped at the bank and cashed a two hundred dollar check. It was another shock to find I had a little under $1500 left of the seven thousand. I had given Eddie a grand, spent another on her clothes, we had spent over a thousand—plus my salary—eating out, doing the town, and giving her a hundred a week accounted for another thousand.

I'd slept a few hours at the baths and now I spent the morning trying to think of an out. Harvey was away on a story, so I had the office to myself. I fixed the approximate date of Hank's death, sent my secretary out to buy old copies of the Times. Joe came in to find out what horses I had, looked surprised when I told him I'd forgotten to play that morning. He was full of a lot of breezy small talk and when he left, I read and reread the newspaper reports of Hank's death. There wasn't much to go on, evidently the police never considered the murder angle too much. I wondered how I could get them interested in the case again—without getting them interested in one George Jackson.

I dropped into Jake Webster's office. He said, “Early, Mr. Jackson, first race ain't started yet.”

I told him I was going to do a feature on him for the Sun and he puffed up with pleasure. Then I said, “By the way, Jake, you know police methods. I'm writing a piece of fiction, going to try it on the Saturday Evening Post, but I'm in doubt about some of the police details.”

“You came to the right party, Mr. Jackson. If I had the right people behind me, no telling how high I would have gone in the department. What do you want to know?”

“Well, in this story I'm making up,” I said, picking my words carefully, “the girl was once suspected of killing her husband. He was a lush and died as a result of a fall....”

“He was a no-good,” Jake said, nodding.

“Well... yes. Anyway, he fell or was pushed down a steep flight of... eh... stairs, and died. The police made a routine investigation, called it an accident. But the hero of my yarn is suspicious of the girl. Now it's several months since the 'accident' happened. At the time, the gal's alibi was that she was down in the basement using the washing machine. Nobody saw her, the police took her at her word. As I said, months have gone by, the case is forgotten. Supposing the hero tried playing detective, wanted to get the cops interested in the killing again, what would he do?”

“You mean the hero wants to turn in the wife of this no-good?” Jake asked, as if it was impossible.

“Yes.”

“But Mr. Jackson, in most stories it would be the cops trying to pin a bum rap on the gal and the hero saving her, especially if she's a pretty babe and...?”

“This one is absolutely ravishing, but she's bad. It's a new twist,” I added, almost smiling. “How would my hero go about it?”

“Tell you, Mr. Jackson, you ain't giving the hero much to go on. Like whether she was or wasn't at the washing machine. Your dick could go back to the house, question the other people there, and get no place. You got to count on the fact the cops did that too, at the time of the killing. Why don't you dream up some eh... thing, like a woman remembering she argued with her at the washing machine because maybe some colors ran and spoiled the woman's laundry, and it was the shirt she give her husband for his birthday, so that made it the day before the killing, or something like that? Get what I mean, using a washing machine ain't nothing anybody could remember months later. In fact, if the gal was a murderess, that would be a smart alibi—it's simple. Them complicated alibis are the ones that fall apart. Even if someone claimed they did remember she wasn't at the machine, it would never hold up in court, unless you got a... a... thing to prove it. Understand?”

“Yes. Looks like I'm stuck with my story.”

“Well, change it. To get the cops interested, you'd have to come up with new evidence. Have her do something else, like buying something where you can use the date on the salescheck to prove what you want.”

“Suppose the hero merely called the police, an anonymous call?” I said, knowing damn well I couldn't do that, the way things stood I didn't want the police in on it, I would only be involved.

“No good, they get crank calls all the time. Unless the guy gives them some new evidence over the phone. I'd like to see the story when it's done, always get a bang out of a detective yarn. Say, when you going to start the... eh... article on me? Jesus, my wife will go crazy when she hears this. Know what, I won't tell her, show it to her when it comes out. She'll be fit to be tied.”

“I'll have Harvey stop in when he returns, get the data and all that. Might be a while before I can schedule it.” I started for the door.

Jake called out, “See you later. Got anything good running?”

