Black Friday (9 page)

12

She switched on the lamp and started to climb out of bed but he took hold of her wrist and said quietly, "Wait, now. Let's talk this over--"

"We'll talk later." She made an impatient grimace and tried to pull her wrist free.

But he held on. "I'd rather talk about it now. Before I do a thing, I like to know why I'm doing it."

She closed her eyes. She took a deep breath. "Please," she murmured, "don't make it tougher on me. It's tough enough as it is."

He let go of her wrist. "It needs discussion, Frieda." He gave her a smile to let her know she wasn't alone with her trouble. And then, edging closer to her, placing his hand on her shoulder, "What is it? What's this talk about checking out?"

"We gotta do it, that's all."

"But why?"

"Because," she said, "I'm afraid."

"Charley?"

"No," she said. "Not Charley." She sat there gazing straight ahead. "I'm afraid of myself. Of what I'm liable to do--"

"To me?"

"To both of us." And now she looked at him. "It's something I was trying not to think about. I almost managed to get it out of my head. But then you started with that talk about the racing cars. With me the driver and you the engine. Like telling me I'm covering all the ground I can right now because I'm not sure about later. Not sure of myself, I mean."

He didn't say anything.

Frieda said, "What I'm saying is, I just don't trust myself. I'm afraid I might open my mouth."

He stiffened slightly.

And then he heard her saying, "It's this New Orleans business. The story you told Charley. You said the reason you killed your brother was money. But the point is, you didn't do it for money."

The stiffness increased and it was like the cold steel of a forceps taking hold and tightening.

"I know you didn't do it for money," she said. "I don't know why you did it, but I'm sure of one thing, it wasn't financial. I found that out today when we were in the kitchen and the talk got around to New Orleans and your brother--" she took a deep breath, "--I was watching the look on your face."

His hand reached for the cigarettes. His other hand went for the matches. He had to do something with his hands.

"And there it is, there's our trouble," she said. "You didn't do it for cash and so you're not a professional. And you know what happens if Charley finds out you're not a professional."

He was trying to light the cigarette but for some reason the smoke wouldn't pull.

"We gotta get out of this house," Frieda said. "We gotta get out before I spill it to Charley."

The match went out. He lit another and got the cigarette lit. He said, "I don't believe you'd do that."

"Wouldn't I? You forget something. I'm on Charley's payroll."

He frowned. "Let's try it again. That one went over my head."

"All right, we'll put it this way--I've been in this game a long time. I've developed certain habits, certain things I do without thinking--like a machine goes into action when the man pulls the lever. So maybe Charley asks a question and I answer it--"

He was shaking his head, giving her a smile of kindly contradiction. "I can't go along with that. You're stretching the point."

"There's another point." Her voice lowered and thickened. "I'm a woman."

And she paused to let it sink in.

And then she said, "It adds up something like this-- when a woman really goes for a man, there's a thing hap-i pens inside her, I can't explain exactly what it is, it's sort of on the crazy side, a woman gets in that condition she ain't really responsible for what she's prone to do."

"Now look," he tried a little laugh, "it can't be that bad."

"It can't?" She returned the laugh, giving it a tight twist that made it almost a groan. "If only I could make it plain to you, what happens to us females when we get that one-man feeling. You look at me close enough, you'll see it's a kind of sickness."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. All I know is, you got me dizzy. You got me delirious. I'm so goddam hungry for you--" It was too thick for her throat and she choked on it. And then, catching her breath, trying to get in stride again, "The thing we need the most, it's got to be there all the time, and if I get to thinking it ain't there, I'll flip my lid, I really will."

He said aloud to himself, "This lady ain't kidding."

"I'm so glad you know it." And she gazed at him with a mixture of petal-soft tenderness and rock-hard warming, the warning saying: Just watch your step, mister, you make the slightest move to pull away from me and I'll whisper something in Charley's ear. But in the next instant the warning melted away and there was only the tenderness. Again she took hold of his arms. She said, "Let's play it safe so it won't ever happen. We'll get away from here, away from Charley, away from all of them. It'll be just you and me, we'll get on a train going somewhere--"

"No," he said.

"Why not?" Her fingers tightened on his arm. "What's to stop us?"

"Law." And he shrugged. "You know the way it is. I can't do any traveling right now. There's too many eyes looking for me."

"We'll get past them. We'll figure some way."

He shook his head. "It can't be done, Frieda. They got me traced here to Philly. Stands to reason they have men at every train station and bus depot."

"The waterfront," as she snapped her fingers. "I got some friends along the waterfront."

"That sounds convenient. Only trouble is, in a case like this the Law is very waterfront-conscious. They'll be watching each and every pier."

