Case of Lucy Bending (53 page)

"Stare into my eyes. Don't even blink. And don't say a word."

Only their faces were close. Their naked bodies were apart, and her nailed fingers were busy.

"Where did—" he started.

"Shhh," she said sharply. "Not a word. Just keep looking into my eyes."

She worked on him slowly, with cruel deliberation. His mouth fell open; his breathing quickened. But she would not let him move his body closer, but kept him pushed away while she searched his eyes.

"No," she said, halting her services, "not yet."

Then, watching him for a moment, she began again: starting, stopping, starting, stopping, her expression vulpine. She was a marvelous tart. Only passion was lacking.

When he convulsed, she showed her sharp teeth in what might have been a grin. Only then did she cleave to his sweated, sticky body. She kissed his closed eyes, temples, ears, lips. Chaste, fleeting kisses.

"My God," he breathed finally, "you're awfully loving today."

She was silent, but held him tightly, would not let him go. He surrendered to her embrace, thinking himself the most fortunate of men, and gloating. After a while:

"Shower?" he asked her.

"Not yet," she said, slowly disengaging, rolling away from him.

She lay upon her back, stared at that cracked ceiling. She went through the usual drill: feeling her own body, probing smooth thighs, flat abdomen, hard breasts. She slicked herself with her palms, fondling a valuable belonging. Bending watched, amused.

"I can never get enough of you," he told her, "and you can never get enough of you."

She nodded agreement.

"Jane, I wish you'd talk Bill into coming in with Luther and me on the lawsuit. We can make those cruds beg for mercy."

"No," she said. "Bill wants out, and this time I think he's right."

"It'll change things," he warned her. "We'll win, and if Bill doesn't help, we'll dump him. You know that, don't

you?"

"I know it," she said, "and I suppose Bill knows it. He just doesn't care."

"Okay," Bending said. "As long as you and I can keep rubbing the pork ..."

She took his head lightly between her palms and thrust up to meet his mouth.

"My hero," she said.

Ernie Goldman was working late at the office. Everyone else had gone. The drapes were still drawn against the afternoon sun. The air conditioners still hummed. Overhead fluorescent tubes cast a pallid glow that turned Goldman's saffron complexion to mustard.

He was not sweating over Luther Empt's business affairs; Goldman was working on his personal finances. On the desk before him were a plastic bottle of Di-Gel and a shotglass.

He had assembled copies of all his gambling markers, current household bills, bank statements, and indignant letters from attorneys representing the savings and loan association that held his home mortgage, the company that had financed his car, and a personal loan service that, in effect, now owned his furniture, clothes and, for all he knew, his wife and children.

With quick, nervous stabs, Ernie Goldman ran up totals on a pocket calculator. When he finished and inspected the results, he sat back and rapidly slugged two shots of Di-Gel.

Suicide was one possibility. But the thought of self-inflicted pain made him blink faster than ever; he reached for more of the antacid. Another possibility was to declare personal bankruptcy. Take a bath. He could imagine how Sammy Brokar, the bookie who held his markers, would react to that. Crushed kneecaps for Ernie—at the very least.

He had stopped questioning how he had dug such a pit for himself. It had started with a slip and ended with a slide. Now he was in so deep, he knew he could never claw his way up and out. Empt had cut him off from further salary advances that afternoon. Goldman's relatives hung up on him.

He swept all the bumf into a desk drawer and rose wearily, a young old man. He pulled on his jacket (five years old, that doubleknit polyester). He went through the offices, turning off lights and adjusting air conditioners to night temperatures. Ernie Goldman was always the last to leave; everyone knew that.

When he left the building, it was twilight, a dim violet glow in the western sky. Goldman shambled into the parking lot, mildly surprised to see that his six-year-old clunker had not yet been repossessed. He was fumbling for his keys when suddenly they were there, hemming him in, pressing him against the car.

Two burly young guys wearing T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up above their biceps, and faded jeans so tight you could count their balls. One had a scraggly blond mustache that covered his mouth. The other needed a shave and had a fresh tattoo on his left forearm: heart, dagger, and "Mother."

"Hi, Ernie," mustache said genially.

Goldman didn't know them, but he knew who they were. No-necks, he called them.

"Listen," he said quickly, licking his lips, "tell Sammy I'm going to come up with some scratch. Tomorrow noon at the latest. Absolutely."

"Nah," tattoo said, smiling. "Not to worry. Sammy's out, Ernie."

"Out?"

"And we're in," mustache said. "Ain't that nice? You're owned by Jimmy now."

"Jimmy?"

"That's right," tattoo said. "A guy named Jimmy got you out of hock. That make you happy, Ernie?"

"Well . . . uh . . . yes . . . sure."

"Here," mustache said, thrusting a business card at Goldman. "Aristocrat Productions. This is the number you call for action. Horses, dogs, football, baseball, basketball—whatever. Ask for Jimmy."

"Thank you," Ernie Goldman said faintly. "This, uh, Jimmy bought my markers?"

"No sweat," tattoo assured him. "He's a reasonable man. You'll like Jimmy. You do something for him, he'll do something for you."

Emboldened by the hope that he was not to have his kneecaps crushed, Goldman said, "Well . . . sure. Whatever I can." "That's the boy, Ernie," mustache said. "Cooperation. It makes the world go 'round—right?"

Tattoo held a thick forefinger in bent tension on his thumb, then reached out and flicked the end of Goldman's bulbous nose. It hurt so much that tears came to Ernie's eyes.

"Hey," he said in mild protest.

"You just behave," tattoo said, flicking Ernie's nose again. "We'll be in touch and let you know how you can help Jimmy."

