In a Lonely Place (3 page)

The phone was a jangle tearing sleep from a man’s face. It was the scream of bus brakes, the clanging chain of an ugly oil truck on a beach road, the whine of a spiraling bomb. Dix opened his cramped eyes. He didn’t know how long the phone had been ringing. It stopped when his eyes opened but as soon as he’d closed them again the fretful noise began anew. This time he didn’t open his eyes. With his outstretched hand he knocked the phone from its cradle, ending the sound. He buried his head in the pillow, grasped at waning sleep. He didn’t want to talk to anyone this early. He didn’t care who was on the other end of the phone. No one important. No one important had his number.

His eyes reopened. He’d forgotten Brub Nicolai. He’d given Brub his phone number last night. For a solitary moment the coldness of fear gripped his entrails. As quickly the moment passed. He was without fear. But sleep had gone. He turned his head to look at the bedside clock. It wasn’t so early. Eleven thirty-five. He’d had almost eight hours’ sleep.

He needed eight hours more. God knows he needed it. He’d fallen into bed in complete exhaustion. It took more than eight hours to refuel a body exhausted. But his curiosity could not let him return to sleep now. He shoved away the covers, and pulled on his bathrobe. He didn’t bother with his slippers. He walked barefoot through the living room to the front door, opened it and brought in the morning
Times
from his doorstep. His hands were eager but he closed the door before opening the paper.

There was nothing unusual on the front page. The ways of civilization, international and national strife, wars and strikes, political propagandizing. Nothing he was expecting on the second page. That meant there’d be nothing. He thrust the paper under his arm. There’d been no reason to leave his bed. But now that he was up, he wanted coffee. He padded to the kitchen. Terriss had good stuff; he plugged in the electric percolator and opened the kitchen door to bring in the cream. The apartment was a corner one, easy for a man to keep to himself and to hold his affairs his own. No snoopy neighbors here. Most of them were connected with the studios; Terriss had told him that, told him with Terriss’ fathead pride. They kept themselves private too.

While he was waiting for the coffee he began to read the paper. He drank three cups, finishing his reading. He left the spread paper and the coffee cup on the kitchen table. There was maid service; he made it a point to be out during that period. The maid was a shapeless sack with heavy feet. She came to this apartment between two and three in the afternoon. He didn’t know the maid’s name; he wouldn’t have recognized her on the street.

He returned to the bedroom. There wouldn’t be time for good sleep before she came plodding in. If he were asleep, she wouldn’t do the bedroom and he didn’t like an unmade bed. He sat down on the edge of it, noticed the phone and replaced it in the cradle. He just sat there for minutes, not thinking, not seeing. Then he got up and went into the bathroom. His face in the mirror was the usual face, drawn from sleep, his hair rumpled. He’d feel better after a shower and a shave. He was taking his razor from the case when the phone rang.

He wasn’t going to answer it and then the quickening of curiosity stirred him. He took his time returning to it. Again he sat down on the rumpled bed. His hesitation before lifting the phone was so minute, his hand didn’t realize it. He said. “Hello.”

“Dix?”

It was a woman’s voice, a woman querying. “Dix?”

He took a breath. Only one woman could be calling. Sylvia Nicolai. He forced life into his voice. “Speaking. Sylvia?” He’d surprised her.

“How did you know?”

“Recognized your voice,” he said amusedly. She would believe him.

“Where have you been? I’ve been trying all morning to reach you.”

He didn’t like having to account. Nor did she care; it was conversational gambit. Because he didn’t like it, he lied. “I’ve been right here. Working. Phone didn’t ring.”

She said. “Phones,” then went on in her cool, lovely voice, “Brub and I wondered if you’d like to join us for dinner at the club tonight?”

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know whether he wanted to be with them or not tonight. He was tired, too tired for decision. It was always easy to lie, so easy. He asked, “Could I ring you back, Sylvia? I’ve a tiresome date tonight, business. If I can get free of it, I’d much rather join you.” The charm was in his voice, he turned it on. But she didn’t match it. She was businesslike, as if she were Brub’s secretary, not his wife. As if she preferred his refusal. “Yes, do call back. If you can’t make it, we’ll try it another time.”

He echoed her goodbye and set back the phone. She didn’t want him along tonight. It was Brub’s idea and she’d said, “If you want him, Brub,” because she was in love with Brub, the new hadn’t been rubbed off their marriage. He wouldn’t go. He wouldn’t intrude on their oneness. They had happiness and happiness was so rare in this day of the present. More rare than precious things, jewels and myrrh. Once he’d had happiness but for so brief a time; happiness was made of quicksilver, it ran out of your hand like quicksilver. There was the heat of tears suddenly in his eyes and he shook his head angrily. He would not think about it, he would never think of that again. It was long ago, in an ancient past. To hell with happiness. More important was excitement and power and the hot stir of lust. Those made you forget. They made happiness a pink marshmallow.