“Didn't put a bet down to-day. I haven't anything good—running or otherwise.”

Back in my office I found I hadn't blended any tobacco lately, had to smoke a name brand, which annoyed me. I smoked my pipe and thought about my troubles. Any idea of proving Lee had murdered Hank was out. As Jake said, I didn't have a damn thing to go on. And if I ever went back and started questioning the janitor of her apartment, the fellow might get suspicious, call the police. He'd surely remember me taking her clothes some months ago. No, I had to stay clear of the law, or be involved, and that would mean, at the very least, headlines and scandal. There was also another bright thought hidden in my mind which made me break out into a cold sweat—fantastic as it seemed, it wasn't impossible that I might be held and convicted of the murder! The money, keeping Lee, could be strong circumstantial evidence. And I had absolutely no proof I didn't kill Hank. For the average person who lives alone it's almost impossible to establish an alibi for any particular time.

The net result of all my thinking was a headache. All I could do now, I decided, was to sit tight till Monday when I'd give Lee her hundred dollars. Just what would happen then, I didn't know, but there wasn't a thing to do till then—except find a room and clothes.

I took off early in the afternoon, took a room and bath at the Hotel Taft, bought a suit, shirts and underclothes, and a pair of shoes. That night I looked around my room, felt so low I went out and got slightly drunk. I'd never felt homeless before, and it was an awful sensation. I suppose what I missed most was my basement studio. Dancing always had more of a relaxing effect on me than drink.

The next morning I bet on a horse called Frame-up and won, and felt a lot better. Also a drunken sleep had convinced me I wasn't in any real danger of being accused of murder, pr even a scandal. All I had to do was buy the note from Lee, wait a few weeks, then inform Flo I was no longer living on 74A Street, have Flo throw Lee out. It all seemed as simple as that.

I had dinner that night with Joe and it was a relief to listen to his corny chatter. I didn't tell him about being thrown out of my place, but when I had supper with him the following evening he asked, “You and your doll have a fight? You got lot of time on your mitts.”

“Something like that.

Joe sighed. “Interesting looking dish—what a pair of shakers.

“Where did you ever see her?” My voice was sharp.

Joe grinned. “Slow down, George, I ain't beating your time. I saw you out with her once, going into some swank restaurant on East 53rd Street. I love them tall, big, dolls—something to grab.”

“Well don't ever think of grabbing this one—she'd break your arms,” I said.

He slapped me on the back. “I don't play in nobody's backyard, at least nobody that's a buddy of mine. First time I ever saw you chasing, but I can see why—she must put down some powerful stuff between the sheets.” He laughed and gave me another stupid slap on the back.

I laughed politely and thought I'd better change my address in the office files. Now and then they called me if a big shot flew into town suddenly. I certainly didn't want Joe, or anybody else, barging in on Lee.

Saturday night I went up to Henderson's for some poker. The house looked the same and I thought how amazing it was that a house with an oil burner practically ran itself. Joe and two friends of his were already there, watching Henderson dunk pretzels and cheese in his beer. We played till three in the morning. As we were leaving, Henderson counted the sixteen dollars he'd won, said to me, “Stick around, George, want to talk to you.”

I said good-night to Joe and the others, poured myself a beer. Henderson said, “Beer and food cost me nearly five dollars, so I made a net of eleven dollars. Not bad for an old man. You know the other day I was in the subway and some young snip of a girl stood up to give me her seat. I ignored her and then she had the gall to say, 'Sit down, pop,' I said to her, 'Young lady, it's true I am older than you, but that isn't any reason to offer me your seat. Why did you do it?' She said, 'Well, you're less able to stand than I am.' I shut her up with, 'And since when in our society do the weak and the aged, the less able, get any special consideration?' And as if to prove my point, while we were arguing, a husky young boy slipped into the seat. Nerve of that girl!” Henderson chuckled.

I waited. He hadn't asked me to stay for the sake of small talk. He said, “When are you coming back, George?”

“I don't know. Anything happening downstairs?”