"Whatever you say," Goldman said, holding a cupped hand over his throbbing nose.

Mustache pulled his hand away and tattoo flicked the nose again. The pain was so sharp, so intense, that Goldman reeled and fell back against the car.

"Don't get any bright ideas," mustache said. "Like taking off for parts unknown or going to the cops. Nothing like that."

"Oh no," Ernie said, his voice a sob. "I never would."

"Good," tattoo said, giving his nose a final flick. "Just go about your business and act normal. You'll be hearing from us. And don't worry about your markers."

"Thank you very much," Ernie Goldman said humbly, touching his nose.

Ronald Bending couldn't decide if he admired and loved his silver-gray Porsche 924 Turbo because it reminded him of Jane Holloway, or if he admired and loved the woman because she reminded him of the car.

Both had a smooth, elegant, pared-down look. No gaudy ornamentation. Nothing extraneous to function. Both built for speed. Both with bodies like Brancusi's "Bird in Space."

On the evening after Ernie Goldman had the nose problem, Bending decided he might cruise around, check out a few joints, and—who knows?—maybe find the great temporary love of his life. He framed a plausible cover story and called home. Luckily, Wayne answered.

"Hiya kid," Bending said to his son. "How's it going?"

"Okay," Wayne said.

"Listen, tell your mother I can't get home for dinner. Big client in town, and I've got to wine him and dine him."

"Sure," Wayne said.

"This cat's from up north," Bending went on glibly.

"Lots of bucks. Maybe he'll pick up the check." He laughed

heartily.

"Uh-huh," Wayne said.

"So tell mother not to wait up for me. All right? Tell her
I
'll lock up when I get home."

"Yeah," Wayne said.

Bending hung up, wondering what was eating the kid. Growing pains, he supposed, and thought no more of it.

He showered and shaved in his office bathroom, changing to fresh underwear, socks, and shirt from a supply he kept there for just such occasions. Instead of putting on his suit coat, he donned a jazzy Porsche racing jacket and cap (with emblem) he had recently purchased.

It was finky, he knew, because he had never raced the Porsche in his life and didn't intend to. But the sharp nylon jacket and gold-trimmed cap were two more links to his marvelous machine. He inspected himself in the bathroom mirror, gave the cap a more rakish tilt. Crazy! He sallied forth, carrying suit coat and briefcase.

As usual, before he got into his car, he walked around it, inspecting the glossy finish anxiously for nicks, scratches, dents. It was his baby, and he spent a fortune on maintenance, following the manual religiously on periodic checkups and tunings.

He tossed suit coat and briefcase into the back. Sitting behind the wheel in his racing jacket and cap, he inhaled once again that wonderful new-car smell: leather, oil, machinery, money. The lighted dash looked like the control panel of a 747.

"Pilot to tower," he said aloud. "Taking off on south runway."

Apparently he received a favorable response, for he gunned out of the parking lot, made a sharp turn, and headed for the Chez When. Where the action was.

He was so happy with his new racing jacket and cap, his freedom, with this incredible vehicle that responded nimbly to the lightest touch, that he had no awareness of the black Pon-tiac Grand Prix that picked him up when he left the parking lot and followed him south on Federal Highway.

"Lots of action tonight, Mr. Bending," the Chez When parking valet said, trotting forward to open the car door.

Then, when Bending stepped out, "Wow, will you look at the threads!"

"You like, Jimbo?"

"Wild," the valet said admiringly. "If you can't score in that getup, it's time for Geritol."

Bending walked casually into the bar, didn't remove his braided cap until most of the creamers got a look at him. Then he found a vacant barstool, swung aboard, and ordered a bourbon, water on the side.

He had time for only one sip, hadn't even inspected the prospects sitting at the bar, when he felt a tug on his jacket sleeve. He swung around, and there was the superbutterfiall.

"What are you selling tonight?" he asked her. "Cancer?"

"Listen," she said, "I'm sorry about that, pal. She wasn't due back until the next night. Honest." Then, when she saw him looking about nervously . . . "Don't worry, she's out of town for the week."

"Uh-huh. What does she do for a living? All that traveling ..."

The girl looked at him directly. "She's on the convention circuit. Makes a good living."

"I'll bet. She's beautiful. You swing both ways, huh?"

"Four ways," she told him. "Up, down, in, and out. Let me buy you a drink—to make up for what happened."

He surrendered his barstool and stood at her shoulder. She really did want to buy him a drink, so he let her. But after that one, he paid.

They had a few more wallops and ignored what had happened the last time they met. They started talking nonsense again:

"I like your jacket," she said. "Are you a colonel in the Liechtenstein army?''

"Actually," he said, "I'm an admiral in the Swiss navy. But I have a confession to make: I'm not wearing a bra."

"Doesn't it hurt when you jog?"

"Only downhill. You never did tell me your name."

"Frank," she said. "And my girlfriend's name is Ernest."

"What a coincidence," he said. "My law firm is Totter & Reel."

And so on . . .

Bending wasn't sure he wanted to invest in a dinner again. But the girl was undeniably luscious . . . and available. She
_was
wearing a wraparound skirt that fell open when she climbed onto the barstool. There were those creamy thighs.

She caught him staring. "I told you she's out of town."

"No," he said regretfully, "I can't take the chance."

"Your place?"

"Impossible. I live at the YMCA."

"How about a motel?"

He took a deep breath. "Let's go have dinner," he said.

Again, he watched with amazement while she demolished a two-pound lobster, french fries, asparagus, a small loaf of pumpernickel—and made two trips to the salad bar.