Blind Date (16 page)

He sank into her suddenly. She strained and twisted, but he rammed into her, battering her with all his weight, smacking her loins, each butt tearing the tender tissues of her flesh, pounding her back against the floor. She began to scream. Levanter covered her lips with his, stifling her sounds. He exhaled his breath into her mouth, pressing her throat with his hand; throttled, her excitement accelerated, swelling the veins in her face and neck.

Starved for air, she ripped her hands free, clenching and unclenching them convulsively as if trying to grasp the air itself. A shudder rippled through her. Levanter removed his mouth from hers, and, like a hysterical child on the verge of both laughter and tears, she screamed, trying to wrest herself away from the weight of his body. She opened her mouth, struggling for breath, and in her exertion arched her body, gasping. Then she went limp and fainted. Levanter's pulse raced, his lungs strained for air, and his eyes blurred. For a moment, everything went black.

When she came to, she wearily ran her hands through her disheveled
hair. Her expression was soft, and she looked as if she were trying to smile. She traced her fingers listlessly over her body, gently cupping her breasts, raising her knees. Drops of perspiration glistened on her belly. She reached for him, and drew him close to her.

After a few moments, she squatted with her back to his outstretched body. Her feet were between his thighs, her hands pressing on his knees. She started swaying and her buttocks grazed and stroked his flesh until he could stand it no longer and wanted to pull free of her. Then she slid back over him, until her damp flesh was over his face. He could hardly breathe. As she leaned forward, her breasts rubbed against his belly, her hair fell over his thighs. He felt her mouth around his flesh; like a rampant growth, she sucked the strength out of him. Suddenly conscious of his parched mouth and intense thirst, and no longer willing to fight her, he gave in to the tension that swelled within him.

They woke up late the next morning. She was bruised and moved with difficulty. They went downstairs. The hotel lobby was swarming with Small Americans. A new banner,
STAND TALL AND BE COUNTED
, announced the opening of the convention.

They drove through town in her open convertible. Levanter noticed several passers-by staring at the two of them with obvious hostility. He asked Jolene what angered them, and she said it was simply the unthinking reaction of the townspeople who had known her for a long time and were unaccustomed to seeing her openly consorting with a stranger.

She took Levanter to lunch at the Impton Inn, the best restaurant in town. The hostess who escorted them to their table was polite to Jolene but curt with Levanter.

While they were eating, a group of well-dressed men and women arrived and were seated at a table nearby. One of the men, pale and stern-looking, glanced around, and when his eyes fell on Jolene his jaw tightened. He looked searchingly at Levanter.

“Who is he?” asked Levanter.

“That's Greg,” she answered, unperturbed. “My click-click Greg. Remember?”

“And the others?” Levanter asked.

She turned to look at them again. “Friends, acquaintances.”

“What do they do?”

“They're all in business.”

Levanter looked puzzled. “I thought you told me Greg was a lawyer?”

She played with her salad before she answered. “He gave up law when his father died and he inherited the family business. Now Greg is head of Impton Consolidated, one of the largest companies in the state.”

“You were the wife of a very important man,” said Levanter, all at once aware of how little she had actually told him about herself.

“I was,” said Jolene. “That's why you're being stared at. This is a company town. The company practically owns the town, and Greg owns the company. Now that I've left Greg, everyone thinks there's no longer a place for me here. They think they can disown me. And they certainly don't want you!” She laughed, reaching for his hand and squeezing it in full view of the people at the other table.

Levanter was comforted by the thought that he could fly back to New York as soon as he wished.

“When did you leave Greg?” he asked.

“A few months ago.”

“Is the separation legal?”

She let go of his hand. “It may not be legal, but it sure is clear-cut, as far as this town is concerned.”

“But technically you're still married to Greg, aren't you?” Levanter persisted.

“Only technically. So what?” She looked at him with a defiant expression.

“Wouldn't you be better off leaving Impton?” Levanter asked.