“Quiet as usual. Are you done with her, or what? It isn't any of my business, but it has spoiled my window watching some... the waiting for your return.”

“We had a fight and I left, walked out. Does she ever leave the house?” I said before I realized it was a stupid question—she had to go out for food.

“Oh, yes, leaves the house every third day, for about twenty minutes. Buys groceries. There's no other man coming around, if that's what you want to know.”

I grinned—God how I wished there was another man!

“How does she look?”

“Same as usual.”

“I have to see her Monday. By the way, if you want me for anything, something goes wrong with the house, call me at the office. Meantime, I'd better have the oil tank filled.”

On Monday I arranged with Joe to send one of his men around with some oil. Since this was piped in through an opening in the sidewalk, it wouldn't disturb Lee. That night, after supper, I took a cab up to the house, rang the bell. There wasn't any answer. I rang again and called her name. There were a few seconds of silence, then she opened the door.

Lee was wearing a simple print I remembered buying her a long time ago, and both she and the house had a slightly hot, bad odor. The place was a mess, ashes and cigarette butts all over, and I could see unwashed dishes on the kitchen table and in the sink.

She said rather abruptly, George, you have my money?

I gave her twenty five-dollar bills, which she immediately crumpled and shoved down between her breasts. I asked, “Lee, would you like a whole lot of money?” I went through the motions of piling up a lot of bills.

She didn't answer and I said, “Much money for Lee. You give me the note, the paper, and I will give you lots of money. Okay?”

“Papers?” she repeated.

“You know what paper,” I said, motioning toward the wall panel.

She looked at me blankly and I wondered how much of that blankness was a poker face. I dug a dollar bill out of my pocket, went through the pantomime of making a big pile of ones. “All this money for the paper. Understand? Everything be fine.”

She didn't say anything and I said, “Give me the note and I'll give you a lot of money. Okay?”

“Yes.”

I held out my hand. “Now give me the paper.”

“Nein.”

I thought she smiled as she said it. I put the dollar down as I picked up my hat and turned to leave. She quickly snatched up the buck, deposited it in her bosom savings bank, said, “You like, you stay.”

I said no and for one frightful moment I thought she was going to come over and make me. But she merely shrugged and I went out, saying I'd see her the following Monday.

For the next month or so, I saw her each Monday night, to give her the money, and nothing much happened. Once she had cleaned up the place thoroughly, in one of her rare bursts of energy. Sometimes she was fairly talkative, and once she blocked the doorway, so I handed her the money and left without stepping inside my own house. I tried several times to bribe her to give me the note, but she refused. She understood that, all right.

I didn't care for living in a hotel room and I missed my dancing terribly, but all in all, there wasn't much of a change from my old manner of living—before I “outsmarted” Lee. Things went along on an even level, but even that came to an end: I ran out of money, or rather I should say I ran out of Lee's money.

It certainly was more than a rude shock to realize that if I went on giving her a hundred a week—and I didn't see any way of getting out of it at the time—I'd have exactly twenty-five dollars of my salary to live on per week.

The first thing I did was to move out of the hotel. After much tramping of the streets and reading want ads, I learned it was impossible to get even a crummy room for less than ten a week, and of course a private bath was out. Most of the rooms smelled of insecticide and I expected bedbugs to open the door for me—although I never did see a bug in any of the rooms I had. And I moved around quite a bit, going to a cheaper room each time, borrowing a few bucks from Joe on and off, and once, for the first time in my life, I hocked a suit. (All I received was ten dollars for it.) I finally found a small room on 31st Street, east of 3rd Avenue. The house, an old brownstone, looked like hell from the outside but my room was neat, if tiny, and if the bathroom wasn't any place to linger and read, at least it was clean, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

I spent much of my time alone. I was not only upset, but I couldn't afford dollar lunches and five-dollar suppers and cocktails with Joe, nor poker games with Mr. Henderson. I only bet on the horses once.

