Tenth Commandment (27 page)

'The last time I saw Paris,' Perdita crooned in my ear.

'Let's you and me make yum-yum.'

'Perdita,' I said, 'I really -'

'Can we go to your place?' she whispered.

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'Oh no. No, no, no. Really. I'm afraid that wouldn't -'

'Where is your place?'

'Miles from here. Way downtown. West side.'

'Where is your place?' she said. 'Yum-yum.'

'Way downtown,' I started again.

'Col!' she screamed. 'We're going.'

'Good show,' he said.

We came out of Mother Tucker's and turned our backs to a vindictive wind that stung with driven snow. Manila motioned and we went plodding after him around the corner on to 69th Street. He halted at a car and began to fumble in his coat pockets for his keys. We all piled into the front, Perdita sitting in the middle.

'A joint,' the Colonel said.

'Oh no, sir,' I said. 'I thought it was a very pleasant restaurant.'

Perdita, already fishing in her purse, got out a fat, hand-rolled cigarette, both ends twisted.

She lighted it, took a deep drag, and held it out to the Col. He took a tremendous drag and half the cigarette seemed to disappear in a shower of sparks.

'Now then,' the Colonel said. He handed the joint back to Perdita, then busied himself with switches and buttons.

In a few moments he had the headlights on, engine purring, the heater going. The snow on the windows began to melt away.

'Whisky,' the Colonel said, like a drillmaster rapping out commands.

Perdita twisted around, got on to her knee on the front seat, and leaned far over into the rear compartment. Her rump jutted into the air. Colonel Manila slapped it lightly.

'There's a gel,' he said affectionately.

She flopped back to her original position with a full decanter and three tumblers, all in cut crystal. She poured us all drinks, big drinks, then set the decanter on the floor between her feet. I knew we would be stopped. I knew the 224

police would arrest us. I could imagine the charges.

Perhaps, I thought hopefully, I might get off with three years because of my youthful appearance and exemplary record.

Nothing of the sort happened. The Colonel drove expertly. Even after he turned on the radio to a rock-and-roll station and kept banging the steering wheel with one palm in time to the music, still he smoked, drank, stopped for traffic lights, negotiated turns skilfully, and pulled up right in front of my door, scrunching the limousine into a snowbank. I laughed shrilly.

'Well, this has certainly been a memorable evening,' I said, listening to the quaver in my voice. 'I do want to thank - '

'Out,' Perdita Schug growled, nudging me. 'Let's go.'

I stumbled out hastily into the snow. She came scrambling after me. I looked back in at Colonel Clyde Manila.

He waggled fingers at me. I waggled back. Perdita slammed the car door, then took my arm in a firm, proprietary grip.

'Up we go,' she said gaily.

It was then around midnight. I think. Or it could have been ten. Or it might have been two. Whatever it was, I hoped Mrs Hermione Hufnagel, Cleo, Captain Bramwell Shank, Adolph Finkel, and Madame Zora Kadinsky were all behind locked doors and sleeping innocently in their warm beds.

'Shh,' I said to Perdita Schug, leading her upstairs. I giggled nervously.

'What's with this shh shit?' she demanded.

I got her inside my apartment. She was moving now with deliberate and exaggerated caution.

I switched on the overhead light. I draped our coats and hats over a chairback. She looked around the living room.

I awaited her reaction. There was none. She flopped into my armchair.

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'Come sit on my lap,' she said with a vulpine grin.

I began to stammer, but she grabbed my wrist, drew me to her with surprising strength, and plunked me down on to her soft thighs.

She kissed me. My toes curled. Inside shoes and the rubbers I had neglected to remove.

'Mmm,' she said. 'That's better. Much better.'

She wriggled around, pulled me tighter on to her lap.

She had a muscled arm around my neck. She pressed our cheeks together. 'The last time I saw Paris,' she sang.

'Perdita,' I said, giving it one last try, 'I can't understand how you can endure doing the work you do. I mean, you've got so much personality and, uh, talent and experience. Why do you stay on as a maid for Tippi Kipper?'

'It's a breeze,' she said promptly. 'The pay is good. And I get meals and my own apartment. My own telephone.

What should I be doing — selling gloves in Macy's?'

'But still, it must be boring.'

'Sometimes yes,' she said. 'Sometimes no. Like any other job.'