She laughed sourly. "I oughta be highly pleased. I'm in bed with a celebrity."

"Yes, I'm in great demand these days."

"Tell me about New Orleans. Why did you kill your brother?"

He shrugged.

"Come on," she said. "Tell me."

He shrugged again.

"Why won't you tell me?"

He spoke aloud to himself. "We're past that part of the program."

"In other words, you just can't talk about it and you wish I'd lay off?"

"Something like that." He wasn't looking at her.

He heard her saying, "Hey, mister, I'm still here. Don't hang up on me."

"I'm listening."

"Come closer, you'll hear better."

He moved closer to her so that their thighs touched but he didn't feel the contact, he didn't feel anything at all or see anything in this room. He was thinking about New Orleans.

Frieda put her arm around his middle. Her fingers played along his ribs. She said, "Well anyway, I guess you're right about the Law. It adds up we can't leave this house, we're stuck here."

He made an acute straining effort and managed to pull himself away from New Orleans. He looked at Frieda and made a fatalistic gesture, saying, "Gotta take things as they' come."

"Yeah," she admitted. "No use losing sleep about it."

He grinned at her. "That's the way to talk."

"Sure," she said. "Nobody knows what's gonna happen. So what's the use of worrying? Only thing to do is have our fun while we're here."

"Correct," he said. "Keep it up. You're doing fine."

"Yeah, I'm really in form?" But then her eyes were shut tightly and her hand fell away from his side and she said aloud to herself, "If only I was able to convince myself, to get myself to believe it's just for fun--if only I didn't go for him so much, this bastard here--"

"Now look," he cut in gently. "Don't start that again."

"Listen--that noise--downstairs."

"I don't hear anything."

"Listen," she said. "Listen to it."

And then he heard it, a muffled cry, then a chair getting knocked over? And now another cry.

He was out of bed and reaching for his trousers.

"No," Frieda said. "You stay out of it."

From downstairs there was Mattone's voice cursing and saying, "You want more? I'll give you more--" And then a thud and a crash and Myra shrieking again.

"I tell you no," Frieda said loudly. "Come back here."

Hart ran out of the room.

13

He was halfway down the stairs when he saw them in the living room, Myrna sitting on the floor with her face in her hands, Mattone in his pajamas standing over her, his mouth tight and vindictive, a suggestion of enjoyment in his eyes. There were two chairs knocked over, and a lamp. And on the sofa, also wearing pajamas, Rizzio sat holding his hand to the side of his face.

Hart took in all of that, wondered about it for a moment, then saw the opened suitcase near the vestibule. Some of the contents had spilled out and he saw a skirt and a brassiere and a high-heeled shoe. He was moving slowly now as he descended the rest of the stairs.

Mattone looked up and saw him. Mattone said, "Go back to bed. We don't need you."

"What happened?" Hart asked mildly.

Rizzio took his hand away from his face that showed some fingernail scratches. "She's crazy, this girl," Rizzio said. "She's gotta be loony to think she can pull a caper like this."

Myrna was trying to get to her feet. She almost made it, then fell on her side and stayed there for some moments. Then she tried again and this time she made it. Hart saw a thin stream of red going down from the corner of her mouth. She stood motionless, gazing at the opened suitcase. She took a step toward the suitcase and Mattone took hold of her arm.

"You want some more?" Mattone asked.

"Let go," she said dully. "I'm getting outta here."

"She's really gone crazy," Rizzio said. "We better wake up Charley."

"This don't require Charley," Mattone said. "I know just how to handle it."

Myrna tried to squirm away from Mattone's grip. He twisted her arm behind her back and she went to her knees. Her face was very white but there was no expression on it. And Hart wondered why she wasn't weeping. Mattone was really hurting her. She looked awfully frail and helpless kneeling there at Mattone's feet.

"What we oughta do," Rizzio said, "is get a rope and tie her up."

"No," Mattone said. "We won't hafta do that."

"Well, we gotta do something," Rizzio whined. "I wanna get this over with and go back to sleep."

Myrna squirmed again and Mattone put more pressure on her arm. Now he had her arm pulled up high between her shoulder blades and her head was down very low.

"I think she's coming around," Mattone murmured. "She knows she made a mistake and she won't try it again."

"You sure of that?" Hart asked.

"Positive." Mattone looked at Hart. "She's finished for the night. She won't gimme any more trouble."

"Then why don't you let go of her arm?"

"Who's asking you?"

Hart shrugged. "No use breaking her arm."

"Suppose I wanna break it?"

Hart shrugged again. "No use talking that way, either."

"That's only your opinion," Mattone said. "If I feel like doing it, I'll break her neck."

