“Romantic,” she said.
A fat girl tried to sing like Dinah Washington. A uniformed cop strolled into the club, stood for a few moments surveying the place, then turned and left. Our waitress brought fresh drinks. The musicians took a break, then came back on again.
“It’s getting late,” Barb said.
“Close to twelve.”
“And I have school tomorrow. Isn’t that silly? A call girl with school tomorrow. And my handsome jewel thief has to go to the office and sell pieces of buildings, or something. I guess we’re just turning into pumpkins, aren’t we?”
I paid the check and left too big a tip. We ducked out of the smoky club and gulped fresh air on the street outside. In the car I started to turn the key in the ignition but she put her hand on mine and stopped me. I turned. Barb’s eyes were closed, her mouth pouty. I picked up my cue and kissed her and her body shivered in my arms. Her mouth tasted of liquor and tobacco and sweet hunger. I kissed her again and she stirred in response, shifting her weight and locking her arms around my neck. My hand moved to the side of her breast. My fingers pressed the firm softness of her and she gasped with excitement.
I felt like ten different kinds of a bastard.
We didn’t talk on the way back to her place. Barb sat very close to me, her head on my shoulder, her eyes shut. She was breathing heavily. I forced my mind on my driving and tried not to think about other things. It was like struggling not to think of a white rhinoceros. The thoughts were there and I couldn’t shove them aside.
I stuck the Ford in her driveway and walked her to her door. I stood at her side while she opened the door. She turned to me, slowly, and I kissed her. Partly because I was supposed to, partly because I wanted to. The kiss lasted and built up a small head of steam, and then she shuddered slightly and drew back.
“Damn it,” she said, “I wish I were a call girl, Bill.”
It would play either way. I kissed her again and felt the warmth and intensity of her embrace. I stroked the side of her face, let my hand trail lingeringly down the front of her fine body. Then I tensed up and let go of her and forced myself to step back. “I’ll call you,” I said softly. I let go of her hand and she turned into the house and closed the door and I went back to my place and tried to sleep. It wasn’t easy. I thought about two girls, a girl named Joyce and a girl named Barbara. I thought about two ways of life, a life of back rooms and fast action, a life of hard honest work and straight living. Dangerous thoughts for a man called Wizard.
I made more calls Wednesday, two to Murray’s office, one to the Glade. I made them automatically, working like a programmed computer, speaking automatic words in my two mechanical fake voices. I left work early that day for my apartment. I took out the three onionskin copies I had typed up in Murray’s office and read them through. The second one had Thursday’s date at the top—tomorrow.
I took my Milani costume from the closet, spread it out on the bed. I looked at the snap-brim hat, the shabby suit, the loud and food-stained tie. I read through the letters again. Then I picked up the phone and dialed a number.
She answered it herself.
“Bill,” I said.
“I’ve been wishing you would call,” Joyce said. “I wanted to talk to you but I didn’t know when it would be safe. How is it going, Wizard?”
“It’s going all right.”
“Tell me about it.”
I lit a cigarette first. I took a deep drag, held the smoke in my lungs until I was slightly dizzy.
“Listen,” I said.
She waited.
“I don’t want to go through with it,” I said. “I don’t want to job the guy. I want to call it off.”
10
“No,” she said. “You’re not going to do this to me, Wizard.”
“Joyce—”
“You can’t weasel out. It’s all set up and we’re going to push it through. You can’t change your mind now.
We weren’t talking on the phone now. We had talked on the phone just long enough for her to be sure I wasn’t kidding. Now we were in my living room and her Caddy was parked at the curb in front. She was standing in front of me and her eyes were angry. I asked her if she wanted a drink. She said she didn’t. I made one for myself and she changed her mind and I made one for her. We sat at opposite ends of my living room couch and sipped scotch.
“Wizard?”
I met her gaze. She was angry now, and slightly desperate, and the combination of anger and desperation had deepened the lines at the corners of her mouth and pointed up the hardness of her face. And yet somehow her beauty was more striking than ever. My mind did what minds have a tendency to do, erected a little balance scale and put her on one side and Barb on the other. The contrast was vivid. Barb was soft and gentle, steady and sure, a good long-term investment. The other was fire and fury and handle-with-care, a much greater risk. And much more exciting.
“What changed your mind, Wizard? You were all ready to go, all set to job Murray and get the money and take me the hell out of this rotten town. What turned you off?”
“Things.”
“What things?”
I finished my drink, started a cigarette. “A few things,” I said. “In the first place, I don’t think it would work. Murray is a highly respected guy. Clean, established. And on top of that he happens to be a lawyer. There are a million holes in the frame, Joyce. If he were someone shady it wouldn’t matter, but a fellow like Murray could kick the prosecution’s case to hell and back.”
“You really don’t think it would work?” Joyce said.
“That’s right.”
“I don’t believe you, Wizard.” Her eyes challenged me. I glanced down at my drink, which was gone. I dragged on my cigarette. I raised my eyes and she was still watching me. “I don’t believe you at all,” she said. “If you thought the frame was wrong you’d look for another way, a fresh angle. What’s the real reason?”
I didn’t answer her.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she said. “I can figure it out. You’ve had a taste of respectable life and you like the flavor. You’re a salesman for Perry Carver. Or don’t you call yourself a salesman? Maybe you prefer to think of yourself as an investment counselor.”
“Joyce—”
“You play cards with the upper middle-class and you don’t even cheat. You go out with a brain-dead schoolteacher—yes, I heard about your new love, honey. You go out with her and think about marriage and respectability and what a cushy little life it will be. Are you going to marry her, Wizard? Are you going to settle down in the suburbs like an All-American success story?”
I said, “Stop it.”
“The hell I’ll stop it! You’re such a goddamned fool, Wizard. It’s a kick now, isn’t it? It was a kick for me, too. I didn’t just marry Murray for his money. I wanted a house with a lawn and a backyard. I wanted people to look at me without wetting their lips and wondering how much it would cost. Oh, it’s fine for the first little while. It’s a brand-new way to live. But it changes. It turns sour. It gets so damned dull you could scream.
“It doesn’t work, Wizard. It doesn’t work because it’s a lie, a stupid lie front to back. You wind up wasting your life on a bunch of fatheaded squares who don’t speak your language or think your thoughts. You shape yourself over and try to convince yourself you’ve managed to change inside, and then one day you wake up and realize you never changed at all and you’re a very round peg stuck in the squarest hole on earth. Your little schoolteacher won’t be much fun then. Your little job will be the biggest bore since Maynard the Magnificent. And if you think I’m going to let you blow a damned good chance for both of us you’ve got to be out of your mind.”