Case of Lucy Bending (5 page)

"A million?" Holloway cried, his voice breaking.

"On the strength of a mob contract?" Bending asked.

"No, no," Empt protested. "To prove they're serious, they're willing to give me a quarter-of-a-million loan. Straight ten percent. Can you believe that? Only a straight ten. Strictly a loan. No piece of the action. I thanked them and told them I'd get back to them."

Then, Luther Empt said, he went home, sat down with a pocket calculator, and started figuring the numbers. His original guess of a million was close to the mark. Maybe, he said, it would be nearer nine hundred thousand, but with inflation and overruns, a million would be a safer estimate.

With a mob loan, that meant he had to come up with $750,000. He said he could raise that if he put everything he owned into hock: his business, physical plant, his house, his wife's jewelry—everything. But he admitted he was getting a little long in the tooth to take that kind of gamble.

"That's why I asked you to come around tonight," he concluded. "How about each of you taking a third? That means a quarter-of-a-mil each. That, plus the loan, will give us our nut. Each of us will own one-third of the corporation, or the partnership if that's what the tax attorneys recommend. I hate calling this a 'sure thing' because Skid Row is filled with guys who bet on a sure thing. But it's the best chance I've seen since I was running a Three-card Monte game in east Chicago."

Holloway and Bending leaned forward to pour fresh drinks. Luther's pitch had climaxed so abruptly that they were stunned. Both were addled by drink, but sober enough to know that at the moment, they couldn't think straight.

"Look," Empt said, "don't get me wrong. I don't expect an answer this minute. I just want you to think about it. Okay? I know both of you can come up with that kind of loot without hurting too much. That's why I asked you. If you decide yes, that's fine. If it's no, then no harm done, and we're still good drinking buddies. I'm in the process now of making up a presentation. One for each of you. All the numbers.

"The way it's shaping up," he said, "we'll get our money back in about twenty months to two years. After that, it's Treasure Island. Well, you look over the numbers and make up your mind. Of course, if you decide to come in, I'll make sure you meet the mob guys and go over their line of credit. They said they'd have no objection to that. Well, what the hell, enough about business. Now let's do some serious drinking."

Holloway was thankful that the monologue had ended. It wasn't that Luther Empt was especially ungrammatical or vulgar in his language. But his raspy voice was loud and harsh, his city accent grated on the ear, and just his energy and forcefulness were wearing.

Also, Empt had asked for a decision. In recent months, William Jasper Holloway had striven to reduce his decision making to a minimum. Jane ran the house, and his Executive VP pretty much ran the bank.

Which was the way Holloway wanted it. More and more he felt the need to simplify his life, reduce his existence to essentials. It was from a growing distaste. He recognized that.

Food had lost its flavor. Sex had lost its savor. That sweaty coupling. Ridiculous, really, when you analyzed it. The joys of fatherhood were foreign to him. What was left? He had no talent for fun.

But now, suddenly, he had a decision of some import pushed in his face. Empt was correct: he could easily afford the investment of a quarter of a million dollars. It wasn't the money that disturbed him; it was the choice he was being asked to make. Just when he was doing so well in molding a choiceless and neuter world.

So he was happy that Empt's argument had come to an end. Luther, and Turk Bending, too—men like that daunted him. They seemed so sure, so totally without doubt. They went barging through life, sweaty and roaring. He had learned long ago that he could never be like that. He had ceased trying.

He thought dully that he was quite drunk, but comforted himself with the hope that the other two were in the same condition. They were telling Polish jokes now, and he laughed when they laughed, not bothering to listen.

It was in the middle of one of Turk Bending's anecdotes

that, in a hazy dream, Holloway saw the feelers, head, and then the shiny body of a palmetto bug appear over the edge of the terrace.

He held his breath, watching it move cautiously toward the light. It moved in short darts, pausing, waving its antennae, then scampering on at an angle.