"No you won't," Hart said. He was beginning to realize why he'd come running downstairs.

Mattone said, "Do yourself a favor, jimmy-boy. Don't agitate me. I been agitated enough tonight and I can take only so much."

"All right," Hart said. "That sounds reasonable. But you're hurting her and I think you oughta let go of her arm."

"The hell with what you think." Mattone looked away from Hart and looked down at Myrna who'd stopped squirming and was altogether passive under the pressure of his grip. He did nothing for a moment, and then he took in a hissing breath between his teeth and yanked viciously at her arm. She let out a screech of animal pain and Hart heard it going into him like a hook, the hook in there deep and pulling him forward toward Mattone. His right hand was a fist going up and over and down and hitting Mattone on the temple. Mattone let go of Myrna and staggered sideways, then straightened and grinned. Mattone said, "Know something? I was hoping you'd do that."

Hart grinned back at the tall good-looking light-heavyweight who now raised his arms very slowly, getting set with the right held high, the left easing out tentatively to either feint or lead, the legs arranged in a purelyprofessional stance. Then Mattone began to move in.

Rizzio jumped up from the sofa, saying, "Aw, no, for Christ's sake. No--" and he snatched at the fabric of Mattone's pajama-shirt. But then he took Mattone's backwardjabbing elbow in his chest that sent him back to the sofa and he sat down, looking very worried.

Mattone resumed moving in, coming in slowly.

Hart backed away, then shifted off to one side, looking for a vase or a heavy ashtray or anything at all that might come in handy. He heard Mattone saying, "I could do it with one punch but I ain't gonna do it that way." And there was no vase or ashtray in the immediate vicinity, there was nothing except Mattone's left hand shooting out and almost getting him. He'd moved his head to pull away from it and now his hands were up defensively, the grin was off his face and his eyes became technical, not blinking as he heard Mattone murmuring, "What we're gonna do first, jimmyboy, is some dental work. You got too many front teeth." So then the left jabbed again, jabbed very fast and neatly but he was ready for it and wiped it off with his right hand coming down as he moved in low and hooked his left to Mattone's middle. "Oh," Mattone said, but it wasn't a grunt, just a slight show of surprise, "that was sorta cute. This looks to be a cutey here. I always like it with these cuties, it's a lotta fun."

So then Mattone moved in again and Hart was cute once more, starting to the left, then to the right, then to the left again to avoid a series of jabs and a chopping right aimed at his jaw. But then Mattone found him with a short left hook to the middle and he took the full force of it, started to bend double, took a right to the side of his head, then another hook to the ribs, and knew he didn't have a chance and was due to get badly hurt. He managed to slip away from a whizzing left coming toward his eyes, ducked very low under another hook trying for his head, stabbed his own left into Mattone's stomach, then received a swinging right that crashed against the side of his skull and put some flashing van-colored lights in there. He thought: The difficulty is, there's not enough room to move around, it's so much smaller than a regulation ring. He was grinning again, sending the grin past Mattone and giving it to Rizzio who sat there on the sofa shaking his head sadly, then giving it to Myrna who remained kneeling on the floor, rubbing her arm. Then he heard footsteps on the stairs and Frieda's voice yelling they should stop it, while the bright green and orange and lavender lights in his head began to spin rapidly, impelled by Mattone's right hand getting him on the forehead. He told himself he might as well fall down, but as he went down he knew that wouldn't stop Mattone from continuing with him while he was on the floor, and he tried to get up, grabbing at Mattone's middle for support. Mattone pushed him away, set him up with a light jab to the chest, and hauled off with the right, not aiming it for the jaw, but preparing it for damage to the eyes. And Hart saw it coming, and thought in that instant: He'll close both of my eyes, then work on my nose, then my mouth and he won't put across that finishing touch until he's got my facecompletely ruined. But for some reason the blow didn't land. He was only semi-conscious now, and he wondered vaguely why Mattone had stopped the punch when it was more than halfway home. He blinked hard several times and saw Mattone moving away, Mattone's face in profile. So of course he knew what it had to be, and he looked toward the stairway and saw Charley standing there on the steps above Frieda. Some yellow light came down from the hall upstairs and fell softly on the shiny fabric of Charley's bathrobe. Charley had one hand in a pocket of the robe and in the other hand he held a gun.

The gun wasn't aimed at anything in particular. Somehow it didn't seem like a weapon in Charley's hand, more on the order of a briar-pipe he was holding just to hold onto something. Under his eyes there was the purple of hangover. But aside from that, he didn't seem sick or sloppy or weary. He looked completely awake and quietly capable.

