Case of Lucy Bending (23 page)

He was almost twenty minutes late, but she was waiting on the little porch of her private apartment. He pulled up and blinked his lights. He watched her hurry toward him in her broken, scuttling walk, and he wondered what the hell he was doing.

He opened the door for her; she slid in awkwardly, turned to him. Then her arms were around his neck, her cheek pressed to his.

"Oh Bill," she said breathlessly, and he was startled until he remembered that was the name he had given her.

"How you been?" he asked gruffly.

"All right," she said. She put her hand to his face. "You look tired. Have you been working hard?"

Teresa had never asked him that. This girl's concern made his throat go dry.

"Listen," he said, "I thought we'd take a little drive. Not a motel." He added hastily: "I'll pay for your time."

"That's okay," she said happily. "I don't care."

"I just want to talk," he said, and she hugged his arm and snuggled closer to him.

He came off the Atlantic Boulevard bridge, made a sharp right, and parked on the concrete lot bordering the Intra-coastal. There were several other cars there; fishermen were standing patiently on the lip of the Waterway. What they might catch that was worth eating, Empt couldn't guess.

He switched off the motor and lights; they sat quietly in the gloom. Her head was on his shoulder. He was happy and didn't know why.

"I've been thinking," he said hoarsely, "and there's something I want to talk to you about ..."

He had worked it out like a business contract, being the kind

of man he was, and figured it wouldn't cost him a cent. He could carry her as a regular employee of his own company or of the new corporation he had formed with Bending and Holloway.

If his accountant didn't like that, he could pay her from petty cash. Or pad his personal expense vouchers. There were half-a-dozen ways it could be finagled, but however it was done, it wouldn't be coming out of his pocket. Not a penny.

'Til pay you two hundred a week," he said rapidly. "Cash. No paper. You won't have to declare it if you don't want to. If they catch up with you, I'll pay your tax and penalties. Can you live on two hundred a week? Net?"

"Yes," she said in a low voice.

"In return," he said, his voice thick, "I want you to stop hustling. No one but me. Understand?"

He felt her head nodding against his shoulder. He reached sideways, touched her breast through the thin stuff of her blouse, then took his hand hastily away.

"Now listen," he said, "that doesn't mean you can't go out. I won't see you every night. Maybe only two or three times a week. And I'll give you advance notice. I mean, I don't want you just sitting home waiting for me."

"I'll wait," she said.

"Go out," he said. "Enjoy yourself. But when I call and say I'm coming over like tomorrow night, I want you there. Okay?"

"Yes."

"Can we, uh, meet in your apartment?"

"Oh yes. The people I rent from don't care. As long as we don't have any noisy parties or anything like that."

"We won't," he assured her. "But no hustling. In your apartment or anywhere else. All right?"

"Yes."

"Then you agree? It's all right with you? What the hell are you crying about?"

For her shoulders were shaking, her head bowed. Soft, whimpering cries were coming from her. He put an arm clumsily around her bony shoulders, pulled her closer.

"You'll take care of me?" she said in a piteous voice.

"That's what I've been telling you," he said, almost angrily. "I'll take care of you."

"Oh," she said. "Oh oh oh. Bill, I'm so happy."

"That's another thing," he said, staring through the windshield at the motionless fishermen. "My name's not really Bill. It's Luther. L-u-t-h-e-r. Luther."

She laughed timidly. "My name's not really June. It's May."

He turned to look at her. "Not June but May? Why not April?"

She didn't understand his weak joke, but he hugged her to him.

"Do you want me to call you Luther?" she asked.

"Whatever."

"Would you be mad if I called you 'daddy'?"

"Why daddy?"

"Because you're going to take care of me, and my real daddy never did."

I've really got a nut case here, he thought. I'm really asking for it, tying up with this crazie.

"Call me daddy," he said, "if you like."

"Daddy," she said softly, falling slowly out of his encircling arm, slipping down sideways until her head was in his lap. "You'll be my daddy and I'll be your little girl."

"Something like that," he said.

He sat there, suddenly feeling so sad. His heavy hand began to stroke the mass of shiny black hair, smoothing it back from her temples. He combed it with his fingers, touched the warm scalp beneath with his fingertips. She purred with pleasure.

"I haven't had such a great life," he said to the world. "I've had to hustle since Day One. So I know what you've been through, May. My old man got busted up on a construction job when I was ten, and then it was out on the street for me, helping to keep the family together. Oh, I went to school and all that, but I also worked my ass off. Ran errands. Sold papers. Made deliveries. I had two sisters, and they worked just as hard, waiting for the day they could get out of that house. The whole place smelled of my father dying. He was a lush. Then he finally did die, which was a blessing, and the girls got married and moved away. Then it was just mom and me. I never stopped running. It was like a habit by then—you know? Anything and everything. Any way I could turn a buck. I envied kids my age who could go to college and then waltz into a good job while I was scrambling. Then I discovered a great truth: most people are stupid.

I mean they're
stupid,
May. All those college guys, the ones in the big offices, they got no street smarts, and I could take them. In any deal, I could take them. Once I realized that, I got a lot more confidence and I started moving. Now things are really coming my way. But no one did it for me, no one did me no favors. I did it all myself."

"Daddy," she murmured.

"Ahh, what the hell . . ." he said. "Someday we're all going to be dead—right? So get it while you can. I truly believe that. You and me are going to have some laughs together, aren't we, May?"

She nuzzled her face into his groin. He moved her gently away and lifted her upright.

