Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

     “I'm merely thinking it over. Or did you expect me to jump to attention with sheer joy? It was an abrupt offer.”

     “Nonsense, we're not kids. We've been seeing a good deal of each other, and it's time we tried it in the hay. Simple as that, really.”

     “Really?” Ruth mimicked, trying to keep fear and doubt from her voice. “Burgie, I don't think you quite understand the type of female I am.”

     “But I do, I do the most. You're the type female I want to sleep with. I trust I'm your boy-type.”

     “Stop making this sound like a blood test,” Ruth said, lighting a fresh cigarette, to stall for time. “I'm very serious, Burgie. I'm not saying no. The truth is I may want to say yes. But there's one thing about me you first have to understand. I'm a...”

     Flynn held up a tobacco-stained hand. “Ruth, stop making with all the talk. And I do understand you—perfectly. My darling, you're a bum. Wait, wait, wait, and get the anger from your eyes. I don't mean a bed tramp, but an intellectual bum. You gas and moan about that great book within you—as you find a million excuses for not writing it. Undoubtedly you're afraid you'll learn you lack the talent. So you play it safe, never try to find if you have it or not. Next year, the year after, ten years from now, you'll be sitting at this same table, or in some other bar, playing the same record, 'If only I had the time to work on my book.' That's pure baloney, Ruthie dearest, and very stale baloney, at that.”

     Her face was pale as she said, “Flattery will get you no place. You... !”

     Burges reached across the table, squeezed her hand. “Honey, I understand you because we are alike. I'm a bum, too, so I know. We try to crucify ourselves on the cross of talent because we may be strictly no-talent characters. We are flagellants, beating ourselves with the success of others— and enjoying the pain. We...”

     “I don't know what you are trying...”

     “Come on, Ruthie, you know it's true This is the voice of experience talking. I've told my sad tale in Nice, in Hollywood, over cocktails in Chicago, Greenwich Village, did my song and dance as far south as Mexico City and north in Montreal, the pitiful tale of what an artist I am with the camera, the photo masterpieces and portraits I will shoot— some day. Those snatches of life I will stop and capture with my lens. Honeybunch, it isn't so much can I do it, but will I ever do it. I'm a guy who's been around and around, so I don't kid myself; it's far more comfortable to talk about it, than give it the old college try. Frankly, I've had my chances. In the navy I had the best equipment possible, loads of time. And once I married a wealthy biddy who set me up with everything I needed. As you have your opportunity now. You don't have to work, hide behind your job. You could devote all your time to your writing. Let's put it on the line, honey, we're both phonies, in our own little way. 'Art' will always be a word in quotes to us, the impossible carrot dangling before our noses.”

     “Burgie, you have hidden talents! You're wasting your time behind a camera. You should be sitting beside the couch, taking notes. Or maybe on the couch!”

     “One thing at a time,” he said, pressing her hand again. “At the moment all I desire to be on is you.”

     “Oh, how sweetly you put it!”

     “Come on, Ruthie, we're at least above the corny seduction lies and drinks. You're a hell of an attractive woman. I want you. That's my story; what's yours?”

     “Now you sound like a lawyer, asking for a yes or no answer. Since we're being oh-so-frank, there's one thing you don't know about me, wise old owl. If I sleep with you it can't be any one-night stand. I'm a throwback to... something. Are you asking me to leave my husband and live with you?”

     Burges took his hands from hers, rested his face on his palms and played with his beard. After staring at Ruth for a long second, he said, “Really, you're beginning to sound like one of my empty-faced models, completely simple.”

     “Burgie, I'm not a prissy puritan, I trust. Nor am I a wanton, an easy...”

     “Wanton? Oh please! Please! You say live with me, those just words or do you actually mean it?”

     “I mean it, of course.”

     “But what does 'live with me' mean? Tonight we'll be living together. If we hit it off okay, we might live together tomorrow, the following day, for a year, or until we're ready for Social Security. But even if we set up house tonight and tomorrow turned out to be dull—that would be the end of it for me. Even if we were married, legal, and what-not. In short, no guarantee comes with my bed.”

     “Under all those words, how is this different from a one-night stand?”

     “I don't know. As I said, if the one night turns out interesting, we keep going. My dear, one of the occupational diseases of our day is trying to stretch something good until it turns sour. In this lousy world I believe in finding happiness where you can. The food was fine here tonight, but that hardly means I'll be eating breakfast and lunch here tomorrow. Don't try to push your luck is my motto.”