“There was a time when I simply wanted to run away,” she said,
“to start a new life. But, like so many others before me, I discovered that in this country we belong to our families, our families do not belong to us. Only newcomers, like you, know how to change their lives overnight, how to develop new interests, take up different professions, generate fresh emotions.”

Levanter made no comment. She looked at him with an ironic smile.

“I read in a magazine that the average American housewife doesn't run away until she's past thirty-five, has been married for at least fifteen years, and has one or two kids. And, quite likely, within a year she is traced by detectives solely because, in her new surroundings, she betrays herself by wearing the same hairdo, clothes, jewelry, and make-up. What's more, she is likely to date a man who physically and professionally resembles the one she ran away from.” She took a few bites of her lunch. “I have devised a system for running away while remaining at home,” she said. “I find strangers, as I found you.” She paused. “But something significant happened to me last night.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“For years, I've been hiding in my private maze, cut off and isolated. I didn't even know who I was anymore,” Jolene said with a nervous smile. “All the men I've been with before you have been from around here. They're as local as I am, and I knew the standards they judged me by — those are my standards too, after all. With you I should feel apprehension, since I don't know what your standards are. But I don't feel cautious at all. I am not afraid to say or do anything that might displease you, as I have been with other men. I'm myself — it's the ultimate risk.”

“I'm planning to leave tomorrow,” Levanter said.

She was silent.

Before they finished their meal, two Small Americans appeared in the doorway of the restaurant, lingering a moment on the threshold before they wandered uncertainly into the room. Again, as in the bar the night before, everyone looked at them and the voices in the room dropped to soft whispers. The hostess beckoned them haughtily
to follow her and placed them in the farthest corner. As Levanter glanced about the room, he observed that in the Impton Inn today it was he, not the midgets, who got all the attention.

After lunch, Jolene went home to rest. Levanter walked along the main street. He stopped in front of the window of a large general store, startled by the array of handguns, rifles, shotguns, ammunition, and holsters. Then he realized that the sale of guns was legal in the state, and no permit was required to own a weapon. Only a visitor would be startled by such a display. He entered the store, walking past magazine racks, shelves of personal-hygiene products, and the pharmaceuticals counter, straight to the gun department.

A young man had just bought a rifle and two boxes of ammunition. The salesman placed two more boxes beside his purchase. “That's on the house,” he said, as he wrote up the order. The customer paid, picked up his package, and left.

The salesman turned to Levanter, smiling. “What can I do for you?”

Levanter studied the pistols and revolvers in the glass case.

The salesman looked down at them also. “These are just a few samples of what we carry,” he said. “Tell me what kind of gun you own, and I'll tell you what others you might still need.”

“I don't own a gun,” said Levanter.

The salesman looked surprised. “Do you want something for defense or for a hobby?” he asked.

“Defense as a hobby,” said Levanter, smiling.

“Nowadays, the only hobby a man needs,” the salesman agreed. He reached into the case and pulled out a revolver. “How about a mini-derringer? A real five-shot beaut. Easy to load, easy to shoot, easy to conceal.”

Levanter contemplated the revolver. With it, one's creativity at the moment of danger was reduced to the crude squeezing of the trigger. He shook his head.

The salesman leaned over the counter and said in a confidential tone, “Did you know that an awful lot of violence is committed
against strangers? Last year, over one third of those killed did not know their assailants.” He put the mini-derringer back in the case. “What line of business are you in?”

“Investing,” said Levanter.

“Travel a lot?”

Levanter nodded.

“Then how about this Bulldog forty-four?” He pulled out another revolver. “An ideal featherweight, easy-to-hide gun. The best investment you can make these days.”

Levanter pretended to be unconvinced.

The salesman tried another tack. “Are you married or single?” he asked.

“Single. No children.”

“Where do you spend most of your time, city or country?”

“Big cities.”

