Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

     He was staring at me sadly and I stopped powdering myself, asked what was wrong. “George, you're wonderful! Still using one kind of powder for your toes, another to dust your crotch, and a third for under the arms. My God, you don't know how I'm trying to get a hold of something, of my old life.”

     “Got a job in the hopper?” I asked, slipping on a silk bathrobe.

     “Oh, I'll get back to selling, I suppose,” Hank said.

     We went back to the living room and I stepped into the kitchen, put on the electric coffee percolator, was halving grapefruit, when he called me.

     He was standing in the living room next to the heavy woodwork that had once been a door leading to the upstairs apartment, before I had the wall filled in. He pressed part of one of the wooden panels, which slid back, showing an empty space. We used to call it the “hideaway” when we were kids.

     Hank said happily, “Imagine, this still being here—still working.”

     “Bet I haven't opened that panel—or thought of it—in fifteen years,” I said.

     “Remember when this was the garage and the big car was here? We'd sit in the front seat and imagine we were racing like hell along some dark road, every yegg in the world after us, and then we'd jump out and put all sorts of crazy documents in the panel? Had some great times then.” Hank pressed the top of the panel and it slid back into place again. “Like a movie,” he added.

     There was something a little slobbering and queer about him and I said rather sharply, “The corn-flakes company will still send you secret rings for box tops.”

     He lit a cigarette, sat on the couch. “George, why is it when we grow older instead of getting smarter, we get more stupid? Why do we lose the simplicity and happiness we once held in childhood?”

     “What happened, Hank, the army make you a philosopher?”

     “Don't laugh it off, as we grow older we become full of sour bitterness. Too bad humans don't age for the better, like wine. The wine of humanity is pretty thin and watery.” He blew out a fairly decent smoke ring, watched it dissolve in the air, asked, “Own the oil company yet?”

     “Nope. Still editing the 'Sun, published every month by the Sky Oil Company, Inc.,' and it's still as corny as it sounds.”

     “And you still wear conservative suits by Brooks Brothers, custom-made shirts with stiff tab collars, Bronzini ties, make a ritual of powdering your crotch, of blending your tobacco. You take in the dance recitals, and quietly read your Times in the evening over the pre-dinner cocktail, which can only be ordered at certain bars. George, you're so wrapped up in yourself, you give so much attention to George, I envy you.”

     “And I still have my little bouts with Flo—might as well make a complete inventory. Want breakfast?”

     Hank shook his head.

     “Then take some coffee with me.”

     “I'm full of coffee. George, do me a favor.”

     “Certainly,” I said, wondering how much of a bite he was going to put on me. I didn't have any money in the bank but I could always borrow a couple of hundred.

     He pulled a thick white envelope out of his pocket. “Hold this for me.”

     I took the envelope. It was open and full of twenty dollar bills. “What's this, black-market loot?”

     “No, saved it from my salary. There's $7,000 there. Keep it in your bank for me.”

     “Why don't you open an account tomorrow? I mean I don't like to hold money—you know how the green slips through my hands. What's the gimmick?”

     “I'm married to the world's greatest bitch,” Hank said softly. “That's why I came home—I'm going to get a divorce, soon. I don't want Lee—that's the 'little woman'—to know about this. She's... well, I know why she is what she is, but she's... well, greedy wouldn't start to describe her. She's money-crazy. In fact, she's downright crazy. You see she... oh, it's quite a mess. No sense involving you in it.”

     “This is news. How long have you been married?”

     “Let's not talk about it. Put it down as one of these war marriages you've probably read too much about. It's a mess I got into with both feet. I'll get straightened out, but I'll be damned if she'll get the money.”

     I put the envelope on the table, carefully. “Hank, why don't you put it in a safe deposit vault or...”

     “Can't, she'd get it. You don't know what a nose she has for money. You keep it, please.”

     “But Hank I have a hard time making my salary last the week. You know me and money, why I...”

