I Will Fear No Evil (47 page)

“Thank you, Marie.”

“I’d better go, the maître d’ is bringing a party to another of my tables. ‘Scuse, please—sandwiches will be right in.”

The girl left. Joan said, “Jake, would you say that she has found her niche?”

“Seems so. As long as she keeps her figure and saves her money. She doesn’t pile up Social Security points here; this doesn’t count as a job under the rules, it’s off the map.”

“She doesn’t pay income tax?”

“Oh, certainly! The fact that her income doesn’t exist, legally, means nothing to revenooers. Though she may hold out a good portion—I would. My dear, do you want to try this music?”

“Jake, I thought you didn’t dance?”

“I don’t dance this modem stuff. But I can try, if you want to. I wonder if that combo can play Rock? This new stuff has so little beat I don’t see why they call it dance music.”

Joan chuckled. “I’m so much older that I despised Rock instead of liking it. Swing was my era, Jake, and on back clear to the Bunny Hug—though I didn’t learn to dance until the fox-trot crowded out the rest.”

“I can fox-trot, I’m not all that young. But I doubt if that bunch of disappointed harpists can play one. Eunice, can you tango?”

“Try me, just try me! Learned it when Irene Castle was alive—and with this new body I’m eight times as good as I was then. Been teaching it to Winnie. Do you have a firm lead?”

“Firm enough for you, wench. I’m going to flag the maitre-d’—it’s possible that they can play one. It’s the only tempo that has stayed evergreen through all the passing fads.”

“Of course, Jake. Because the tango, danced correctly, is so sexy that you ought to get married afterwards. See if they can play one.”

But they were interrupted by busboys arriving with four swivel chairs and Joan decided that it would be polite to sit in hers a while, since she had made a fuss over chairs. Then sandwiches arrived and more champagne and she found she wanted both—bubbly to make her tiddly and sandwiches to soak it up so that she wouldn’t get tiddly too fast. Roberto and Winifred. returned to the table; Winnie said, “Oh, food! Good-bye, waistline! Bob, will you love me when I’m fat?”

“Who knows? Let’s operate and find out,” he answered, reaching for a sandwich with one hand and champagne with the other.

“Winsome, pour that Coke into the wine bucket and have champagne.”

“Joanie, you know I mustn’t. My Nemesis.”

“But this time there’s food to go with it . . . and not the other hazards.”

Winifred blushed. “I’ll get drunk. I’ll get silly.”

“Roberto, will you promise this poor child that, if she passes out, you’ll get her home safely?” (What’s safe about home, twin? You ought to hang out a red light.) (Nonsense, Eunice! Our man won’t marry us—so what do you want me to do? I don’t give myself to men I don’t respect—and I’ve got years to make up for. I’m nearly ninety-five years old—and knocked up—and healthy—and
can’t
hurt anyone physically and won’t hurt anyone socially . . . a man’s pride or anything else. Why shouldn’t I be ‘No-Pants Smith’?) (‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ Boss, your Bible-Belt background is chafing you again. Certainly sex is no sin—but
you
don’t really believe it.) (I do so! Always have. I’ve been almost enough of a busybody to keep
you
happy. Why do you needle me?) (Beloved Boss. You’ve shown amazing talent for juggling eggs and I’ve enjoyed every second of it and I hope you have, too.) (You
know
I have. So much I’m scared of losing my judgment. My caution, rather, Eunice, I never
dreamed
how much
more
it is, to be a woman. It’s our
whole
body.)

The cabaret was crowded now; the lights changed and the floor show began—two comics. Joan listened, tried to look amused, and tried to amuse herself by trying to remember how long ago she had heard each “new” gag. She could see only one improvement in the routines: The “dirty” story of her (his) youth had disappeared. Being based on shock of breaking taboo, the dirty story had bled to death when there were no more taboos. There was sex humor—the comics used plenty of it; sex remained forever the most comical thing on a weary globe. But it was harder to work out real comedy than it once had been simply to shock.

But she applauded the comics as they left. There was a black-out and the dance floor changed instantly into a farmyard scene—she found herself more intrigued by trying to guess the mechanics of that “magic” than she had been by the comics.

The farmyard set was used for one of the oldest (possibly the oldest, she decided) of all sex stories, and it was done in stylized, very old symbols in both costume and props: the Farmer, the Farmer’s Daughter, and the City Slicker with his Hundred-Dollar Bills. It was pantomime, with theme music from the orchestra.

