“You were a nurse, or some damn thing; can't you do something for my burn?”
“Yes.”
She took a tube of oil from the bathroom, began spreading it on my skin. It was wonderful; the oil was cool and her fingers so gentle. Suddenly she did something to a muscle in my shoulder that sent such a sharp pain through my whole body I sat up gasping. It felt like a cramp and I punched the air a few times to get rid of the knotty feeling. My back was to her as I said, “What happened there?”
She gave out with a drunken laugh. “See, muscles, I'm good with my hands, too.”
I turned on the bed to face her. “You...? What's the idea? That hurt.”
“I know. I wanted it to hurt.”
“Why? You must be crocked to—”
“I'm very sober. You couldn't leave me alone, even down here!”
“What are you talking about? You said you wanted me to—”
“Wanted you? Bucky, you scare me crazy!” Her voice was high with hate. Her eyes made me look away.
“Scare you? Why?”
“You're a cop, that's why! A cop that shakes you down will shoot you down!”
“How can you talk like that? I never took a cent from you.”
“No? What do you call seeing me for free?”
I spun off the bed fast, my burnt knees almost making me fall. Or maybe I was sick enough to be dizzy. Judy backed away from me—seemed to shrink into a corner of the room. She moaned, “I know you're going to beat the slop out of me. Well, I don't care—it was worth saying it!”
I dressed in seconds. She was still crouched in the corner, her hands raised before her face and breasts like a helpless pug on the ropes. Opening the door, I told her, “You must be out of your living mind. You should damn well know I'd never hit you, Judy.”
The last I saw of her she had dropped her hands, her mouth slack with astonishment. All the naked tan and white skin didn't seem pretty nor exciting. It added up to an icy pile of nothing.
My luck wasn't all bad; I was able to get a plane back that night. I went home to change my clothes, oil my skin. I told Elma I'd gone south to pick up a fugitive. I spent the rest of the day walking around town, trying to understand it, my miserable burn not letting me forget things. By supper I was beat enough to get a sound night's sleep.
The next day, as Doc and I were lunching at the zoo outdoor cafeteria, I still felt crummy. Doc was in fine talking form and off on another of his favorite subjects—that a good heavyweight could flatten a gorilla. The gorillas must have had something for Doc; he spent plenty of time staring at the two they had in the zoo, seriously studying them—low-rating them. Along about the second cup of coffee Doc got around to Judy and my lobster-red face. I told him what had happened, how glad I was now that I hadn't been able to buy her a mink. Talking about it made me feel much better.
Doc said sadly, “It's a shame. The way you hit it off with her. I considered you the ideal couple, the—”
“You told me—several times: Punch and Judy. So the devil with her.”
“Seriously, Bucky, she's a—A mink!” He suddenly roared with laughter; laughed like a kid. Then, as he sailed a hunk of toast at a pigeon on the railing, he said, “So that accounts for your itchy palms recently. Bucky, you fool, don't you know all whores are frigid fakes? They never give you the real thing. Although I'll grant you Judy can certainly put on a first-rate imitation. But, son—even the real thing is never worth a mink!”
8—
I sat up with a start. Doc was bending over me, gently shaking me awake. He said, “Let's go, Bucky. It's time.”
Up close now, Doc looked awful. The stubble on his face had patches of gray-white and his breath stunk. “Okay. In a second.” I yawned and stretched out on the dirty cot again.
“I'll get the hair dye ready,” Doc said, opening the false wall and leaving the room.
I closed my eyes for a moment to blot out the light bulb, the cracked walls. Lucky Judy. Beautiful, cold Judy. If she hadn't told me off, would we still be together? Would she be dead now? It seemed she was right: A cop that shakes you down will shoot you down. Betty was dead. And Doc was so wrong—Betty was a real fine kid. Gunning Molly and the thin guy didn't matter, but Betty... Sometimes I thought we were in love. Real, storybook love. Even wondered what I was going to do about it. Well, that was sure taken care of.
Maybe I wasn't half the detective Doc was, but I knew enough not to believe in coincidences, and the whole deal with Betty seemed like a setup. Of course, I had nothing definite to go on; still, it was one of the things needling the back of my brain.
I opened my eyes and glanced at the suitcases. Three bags and three dead people. The new arithmetic: How many corpses equal a million bucks?
I heard Doc returning and watched him through almost-closed eyes. He stopped a foot or two away from my cot, holding a pot of something in his hand, and a big wad of cotton. He grinned, then shook his head, touched my shoulder. “Get up, Bucky boy. We'll have plenty of time for sleep.”
I sat up, poked a finger in his lean gut as I yawned again to cover my nervousness. “Sure, I know; an army can't fight on an empty stomach. Who said that, Doc?”
“Who cares? Let's get working on your hair first,” Doc said, putting the pot on the chair and taking my razor from his pocket. “Bucky the blond. I imagine Betty would be real frantic for you as a blond.”
“Would she?” I asked, seeing her dead eyes starting up at me again. How easily I could remember when those same cold eyes had been soft with pleasure every time I walked into the apartment. Had I let her down? I don't know, it wasn't the money: I hadn't known about taking the money then or... I jumped to my feet. “Let's get on with this.”
Doc knew make-up. He thinned my hair and then dyed it a dirty mild-blond, did the same for my eyebrows. It took more time than we thought as Doc had to rinse and rerinse my hair. I suggested we make a mustache with the cut hair but he claimed it would look phony. He fattened my nose by shoving cotton up each nostril; I had to breathe through my mouth. Then I had a blanket wrapped around my middle, and under that a better kind of padding—a homemade money belt with five thousand.
Doc was right again, as usual. Once I had on my clown suit—as we called the worn work clothes—I sure looked like a fat blond slob who thought he was the height of sartorial perfection in a windbreaker. It could have been my imagination, but the clothes were itchy at first. Or my skin could have been crawling with fear.
Doc didn't overlook a thing; he even roughed up my good shoes—until he rummaged in the cellar and came up with an old pair of sneakers that were a little large for me but workable. I sure looked as though I'd been wearing the clothes for the last year. He wanted me to leave my gun behind but I flatly refused. I stuck it in the folds of the blanket around my stomach where I could reach it easily. After Doc told me over and over not to attempt talking funny or different, and not to buy too much in one store, I started out.
It was a dark, cold night, but the sweat was pouring off me as I walked the first hundred yards—expecting shots and shouts of recognition. I was about to turn back and tell Doc it was too late for any shops to be open, when a couple passed. They didn't even glance my way. By the time I reached the corner street light, I was feeling okay, my walk steady. I put my dirty cap at a cocky angle and stepped out. I dropped into a delicatessen two blocks away and calmly purchased a few sandwiches, several cans of beer and two packs of butts. Crossing the street to a candy store, I bought a paper and more cigarettes.