     “Damn it, George, do me this favor!” he said loudly, getting up, walking around the room. “I'm in a mess that's my own making. I'm in a rough jam, and all I'm asking is that you hold this.”

     I didn't want to take the money, I knew myself too well, yet I had that old guilty feeling when I looked at Hank's uniform. I still had a slacker-complex even though the war had become almost a joke by this time, and being a vet was a handicap. I said, “Okay. I'll give you a receipt and...”

     “No receipt. She'd find that.”

     “Look Hank, please don't give me seven grand and not even take a receipt. You know the old gag—a man isn't made of stone.”

     “Stop talking like a kid.”

     I took paper and a pen from my desk, wrote:

     I owe Hank Conroy seven thousand dollars ($7,000), payable on demand, in payment for moneys loaned me, this date.

     I signed my name and the date, held it out to him. “Hank, you have to take this. Suppose I get killed falling off a bar stool? You don't have a thing to go on, and I'd hate to see this end up going to my distant cousins in L.A.”

     “Forget the receipt, be serious. I'll probably be divorced, straightened out in a very few months and...”

     “But I'm being serious, Hank. Seven grand is quite a bundle, what if something did happen to me?”

     “Nothing will. I'll take that chance.

     I looked at the envelope full of folding money and felt mixed up. “Hank, you're crazy.”

     He stopped pacing the room. “That's no lie, sometimes I'm damn sure I am off my rocker. Come on, I'll take that cup of Java.”

     “I don't hold the money unless you take this receipt,” I said. “The strain might easily overpower me.”

     He suddenly grabbed the receipt out of my hand, walked over and pressed the panel. He put the piece of paper inside, closed the panel, and turned to me with a smile. “Feel better? No one knows about the panel but the two of us, maybe Flo, and...”

     “I forgot to ever tell Flo about it.”

     “Good. If anything happens to you, I'm protected.”

     “But suppose the house burns down? Or...?”

     “For God's sake!” Hank pushed me toward the kitchen. I went back and got the envelope. The way he left money around made me jittery.

     Over coffee he told me he was going to live with his sister for a few weeks. “Just till I get an apartment or a room. Lee and my sister, they'll kill each other, if they haven't already. She wrote me she thinks Lee has already swiped some of the silver, and you know my sister Marion.”

     “You don't mean she's actually stolen the silverware?”

     “Probably has—I had to send Lee over a week or so ahead of my plane and... George, try to understand this, I've married a devil. A backward girl who's gone through... Hell, don't get me started on Lee. She isn't guilty. I am. We all are.”

     “What?”

     “I don't want to talk about it, Georgie. Look, it's as bad as this: all the way over I was hoping my plane would have an accident and I'd be killed.”

     “You're the cautious type Hank, how...?”

     “Forget it, it's my party,” Hank said. He began asking about fellows we'd known in the old days—and whom I hadn't seen in years. When we first moved downtown, Hank had lived in the brownstone across the street; the only kid on the block I had as a friend. He was real social register stuff, not that he ever let that get him down, or hinder our friendship.

     We talked for a while longer, then he said, “Have to go and see my ever-loving wife, wired her I was coming in this morning. Thanks for holding the money.”

     “I'll call you at your sister's. I might be able to line up a job or...”

     “No. Don't ever call me,” he said curtly. “I don't want Lee to even know about you. I'll get in touch with you at your office from time to time.”

     “If that's the way you want,” I said, thinking it strange Hank didn't want me to see his wife, at least take them out.

     “Has to be that way. Know this sounds odd as the devil, but I know what I'm doing. Soon as I get out of this mess, I'll explain things—or as much as I can. Bye George, you've been a bracer, a tonic.”

     When he left I took out the money, thinking he had never even counted it. Counting seven grand made me so nervous I went to the portable bar, found only a heel of bourbon, and finished that.

     I dressed to go out and buy a Sunday paper. Every now and then I touched the envelope in my inside pocket to be sure it was there. I heard a noise in the kitchen and nearly hit the ceiling. I ran into the kitchen to see Slob coming through the open window, his fine tiger's skin mussed and dirty. He brushed against my leg and purred, his big tomcat's head looking up at me with mild interest.

