Slightly Abridged (26 page)
Authors: Ellen Pall
Murray Undercover
It was a funny thing about sex, Murray Landis was thinking. It
was kind of like haircuts. Every generation came of age with a certain style, certain ways of thinking about sexâor hairâthat seemed okay, seemed normal, and once you'd gotten those ideas in your head, it was almost impossible to shake them.
was kind of like haircuts. Every generation came of age with a certain style, certain ways of thinking about sexâor hairâthat seemed okay, seemed normal, and once you'd gotten those ideas in your head, it was almost impossible to shake them.
Not all that long before his own time, there had been good girls and bad girls. Bad girls “did it,” of course, and good girls didn't. Even in his own time, there had still been “it,” though he and his friends spoke of “making,” not “doing” “it.” And he still remembered thinking of “it,” thinking and thinking and thinking, with a yearning curiosity that colored almost everything else.
But there hadn't been “good” and “bad” girls anymore. Just girls and boys, and (by the time they got out of high school, anyhow) pretty much all of them had “made it.” They made it with fervent, romantic innocence, or in a spirit of affectionate adventure. Some were gay and that was cool, the others assured themselves. And that was the culture of sex for Landis, then and forever. So that even now, even after the slacker disdain for dating, the Gen X triumph of bisexuality, the current teenaged habit of “hooking up” almost meaninglessly, often multiply, at partiesâfor him, sex still meant one man privately pairing off with one woman and “making it” by mutual
consent. Just as he still kept his curly hair short and a little untidy, and nothing else looked quite right to him. Buzz cuts, like crew cuts, were permanently alien to his eye, and he would no more have shaved his head than covered it with a powdered wig.
consent. Just as he still kept his curly hair short and a little untidy, and nothing else looked quite right to him. Buzz cuts, like crew cuts, were permanently alien to his eye, and he would no more have shaved his head than covered it with a powdered wig.
It was Cindy Giddy, of course, whose cropped blonde aureole of hair and apparent readiness to take him to her bed immediately upon his return to her doorstep had set this train of thought in motion. It wasn't that he found either the hair or the readiness unattractive, per se. The cut was not to his taste, but he had to admit it suited her. And the implicit offer of her body wasâwell, it was intoxicating, really.
Yet it was not at all difficult for him to suggest, drawing her toward her own front door, that they take a drive “first.”
Cindy's initial response was a sullen moue. Then she remembered the Jaguar. It wasn't a Miata or a Lotus, but it was expensive and red and shiny and new. Landis could almost see its image materialize in her dilated pupils as she recalled and anticipated it. With a shrug, she picked up a faux leopard-fur coat from a hook by the front door and slipped it on.
Then she turned to face him, sleepy brown eyes full on his.
“Button it,” she said.
Landis had seldom felt the urge to laugh so closely conjoined to the wish to slap someone. The words, “Button it yourself,” were on the tip of his tongue. But, reflecting that a few moments ago he had as much as declined to acquire carnal knowledge of herâor, at least, chosen to defer itâhe curbed his instincts and obliged her.
Dropping to his knees, “My grandmother always taught us to button our clothes from the bottom,” he said, bringing the two sides of her hem together. “That way you don't do them crooked.”
He began, very slowly, to button, rising as he went. The coat had big round buttons covered in black leather, eight in all. The fifth through the third were particularly interesting. When he got to the top, he drew the collar a little tighter around her neck than was
necessary and leaned his face down over hers as if he planned to kiss her.
necessary and leaned his face down over hers as if he planned to kiss her.
But he didn't. He buttoned the final button against her thin, pale throat, then told her, “Get in the car.”
She turned and went. This was good, because behind her, he had started cracking up. What a piece of work! He didn't envy Tom.
In the car, after he had backed out of the driveway, it seemed natural to ask, “Where's your husband?” He headed away from town on Route 131, toward the Blue Line. As long as they were taking a drive, he wanted to see the mountains.
For a moment he thought she was going to spit. But she said, “At work. Harlan's Garage, in town. He'll be there till five at least. You don't have to worry that he'll come home early. He never comes home early.”
“You say that like you wish he would.”
She laughed. “Not unless he went to someone else's home.”
“Does he do that?”
“You mean cheat on me?”
Landis nodded.
“I wish. No, Tom's true blue,” she said, her tone suggesting this was a contemptible quality in a man. Then she added, somewhat less harshly, “He's crazy, but he's true blue.”