I knew I'd have to have some money damn soon, and thinking back upon it, my luck with the horses had been excellent the past six months—playing my daily two-buck hunch bets. The night I hocked my suit I noticed a horse called Outsmarted running the next day, at 10 to 1. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a sure hunch. I took out my last fifty dollars from the bank, and with what I raised on my suit and some dough I borrowed, I had a hundred to bet.

The following morning I stopped in for my orange juice, which had become my entire breakfast—along with a hooker of cheap whiskey. When the counterman asked, “Anything else, Mr. Jackson? You haven't been ordering much these days,” I put the money under the menu on the counter before me, said, “A hundred to win on Outsmarted.”

“That's a big order, Mr. Jackson,” he said, his face deadpan. “Tell me true, Mr. Jackson, you know something?”

“You know me—a hunch player. Merely a hunch.”

“Sure I know you, but that's a lot of folding money to pay off, Mr. Jackson. I'm a small joker in this racket. I can't take the bet, but I can place it for you. Only if this is a sure thing, don't give it to me.”

“Only a hunch.”

“Yeah?” He hesitated for a moment, staring at me with sad eyes. Then he went over to one of the phone booths. He talked to somebody for a few seconds, then came back and took my money, said, “Okay. That's to win. Correct?”

“Right. You'll pay off at track odds?”

He nodded.

I was so nervous during the day I kept going into Joe's office to nip at a bottle he kept in his desk, till he asked, “What you got the shakes about?”

“Nothing. I... eh... didn't sleep much last night.”

I had coffee and a sandwich for lunch at an orangeade stand, and at three I went into Jake Webster's office to learn if I had a thousand dollars.

The radio said Outsmarted had closed at 12 to 1. The horse didn't win, but showed, and if I had played the nag across the board I would have won about two hundred dollars. Now I was flat-busted and that was that. When I needed my luck it wasn't there, or maybe I had outsmarted myself again.

Jake asked, “Lose a big one, Mr. Jackson? Look sick.”

“I was playing a long shot.”

He grinned. “You got no kick, been booting them home for a long time. Got to expect a loss now and then. I remember once....”

I went back to my office and I felt lousy. There were about half a dozen ways I could raise money. I could easily borrow a thousand from any bank, only what would happen when that was gone and I had to pay off the bank and Lee? That would be a mess I couldn't get out of—there's no arguing with a bank. Of course I could go from bank to bank, kite a loan for about a year, only sooner or later they would catch up with me and that would mean the end of my job, and now the job seemed the only thing in life I had; I couldn't chance losing that. I might try asking for a raise. I was due one and I could certainly use the extra five or ten bucks each week, but at the moment I didn't feel up to buttering anybody.

Flo would lend me money, but somehow I couldn't ask her. She'd start prying, and even though it wasn't important at the moment, it would be the final defeat in our marital tiffs. I'd be in debt to her or, I suppose, beholden to her is the better phrase, for the rest of my life. And I didn't want to cast off Flo, I wanted her back. I wanted (and so badly) everything I had in my old life, even my monthly fights with Flo.

Joe would be good for a few hundred, he and Walt seemed to be prospering in their racket. But I already owed Joe nearly a hundred, borrowing a dollar or two, here and there. Besides, I'd have to explain too much to him, too.

Marion Keating might lend me money, but that would be embarrassing—I never had been that friendly with her.

Then there was Mr. Henderson, but I kept dismissing what I was thinking about him. It was an ugly thought.

(And the strange part was, that of all the ways I had of raising money, and I had to have more money, I was so afraid of offending convention, I finally tried the one, impossible, absolutely wrong way of raising the dough)

Not being able to dance left me restless as the devil and I suddenly wondered why I didn't try dancing for money? The idea excited me. I was sure my mixed dance routine was some-thing never seen before, something really different. In tails, with a band playing bebop, rumba, corn, and a dash of classical music, I would wow 'em with my combination tap, ballet, and ballroom dancing. I was tall and thin, looked sophisticated—on the style of Clifton Webb. With the right lighting, I had the sort of routine that would go over big in a smart night club. The first thing was to interest an agent. I went through my files. Before the war we'd held a big sales convention in New York and had booked a band and several acts through a Danny Alberts. I called him and he said of course he remembered me. (What he remembered was Sky Oil, Inc.) I told him, “This is a sort of personal favor. Friend of mine has a dance act, a high class single, and he's looking for an agent.”

