The Gutter and the Grave (12 page)

Ryan walked over to him, his trumpet in one hand. “How was it, Mr. Terrin?” he asked.

“Lousy,” Tammy said.

“What!”

“I ought to charge you my carfare from New Rochelle. You got some nerve dragging me here to listen to a bunch of second-rate bums.”

“Hey, watch it, Fat Boy,” Laraine said into the mike, and then she stepped out from behind it and walked to him quickly. “If you don’t like us, don’t knock us.”

“You cheap canary,” Tammy said. “I’ve heard better voices in church on Sunday.”

“You wouldn’t know a voice from a hearse,” Laraine said angrily, her eyes blazing.

“I know a lousy singer when I hear one,” he said, “and I know a band from hunger.”

“Go back to New Rochelle,” Ryan said, joining the heated fray. “Get yourself an oom-pah-pah band that don’t mind working for a…”

“I wouldn’t allow this girl in my place,” Tammy said, retreating toward the door. “A voice like hers…”

“Goodbye, Mr. Terrin,” I said, rising.

He turned to look at me. Snidely, he said, “Who’s this? Your arranger?” and he walked out, the seersucker suit following behind him.

“That bum,” Laraine said.

“Goddamnit!” Ryan said. “Goddamnit to hell! Were we that lousy, Cordell?”

“You were damn good,” I said.

“You know what this audition cost me? Jesus, I knocked my brains out getting stands for us, just so we’d look good. You know who stayed up all night painting those D.R.’s on the stands? And pasting on the stars? Me. Goddamn that son-of-a-bitch!”

“Forget it,” I said. “You wouldn’t want to work for him, anyway.”

“The small guy never gets a break,” Ryan said disgustedly.

“The small guy has to make his own breaks,” Laraine said. “The hell with him. He’ll sit up and take notice some day. I won’t forget that bastard, that’s for sure.”

She turned to me. “Are you hungry, Matt?”

“Famished.”

“So am I. Let’s go.”

I stopped to talk to De Ponce before we left the rehearsal hall. He was already wrapping his sandwiches, preparatory to following me again.

“Look,” I said, “I expect to spend the night where
I’m going. You plan to sit outside until morning?”

“I don’t know if I can trust you, Cordell.”

“Do it however you want,” I said. “Here’s the address. I won’t be leaving until morning. You can pick me up again then.”

“What time?”

“Nine or so.”

He considered it for a minute. “Miskler won’t like it,” he said. “I’ll sit out front. It’s summer, so I sure as hell won’t freeze.”

“You make me feel bad, De Ponce.”

“I get paid for it,” he said, and he grinned. “I’ll call in for a car. Don’t worry about me.”

Laraine and I left the rehearsal hall. De Ponce was right behind us. He certainly would not freeze outside tonight. The heat that had been crowding the city all day long had managed to remain imprisoned in the brick and asphalt and concrete. There was not a breath of air to be had outside. It had been deceptively cool in the basement room, and now the jaws of Hell opened wide and a searing hot tongue of contained heat licked out and covered us instantly with sticky clinging sweat.

“Oh, my God,” Laraine said. “Let’s go back to the basement.”

“And face a lot of long sad musicians?”

“I’m joking, but God! Was it this hot before?”

“It seems hotter after the basement.”

“Let’s hurry to my place. I want a very tall, cold drink. And I’ve got a fan we can put on.”

We walked in silence for the length of the block. Then I said, “Are you very disappointed?”

“Not really,” she said. “What’s Tammy Terrin? Critic for the
Times
or something? He wouldn’t know a band if it were around his throat and strangling him. As for singers, he’s probably used to the drunks who wobble up to the piano and request ‘Around the World’ in the key of C minor. The Tammy Terrins of the world don’t bother me.”

“You sound bothered.”

“If I do, it’s only because I’m impatient. I want to get where I’m going—and fast.”

We were on Second Avenue now. It was beginning to get dark, and the night noises of summer were descending around us. Night comes suddenly in the city, partly because the buildings obscure the sky, and partly because the lights seem to come on all at once, declaring an end to daytime. There is no watching the sky turn purple with dusk. There is no watching the sun sink below the horizon. It is day, and then it is night, and the night sounds start. The night sounds are the whisper of an enormous city. The radios tuned low, the muted hum of the television sets, the giggles of young girls standing in summer frocks on front stoops, the occasional beep of horns, the high moan of tugboats on the river, and the lights which—soundless—seem to add to the medley.

