Strip For Violence - Ed Lacy

10

THIS WAS a low-ceilinged room with the walls done in a violent lobster red, covered with nude women painted a bold purple. The ceiling was supposed to be one great green emerald and a lot of indirect lighting gave it a cut-stone effect. It looked like hell to me, but then I'm no art critic. A lot of upper-bracket jokers gave the joint a big play, and it was crowded. I stood at the bar and had a Tom Collins which looked like a fruit salad with all the sliced melons, oranges, and cherries floating around the top of the frosted glass. It must have been expensive fruit—they charged two-fifty a drink.

When I finally got past the fruit, the drink wasn't weak, and the music from a five-piece band was blue and moody. The barkeep said Margrita came on at ten-forty-five. I watched the playboys and dolls milling around, wondering how many millions they'd add up to if their bankbooks were put end to end. A big, strapping character who looked like he was born to a tux came in, followed by a stocky ex-pug who had bodyguard written all over his rough face. The pug looked familiar, but I couldn't call his name. Without even glancing at the head waiter, the big character sat at a table, and without asking a waiter rushed over with a soda and Scotch. The bodyguard had a beer.

The character was Big Ed “The Cat” Franklin, the star of one of those Congressional investigation committees television shows. Franklin's smooth voice, his good looks, made the citizens roar with laughter as he made a monkey out of the investigator, made the audience ferget Franklin's criminal record, that he was called “The Cat” because of the number of times he'd been gunned and lived. At the tail end of prohibition he'd started as a strong-arm goon, pushed his way up. I asked the barkeep, “'Cat' Franklin own a piece of this club?”

“I believe Mr. Franklin owns the entire club,” he said coldly, but like he was sure the sun rose and set in Franklin's behind.

About this time the lights dimmed and Margrita came on. She was a tall blonde with a full figure, and a passable voice. She wore a transparent skirt that clouded up near her waist. As she moved about, you saw two shapely legs, and if you were lucky, the solid curve of her hips and... well, I guess she wore a G-string or something.

Some ten months before, Margrita had been merely another singer, with a bit role in a TV musical, one of those heavy-costume jobs. She'd be still playing bit parts if she hadn't tripped over a power cable, landing flat on her back —exposing a pair of lovely legs in close-up to thousands of living-rooms and bars. You remember the hassle this caused, the TV program apologizing all over the screen, then the flood of letters and calls, demanding to see more, saying there was no need to apologize for legs like those. Overnight the big blonde guest-starred on several programs, packed them in at a Broadway theatre, was in every column. She had a smart publicity agent, was exploited to the hilt—I remember one front-page picture of her in a museum, raising her skirts to compare her gams with a famous statue. Within two months she had her own TV show, was said to be raking in the folding money.

Her legs were something: not the thin stems most show girls have, rather they were heavy and strong, her thighs a lush curve of real muscle. I was embarrassed, for watching her sent a warm wave of excitement crawling over me. I was staring at her open-mouthed, like a fresh kid. Considering the energy I'd spent with Louise that morning, nothing should make me get up steam for days.

When she finished her act, I gulped my drink, asked where I'd find the manager. The barkeep's eyes got a little troubled till I said, “Want to see him about some insurance business.”

Via the head waiter and a lantern-jawed bouncer who had a neck thicker than Margrita's thigh, I finally made the manager's office. Flashing my tin, I told him about the estate, that I wanted to see Margrita about locating a former roommate of hers.

He was a sharp-faced guy with tired, suspicious eyes. Calling her on the house phone he said, “Miss de Mayo, there's a private dick claims he wants to see you about an estate. Expecting any process servers?... Certainly.” He looked up at me. “She's too busy to see you and...”

“Tell her it's about Marion Lodge,” I shouted at the receiver.

He was about to hang up but we all heard her say, “Wait—I want to see him.”

A waiter took me to her dressing-room. We walked through a cramped kitchen and sweating cooks and pearl divers—all in sharp contrast to the lush atmosphere of the club.

Although she was a big-name star, Margrita's room had barely enough space for a dressing-table, a closet, and a single chair. She was seated at the table, combing her long honey-blonde hair. “Make it fast, I have to change for my next number,” she said, looking me over in the mirror.

I dislike all six-footers on sight, but she was six feet of lovely stuff that I could sure go for. The tiny room was hot and she was sweating a little, a warm sultry smell. I told her about Marion Lodge, and still talking into the mirror she said, “Yeah, I remember her. Dizzy kid, bitten by the stage bug. You know, yokel girl coming to storm Broadway. Last I heard of her she was marrying some rich old character out West.”