Luther Empt's sling chair went over with a crash. The big man cursed hysterically, fought the canvas, struggled to his feet. He stood panting, mouth open, eyes bulging.

"I'm going to get that cocksucker," he yelled. "I'm going to
get
him!"

He stumbled to the glass door, slid it open with a clang, rushed inside.

"My, my," Turk Bending said happily. "It's turning out to be quite an eveiling."

He and Holloway watched the antics of the palmetto bug. It moved in quick rushes, tacking back and forth, but heading toward the opened glass door.

"Let him go," Bending said, laughing. "He gets inside, Luther will burn down the house."

"Maybe we ought to kill it," Holloway said.

"Naw," Bending said. "Give Luther that pleasure. He probably went for a hammer."

Not a hammer. Empt came charging back onto the terrace. He held a flashlight in one hand. In the other, he brandished an enormous revolver, heavy, polished, wicked.

"Holy Christ!" Turk Bending said.

He and Holloway struggled out of their chairs.

"Where is he?" Luther screamed. "Where? I'll blow that bastard to hell. Where did he go?"

He switched on the flashlight, swept the beam about. The palmetto bug darted out from under Empt's fallen chair, scuttled swiftly, disappeared over the lip of the terrace.

"I'll get him, I'll get him!" Empt yelled, and went pounding down the steps to the beach.

The other two men rushed after him.

"Get it away from him," Bending said to Bill Holloway. "That cannon's a three-five-seven Magnum. He'll blow his fucking leg off."

"You
get it away from him," Holloway said. "The man's demented."

By the time they hit the beach, Luther was searching around the sand and coconut palm roots near the seawall. He was bent over, stalking the bug.

"Come on, you fucker," he growled. "Come on, you little piece of shit. Show your ugly head."

In the beam of the flashlight they saw the bug run swiftly from the wall toward the open sea. Luther Empt aimed and fired. It sounded like a bomb.

A spurt of sand sprayed up in front of the sprinting bug. It changed direction, began zigzagging back toward the seawall.

"Luther," Bending yelled, "you're too drunk to hit the ocean. Gimme that goddamned piece."

But Empt went blundering after the bug. Finally it halted, feelers moving wildly. The hunter approached cautiously, lowered his gun until the muzzle was a few inches from the bug. He pulled the trigger.

The bomb went off again. The sand exploded. The bug was gone. There was a small crater in the beach.

"Got him!" Luther Empt shrieked triumphantly. "I got him! Did you see that? I blew that fucker away!"

"Give me that," William Jasper Holloway said, twisting the revolver from Empt's grasp. "Just give me the gun, Luther."

The weapon was unexpectedly solid, heavy in his grasp. Holloway flourished it over his head.

"Hey, hey!" he shouted. "Look at me! I'm John Wayne. Watch out, you lousy varmints. I'll blow you away!"

He went capering down the beach, waving the revolver over his head, laughing and hiccuping.

"Oh for God's sake," Bending groaned, and ran after him.

Holloway sprinted for about twenty yards, then stopped, panting. He brandished the gun. It felt like a piece of fine machinery, oiled and efficient. He looked around for a suitable target.

His head tilted back. He saw the lemon moon still riding the night sky. He raised a wavering arm, tried to sight on that glowing sphere.

"Goodbye, moon," he screamed, and pulled the trigger.

The jolt traveled down hand, wrist, arm, shoulder. The gun went flying up, free, and then into the sand.

"You fucking idiot!" Turk Bending yelled at him, coming up and grabbing the revolver. "You're lucky if you didn't sink a boat on the Intracoastal. Now do everyone a favor and go home. I'll get Luther to bed."

He stalked off, carrying the gun. Holloway stood swaying in the darkness, looking up to where the moon cruised on calmly, untouched.

"Goodbye, moon," he repeated softly.

He looked around, recognized dimly where he was, and went staggering toward his own house. Once he fell, going down onto hands and knees on the sand.