Even with his eyes on the road, he had adequate peripheral vision to see her shiver slightly as she said this. “Crazy in what sense?”
“Don't worry. Not like he'll come after you with an axe.”
“Yeah, but what do you mean?”
“Oh, just ⦠nothing.” She pulled the faux leopard coat closer around her, folding her arms on her chest.
Landis hesitated, then decided to leave it alone. One thing he could tell about Cindy Giddy, she was perverseâthe type to clam up when you pumped her, talk when you told her to be quiet.
The silence lasted some minutes, only the sound of the tires
on the smooth, salt-swept pavement filling the car. Landis was startled by how quickly the rolling farmland fell away behind them. Just a few miles from the Giddys' driveway, they were across the Adirondack Park line and into the mountains. Thick, dark firs closed in on them, branches heavy with snow. Soon, beyond a scattering of bungalows, glimpses of gray-blue water began to wink through the trees.
on the smooth, salt-swept pavement filling the car. Landis was startled by how quickly the rolling farmland fell away behind them. Just a few miles from the Giddys' driveway, they were across the Adirondack Park line and into the mountains. Thick, dark firs closed in on them, branches heavy with snow. Soon, beyond a scattering of bungalows, glimpses of gray-blue water began to wink through the trees.
“What lake is that?”
“It's a reservoir, not a lake.” He could hear in her voice the dull charm of telling a stranger something you've known since birth and been bored by almost as long. “It's called the Great Sacandaga Lake, but it's man-made. They made it to stop the floods when the snowpack melts in the mountains. There used to be houses and farms there. But they're under water now.”
He glanced at her, surprised that so much history should be at her command. Maybe she was smarter than he gave her credit for. She was playing with one of the leather buttons in her lap. He turned west, away from the reservoir onto a small, winding road. He had been planning to pull over somewhere, take a walk with her in the snowâa walk intimate enough to prompt frank conversation, but too cold for sex.
But the farther he went, the less he liked the idea of stopping. What if the car wouldn't start again? He found it impossible not to think about what would happen if you ran out of gas out here or had a breakdown or an accident. He had grown up in the city, after all; for him, not enough people meant possible danger. How often did folks come this way? He hadn't seen a car in miles.
Suddenly, Cindy's left hand was on his right thigh, her palm stroking slowly up and down along the denim. He tightened his leg muscles, willing himself to keep a steady foot on the accelerator. Thank God his gun was strapped around his ankle, not higher up.
When he glanced at her, he found her indolent gaze full on him, her coat open, her right foot propped up on the dashboard. It
wasn't a very subtle invitation. But he was only human, and some of the most human parts of him had begun to respond when, by an act of God, a streak of movement in the corner of his eye became a small deer, dashing into the road a hundred feet ahead. It paused there as Murray stomped on the brake. Then it dashed away again. At that same moment, a snowmobile came screaming up behind the car, its motor so loud that Landis expected it to rear-end them at any moment.
wasn't a very subtle invitation. But he was only human, and some of the most human parts of him had begun to respond when, by an act of God, a streak of movement in the corner of his eye became a small deer, dashing into the road a hundred feet ahead. It paused there as Murray stomped on the brake. Then it dashed away again. At that same moment, a snowmobile came screaming up behind the car, its motor so loud that Landis expected it to rear-end them at any moment.
But it wasn't on the pavement, of course, he realized a moment later; it was beside them, on a roadside trail masked by a fringe of trees. It shot past them, doing at least sixty, Landis would have guessed.
All the excitement broke the spell of the moment in the car. Cindy hadn't relinquished her claim on his leg, but she did settle into a more sedate position on her side of the stick shift.
“I like snowmobiles,” Murray said, hoping that if he raised the subject, she would confirm somehow that she and Tom owned one. “They're noisy, but they're great.”
“You like them? I hate them. Tom spends half the winter tooling his up.”
Bingo.
“And repairing other people's,” she went on.
“Well, at least that must mean work for him,” he suggested. “Gainful employment.”
Now she did spit, or at least sputtered. “They're toys,” she said, scorn rich in her voice. “The men around here play with them like children.”
Glancing at her again, he wondered what grown-up activities she would have preferred. He didn't have to wonder very long. In no time, her hand was flickering over his leg again, heading this time for his crotch.
