“A kind of gesture, I suppose. Like the six carat ring, and the convertible.”
“Gesture, shmesture... what about the policy?”
“It was on his life, with me as beneficiary. Double indemnity for accidental death.”
“You sound like an insurance salesman. Never mind the quirks. How much?”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
“Not bad.”
“But he said he was changing it. And if he said it, he did it. So get that lustful look out of your eyes.”
“That lustful look,” I said, “has nothing to do with no policies.”
“Hasn’t it?” She stood up. “Do you take my case?”
“I’ve got to think about it.”
“Well, think back at the bathhouse. I’m broiling here.”
We got up, and started back. She said, “I’m starving. Don’t get dressed. We’ll shower, and lounge, and I’ll fix you something special to eat.”
“Fine by me.”
I lost her among the many bedrooms of the bath-house. I took a long warm shower. Then I shaved again and doused my face with some sweet-smelling stuff I found in the medicine chest. I combed my hair. The closet had a snowy white terry-cloth robe. I put that on and it snuggled the warmth of the sun my body had acquired. I felt good. The drowsiness returned. But I had work, protection work, before I lay out on the wide soft bed.
I found pen, ink and paper in a table drawer. I wrote: “I hereby retain Peter Chambers to protect my interests in my relationship with one Frank Palance. His fee is to be twenty percent of whatever may accrue to me from the life insurance policy in the name of the said Frank Palance.” I dated it, and drew a line for her signature. I left it on top of the table. Then I sprawled out on the bed, sighed, and was ready for a nap, when the knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” I called.
She wore a snowy white terry-cloth robe. It was different from mine, and she filled it differently. It puffed out on top, was tightly belted in the middle, and puffed out again below that. A pulse near my heart began doing an imitation of a trip-hammer. Her hair was combed out, blonde, loose and flowing, there was make-up on her face, and her red lips pouted, shining. Romantic-like, I said, “Sign the thing on the table.”
She looked at it, signed, laid the pen away, said, “For a smart guy, you’re cheating yourself. That policy is no longer in my favor. I know Frank. If it is, more power to you. I’d be happy to pay that twenty percent. You’d be much better off if Rose Jonas signed this contract.”
“The hell with Rose Jonas.”
“Thank you. Are you going to work for me?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re entitled to a real fee. Aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
“Down payment,” she said and came near me. “Down payment,” she said, and the smile was off her face, and there was the faintest trembling of her nostrils, and she bent over me, and she smelled sweet, salt-sweet, and she put those full red wet lips on mine.
I didn’t move. I didn’t put my arms around her. Our only contact was mouth on mouth, wide-spread, clinging. Then her cheek moved along mine, and her voice was a quick-breathing whisper in my ear, and she said, “I love you, Mr. Chambers. I’m crazy, and I know it, but I love you, I love you...”
Then she stood up, full-length, straight and breathless by the side of the bed; no smile now, only the shine of tears in her eyes, and the shine on her mouth, the ever-present soft wet shine, a lovely shine.
“I thought of something a while ago,” I said.
“What?”
“You’re so brown.”
“I’m not. I’m a blonde. I'm milky white. The brown is the sun.”
“I love the brown too.”
“It’s ridiculous. It’s like a two-tone person. White and brown, white and brown.”
I didn’t say it, I said nothing, I didn’t say, “I want to see,” I didn't say a word, and that small sweet secret special smile crept back on her face, the red pouting smile, the white teeth half exposed; her eyes didn’t leave mine, and her fingers dug into the tight-clasped belt, and she flung away the terry-cloth robe.
4.
We got back to the city at four-thirty. She lived at 277 Park Avenue. I kissed her and I said, “Stay put, I’m going to work.” I took a cab up to Eighty-sixth and Broadway, The Monterey, where old man Palance lived. I used the house phone to call up. His invitation was quick and hearty. He was waiting at the open door, upstairs. He wore a T-shirt, slacks and sandals. He was big, but there was nothing flabby about him.
“Glad to see you, Pete. It's nice of you to come calling.”
“Glad to see you, Ben.”
“Come in, come in.” He closed the door behind me. “Let me fix you something.” He waved a hand at a quarter full bottle on a bureau. “Me, I’m drinking bourbon. But I got anything a guest wants, and if I haven't, I call down for it. What’ll it be?”
“Nothing, thanks, Ben.”
He wrinkled his eves at me, the leather of his cheeks making pouches around them. “What's the matter? Sick?”
“No.”
“Wagon?”
“No.”
“So it figures it ain't a social call. What’s the beef, Petie?”
“It’s about Frank.”
An edge came into his voice. “He in trouble?”
“Why?”
“Because he’s been begging for it.” He gulped bourbon, pulled up a chair for me, and one for him, said, “Sit down.” He filled an old pipe and lit up. “My lady gave me seven kids, peace be with her. Six are the best. One’s rotten.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s a good average. What’s the beef, Pete?”
I roughed an outline for him, sketchily. When I was through, he shook his head, talked with the pipe between his teeth. “She’s a good kid, that Lola. Too good for him. Look, Pete. Come with me tonight. I’m meeting him when he gets off ship. Tonight, at his office. He’s due in at eight o’clock. He’s thirty-five years old, but I’m still his old man. I got a key to his office, and I’m waiting for him tonight. Tonight we make it or break it. It’s been constantly on my mind for the past three weeks.”
“What good’ll I do? I don’t belong.”
“You’re my friend. He knows you’re my friend. He knows all about you. You’ve never met him, have you?”
“No.”
“Come down with me tonight, Pete. It figures for a shindig. Let’s get it all over with in one bunch. You got a client to represent. No?”
“Yes.”
He smiled, grimly, around the pipe. “I hate it. Maybe that’s why I need company. Maybe I need somebody to lean on, somebody young, and tough. Nice way for a father to talk.”
“I’m sorry, Ben.”
“If he isn’t good, I don’t care whose son he is. But it’s time he knows that I know. You coming?”
“If you want me to, Ben.”
“I want you. Where'll I pick you up?”
“I’ll pick you up. Here. About seven-thirty.”
“Good boy.”
Next stop was the Raven Club on Eighth Street in Greenwich Village. This was a cellar trap with all the frills. The entertainment went from torch singers to cooch dancers to female impersonators who didn’t have to work too hard for the impersonation. It was a clip joint but it did a steady business with the uptown trade. It was an old time joint, switching its acts regularly. Some of our top-notchers played the Raven on their way up, and hit it once or twice coming down. It was dimly lit, with black walls, small black tables, small black chairs, and indirect red lighting, shooting upward. It was a late spot, going into full action at about ten and winding up with last call for alcohol at four in the morning. This time of early evening the room proper was closed, but the bar was open, catch-as-can, for any thirsty customers that might fall in.