“Be glad to give him a try-out, Mr. Jackson,” Alberts said, his voice friendly over the phone.

“I... eh... thought you might recommend somebody who books dancers exclusively. This is a serious type of dance, suitable only for a certain type of night spot.” I couldn't use Alberts, he might remember me.

“Gotcha, Mr. Jackson, only don't think I don't handle high class acts. I....”

“I'm sure you do, Mr. Alberts, but this fellow needs a dance specialist.”

“Know what you mean, perfectly. Tell you, there's a Dennis Coles up on 50th Street. He handles lots of long-haired stuff. I'll make an appointment. What's this guy's name?”

“Lee Henderson,” I said promptly.

“Swell. Call you back in a few minutes. You fellows having another convention here soon?”

“Nothing on the fire at the moment, but when we do, I'll know who to call,” I said.

He called me back within ten minutes and then I—or Lee Henderson—called Dennis Coles. I had heard of Coles and was pleased he was to handle me. I arranged to rent a studio and show him my dance that afternoon in Steinway Hall.

Borrowing ten bucks from Joe, I took a cab up to the house to get my dancing shoes and sweat suit. I rang and rang and didn't get any answer. Finally I let myself in, Lee wasn't home and the house was a mess, it actually stunk. My blue sheets were a dirty gray. It took me a moment to get my things and pick up a dozen records. I knew Lee must be out shopping and I wanted to be gone before she returned.

But that gave me another idea—one I should have had from the start.

I hailed a cab and had him wait across Park Avenue. I sat in the cab, watching the house and my watch. Exactly twelve minutes later Lee came swinging up the street, a bag of groceries in her arms. I grinned—to myself—and told the cabbie to drive to Steinway Hall.

I ran into trouble there—they didn't have an automatic phonograph. The slinky-looking blonde in the renting office was listening to a small portable radio, and for a few bucks I rented that.

Coles was a short slender man, with a homely, pointed, sensitive face, and an absolutely bald head. I explained that I usually danced to records but I'd have to use a disc jockey due to the lack of a phonograph. I explained how I'd dance in tails, with the proper lighting, the type of audience I was aiming for, and all that.

He listened patiently, and we talked about dancing for a while and I dropped a few names to tell him I knew my dancing. Then he lit a cigarette and sat down. I tuned in a couple of records shows and they were all playing corn. When I heard one of Duke's numbers I nodded to Coles and started dancing, and God it felt wonderful to be dancing again. I had expected to be a bit rusty, but I found myself dancing at my best, moving smoothly, my taps clean and clear. When the disc jockey read a commercial I did a soft shoe routine, and then I was in luck—they played an Afro-Cuban number I knew and I really went to town. I kept praying they wouldn't play any hill-billy numbers. The next record was a fast jazz number which I did as a modern dance, using my hands a lot. I was doing some tricky tap steps when I glanced at Coles. There was a faint smile on his face.

I stopped dancing and he merely shook his head. I turned off the radio, took it back to the blonde. When I returned, Coles was gone. I dressed quickly. That smile told me everything—I was a middle-aged man making a pitiful fool of himself.

I guess it was a bad blow, not only to my plans, but to my vanity. But I didn't take it hard, I was too full of my other plan, my new one, to be depressed. That night, after I had washed my socks and underwear, hung them on the line I'd rigged across my room, I took a pencil and paper and sat on the bed.

The two things I should have done from the start I had stupidly neglected. I certainly should have advertised in the German papers while I had the money to do it. Relations—if Lee had any—would take her off my hands. But more important, if I had played it smart, I would have searched the house—while she was out—till I found the note.