We walked slowly because the city was truly hot and walking was an exercise that had not been designed for steaming pavements and sweating tenements. We
didn’t talk much because even that was an effort.

When we reached Laraine’s building I said, “Don’t forget your mail.”

“I picked it up on the way home from work,” she said, and she smiled.

We walked upstairs, and Laraine unlocked the door. We went into the apartment. The first thing I did was go to the window, look downstairs, and then pull down the shade. De Ponce had parked himself on the front stoop, apparently to wait for the car he’d ordered. I eased my conscience with the thought that he’d at least have the front seat of an automobile for the night. The first thing Laraine did was kiss me. Then, drawing away, she said, “Ahhh, that was good. The working girl’s reward for a hard day’s labor.”

She was wearing a cotton suit. She took off the jacket to reveal a white blouse, opened at the throat. She wore a necklace with small simulated rubies, and she took that off quickly and dropped it on one of the end tables.

“Drinks?” she said.

“Yes. Where is it? I’ll mix them.”

“The kitchen,” she said. “Setups are underneath the sink, ice in the refrigerator. My God, this place is suffocating.” She went around the apartment opening windows while I went into the kitchen to mix the drinks. The open windows didn’t help much. There wasn’t a breeze in the entire city. But at least they created the illusion of being able to breathe. I brought the drinks into the living room. Laraine was
sitting on the sofa, her legs propped up on the coffee table. I handed her the drink, a bourbon and soda with tons of ice. She took the glass and rolled it against her forehead and face, making small sighing sounds. Then she unbuttoned two buttons of the white blouse and pressed the cold glass to her bosom, rolling it there.

“Mmmmm, cold,” she said.

I put my drink to more sensible use. I drank it.

“Been dating Johnny Bridges long?” I asked her.

She stared up at me. She had taken the drink away from her skin, but she had not buttoned her blouse. It hung precariously low over the swell of her breasts, a shaded valley between the raised mounds held tight by her bra.

“Who said I was dating him?”

“He did.”

“You jealous?”

“No.”

Laraine smiled. “Then why do you want to know?”

“For several reasons.”

“Give me a few.” She tasted the drink. “You made it strong,” she said. “And don’t give me the old rejoinder about strong drinks and weak women.”

“I wouldn’t,” I told her. “Johnny says you were dating him. He seemed more than casually interested. I have also heard that Dom Archese was indulging in a bit of inter-family philandering. Any truth to that?”

“None whatever. Do you think I’m crazy?”

“I’m asking.”

“Whether or not there was anything between Dom and me?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m telling. No, there wasn’t. Next question.”

“The next question is back to the first question. Were you dating Johnny?”

“Yes.” She rose suddenly. “Do you mind? I’m dying from the heat.”

I didn’t know what I was supposed to mind, and when I found out, I certainly didn’t mind at all. Laraine unbuttoned her blouse quickly and expertly. She threw it over the chair and then went to sit by the window. The cotton skirt clung to her wide hips. The white bra held her breasts tightly. A high sheen of sweat was on the sloping flesh.

“Why’d you date him?”

“He’s a nice boy. Why not?”

“Do you still date him?”

“No.”

“When’d you stop?”

“Last month.”

“Why?”

“I got bored.”

“Was he in love with your sister?”

“Johnny? I doubt it. We never talked about her.”

She rolled the drink against her breasts again. Then she got out of her chair and unzipped her skirt and folded it neatly over the chair, and sat down again wearing a half-slip and the bra. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t take heat too well.” She raised the slip over her
knees and began rolling the cold glass against her thighs.

“Can you take shock?” I said.

“What kind of shock?”

“Your sister Christine is dead.”

The rolling glass stopped. Laraine’s face registered no pain, no grief. It simply stopped functioning. Impervious to heat now, impervious to cold, she sat in stony silence and stared at me.

“Yes,” I said.

“How?”

“Shot.”

“Who?”

I shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I liked her.”

The room was silent. I gulped at my bourbon. Laraine sat motionless, still staring at me.