“Know his name, the city?”

She was brushing her hair—her hands up—and she shrugged and it was simply unbelievable she was that well stacked—that it was all real. “No. That was nearly a year ago.”

“Remember who you heard this from? Anybody else know her?”

“I just heard it—someplace. And we only shared that flat for a short time—didn't know her well. You say this uncle left her a farm?”

“Not much of a farm. Tell me, I've traced her through several cheap rooming houses, then she suddenly blossoms out in this expensive set-up. She suddenly lands a good job?”

Margrita said, “Sure, dumb country kids always land a 'good' job! She had a second-hand mink, several high-priced gowns, and no visible means of support What does that make in your book?”

“Call girl? That when she became Mary Long?”

Margrita shrugged again and all she was wearing was this thin blouse and that transparent skirt, and she was so big, had so much of everything, it was overpowering. I told her, “Please, cut it out.”

She finally turned, stared directly at me. “Cut what out?”

“Honey, I'll be the first to admit you pack a lot of high-powered sex. Now stop teasing me into making a pass so you can have me thrown out on...”

“You louse!” she snapped, jumping to her feet, standing like a monument to desire. “You little miserable bastard of a man!”

I didn't stand up—I would have looked ridiculous, not even reaching her shoulders. I said softly, “Relax, Miss de Mayo. Wouldn't mind tangling with you, but at the moment I'm only trying to locate Marion Lodge, help her get some dough. So the poor kid went all the way down the road, selling herself for...”

“Save your tears, you'd stand in line too. Oh, sure she was a sucker! Broadway seemed something clean and high, beautiful and exciting... only she found it was raw and filthy, heartless, and so... so... terribly lonely!”

I clapped my hands lightly. “When you get too old for the stage, you can always write a sob column.”

Margrita's full lips sneered at me, “Mac, when I get old I'll have this racket licked, spend all my time reading the most interesting book in the world—my bankbook!”

“Let's get back to Marion Lodge. Does she ever write you? She must have mentioned the city she was moving to? Must have...?”

“Told you I haven't heard from her in a year. Besides, she was doing okay, this two-bit farm wouldn't mean a thing to her.”

I got up. Even standing on my toes I wouldn't be level with her eyes. “Okay, Miss de Mayo, sorry to have bothered you. Have to report Marion Lodge's last-known occupation—whoring, end of the trail. Or would you say, Another innocent little moth was burnt by the Great White Way, seduced by the greatest whore of them all—ambition?”

Her lips quivered for a moment, then she said harshly, “Wise little pimp, aren't you. Say what you like. I have to change now.” She fiddled with some buttons on the back of her blouse and her “dress” suddenly dropped to her feet. I was wrong, she wasn't wearing a G-string, she was stark naked.

She turned, picked up some cold cream from the dressing-table, began to rub her face—as though I wasn't there, but watching me in the mirror. There wasn't any point in my saying a word—everything I wanted to say she could see too plainly in my eyes. One crack from me and the jar of cold cream would be bouncing off my face.

I walked out There was something screwy about her, and dangerous, that I didn't try to understand. Or maybe it was all in my mind, angry at her height, at her teasing me. I stood in the narrow hallway outside her door for a moment. I thought I heard her crying.

“What you doing, short-ass?”

The voice was deep and suave; I looked up to see “Cat” Franklin standing in the kitchen a few feet from me.

“I'm listening at the keyhole, what the hell did you think I was doing?” I snapped, walking past him, ready to knee him if he tried to stop me.

He merely stepped aside, smiling down at me.

11

The two-block walk to my car cooled me off somewhat. And driving back to the boat I tried to figure out exactly what I was angry about. I'd talked less than ten minutes to Margrita, it was the only time I'd ever spoken to her, yet I felt as steamed as if I was an old boyfriend she was handing the brush. It didn't make sense.

Pete took me out to my boat and I undressed. It was too warm for pajamas, so I climbed into my bunk, snapped the lights off. From a nearby express cruiser I heard dance music, sounds of several women and men laughing. My own boat was rocking gently and I kept thinking of Margrita and Louise, how the relationship between a man and a woman should be so simple, and always ended up so damn complex, full of knots. Maybe it was a reflection of our world, where even the relationships between nations were all screwed up.