There wasn't anything I could do about hunting for her relations now, but I did make a sketch of the house, listed all the possible places where she might hide the note. I kept thinking of the layout of the rooms so hard, seeing them in my mind, that my head hurt. But before I went to sleep, I had a list of 22 likely places where Lee might have hidden the note. I'd have to be fast and careful; if Lee ever found me hunting for the note she'd certainly kill me. The very thought of her finding me made me shake. I considered the possibility of borrowing one of Jake Webster's guns, but ruled that out. He wouldn't lend it to me without a long explanation, and suppose I had to use the gun? Killing or wounding her would only mean bringing everything out in the open, give more credence to her story that I killed Hank. If I wanted to chance all that I could tell her to go to hell now.

But I had to get that receipt.

During my lunch hour the next day I went up to the house, walked in on Henderson, The old man was fixing lunch—some lettuce, cream cheese, and black bread swimming in a bowl of light coffee. He asked me to join him, and although I was actually hungry, I couldn't go that mess. I took a cup of coffee, asked, “Francis, does she go out of the house every day? I mean, shopping? I want to get some things, and not have to argue with her.

“She goes out every third day. Always at one, stays out about a half hour, maybe a little less,” he said. “You were in the house yesterday.”

“I had to get some personal belongings—that's when I remembered she has to leave the house. About a half hour?”

Henderson nodded. For a while he ate his mess quietly, then asked, “George, what's going on downstairs?”

“Why? I mean, is there something going on?”

“Nothing I can put my finger on, but the house gives me an uneasy... a... well, downright queasy feeling. And you, there's something different about you, and I don't mean only this junior detective role you're playing. It's—don't know exactly what it is but... look, your suit isn't freshly pressed, you're wearing the same shirt for the second day. George, you're not the old George anymore. What's going on between you two? And where's Slob. Haven't seen him for weeks.”

“Didn't I tell you, a hair ball almost strangled him, the vet had to put him out of the way.”

“Too bad, an intelligent animal,” Henderson said. “One of the contradictions of our society, we can perform a mercy death on an animal, but humans must go on suffering. And how about you—you swallow a hair ball, too?”

“Nothing is the matter,” I lied casually. “Hell, might as well tell you, we're having a spat and I'm having a little trouble getting rid of her. You know how those things run.” I stood up, ran my hand over the copper statue of Man O' War. “Francis, I'm learning a great bit of wisdom I should have known years ago—never bring your women to your own house.”

“That's all it is, sacking your woman?” he asked, not believing me.

“That's all. Take me a little time to straighten out.”

“All right,” the old man said, “only tell her to keep a cleaner house. Been seeing roaches lately.”

“I'll try to do what I can. How're the horses coming?” I asked, changing the subject.

We talked for a while, banal talk mostly, then I took the bus back to the office. Lee had shopped yesterday, that meant I had to wait one more day before she went out again. Tomorrow I'd go up and start searching. The whole idea left me jumpy, I was so damn scared of her. The idea of a gun came back when I passed a drugstore next to Radio City Music Hall. They had children's cap pistols in the window that looked like real .45s, or at least what I thought a .45 looked like. I only had three dollars for food to last the rest of the week, but I spent a dollar for one of those guns. The only thing that made it look phony was the silver finish of the handle. I purchased a small tin of black enamel and went to my room to have supper on a bottle of beer and two bits worth of cheese and crackers, which was filling if not nourishing. I carefully painted the pistol black and hung it up to dry. I was as intent as a kid with a new toy, and by midnight it had dried and the damn thing actually looked like a gun. Just handling it gave me an air of assurance, even though I knew it was all downright silly.

The following day I was hanging around the corner of 74th and Park at fifteen to one. I was sure Lee would turn toward Lexington to shop. Promptly at one I saw her leave the house, a heavy short sweater over an ankle-length evening dress she had. When she was out of sight, like the villain in a bad movie I held the “gun” in my pocket, walked down the block, let myself in.

