It was upstairs over a motorcycle salesroom in a rundown neighborhood. There was a drugstore, still open, on the corner. A prowl car slipped past, cruising, and he could feel the tingling along his spine and the tightening of the skin across the back of his neck like a dog’s hackles rising. I can feel ‘em, he thought. If I live long enough, I’ll be able to smell ‘em, like a wolf. If one went by in the dark while I was asleep I’d wake up and growl.
The sign said, “Hskpg. Rms. & Apts.” There was a„ dark stairway going up, and the hallway at the top was dimly lit with two small unshaded bulbs, one at each end. The first door was marked “Mgr.” and there was a bell, with a printed cardboard sign, the kind they sold in dime stores, saying. “Ring for Manager,” stuck on the plaster above it with Scotch tape. There was no one in the hall and he walked down the center of it, going softly like a big cougar on the worn carpet, smelling the odor of ancient dust and stale cooking that always clung to places like this.
It’s going to be rough if she’s not at home, he thought. I can’t stand around here in the hall at one o’clock in the morning. Or if she’s moved and somebody else answers the door. Sorry to wake you up, Jack, but I’m looking for a girl named Dorothy, and don’t look at my face, you might recognize me. I think the reason they always catch you in the end is that they wear you out. They get you tired. They work in shifts and you work all the time, and when you get a chance to go to sleep your nerves are still working. Well, if you want to take a vacation you can always go and give yourself up. They always got the welcome sign out for cop-killers. Take a long rest in the back room with the light in your eyes.
It was the last apartment on the right. There was a crack of light under the door and he could hear, very faintly, the sound of music. It sounds like Dorothy, he thought. She does that. It’s against the rules to play a radio after ten-thirty, but she always does, turning it way down and getting up close to it to listen.
He knocked softly and waited. There was no answer. He rapped on the door again, a little louder. There was the sound of someone moving, and a girl’s voice on the other side of the door said, “Who is it?”
“Lufkin,” he said. He had first met her in Lufkin when she worked in, a restaurant there and he was working in a sawmill. It was a long time ago, before he got in trouble with the law the first time, but she would know who it was.
The door opened and he stepped inside quickly and she shut it. Nothing had changed in the apartment. It was one room, with a window looking out into the alley, but the shade was pulled now. On the right there was a door going into the tiny kitchen, and on the other side there was a bathroom door, closed now, and the bed was on that side, a cheap iron bedstead with the enamel flaking off. On the right side of the room, between the closet and the kitchen door, there was an old velvet-upholstered sofa with sagging springs and the nap worn off the cushions. At the head of the bed, by the window, there was a little table with a dime-store lamp on it, and the cheap AC-DC radio in its white plastic case, the case broken and patched with Scotch tape. Late at night after she had come home from work she would sit on the bed with her face close to the radio and listen to it, to the music of the dance bands in big hotels across the country.
She was always very quiet, and now she stood back from him without saying anything. There was something about her that always made him think of an Indian, perhaps the quietness and the tall, straight way she stood. She was almost five feet nine and very slender, but she never slouched the way some tall girls did. Her hair was black and very straight, like an Indian’s, and she wore it in a long turned-under bob down on her shoulders. She had very dark brown eyes that looked black at night. He had slept with her a lot of times, mostly when he was hiding out from the police, and always afterward, for a little while, he would remember the funny way she had of lying very close to him, her face near his on the pillow and her eyes wide open, watching him and not saying anything. Her eyes would be very big then, and still, while she lay there just touching him somewhere and looking at him. She was a funny one, all right.
“Hello, Dorothy,” he said. He put his left arm across her shoulders and moved to kiss her, but she drew back slightly.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Ain’t you glad to see me?”
“Let me have your coat,” she said. “I’ll hang it up.
He took it off and the handcuff swung, the polished steel shining in the light. She looked at it once, and then quickly away. She took the coat and went into the bathroom with it to let it drip in the tub.
He sat down on the sofa. There was a package of cigarettes on the little coffee table in front of it, and he picked it up, the handcuff dragging across the wood. “Does it bother you?’” he asked.
She sat down on the bed across from him, with her hands in her lap.
“Don’t pay no attention to it,” he said indifferently, lighting the cigarette. “He was dead anyway, and a hand more or less one way or the other didn’t make no difference to him.”
“I just don’t want to look at it,” she said, her face white. “Do you have to talk about it? What are you going to do now, with the whole state looking for you?”
“Stay here, till some of the heat cools down and I get shut of this thing and get some new clothes. Then I’ll try to get out of the state.” It ain’t going to be easy, he thought.
She saw the long jagged tear in his coat sleeve and the pink-stained tatters of the shirt showing through. “You’ve been hurt.”
“Just cut it on some glass,” he said indifferently. “No use to do anything about it now.”
“But it might get infected,” she said anxiously. “We ought to fix it up.”
“I never get infected.”
“Have you had anything to eat?” she asked.
“Not since yesterday. Day before yesterday now.”
“There’s some ham in the icebox. I’ll fix you something.” She started to get up.
He looked at her. “It can wait. We can have breakfast in the morning. We better go to bed. It’s late.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“Yes.” He grinned. “But not that hungry.”
“I’d better fix you something.”
He saw she was determined, and got up and followed her into the kitchen. There was a sink, a small icebox and a two-burner gas stove. He sat down at the table while she got the sliced ham out of the box and made two sandwiches and put them on a plate in front of him. She poured a glass of milk and sat down across from him.
“Who lives in there now?” he asked, nodding his head toward the next apartment. They had to be careful about making too much noise talking.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s vacant. There was a girl there, by herself. I think she was a hustler, because she brought a lot of different men in. About a week ago she brought in some drunk and made a lot of noise and the manager called the police and they took her away.”
After he had finished the sandwiches and milk they went back in the other room. He sat down on the sofa and she went back to the bed and sat there, watching him while he smoked another cigarette. Her eyes still avoided the handcuff.
She was even more silent than usual. The other times she would talk more, and smile now and then, and when she looked at him her eyes would be soft and happy, but now they were dead.
She had taken off her dress and stockings when she came home from work, and had on a blue cotton kimono or dressing gown or something of the sort that came open at the knees when she crossed her legs. She had nice legs, long and very smooth, and he looked at them, remembering the long time he had been in jail. She saw the glance and pulled the kimono together across them, looking, away from him and blushing.