'Is Mrs Kipper, ah, you know, understanding?'

'Oh sure,' she said, laughing. 'I get away with murder.

That Chester Heavens would like to bounce my ass right out of there, and Mrs Neckin called me "the spawn of the devil." They'd both like me out of there, but Tippi will never can me. Never.'

'Why not?'

'Give us another kissy,' she said.

I gave her another kissy.

'You're learning,' she said. 'Listen, Tippi plays around as much as I do. And she knows I know it.'

'Plays around now or before? I mean, when her husband was alive?'

'Oh shit, Josh, she's always played around. As long as I've been there. That'll be four years come April.'

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'How do you know?'

'How do I know? Oh, you poor, sweet, innocent lamb.

You think I don't smell the grass on her and see her underwear and notice her hair is done a different way when she comes home from what she said was a bridge party?

Listen, a woman knows these things. A maid especially.

Scratches on her back. Fingerprints on her ass. Oh, she's making it; no doubt about that. Listen, Josh, I'm out of joints. You got any Scotch?'

'Well . . . uh, sure,' I said. 'But are you certain you want — '

'Get me a Scotch,' she commanded.

I got her a drink.

'Where's yours?' she asked.

'We'll share this one,' I said.

'A loving cup,' she said. 'And then the yum-yum.

Where's the bed?'

'In the bedroom.'

'Not yet,' she said, shaking a reproving finger at me.

'Don't be in such a rush, tiger.'

'I'm really not,' I assured her. 'I mean, it's not what you -'

She grabbed my arm and pulled me down on to her lap again. I went to my fate willingly.

'So cute,' she said drowsily. 'You really are cute.'

'Tippi isn't making it with Knurr, is she?'

'Ho-ho-ho,' Perdita Schug said. 'Is she ever. Two, three times a week, at least. He's very big in her life right now.

Even in the house — can you beat that? I mean it. And while Sol was alive, too. The two of them in the elevator.

How does that grab you? Did you ever make it in an elevator, Josh?'

'No, I never have.'

'Me neither,' she said sorrowfully. 'But once in a closet,'

she said brightening. 'The funny thing i s . . . ' Her voice trailed away.

'What's the funny thing?' I asked.

'I could have him like that,' she said, trying to snap her 227

fingers. But they just slid over each other. 'Knurr, I mean.

He's warm for my form. Always coming on strong. Copping a feel when she isn't looking. The guy's a cocksman.

A religious cocksman. Now I'm ready for yum-yum.'

She found the bedroom. I didn't turn on the bedside lamp; there was enough illumination coming from the hallway. She looked around dazedly, put a hand against the wall to support herself. She turned her back to me.

'Unzip,' she said.

Obediently, I drew the long zipper down to her waist.

She shrugged the dress off her shoulders, let it fall to the floor, stepped out of it. She was wearing bra, panties, sheer black pantyhose. She shook her head suddenly, flinging her short flapper-cut about in a twirl.

'I'm zonked,' she announced.

She plumped down suddenly on the bed, fell back, raised her legs high in the air.

'Peel me,' she said.

There were a lot of other questions I wanted to ask her about Tippi Kipper and the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, but somehow this didn't seem the right time. I peeled off her pantyhose.

She rolled around and wiggled beneath the bedclothes, pulled sheet and blanket up to her chin. In a moment, a slim white arm popped out and she tossed brassiere and panties on to the floor.

'Okay, tiger,' she said sleepily. 'The time is now. The moment of truth.'

I stooped to pick up her dress. I shook out the wrinkles and hung it away in the closet. I picked up her lingerie and draped it neatly over the dresser.

When I turned back to the bed, she was asleep, breathing steadily, her head turned sideways on the pillow.

I brought her shoes from the living room, set them neatly beside the bed.

I awoke the next morning with cricks in my neck, 228

shoulders, hips, thighs, and ankles, from a rude bed I had made of two chairs. Sometimes small stature is advantageous. I staggered to my feet and, in my underwear, began to waggle, flapping my arms, shaking my legs, rotating my head on my neck, and so forth. Such is the resilience of youth that I was soon able to walk upright with just the merest hint of a limp.

Perdita still slept tranquilly, head sideways on the pillow, covers drawn up to her chin, knees bent, as I had left her. Only the slow rise and fall of the blanket proved she was not deceased.