I tried to sleep, but then I started thinking of Marion Lodge, wondering how hungry and disillusioned she must have been when she started peddling it, if she still wore her hair in those corny curls when she was hustling, what a lousy thing it was that society made a commodity out of that, how lucky men were that they were not built so they could sell....

I heard the launch coming and it didn't pass me, but came alongside. Pete called out, “Company, Hal.”

I said, “Come aboard,” and sat up and snapped on the light and there was Anita coming down the cabin steps! I pulled the sheet across me like a startled school girl as Anita said, “Well, well, so this is where you live. Very cozy.”

“Get me that robe hanging on the door. What are you doing here?” I asked, as she sat down on the bunk opposite me, lit a cigarette. She had on high heels, a smart suit, and her face was flushed and covered with a lot of make-up. She looked older, almost a little hard. Maybe it was her overbright eyes—I was certain she'd had a few drinks.

“Now, Hal, is that a way to greet a friend, barking at them?”

“Stop the chatter and get me the robe.”

“Get it yourself, I like you the way you are,” Anita said, blowing a cloud of smoke at me. “I really go for all those nice muscles ridged across your tummy. Hal, you look much better undressed. My, warm in here.” She fanned her skirt showing the V her thighs made to her black-lace panties.

“If I get up I'm going to fan something—your backside. Now what the...?”

She came over and sat on my bunk, stared at me with big sad eyes. There wasn't any liquor on her breath. “Why don't you stop with this big-brother act? Hal, am I poison, that hard to take?”

There was a serious, pathetic quality to her voice—this was my big day with the gals! And for a fast moment I asked myself why I was playing the brother clown, Anita was young, pretty, and burning up.... But my so-called better sense kept warning... lay off!

“Don't start that, Anita. You're not hard to take, on the contrary you're—Hell, baby, you're a kid. We'd only end up in a mess. I like you; if I didn't I wouldn't worry about hurting you or...”

“You drive me nuts with this kid routine, that little girl-with-a-doll line. I know what I want, what... Here, is this a child's kiss?” She fell on top of me, her lips hard and pressing, her hair all soft on my face.

I tried to push her off, or at least I was thinking about it, as I managed to say, “Anita, give us time. If it's to be you and me... we'll know it.” Having her on my bunk, so near me, was almost too damn much to resist.

“Why should we wait?” she whispered, her lips moving against my ear. “I'm sure, and you... you just said you liked me. Darling, you're all I've been thinking about these last couple months. When I first started working for you... you gave me a laugh kick. I mean, you weren't at all what I thought a shamus would be. Then, I've gotten so crazy about you I can't think straight, I...”

The “shamus” did it, reminded me she was merely a thrill-happy kid. I pushed her away. “I'll give it to you straight—I'm scared of you. You're pretty and impulsive and probably would be terrific in the hay, but honey I'd never know when you'd change, when all that pep and energy would be directed against me, find myself doing time because you're under eighteen and...”

“Do I have to bring a birth certificate to bed?” she asked, poking a finger at the hair on my chest.

That sounded so silly we both laughed and that really tore it. She stood up, looked around, dropped the ash from her cigarette in the sink. “Gee, this is like a little apartment What a compact kitchen, everything....”

“We old sailors call it a galley. Find anything on the rock?”

“No, walked my legs off around that part of town. Found nothing. Hal, if I did something big, say like finding that Frisco money, grabbing that big reward would...”

“Don't you ever stop thinking about rewards?”

“Why should I? Think of the mugs who did the job, all those millions around them and every buck too hot to spend. Must drive them nuts. But suppose I did find that, or got one of the other rewards, would you run away with me? To Mexico, to Europe?”

“Honey, with that sort of green stuff I'd fly to the moon with you!”

“All right, keep making fun of me, one of these days I'll do something big and take your bluff—one of these days soon.”

“Sure you will. Sydney Greenstreet called me this afternoon, said he was afraid you'll drive him out of business.”

She stuck out her tongue at me. “You'll see. Is there a bathroom here, or is it any porthole in a storm?”

I pointed to the large picture of the blowfish that covered the door to the bow, and the John. “That's a door—the handle is the piece of food under the seaweed—what the fish is diving for.”

“That's a door?” Anita said, going over to examine it. “How clever.”

“Called the 'Blowfish Madonna.' Anchored off Fire Island last year and some artist got the bright idea of painting the door. Really got a soulful expression on the fish. There's a light switch on your left—and you work the pump handle beside the John to flush it.”