She whispered to Jake, “If she’s a farm girl, I’m Adolf Hitler.”

“What do you know about farms, my dear?”

“Plenty, for a city boy. On one nearly every summer when I was a kid. Followed the harvest in high school and college—good money, plus occasionally a farm girl. Always was a peasant at heart—wanted the biggest manure pile in the valley . . . and got it, save that it was cash. Jake? Couldn’t we buy an abandoned farm? A simple little place, with drawbridge and moat, and our own plant and water supply? Get out of this dying city?”

“If you say to, dear. Getting bored with this? Want to move on?”

“Not during their act, dear.” (I’m curious to see how he fakes it.) (Me, too!)

To her surprise the entertainers did not fake it. Money caused the “farm girl” to go from offended, to coy, to consent, to active cooperation, with a haystack as locale of consummation—and actor and actress made certain that the audience could see that it was in no way faked. Winifred blushed to her waist and never took her eyes off it.

The ending had a variation that Joan-Johann conceded was new to her-him. As motions grew vigorous and the orchestra kept time to loud squeals and grunts, the “Farmer” showed up (as expected) with pitchfork. But the hay caught fire, apparently from the action, and the “Farmer” dropped his pitchfork and grabbed a seltzer bottle conveniently at hand on an empty table and doused his “Daughter” and the “City Slicker” in putting out the fire—aiming first at the apparent source of the fire.

Joan decided that it rated applause. Winifred hesitantly joined in, then clapped hard when Roberto did. Jake joined in but was interrupted. “What is it, Rockford?”

Joan turned her head, surprised. Jake’s driver-guard was looking very upset. “Mr. Salomon—I’ve
got
to speak with you.”

“You are. Speak up.”

“Uh—” Rockford tried to make it just to his employer but Joan watched his lips. “That crazy fool Charlie has gone got hisself killed.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Where? How?”

“Just now. In the guards’ lounge. Not drunk. This is a tight joint, they won’t let a guard drink. We were playing stud and Charlie kept needling this Polack. No excuse and I told him to knock it off. But he didn’t. Polack got sore, but tried to avoid a showdown. Charlie kept crowding him and—oh, what’s the use; the Polack broke his neck. Before I could get around to that side of the table.” Rockford said, “Boss? Seeing where we are, I could dump him. Best, maybe?”

“Of course not. I have to report it, the body has to go to the morgue. Damn it, Rocky, I’m his parole officer.”

“Yeah, but maybe you don’t know about it? He skipped. Dropped out.”

“Shut up.” Salomon turned to Joan. “My dear, I’m terribly sorry.”

“Jake, I should never have asked you to take me into an A.A.”

“That has nothing to do with it. Charlie was a congenital killer. Rockford, get the maître-d’. No, take me to the manager. Friends—Bob, Winnie—stay here please, I’ve got to take care of something.”

Garcia said, “I caught most of it. Take me with you, Jake. I can certify death—and it’s smart to get that done at once.”

“Uh . . . who’s going to stay with the girls?”

Joan put her hand on Jake’s arm. “Jake, Winnie and I are safe—lots of guards. I think we’ll go to the powder room. I need to, Winnie probably docs, too. Coming, Winnie?”

The party was over but it was two hours before they were home; too many details—tedious ones rather than legal complications, as Dr. Garcia certified death, and he, the manager, Mr. Salomon, and Rockford endorsed the certificate that death had occurred in an Abandoned Area at the hands of a party or parties unknown—in fact unknown, as the cardroom was empty save for the body. There was no point in inquiries; it had happened in an Abandoned Area and was not a crime de facto nor in any practical sense de jure. Nor did anyone weep; even Rockford did not like his driving partner, he simply respected him as a fast gun in a crunch. To Garcia Jake groused that He should have known better than to try to rehabilitate a congenital—and got no sympathy, as Garcia believed that such creatures should be exterminated as soon as identified.

Both tried to keep the grisly aspects from the ladies.

Winifred and Joan Eunice spent an hour alone at the table, fiddling with champagne and trying to look amused, while the men tidied up the mess. But Joan helped on one point: The body had to be sent to the morgue and Jake was unwilling to leave it to the management, he was certain they would dump it. Nor was he willing to send Rockford without someone to ride shotgun. So a phone was brought to Joan and she called O’Neil—was answered instantly and she wondered if her Chief ever slept.