I went into the bathroom as noisily as I could, slammed the door, sang in the shower. I brushed my teeth, decided it was unnecessary to shave, and came bouncing out, a towel wrapped demurely about my loins.

'Hello, hello, hello,' I carolled, then peeked into the bedroom. She was still sleeping.

I dressed in fresh linen and clothing, trying to make as much noise as possible. Finally dressed, I went back into the kitchen and banged around, boiling water for instant coffee. I brought two filled cups into the bedroom and set them on the bedside table. It was almost 8.30.

I sat on the bed and shook her shoulder gently. Then with more vigour. Then, I am ashamed to say, violently.

Her eyes suddenly opened. She stared at the opposite wall.

'Wha' ?' she said.

'Perdita,' I said gently, 'it is I, Joshua Bigg, and you are in my apartment in Chelsea. Colonel Clyde Manila drove us here. Do you remember?'

'Sure,' she said brightly. She sat up suddenly in bed, the covers falling to her waist, and reached to embrace me. I hugged her gingerly.

'Feel all right?' I asked.

'Marvy,' she said. 'Just marvy.'

'There's coffee here. Would you like a cup?'

'Why not?' she said. 'Got any brandy?'

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'I do,' I said.

'Slug me,' she said.

I went into the living room for the brandy bottle. By the time I returned, she was out of bed and in her lingerie. She drank off a little of her coffee and I topped it off with brandy. She stuck in a forefinger, stirred it around, then licked her finger.

She sat on the edge of the bed, sipping her coffee royal. I sat next to her. She turned to look at me.

'Josh,' she said tenderly, 'was I good for you?'

'You were wonderful for me.'

'I didn't make too much noise, did I?'

'Not at all,' I assured her. 'It was perfect.'

'For me, too,' she said, sighing. 'Perfect. I feel so loose and relaxed. We must get together again.'

'Absolutely,' I said.

'I'm always at Mother Tucker's on Thursday. Just drop by.'

'I will.'

'Promise?'

'I promise,' I said, kissing the tip of her nose.

She finished her coffee, took her purse, and scampered into the bathroom for a short while. She came out looking radiant, eyes sparkling, lips wet. She dressed swiftly. We put on our coats and hats.

'Kissy,' she said, turning her face up to me.

I unlocked my door, we went out into the hallway, and there was Adolph Finkel. He stared at us. He coughed once, a short, explosive blast.

'Good morning, Finkel,' I said.

'Good morning, Bigg,' he said.

He goggled at Perdita Schug.

'Hi,' she said brightly.

'Uh, hi,' he said. He nodded insanely, his head bobbing up and down on his thin neck. Then he turned and fled down the steps ahead of us.

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'A neighbour,' I explained.

'Unreal,' Perdita murmured.

I had planned to get a cab, but when we came out onto the street, there was a chocolate-coloured Rolls-Royce, and Colonel Clyde Manila behind the wheel, his furred collar turned up to his ears, his black leather cap set squarely atop his gingery toupee. He was sipping from a cut-glass tumbler of Scotch.

It hadn't registered with me that it was a Rolls. I turned to Perdita in disbelief.

'He's still here?' I said. 'Waiting for you?'

'Sure,' she said. 'What do you think?'

5

Yetta Apatoff was on the phone, but gave me a warm smile and a flutter of fingers as I passed. I fluttered in return.

Workmen were busy in the corridor outside my office, moving a desk, swivel chair, lamp, and other accessories into position. A telephone installer was on his knees at the baseboard, running a wire to connect with my office phone.

I sat at my desk and went over the latest additions to my file of pending requests for investigation. I divided the stack into two piles: those I felt could be answered by Mrs Kletz, and those it would be necessary to handle myself. I then went through those I had delegated to my new assistant and scrawled in the margins the sources where she could obtain the information required.

I had started going through the Manhattan Yellow 231

Pages, but was dismayed by the number of chemical laboratories listed and decided to entrust my new assistant with a sensitive assignment. I left a typed note, asking her to call each of the labs listed and say that she represented the attorneys handling the estate of the late Professor Yale Stonehouse. A question had arisen concerning a cheque the Professor had written to the lab without any accompanying voucher. She was to ask each laboratory to consult their files to establish the date of billing and the purpose for which the money was paid.