"I better get you home," he said.

"Will you come in with me?"

"Well . . . maybe just for a few minutes. You got anything to drink?"

"I have some beer."

"Okay. I'll leave you some extra money; you pick up some Cutty Sark scotch. That's what I usually drink. Keep Cutty in the house."

"Cutty Sark," she repeated, memorizing the name. "I'll buy some tomorrow."

"That's my girl," he said.

Her apartment was a shock: one big room filled with house-plants. Every size, shape, color, scent. Aloe, fern, African violets, coleus, several varieties of begonia, ivy, philo-dendron, laurel, spider plants, and much, much more.

On the windowsills, tables, dresser, bookcase. On the floor, in planters, in wall brackets, even on the toilet tank in the tiny bathroom. The atmosphere was warm, humid, scented, cloying.

"Jesus Christ!" Luther Empt said. "This place is a fucking jungle!"

"They're my children," May said, looking about fondly. "I love them and they love me. I talk to them every day."

"Yeah," Empt said. "Great. How about that beer?"

He sat in an armchair, the back and seat upholstered but the wooden armrests worn bare of varnish. A frond of asparagus fern, hung from the ceiling, tickled the back of his neck.

"You really can't stay?" she said.

"Not tonight. I've got things to do." "Is it all right if I get ready for bed?"

"Sure," he said. "I'm leaving as soon as I finish this."

She went into the bathroom and closed the door. He sat solidly, gulping his beer from a can, looking around the growing room and shaking his head.

It wasn't, he saw, much of a bed. A sofa really, with pillows. No headboard or footboard. But it would do, he supposed. The small kitchenette was clean. It would be a neat little place if it wasn't for all those crazy plants.

She came out of the bathroom barefoot, wearing a thin cotton nightgown. One of the shoulder straps had broken and was fastened to the bodice with a safety pin.

She looked at him timidly. "Was the beer all right?"

"Sure," he said, setting the empty can on the floor alongside his chair. "I guess I was thirsty."

"Would you like another?"

"No, thanks. Next time get light beer, will you? I've got to lose some weight."

"You look fine to me, daddy," she said.

She sat on his lap, wriggling around until she was comfortable. Her head was on his shoulder. His arm was around her shoulders, covered with her long hair.

Through the nightgown he could feel the heat of her child's body. The jutting bones. Looking down, he could see the softness of her small breasts, the little pink nipples.

Holding her, feeling her, he felt peculiarly sexless. But he felt a warm, milky affection he had not known since he held his infant daughters on his knee, stroked their fine hair, smelled their fresh, innocent perfume. So clean. So sweet. A knife in the heart.

"Do you want me to do anything, daddy?" she whispered.

"No," he said. "Just let me hold you a few minutes."

"I'll do anything you want; you know that. I want you to be happy."

"I am," he said, wondering if he was.

He slipped his free hand down the neckline of her nightgown. He held one of those frail breasts lightly. It felt like a bird, fluttering in his palm.

"May . . ." he said.

"What?"

"Don't you have any family?"

"No," she said, "they're all gone." "No brothers or sisters? No uncles, aunts, cousins?"

"Someplace," she said. "I don't know where. I don't care. I like it when you hold me nice and loving like that. You're so sweet. I knew you were sweet the moment I saw you. I knew you'd never hurt me."

"No," he said, "I won't do that."

"Some men do," she said sadly.

"I know," he said.

"Does it bother you?" she asked. "About my leg?"

"Of course not."

"I wish I could be perfect for you. I feel bad about that."

"Don't feel bad," he told her. "I like you just the way you are."

"Could we go out some night?" she said eagerly. "We could go somewhere where we wouldn't be seen. You know?"

"Sure," he said. "We could do that. Drive down to Dania maybe. Hollywood. Maybe even Miami.''

She sighed contentedly. "I'd like that. And some night I'll cook you dinner. I'm not very good, but I can make steaks and chicken and easy things like that."

"Sounds good," he said. "I'm not fussy about my food. Steak or chicken would be fine."

"Do you love me?" she asked suddenly.

He didn't answer.

"I know you don't," she said. "That's all right. I didn't expect you to. But could you say it? I'll know in my heart of hearts that you don't really mean it, but I'd like to hear you say it. No one's ever said that to me."

"I love you, May," he said in a wispy voice.

She hugged him tighter. She grinned fiercely.

"Oh, how I love you, daddy! I'll be ever so good to you, you'll see. I'll do everything you tell me to. I'll obey you and never be naughty. You'll see. I'll love you every way you want."

He took his hand from her breast. He tilted up her chin. He kissed her child's lips, as chastely as a father. Her eyelids slowly closed. Her pale face became clear and serene. They sat motionless, mouths pressed and yielding.

He had the sense of coming home. This warm, lived-in place was familiar. He felt easy here. He could kick off his shoes, if he liked, or open his belt. And the odor of the damp earth and growing plants was not unlike the smell of his drunken father dying. Even May, with her torn cotton nightgown, reminded him of his mother and sisters.

He thought of the house Teresa had put together. Glass, marble, stainless steel. Abstract paintings on the walls, and not a comfortable chair in the joint. Everything was hard, cold, as impersonal as an office. He belonged here, with the sagging armchair, sofa bed with pillows, rag rug on the splintered floor. This was his kind of place.

She took her mouth from his, kissed the tip of his nose.

"Do you know what I want to do more than anything in the world, daddy?"