The salesman pulled out two longer pistols. “One of these might do. The fifteen-shot Parabellum. Custom-made for mixed neighborhoods, you might say, if you know what I mean!” He winked. “But for sure speed, here's a true beast,” he said, passing another handgun to Levanter. “A real savage!” he said. “Eleven shots in a single second! As they say, it aims to please, it pleases to aim.” He looked proud of his wit.

The gun felt cold and smooth in Levanter's hand.

“The other day a man comes in,” the salesman said. “He's a black, a neat dresser, and speaks with an accent. So I think he's one of those darky diplomats who do business with Impton Consolidated for one of those safari-land countries where the blacks kill each other like flies.”

Levanter did not comment.

The salesman went right ahead. “So I lay out the best guns I handle: Browning, Beretta, Smith and Wesson, Winchester, Colt, Charter Arms, you name it! He picks up a Mossberg twenty-gauge shotgun and pats it and feels it like a girl, and he aims it at the street like a toy. So I say, ‘Sir, I'll give you the best deal in town if you want a few hundred of these for your people!' And he smiles real sweetly at me and says, ‘My people would sure love to use them
every day!' So I ask, ‘What country are you from, sir?' And he gives me this scary look and says, ‘Harlem, New York!'” The salesman chuckled, his heavy belly bouncing up and down.

Apologizing for not being able to make up his mind, Levanter put down the handgun. The salesman was close to giving up. It was a rare customer who did not find a gun that pleased him, he said. He put his elbow on the counter and ran his fingers through his hair. Suddenly he looked up at Levanter as if seeing him in a new light. “Say, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” he asked.

“Shoot!”

The salesman failed to notice Levanter's little joke. He kept on. “Do you go out with a lot of women?”

Levanter nodded.

The salesman recoiled. “Mostly with other men's wives, I take it,” he said, a disapproving look on his face. “It was you this morning in Jolene's car, wasn't it?”

“It was,” said Levanter.

“I knew it. I thought you looked familiar when you walked in here. Don't you cross Greg that way again,” he whispered.

“What if I do?” asked Levanter with a smile.

The salesman backed away from the counter. “Let me give it to you straight: if you do, you don't need a gun — you need a tank.” He turned to another customer who had just come to the counter.

Levanter walked back to the Taft. As he was about to enter the revolving door, he was stopped by a solid-looking police officer, tall, with closely cropped gray hair. Wearing a well-fitting uniform, puffing gracefully on his pipe, he introduced himself courteously as the Chief of Police. He recognized Levanter, he explained with a polite smile, from a description given him by one of his deputies. He suggested that Levanter accompany him to the police station to discuss what he termed “a delicate matter.” Levanter got into the police car.

At the station house, the Chief led Levanter into a small office and shut the door. They were alone. The Chief gestured Levanter to a chair and sat down opposite him.

“You could have refused to come here with me, Mr. Levanter,” he said, “but you're reasonable and so you did not. Now I hope you will listen to me and continue to be reasonable.” He placed one hand on his belt and stroked his holster with the other.

Levanter slowly shook his head. “If you are about to tell me I ought to get out of Impton,” he said, “I can spare you the trouble. I've already made plans to return to New York tomorrow.”

The Chief nodded sympathetically. He pulled his chair closer to Levanter's. “Now why do you think I want you out of town?” he asked.

“Because of Jolene.”

The Chief got up and walked to the window. He stared out at the street for several seconds, then spun around and made a sweeping motion with his hands, as though brushing away Levanter's remark. “The truth is,” he said, stressing each word, “that I want you to stay in Impton. About a month will do.”

“Why on earth would I stay in Impton for a month?” asked Levanter.

The Chief picked up his pipe and tapped the bowl. “Because you're needed here, George, that's why.”

“Needed by whom?”

The Chief plucked at the creases in his trousers, then looked at Levanter mildly, as if to placate him for what he was going to say. “Let me begin by saying you're needed by me, needed by Greg, and needed by the folks of this town.”