“Would you like another drink?” I said.

“No. I haven’t finished this one.”

“Want to talk about your sister?”

“No.”

I stood opposite her. She sat. The room was very still. I could hear the ticking of a clock someplace in the apartment. It had probably been there all along, but I was hearing it for the first time.

“Great day, isn’t it?” Laraine said. “Hot as hell, the audition blows up, and now you tell me this.”

“Is that the order of disappointment?”

“Christine comes first,” she said. “I was giving it to you chronologically.”

“Were you close?”

“My father died when we were both kids. My mother died when Christine was twenty and I was eleven. We lived alone together until she got married. Yes, I suppose you could say we were close.” She thought for a moment. “Am I supposed to call the police or something?”

“They’ll get to you. I hope you were at the five and ten all day.”

“I was.” She paused and then seemed suddenly alarmed. “Except for my lunch hour. You don’t think they’ll…”

“Did you eat with anyone?”

“No. Alone.”

“Where?”

“I came back here to make a sandwich.”

“Do you usually do that?”

“Sometimes. It depends how I feel.”

“Anyone see you?”

“I don’t know. Matt, the police won’t think I…I had anything to do with…with…”

“They might.”

“But why? Why would I…want to…to…” And then the tears came. They came in a sudden rush, wrenched from the soul of Laraine Marsh. They started somewhere deep within her, and then rushed into her chest in a great heaving sob, and overflowed her eyes and caught in her throat until she choked with the overwhelming misery that suddenly claimed her.

I went to her. She did not rise from the chair. She
did not fling herself into my arms. Uncontrollably, she wept. Her hands clung to the moist glass in her lap. She did not touch her face. The tears spilled from her eyes, raining past her contorted cheeks. The muscles in her neck were tense. Her chest rose and fell with each new sob. The hands around the glass were white with strain.

I didn’t touch her. I stood alongside her chair, and I said nothing, and I did nothing. Misery, despite the common adage, does not love company.

Slowly, the crest of her grief broke, ebbed, retreated. Her face was streaked with mascara. Her cheeks were shining wet. She sipped at her drink, choked on it, and began weeping again, softly this time. And then she drank again, and the tears stopped, and she sat in the chair with a silent stone within her, sweating profusely now, the constricting strap of her bra stained with perspiration.

She drained her glass and went into the kitchen. When she came back, the bottle was in her hand. She looked at me, and her eyes held mine, and she said in a cold level voice, “Do you believe there are some things a person must do, right or wrong?”

I shrugged.

“I don’t care what you believe,” she said. “There’s something I’ve got to do right now. I’ve got to get stinking blind drunk. Can you understand that?”

She’d picked the right person to ask. “I can understand it,” I said, “but the police might not when they get here.”

“The hell with the police,” she said. “I’m going to get so drunk I can’t stand. You can stay if you want to see it. If you’d rather not, then leave.”

“Someone’s got to stay,” I said.

“Why?”

“Who’ll put you to bed?”

“I may get wild, Cordell. I may ruin you for life.”

“I doubt it.”

She poured three inches of straight bourbon over the ice in her glass. “Here’s to murderers,” she said, “the goddam world is full of them.” She knocked off the three inches and refilled the glass.

“Not too fast,” I said, “or you’ll get sick.”

“I want it fast and hard,” she said. “I want it to knock me down.” She drank the refill and poured again, gagging a little as the stuff went down. Then she kicked off her high-heeled pumps. Then she put down the bottle and pulled off the half-slip, and then she went to sit by the window in bra and panties, her feet propped up on the window sill.

She killed the third drink and then tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and shot me a backward glance and flashed the most evil smile since Eve grinned at Adam with the apple in her teeth.

“Come here, Cordell,” she said.

“What for?”

“Come here and kiss me,” she said. “Come kiss me,” and she hissed the words, and I went to her and took the empty glass from her hand and kissed her.

“Mmmm, you,” she said. And then she grinned at
me lopsidedly and said, “You need another shave.”

I kissed her again.

It got cool later in the night. The breeze swept through the city suddenly, dancing through the open windows, touching the naked body of Laraine Marsh on the bed beside me. She didn’t feel the sudden wind. She was out like a light, and there was a peacefully contented smile on her face.