Mattone said, "Now look, Charley--"

"Hold it," Charley said, not looking at Mattone. He came down the stairs past Frieda, then across the carpet past Mattone. He seated himself on the sofa beside Rizzio and then, his head turning slowly, he examined the room with its overturned chairs, its wrinkled carpet, the girl kneeling on the floor near the opened suitcase, and Mattone who stood facing him, breathing hard through the nose. He didn't look at Hart.

Mattone said, "I'll tell it, Charley. Let me tell it--"

"You be quiet," Charley said. "I've had enough from you, Mattone. You open your mouth again and I'll shoot you in the kneecap."

On the stairs, Frieda said quickly, "He means it, Mattone. For God's sake, keep your mouth shut."

Charley looked at Rizzio and murmured, "Give it to me."

"Well," Rizzio said, "I'm sound asleep and Mattone wakes me up and says he hears something downstairs. So then he runs downstairs and I follow him and I see him going after Myrna. She's got that suitcase in her hand and so I know it ain't for no stroll around the block. He grabs her and she pulls away and then I grab her and she does this to my face. So he grabs her again and she won't behave, he's gotta mess her up a little to quiet her down. Then Al tells him to leave her alone and it gets to be an argument and--" Rizzio shrugged.

Charley put the gun in the pocket of his bathrobe. He ran a forefinger slowly across his underlip. His head turned very slowly toward Myrna and he said, "Get up from the floor."

Myrna didn't move.

"It's in the head," Rizzio said. "This girl here is sick in the head."

"Get her a drink," Charley said.

"No," Myrna said. "I don't need a drink."

"What's the matter with you?" Charley asked.

"Nothing," she answered. "I just wanna leave, that's all."

"You can't do that," Charley said very softly. "You know we can't let you do that."

"Yes," she said. There was nothing in her voice, nothing at all. "I know how it is, Charley. I shouldn't of done it. I won't try it again."

"I hope you won't," Charley had it down to a whisper.

"The hell she won't," Mattone said.

Charley's eyes were closed. "I'm begging you, Mattone. I'm actually begging you to keep quiet. You don't know how close you came to getting shot."

Mattone's mouth slackened, then tightened, and slackened again. His eyes became wet. He tried to hold back the wetness but it came out and rolled down his cheeks. He said, "Always blaming me. Why is it me all the time?"

"You're a louse-up artist, that's why," Charley told him. "You're always lousing up a situation. I've tried to tell you how things should be handled, but you never listen."

"I did what I thought was--"

"Not what you thought was practical, don't tell me that. You got no idea what it is to be practical. With you it's muscle, always muscle. The mistake you made, you never should have quit the ring. That's all you're good for, demonstrating your muscle."

Mattone stood there making no sound as the tears came out of his eyes.

"I'll let you demonstrate it now," Charley said. "Come on, use some muscle and pick up the chairs. Straighten up this room."

"Charley, you can't treat me like a--"

"Yes I can," Charley said. He gestured toward the overturned chairs. "Pick them up."

Mattone wouldn't or couldn't move, and Frieda came quickly down the stairs, saying, "I'll do it--"

"No," Charley said. "He'll do it."

"Will I?" Mattone's voice broke.

"Yes, you will," Charley said, then looked away from Mattone as though to say the subject was dropped. Mattone moved toward the overturned chairs. For some moments it was quiet in the room except for the sound of Mattone setting the chairs on their legs, then straightening the carpet. Rizzio stretched and yawned and said sleepily, "You want me for anything, Charley?" And Charley shook his head. Rizzio yawned again and got up from the sofa, crossed the room and went upstairs. Frieda said to Hart, "All right, it's all over. Let's go back to bed." Charley said, "No, Frieda. I want him down here. I wanna talk to him." Frieda said, "Me too?" And Charley murmured, "No, you go up and get some sleep. He'll be up soon." And then, to Mattone, "All right, that's enough with the carpet." Mattone, not looking at him, spoke with bitter sarcasm. "You want me to wash the floor?"

"No," Charley said. "Just wash your face. Go up and wash your face and go to bed."

Mattone followed Frieda upstairs. Myrna had lifted herself from the floor and now she was slowly re-filling her suitcase. When she had it filled, she carried it toward the stairway but Charley stopped her with, "Not yet, Myrna. Sit down for a while."

She lowered the suitcase to the stairway landing. She came over to the sofa and sat down beside Charley.

Hart took one of the armchairs. He felt chilly wearing only his trousers. He told himself it was awfully cold down here. He wished he had something to cover his chest and shoulders, and trying to concentrate on that, he heard himself saying, "I can tell you what it is, Charley. She did it on account of me."