The house wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, she had cleaned the day before. I quickly started on my list of possible hiding places. The panel was empty, but behind a row of books I found nearly three hundred bucks carefully wrapped in a dirty handkerchief. I didn't touch that, but kept looking—one eye on my wrist watch. Under a carpet I found another wad of money, and in one of the closets a shoe box heavy with pennies, dimes, and a few quarters. It was a terrific temptation not to take some of the money, but I left it alone—I wasn't after money this time, couldn't risk spoiling my chances of getting the note.

By one-fifteen I'd covered everything except the kitchen, bathroom, and my dance studio downstairs. I looked the place over carefully, to be sure I hadn't left any drawers open, or any evidence of my search, then left. I walked back to the corner and waited. A few minutes later Lee turned the corner at Lexington, went into the house, munching on something from the bag in her arm.

Three days later, on a Sunday, I was back on my corner, thinking that Sundays couldn't alter her schedule—she had to eat. The street was fairly crowded, people going to the church across from the house. I wondered where she would shop, although some of the delicatessens on Lexington were probably open. At one, Lee came out, dressed rather smartly in a heavy cloth coat I'd bought for her and a simple tarn. It was a raw afternoon but I was sweating and hot—with fright.

Slipping my “gun” into my outside overcoat pocket, I walked quickly to the house, unlocked the door. If most of the stores were closed on Sundays, that meant Lee might have to take more time shopping—or less time. The apartment smelled of stale air and old food. I went down to the dance floor, started searching. I had a stroke of luck—on the spur of the moment I went through the various record albums. She had hidden it cleverly, no money or anything, merely the little piece of paper that was the note tucked in with a record. I jammed it in my pocket ran up the steps and into the living room. I still had ten minutes to spare and I went to the two piles of money I'd discovered the other day, took a few tens from each pile. I locked the door, and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, sweating furiously but feeling wonderful. I saw Lee turn the corner, a small paper bag in her hand. There was no doubt about it being her, she was so big. I could go up and see Henderson, but if he didn't answer the door at once, Lee would find me. I dashed across the street, joined the people going to church. I was pretty sure Lee hadn't seen me.

I sat in the rear of the church about ten minutes, listening to some choir-singing that was very restful, then I walked out, hailed a cab at Lexington Avenue. I wanted to drink but the bars weren't open yet, so I gave the cabbie Joe's address. I counted the money I had taken (or stolen) from Lee. I had seventy dollars. That meant I'd be paying her with her own money—once more—but that for the next week anyway, I could live and eat decently again.

Joe and his kid were sleeping off a hangover. Joe came to the door in his underwear, half asleep, looking bloated and sloppy. I had a few fast drinks with him, went to the bathroom and burned the note, flushing it down the toilet.

I stared at the rushing water and almost cried, I was so relieved; there wasn't any possible link, fantastic, circumstantial, or otherwise, that could connect me in any way with Hank's death.

Joe wanted me to hang around, he was expecting some girls over later in the day but I was feeling too good to listen to his chatter all day. At the door, I was kidding him about being so fat and he punched me on the arm and we sparred and wrestled like kids. I suppose I was so gay Joe was surprised—he looked at me rather oddly as I left.

I wanted to see Flo, but she was out. I went to the Turkish bath, sat in the steam-room for a long time, had a rubdown, and came out feeling very clean and refreshed. I had a big steak and lobster dinner, went to a favorite little bar on East 46th for cocktails, and took a room in the Hotel New Yorker for the night.

I was jittery all day Monday, but knew I could duck seeing Lee that night. As I rang her bell, I dug my hand in my left pocket, held the toy gun firmly. She'd certainly be in a vicious mood if she'd discovered the money and the note were gone.

But she seemed as calm and blank as ever, counted the hundred I gave her, asked if I wanted to come in. I said no and she said, “You return next Monday with money?” It wasn't exactly a question, more of a statement.

I said I would and walked away. At the next corner I tossed my would-be gun into a garbage can.

I felt very good... I even had a few bucks to spend that week.