Finchley and Shorty were on duty; O’Neil said they would be rolling at once. But Joan ordered him to have them first pick up Fred, to ride shotgun for Rockford. As an afterthought she told O’Neil to have the night pantryman place a cold supper and a case of chilled champagne in her lounge—the “night on the town” had turned out a dismal flop; she was darned if she would let it stay that way. Charlie was better dead and his death did not rate one crocodile tear. Ten thousand human beings had died around the globe in the hour since his death—why weep over a worthless one? (Eunice, what happens to a kark like Charlie after he’s dead?) (I’m no authority, Boss. Maybe the bad ones die dead—like a potter destroying damaged work. Ask the Front Office.)

(I don’t know its wavelength, sweetheart. Maybe you can tell me this—How can I get this party rolling again? Look at Winnie—drinking champagne but not smiling.) (Boss darling, I recommend more champagne and Money Hums, mixed fifty-fifty.) (Eunice, I thought you didn’t approve of liquor?) (Never said that, Boss. I didn’t drink because I didn’t need it. But nothing is good or bad in itself, just in its effects. Try it. Can’t hurt, might help.)

So when at last the four reached the big, ugly fortress, Eunice insisted that they go to her lounge for a nightcap and a snack. “Who knows? We might feel like dancing yet. Roberto, has Winnie introduced you to our relaxing routine? The Money Hum?”

“I’ve tried to teach it to him, Joanie. But Bob is a dreadful cynic.”

“Jake, let’s uncynic Robert. I’ve thought of a new way to recite it. Sit in a circle and pass around a loving cup. Three recite while one drinks, and pass the cup to the next one.”

“I vote Yea,” Jake answered. “Doctor, if you want to be cynical, go do so by yourself—you can have the guest bed in my suite. We’ll form a triangle instead.”

“I had better stay to keep the party orderly.”

“Very well, sir. But one unseemly word while we are at our devotions and you will be severely punished.”

“How?”

Joan Eunice answered, “By having to down the loving cup unassisted, of course, and then start it again.”

Joan Eunice woke up feeling rested but very thirsty. She glanced at the ceiling, saw that it was after ten and thought idly of turning on floor lights as a gentle preliminary to stronger light.

Then she realized that she was not alone. Should she wake Jake—gently—for a pleasant good morning? Or slide out softly and sneak back to her room and hope not to be seen? Or did it matter? Was she already a topic of gossip in her own house?

Better not wake Jake in any case; the poor darling planned to go to Washington tonight. She started to slide out of bed.

The man by her reached out and pulled her to him. She at once gave in, went soft and boneless. “Didn’t know you were awake, dear. I meant to—
Roberto!”

“You were expecting Santa Claus?”

“How did you get here?”

“You invited me.”

“I did? Well, yes, I did. I mean I told you that you were welcome in my bed, quite a while back. But where’s Jake? Did he go to sleep on us? And what about Winnie?” She thumbed on the floor lights, saw that she was, as she was beginning to suspect, in her own bed.

“Winnie’s next door. In her bed. With Jake.”

“Good God, Roberto—I’ve finally spent a night with you. And don’t remember it.” (
I
do!
Whee!
) (Well,
I
don’t, Eunice, Not in detail. Confused.) (You’re a drunken little bitch, Boss. But we had fun.) (I’m sure we did. I wish I remembered it.)

Dr. Garcia sighed. “Ah, well. I should not complain.”

“It’s coming back to me,” she lied. “Just disoriented as I woke up. You were especially sweet to me.”

“You didn’t think so when I wouldn’t let you go to bed with your makeup on.”

Joan allowed enough general illumination to come on to let her see herself, noted that the star sequins were gone as well as body paint they had adhered to. She had not scrubbed it off herself; ergo, someone else had. Not Winnie—Winnie had been potted as a palm. “That’s part of what I meant by ‘especially sweet’, Roberto. Not many men would take such good care of a drunken wench. Was I hard to handle?”

“Not really. But you were pretty tight.”

“Too tight?”

“Not too tight. Just pleasantly so.”

“I’m not sure I understand that and don’t think I want to. Roberto darling, even if I did fuss over it, thank you for washing me. Only a slut leaves paint on when she goes to bed. I’m a tart but I don’t want to be a slut.” (
Hi
, slut!) “And thank you most of all for a wonderfully sweet night. I hope I wasn’t too drunk to make it sweet for you, too.”