     “I see. I'll have to think about it.”

     “Really, Ruth?”

     “Yes, really!”

     Flynn motioned for the check. They didn't talk again until they stood outside, when he said, “I'll put you in a cab. When you've thought it over, give me a ring.”

     “For your next tidy, here's another motto: don't push your rudeness!”

     Burgie reached up to kiss her, but Ruth shook her head. He smiled as he said, “But I'm not being rude, sweet. Surely you can understand that being around you and not having you is sheer torture for my sensuous nature. Rude? Indeed no, but I am being terribly honest.”

     He stopped a passing cab and holding the door open for Ruth, told her, “I sincerely hope, and expect, to hear from you very soon. Perhaps tonight.”

     When the cab pulled away, Burges dropped into a bar for a fast one. He felt very dramatic and pleased with himself, although he also vaguely wondered if he had talked himself out of some work. But he felt sure she would call him within hours. Beside, her trade magazine could only mean so much money—about enough to cover his rent. And tonight he couldn't resist the cool act he'd put on. Burges had enjoyed it more than if he had taken Ruth to his place. As for becoming tied up with her—My God!

     Riding in the cab, Ruth lit a cigarette and somehow felt like a little girl who has been scolded. For no reason she found herself remembering the time she was sixteen and joined the high school ballet group. The teacher was a snippy old maid who'd taken one look at Ruth's stocky big body in the skin-tight leotard, and told her loudly, “You would rupture any unfortunate boy trying to lift you. I think you'd do better to try out for the football squad.” Of course this was followed by a chorus of snickers from the other girls.

     Later, when Ruth had used the incident in a story published in a literary magazine, she had made the teacher a homo. It had given her a great sense of revenge, almost made up for the hurt. But at the time she had a feeling she had no real business in trying to be a ballet dancer, and certainly no need for outside activity. That had been foolish; being assistant editor of the school paper kept her running after school. And Ruth had, in a sense, the very same feeling now with Burges. She really didn't want to be that 'Bohemian.' Yet the thought of being only Walt's wife rankled her, seemed a defeat. For a journalism major who had won a medal for the best creative writing in college to end up as a mere housewife for a detective was a hell of a letdown. Ruth was also aware, when she could think clearly and honestly enough about it, that she was using Walt for a whipping boy.

     She knew many husbands would not want their wives to write, probably because of intellectual jealousy. But not Walt. He often gave her material from some of his cases to use. Her highest-paid story, the one which had brought the query from a publishing house about a novel, was based on an arrest Walt had made.

     Leaning back in the cab, still troubled (and relieved) at the way things had turned out tonight, Ruth told herself, “It was all so wonderful with Walt—at the start. Real star-dust. What's happened to us? Now that's a clever line. Half the married people in the world must be asking it. Perhaps if we'd had a baby? Another smart line. Your marriage is breaking, grab a baby for glue. Beside, that isn't my fault, or Walt's. We never were lucky. Never. I sound like an old hag. Maybe we'll still have a child. But that can't be our answer. Burgie says I don't have to work—go write. He sounds like Walt, refusing to understand why I needed the fellowship. At least Burgie must know one needs the right kind of atmosphere to create. One simply can't sit before a typewriter every day like a stenographer and turn out a good book. Would I be able to work better around a Burgie? True, he's more my kind...” Ruth giggled, remembering what he'd said. They were both bums.

     The cab stopped for a light. Glancing out the window Ruth saw the street busy with people going to watch the hockey game at the stadium. She remembered the first time Walt had taken her there. It seemed so exciting and... When was that, their second or third date?

     Upon graduating from college Ruth rushed to find an apartment with another girl, an aspiring actress, on the edge of the alleged “arty” section of town. It was a miserable cold water flat, bug- and mouse-infested, but it was tremendous fun and excitement in the beginning: the time they had stayed up all day and night to paint the flat with wild colors; meeting other writers and artists; the long bull sessions; the informality; the freedom; the feeling of being a part of things—all of them so pure and high-minded, and actually a gassy part of nothing. Although she had sold a story for a hundred dollars, and was given envious pats on the back, Ruth very soon found she had to get a job. She came from a middle class family and could have asked for money, but never did after overhearing her father, when Momma suggested he pay Ruth's rent for a year, wisecrack, “For this she needs a college education?”