     I laughed and brushed my pants where he'd touched them, pointed to his milk, asked, “Get much, whoring around?” I cooked some liver for him, made sure the money was securely in my pocket, and went out to buy the Times.

     People were going to the church across the street and I walked past them to Lexington Avenue and the stationery store near 73rd. As I was walking back, turning into my block, I saw a cab pull up in front of the house. Joe Collins stepped out, then helped a girl out. Joe rang the bell, then saw me and waved, nodding toward the girl.

     It was going to be a big Sunday.

     As I came up, Joe boomed, “Georgie boy, meet Stella. Doll, this is my boon buddy, George Jackson.”

     Joe's florid face had a faint dark stubble of whiskers and his eyes were bloodshot—the only thing fresh about him, including his clothes, was the loud nude on his hand-painted tie. The week before, Joe had gone in for dogs on his ties, hunting scenes, and before that it was horses—now it was lush nudes. Joe was head of the Maintenance Department in Sky Oil, and not a bad sort, even if he was loud and vulgar. He was always good for heating oil for the house whenever I needed it.

     On closer inspection Stella looked a bit bloated, somewhere in her late thirties: the heavy featured blonde that can be found in most bars looking for a little excitement of the week-end.

     It was obvious they were winding up the night and both were hung-over. I said hello to Stella and as I unlocked the door, Joe said, “You're in for a treat, doll. Georgie is a writer. Damn good one. How's about that, Georgie boy?”

     “My press agent,” I said politely, wondering if Joe had told heir we worked for Sky Oil, or what he had told her. Joe was never very careful with his pick-ups.

     “My, this is an odd room,” Stella said, looking around. Joe helped her with her coat and she was a solid-built woman.

     “Yeah. Used to be a garage when Georgie's family was in the chips, real blue-bloods. Now he's down to his last garage! That's a blip.” Joe began to laugh.

     Stella glanced at me, said, “He always tries too hard,” and her voice had a nice throaty quality.

     As we sat down, the cat came into the room and Stella said, “What a big pussy,” and of course Joe burst out laughing. “What's his name?” she asked, expertly rubbing the back of his ears.

     “Slob",” Joe said before I could answer.

     Stella said in that asinine baby-voice people use for animals and kids, “What a nasty old name to give such a nice pussy-cat.

     “His real name is Vaslav—that was Nijinsky's first name,” I said. “Then I shortened it to Slav, and finally Slob.”

     “I see,” she said, not knowing what I was talking about. Joe went to the bathroom and came out while the toilet was still flushing. He said, “Give and take. How about giving us a couple of snorters?”

     “Sorry, killed the only bottle I had early this morning. Like some beer?” I asked, feeling a little nervous with all that money in my pocket, and more than a little angry—Joe had a hell of a nerve bringing this babe here. Suppose Flo was still with me? Not that it would have killed Flo to meet a Stella. I was doubly annoyed with myself for being such a snob.

     “Want some beer, doll?” Joe asked, going over and running his big hand through her over-blonde hair.

     “Sure, good to taper off on beer,” she said, giving Slob a real rubdown.

     I went into the kitchen and I heard them kissing, then Joe told her, “I'd best go in and help Georgie boy.”

     He came in and put a heavy arm around my shoulder, turned on the water in the sink so she couldn't hear, said, “Jeez, what a night. I tied a big one on. Hey what do you think of Stella? Some sex-boat.”

     “Not bad,” I said, pouring the beer. I knew all about Stella—all the Stellas: with a husband someplace in the background, maybe a kid or two, a busted marriage, a routine job during the week, and the frantic week-ends with any guy who treated her “nicely,” as she tried to regain her illusions of bright romance and youth over some bar; a dozen drinks fogging reality. “Listen pal,” Joe said, hesitating a bit, “hate to ask you this, but I see Flo isn't around... didn't think she would be, and...”

     “What made you think that?”