“Friendly talk. You and me, we don't have to kid each other. Let's talk about something else. Where do you come from—a farm?”
“Are you nuts? This is the best time of the night. I can't sit here and bull with you while the other girls are turning all the tricks. I have to make...”
“Let your pimp buy his new Caddy a day later!” I said, reaching over and slapping her. I didn't hit Barbara hard, but her left cheek went dead white, then a flaming red as she fell on the bed and began to sob.
I sat beside her, held her in my arms. “I'm sorry, honey. Sorry as hell.”
“What's got into you, Marty?” she asked, crying into the gray hairs on my chest. “What the hell's the matter with you?”
“I'm on edge, can't sleep. I... Look, I'm real sorry. You know how things is with you and me. I got no use for those other whores, but you...”
“Don't call me that!”
“Why not? You are a whore and I'm an ex-cop turned pimp and... Stop bawling. Told you I'm sorry. I lost my head.” It felt pretty swell holding her, feeling her crying. Somehow it made me feel alive.
She pushed out of my arms, dried her face with a sheet “I can't stand a guy hitting me. And you...”
I put my hand over her mouth. Her face looked tired and drawn, played out. “Barbara, how many times must I tell you I didn't mean to hit you?” I put my hand in my pants pocket, took out a bill. Happily it was only a five spot. “If I give you this will you buy yourself some perfume, stockings, or something—keep it out of Harold's mitts?”
“I can't hold out any dough on him. You know how funny he is about that. And you don't have to pay me...”
“I'm not paying you. This is a present.”
“Then buy me some perfume—give me the bottle not the dough.”
“All right.”
She got off the bed, looked at herself in the mirror. “I got to go now, fix my face up.”
I walked her to the door and then took a stiff drink—had a hard time keeping it down. The news came on the radio, all about the Anderson killing. I shut it off and walked around the room for a while, trying to think. I opened the drawer and stared at my gun—knew I couldn't do it. It was crazy—there were plenty of mugs around who would be hysterical to plug me if I told them to, only how do you tell a slob you want him to kill you? How do you look? What do you say? What...?
The door opened and I slammed the drawer shut. Barbara came in. “I got some sleeping pills here. Two—enough to knock you out.”
“I never fooled with goof balls.”
“Won't do you no harm and will make you sleep like a baby,” she said, filling a glass with water.
I washed the pills down. “How long before they work?”
“Few minutes, if you don't fight them. Lie down and relax.”
I sat on the bed and wondered if this might be it. Take a box of the junk and slip out of this world. Only somebody would be sure to wake me, or find me, in the Grover. I could get a box and go to another hotel where...
“Feel sleepy?”
“Not yet. And stop watching me like you thought I was getting ready to explode or disappear.”
“You got to stretch out, meet the pills halfway.” She gave me an odd little smile. “You're a crazy guy, Marty. Are you afraid to kiss me?”
“Hell, no,” I said.
I gave her a big hug and kiss, glad I had the mint taste in my mouth. She flicked her tongue at the tip of my nose, said coyly, “That was sweet, Marty,” then she kissed me hard, threw her tongue halfway down my throat. When she pulled away she gave me a smart grin, said, “We're alike. I'm in a lonely business, dealing with lonely people who want to get rid of me fast as they can. A cop's the same way— nobody wants him except when they need him. For a time your being even an ex-cop made me uneasy.”
“What are you, the wise old bird tonight?”
“Sometimes I like you, like you a lot. Now hit the sack.”
I stretched out on the bed and Barbara waved from the door. I told her, “Fix the door so it will lock.”
She did that, waved again, closed the door. I loosened my belt, reached over and turned off the light. And waited, wondering if I was going to dream of Mrs. DeCosta again. I started thinking about Lawrence.
I could have talked to the boy about fishing. Once I took him surf casting with me, and he loved it but he caught a bad cold being up all night on the beach. I even let him take a slug of whiskey. What I remember most is the big bass I got, about sixteen pounds. Had a fight pulling him in and Lawrence was excited too. In the morning when we were getting ready to go, I took a fillet out of the fish, left the rest, and the kid said, “You shouldn't do that, he was such a beautiful fish.”
“I'm not going to lug any stinking sixteen-pound fish on a train.”
Lawrence was thin and sort of sissy looking and he wailed, “But to leave him on the beach like this, all open, it isn't fair to the fish!”
“Fair? The bass is dead. And what the hell does a fish know about fair or unfair?”
The little drip started crying and then sneezing, and when I got him home Dot bawled the devil out of me. Worrying over a fish, now over a nutty butcher who...
The next thing I knew I was jerking myself erect and there was sunlight in the room. The damn radio was still on and the three o'clock news was starting. It reminded me of the old days when I'd pound my ear for a dozen or more hours, sleeping off a drunk.
My mouth was cracking dry and there was a dull, uneasy feeling in my gut. I felt dopey instead of rested. And it was another hot day. A cold shower snapped me out of it a bit. Then I shaved, washed my teeth a couple of times—they seemed to be coated—found a clean shirt and dressed. I chewed a pack of gum for my breath.
Dewey was behind the desk already, looking red-eyed, the veins in his nose large. He asked, “Howya feeling, Marty?”
“Hungry as a church rat. What are you doing in so early?”
“Lawson wanted a couple hours off—going to some art exhibit. As if the heat isn't bad enough, one of the maids didn't show, called in sick.”
“Which one—Lilly?”
He nodded.
“Dewey, what was the number yesterday?”
“Let's see... I think a six was leading... I only play the single action... and... yes, I recall now, it was 605. You have anything down?”
“Think I did.” I went into the office and found Lilly's home address.
As I came out, Dewey said, “Marty, you and I get along because we both mind our own business, so if what I'm going to say is out of line, say so. The thing is, you're acting kind of funny.”
“You mean I'm for laughs?”
“Don't kid me, Marty. Mr. King is up in the air, wanted to talk to you and wore out his hand knocking on your door.”
“Tell Mr. King I may achieve a sudden ambition in life—busting his weasel face.”
Dewey blinked his watery eyes. “Got another job?”
“Nope.”
“Tell you, Marty, we run the hotel so smoothly I wouldn't like to see you lose this one—have to break in a new man. Lucky for you there wasn't any trouble last night. Another thing, a Dr. Dupre has been calling you, three times in the last hour. I would say he was kind of angry at you, too.”
“Long as I have a buddy-buddy like you, Dewey pal, what have I to worry about?” I said, walking out.
At the coffeepot I had a couple of pastrami sandwiches and some orange juice. My stomach was solid and I felt good. I was a dummy not to have thought of sleeping pills. Merely rent a room in one of the uptown hotels where I wasn't known, tell them not to disturb me. About fifteen straight hours would do the trick.