"Good Lord," he said aloud, "I
am
drunk."

On the beach in front of his home, he decided to go into the sea. Just dunk, not swim. Just get wet and cold and sober. He went floundering down to the water. Fully dressed, still wearing his moccasins, he waded into the Atlantic Ocean. It wasn't all that cold, but it shocked him awake. He didn't try to swim or even to paddle. He just waded steadily, trying to stay upright, moving out until the water was up to his neck, and waves were smacking his face.

He blinked, gasped, spluttered, spat. He shook his head. Unaccountably, he felt to make certain his soaked wallet was still on his hip.

He spread his arms, rose a few inches from the sandy bottom, then came back down as waves passed under him. He bobbed and bobbed, seeing the soft tropical night, the black sea stretching forever.

Suddenly he thought he might wade on. To England, or Portugal, or Africa. Just walk until the salt was in his mouth, nose, his eyes, and his hair would float free. He would just walk into it, striding purposefully until it took him.

He was close to it, close, but a larger wave spun him, arms pinwheeling, and he saw the lights of land, of his own home.

Straining, bending forward, he waded to shore. There was an undertow, not strong, but enough so that he felt the fingers pulling him back. He pushed against it, lifting his knees higher.

He came plunging out of the surf, stumbled, fell, stood, scuttled onward just like that poor, doomed bug. Then he was on dry sand, dripping, chest heaving, the lights of home a blur through a film of salt. The sea and his own tears.

He tried for a sob, but all he could manage was a giggle.

Teresa Empt, contained and glacial, came out onto the terrace shortly after midnight. She closed the glass door to the darkened living room carefully behind her. She lifted and straightened the canvas sling chair her husband had overturned.

She stood at the terrace railing—fancifully ornamental ironwork salvaged from the balcony of a demolished New Orleans bordello. A white nylon peignoir whipped about her long legs. The night wind had an edge, smelled crisply of salt.

Sky swept of clouds. Stars glittering. White froth rimming the ocean. Palm fronds rustled steadily, a sibilant whisper. It seemed to her that she might be the last person on earth.

It had been what she termed a gauche evening. Definitely gauche. Early on, she had played backgammon with her mother-in-law. Gertrude persisted in calling her "Dearie." There wasn't much Teresa could do about that, but Gertrude had compounded her offensiveness by winning three games.

Teresa Empt did not take losing lightly.

She had been aware of the three men drinking on the terrace. Bragging about their business deals, she supposed, and telling their coarse jokes. Once Luther had come through the living room for more whiskey and more ice. He didn't speak to his wife or mother.

Then, later, after Gertrude had gone off to bed, Teresa had curled up on the couch. She sipped sherry from a Baccarat glass and leafed through a copy of
Vogue.

Suddenly there was a crash from the terrace. She looked up to see the door flung open. Her husband came charging through, his face wrenched with fury.

"Luther—" she had started, but he had paid no attention to her.

He reappeared a few moments later, carrying a flashlight and a gun. The revolver, she knew, was kept in the desk of his downstairs study.

"Luther—" she said again, and again he paid no heed.

She thought he looked murderous. She rose gracefully to her feet. She stood motionless, one hand clenched over her heart. She heard shouts and, a few minutes later, the sound of two shots. A few minutes after that, there was a third explosion, this one fainter.

He's dead. That was her first reaction: Luther was shot and dead. She thought immediately that she'd have to buy black. She had no suitable black gowns in her wardrobe, and knew she'd have to shop on Worth Avenue for something elegant.

But then Luther and Turk Bending came stumbling in from the terrace. Bending was carrying the gun, and had one arm about her husband's waist, half-supporting him and dragging him forward. Bending was grinning.

He told her everything was all right, no one had been hurt. Luther had just been shooting at a palmetto bug. Bending said he'd get her husband to bed. She watched the two drunken fools go staggering up the stairs. Then she went to the marble-topped sideboard and poured herself another sherry.