     For a time she didn't even attempt to find editorial work, afraid it might “spoil” her writing talent. Ruth took a part-time sales job in a department store. Regularly at noon she rode the subway uptown. Almost as regularly she noticed Walt. She had to. They always seemed to ride the same car and were the tallest people on the train. After the fifth or six day, they grinned at each other. Walt asked for a date the following noon.

     Walt was an exciting experience for Ruth. For one thing he was taller than she, the importance of which Ruth wouldn't even admit to herself. And she was utterly amazed to learn he was a cop. To her a policeman was as nebulous and impersonal as a fire hydrant. For some “unknown” reason Ruth had been outside the sexual play of her neighbors. Her actress friend had affairs, although they both had agreed not to have men spend the night in the flat. Ruth did her share of necking, but somehow had never gone beyond that. The second time Walt kissed her was in bed and his muscular body utterly delighted and fascinated her. He was still thinking of turning pro and while she doubted if any man could hurt big Walt, the thought of his being marked or injured became her nightmare. She was flatly against his doing any more boxing.

     At parties she found Walt fitted in well with her friends, that he could hold his own in bull sessions. For example, if Paris or Rome were mentioned, Walt knew the cities thoroughly, from his army days. When he casually mentioned he'd been a member of the U. S. Olympic team (which was a surprise to Ruth) he completely stopped conversation at the home of an established painter. She knew other girls began paying attention to Walt, most of them small and dainty, and she was thrilled that he had eyes only for her— as the song went.

     Above all, for the first time Ruth knew a man financially capable of marriage. (Not that she'd admit that to herself, either.) Nor was that the reason she married Walt. For months she had been so much a part of Walt that when he suggested marriage it was as expected as if he'd mentioned having supper together. After they married they moved uptown, so he would be within walking distance of his precinct house. He had nearly two thousand dollars saved— mostly from his army days—and both their parents had been lavish with gifts for their only children. For a time it was exciting furnishing the two room apartment, being a housewife. When that wore off, Ruth religiously began writing every day, found an agent, and turned out a story a week. Not one sold. She learned writing for the commercial magazines wasn't the “moronic snap” she had imagined.

     Ruth tried—really tried—being friends with the other young wives, but after the first reaction they were not impressed with her being a “writer,” and she found their conversation about shopping and family politics petty. It was about this time, along with her rejections, Ruth started to feel she was in a rut, wasting her talents. She began hanging out with her old friends downtown more and more, especially when Walt was working night tours. That spring, after they had spent his month's vacation at Cape Cod, she suggested they move downtown and Walt was willing. Ruth landed a job as a reader in a publishing house and for a while was content. When one of her stories brought a polite letter from a publisher asking if she had a novel, Ruth was in orbit and began planning her novel. She immediately quit her job and worked on an outline. The publisher said it was interesting but wanted to see a few sample chapters.

     Ruth nearly had a breakdown writing and rewriting the chapters. She and Walt had their first serious fight when he suggested she try writing a novel and not the world's greatest literature. Ruth blamed the “atmosphere” now and although it was a strain on his bank account, Walt rented a place for her on a small island which was trying terribly hard to be a second Fire Island. Ruth spent the summer attending many parties and doing little writing. That fall she took her present job, editing a trade magazine and now had a true excuse for not writing—the job “pooped” Ruth.

     Whatever Walt did turned out wrong. A famous playwright and a well-known book reviewer happened to be at a party Ruth had dragged Walt to. Both men were fight fans and on learning Walt had been an amateur champ, they tried to take him over. Walt explained about Ruth and her novel and they suggested she try for a fellowship, agreed to sponsor her. For a time Ruth worked feverishly, filling out forms, retyping her chapters. When she mentioned living in Paris for the year, if she won the fellowship, Walt said he couldn't get that much leave. She accused him of being selfish, after all, he had been to Paris. He said he didn't want to give up his job, even if Ruth felt her book would make a fortune. They had a real battle, but Walt simply refused to think of leaving the force. He had just been promoted to a detective, third grade, for capturing two stick-up men. In a fit of rage Ruth tore up the applications and ever since had accused Walt of ruining her career. In her own mind she had neatly convinced herself she had, in fact, been awarded the fellowship.