“Jus’ so damned scared,” she jeered. “Prob’ly shit the bed like a fucking baby. You did, I’m gonna make you clean it up.”
I got dressed, with her watching.
I waited, head hanging like a whipped animal, while she jerked the sheets back, examined them, and then sniffed them.
“Okay,” she said at last. “Reckon you got all your shit in you. Still full of it, like always.”
I turned and started for the door.
“Don’t you never come back, hear? I see your skinny ass again, I lays a belt on it!”
I got out of the place — so fast that I fell rather than walked down the stairs, almost crashed through the street door in attempting to open it the wrong way.
After the dog, I had thought nothing more could be done to me, that I was as demoralized as a man could get. But I was wrong. The vicious abuse of the mulatto woman had shaken me in a way that fear could not. Or perhaps it was the fear and the abuse together.
I drove blindly for several minutes, oblivious to the hysterical horn blasts of other cars, the outraged shouts of their drivers, and the squealing of brakes. Finally, however, when I barely escaped a head-on collision with a truck, I managed to pull myself together sufficiently to turn in to the curb and park.
I was on an unfamiliar street, one that I could not remember. I was stopped in front of a small cocktail lounge. Wiping my face and hands dry of sweat, I combed my hair and went inside.
“Yes, sir?” The bartender beamed in greeting, pushing a bowl of pretzels toward me. “What’ll it be, sir?”
“I think I’ll have a—”
I broke off at the sudden insistent jangling from a rear telephone booth. The bartender nodded toward it apologetically and said, “If you’ll excuse me, sir?...” And I told him to go ahead.
He hurried from behind the bar and back to the booth. He entered and closed the door. He remained inside for two or three minutes. Then he came back, again stood in front of me.
“Yes, sir?”
“A martini,” I said. “Very dry. Twist instead of olive.”
He mixed the drink, poured it with a flourish. He punched numbers on the tabulating cash register, extended a check as he placed the glass before me.
“One fifty, sir. You pay now.”
“Well—” I hesitated, shrugged. “Why not?”
I handed him two dollar bills. He said, “Exact change, sir.”
And he picked up the drink and threw it in my face.
11
He was a lucky man. As I have said, my general easygoing and ah-to-hell-with-it attitude is marred by an occasional brief but violent flare-up. And if I had not been so completely beaten down by the dog and the mulatto woman, he would have gotten a broken arm.
But, of course, he had known I had nothing to strike back with. Manny, or the person who had made the call for her, had convinced him of the fact. Convinced him that he could pick up a nice piece of change without the slightest danger to himself.
I ran a sleeve across my face. I got up from my stool, turned, and started to leave. Then I stopped and turned back around, gave the bartender a long, hard stare. I wasn’t capable of punching him, but there was something that I could do. I could make sure that there was a connection between the thrown drink and the afternoon’s other unpleasantries — that, briefly, his action was motivated and not mere coincidence.
“Well?” His eyes flickered nervously. “Want somethin’?”
“People shouldn’t tell you to do things,” I said, “that they’re afraid to do themselves.”
“Huh? What’re you drivin’ at?”
“You mean, that was your own idea? You weren’t paid to do it?”
“Do what? I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll tell some friends of mine what a nice guy you are.”
I nodded coldly, again turned toward the door.
“Wait!” he said. “Wait a minute... uh... sir? It was a joke, see? Just a joke. I wasn’t s’posed t’ tell ya, an’ — I can’t tell ya nothin’ else! I just can’t! But... but—”
“It’s all right,” I said. “You don’t need to.”
I left the bar.
I drove home.
I parked in the driveway near the porch. Another car wheeled up behind mine, and Manny got out, smiling gaily as she came trotting up to me and hooked an arm through mine.
“Guess what I’ve got for you, darling. Give you three guesses!”
“A cobra,” I said, “and two stink bombs.”
“Silly! Let’s go inside, and I’ll show you.”
“Let’s,” I said grimly, “and I’ll show you.”
We went up the steps and across the porch, Manny hugging my arm, smiling up into my face. The very picture of a woman with her love. Mrs. Olmstead heard us enter the house and hurried in from the kitchen.
“My, my!” She chortled, beaming at Manny. “I swear you get prettier every day, Miss Aloe.”
“Oh, now.” Manny laughed. “I couldn’t look half as nice as your dinner smells. Were you inviting me to stay — I hope?”
“Course I’m inviting you! You betcha!” Mrs. Olmstead nodded vigorously. “You an’ Mr. Rainstar just set yourself right down, an’—”
“I’m not sure I’ll be here for dinner,” I said. “I suspect that Miss Aloe won’t be, either. Please come upstairs, Manuela.”
“But looky here, now!” Mrs. Olmstead protested. “How come you ain’t eatin’ dinner? How come you let me go to all the trouble o’ fixin’ it if you wasn’t going to eat?”
“I’ll explain later. Kindly get up those stairs, Manuela.”
I pointed sternly. Manny preceded me up the stairs, and I stood aside, waving her into my bedroom ahead of me. Then I closed and locked the door.
I was trembling a little — shaking with the day’s pent-up fear and frustration, its fury and worry. Inwardly, I screamed to strike out at something, the most tempting target being Manny’s plump little bottom.
So I wheeled around, my palm literally itching to connect with her flesh. But instead, Manny’s soft mouth connected with mine. She had been waiting on tiptoe, waiting for me to turn. And now, having kissed me soundly, she urged me down on the bed and sat down at my side.
“I don’t blame you for being miffed with me, honey. But I really couldn’t help it. I honestly couldn’t, Britt!”
“You couldn’t, hmm?” I said. “You own the place, and that orange-colored bitch works for you, but you couldn’t—”
“Wh-aat?” She stared at me incredulously. “Own it — our place, you mean? Why, that’s crazy! Of course I don’t own it, and that woman certainly does not work for me!”
“But, dammit to hell—! Wait a minute,” I said. “What did you mean when you said you didn’t blame me for being miffed with you?”
“Well... I thought that was why you were angry. Because I didn’t come back from the bathroom.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, yeah. Why didn’t you, anyway?”
“Because I couldn’t, that’s why. I had a little problem, one of those girl things, and it had to be taken care of in a hurry...” So she’d hailed a cab and headed for the nearest drugstore. But it didn’t have what she needed, and she’d had to visit two other stores before she found one that did. And by the time she’d returned to our place and taken care of the problem...
“You might have waited, Britt. If you’d only waited and given me a chance to explain — but never mind.” She took a three-thousand-dollar check from her purse and handed it to me. “Another bonus for you, dear.” She smiled placatingly. “Isn’t that nice?”