“Tell me about your work,” she said. Her fingers moved over him like water, fluid, slow, thorough. “What's it like?”
“My work?” With relief, he saw they were approaching an intersection. Route something. Route anything. What did it matter? He could turn south, back toward civilization.
“Yes. Your friend, what's-her-name, told me you're an artist. Are your paintings in museums?”
Mercifully, she drew back her hand, pulling her knees up onto her seat. Swiveling to face his side of the car, she raised herself slightly and, with her right index finger, slowly drew a line down the side of his cheek.
He laughed before he could stop himself. “No,” he said, then recovered and added, “I'm a sculptor. But you don't have to have work in museums to appeal to collectors.”
He could feel that she was disappointedâso close to him, she could hardly help letting him feel it. Doubtless she had been hoping to hear he was well represented in gleaming institutions around the world. He could hear the wheels whir inside her head. Okay, no museums. But collectors, that sounded like money. And he had enough freedom to pal around with that writer lady Ada had made such a big deal about. A New York artist, a man with a shiny car. A man whose jaw was about three inches from her mouth, whose hipbone was now under the palm of her hand.
“Are you married?”
He shook his head.
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
And then she drew away a little. The Bad Thought had hit her. Artist, New York, not married, didn't jump herâ
“You do like women, don't you?”
“Oh, yes.”
She came forward again, this time putting her mouth to his ear. Her breath was hot. “Do you like me?”
“How could I help it?”
She smiled. He could feel her mouth stretching over his cheekbone.
“Why don't we stop for a drink?” Finally, she sat up straight, turned in her seat, swung her legs down where they belonged. “There's a place called Ruby's a couple of miles from here. You take your next left.”
“Okay.”
It was only lunchtime, but he wouldn't mind a drink. And some food, if Ruby's served it. The woods, the long drive of the morning, and, most of all, being expertly pawed while at the wheel had left him a little light-headed.
“Keep right,” Cindy said, as the road forked.
And suddenly they were back in civilization again, a scattering of businesses strung at ragged intervals on either side of a two-lane road marked 23a. A tumbledown antique shop called Better Days, a mobile home-turned-office to accommodate Joe's Plumbing and Heating, a large-animal vet, a tiny shack offering “live bait” (Landis was rattled enough to misread this as “love bait” at first glance) and ammunition.
On the south side of the road, just across from the glass front of Four Seasons Power Equipment (“New and Used Trucks, Motors, Skis, Engines, Snowmobiles, Pontoons, Outboards, All-Terrain Vehicles, Trade-Ins Welcome”) was Ruby's, a dark wooden cabin decorated with a string of dusty Christmas lights. He pulled into the half-full parking lot and shut the car off with a sense of gratitude. Distracted as he had been, it seemed a miracle he hadn't driven the car into that deer or one of the thousands of trees.
Inside was a long bar, a row of four-person booths beside the windows that faced the road and the parking lot, a strong smell of griddle grease in the smoky air, and a chalked list of SPECIALS on a blackboard over the draft-beer taps. From the look of the clientele on the bar stools, Ruby's was more heavily patronized by alcoholic
mountaineers than by townsmen seeking a whiff of rural atmosphere. The barmaid serving themâsoon revealed to be also the only waitress and the proprietor, Ruby, herselfâwas a thin, middle-aged redhead with a small, worn face. She looked thoroughly sick of her regulars. Only a few of the booths were occupied, one by a glum family of three, another by two men still wearing hunting caps. Murray paused on the threshold, taking in the scene; Cindy brushed past him and across the room, sliding into a booth.
mountaineers than by townsmen seeking a whiff of rural atmosphere. The barmaid serving themâsoon revealed to be also the only waitress and the proprietor, Ruby, herselfâwas a thin, middle-aged redhead with a small, worn face. She looked thoroughly sick of her regulars. Only a few of the booths were occupied, one by a glum family of three, another by two men still wearing hunting caps. Murray paused on the threshold, taking in the scene; Cindy brushed past him and across the room, sliding into a booth.
He hesitated. She had taken the side facing the doorâby training, the seat he always preferred. But after her performance in the car, he hardly dared sit beside her. And he certainly didn't want to tell her he was a cop and could she please move so he could watch who came in and went out. She didn't bother hiding her disappointment as he slid in across from her, settling himself on the wooden bench.
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