He stood up again, rubbing his untidy hair. He wouldn’t go out with the Nicolais to their lace-panty club. He’d go out alone. The lone wolf. There was a savage delight in being a lone wolf. It wasn’t happiness. It was the reverse of the coin, as hate was the reverse of love. Only a thin press of metal between the sides of a coin. He was a lone wolf: he didn’t have to account to anyone nor did he intend to Sylvia Nicolai wanting to know where he was this morning. It was none of her damn business. This morning she didn’t care, but get mixed up with the Nicolais and she would care. Women were snoopy. He hated women. Brub would be snoopy too; he was a detective.

Yet the game would be heightened if he teamed up with a detective. Dix went into the bathroom, plugged in the razor and began to shave. Hating the noise, the grinding buzz of noise. He could have used a safety razor but there were mornings when his hands had the shakes. He didn’t know when those mornings would occur. Better the buzz than to have people noticing the cuts on your cheeks and chin. His hands were steady as iron this morning.

He finished shaving as quickly as possible, scrubbed his teeth and sloshed mouth wash. He was feeling better. Under the shower he felt considerably better. It might be definitely amusing to be with the Nicolais tonight. It might be that Sylvia was the one who wanted him along, that her play of indifference was a cover-up. He was clinically aware of his appeal to women. He’d seen their eyes sharpen as they looked at him. Sylvia’s hadn’t, true, but she was smart. She wouldn’t let it happen with Brub there. He’d like to see Sylvia again.

He thought of her as he stood scrubbing himself with the towel. The long lines of her, the silvery look and sound of her. He’d like to know a woman of her caliber. Brub was lucky. He flung the towel on the floor. Brub was born lucky. For an instant he stiffened, as if a cold hand had touched his spine.

His laugh shot from his throat. He was lucky too; he was more than lucky, he was smart. He strode out of the bathroom. It was close to two; he’d have to hump it to get out before the ugly beldame of the brooms showed up.

He put on a blue sports shirt, blue slacks, comfortable loafers. No jacket. From the open windows he knew the day was a sultry one, September was summer in California. He transferred his wallet and keys and other stuff from the crumpled gabardines he’d worn last night. He rolled the gabardines, opened his closet and gathered up the other suits and odd trousers needing a cleaner’s attention. He’d beaten the maid; he was ready to leave. The phone started to ring as he reached the front door. He ignored it and left the apartment.

The garages were in back of the court. His was almost a half block away. Just another of the advantages of Terriss’ quarters. No insomniacs sitting up in bed checking you in and out. The garages fronted on an alley; a vacant lot across. He unlocked the one housing Terriss’ car. A nice car Terriss had left for his use. He’d have preferred something flashier, a convertible or open brougham, but there was advantage in a black coupe. All black coupes looked alike at night. He drove away.

He dropped the bundle of clothes at the cleaner’s on Olympic, then drove leisurely up Beverly Drive, parking near the delicatessen. He was hungry. He bought an early edition of the
News
at the corner and he read it while he ate two smoked turkey sandwiches and drank a bottle of beer. The delicatessen was fairly crowded even this late. It was a popular place and a pleasant one. Noise was a blur here, like in a club.

There was nothing in the paper. After checking the headlines, he read the comics, the café columnists and Kirby, Weinstock, and Pearson, loitering with his beer. He looked over the movie ads, sometimes he went to a movie in the afternoons. It was too late today. He had to phone Sylvia Nicolai.

He walked down to the Owl after eating and bought a carton of Philip Morris. It was after three then. The beldame would be out of his apartment, he could return, call Sylvia, and catch a nap before joining the Nicolais at their club The afternoon heat and the beer had made him sleepy again. Or he could get the letter written to Uncle Fergus. Damned old fool expected a letter once a week. It had been two weeks since Dix had written him. He wouldn’t put it past Uncle Fergus to stop sending checks if he didn’t get his damn letter from Dix pretty soon. He’d say he’d been sick. Maybe he could jack up the income for medical expenses. Something needing treatment, something acquired overseas. A back or a kidney. Not anything that would jerk the strings, drag him back East.

He got in his car, backed out, and drove a little too fast around the block. Uncle Fergus didn’t have to be so dirty cheap; he didn’t have another living relative. Two hundred and fifty a month was pennies. Medical treatment was a good idea, he should have thought of it before. He could get three hundred for sure, maybe three fifty. He’d write a whale of a letter. He was the boy could do it. He knew Uncle Fergus like the palm of his hand. He felt all hopped up returning to the apartment.

He flung the Philip Morrises on the divan, got out the portable and opened it on the desk. He rolled in the paper and started, “Dear Uncle Fergus,” before he remembered the phone call to Sylvia. He left the desk and went to the bedroom. Before dialing—Terriss had extended service of course, Terriss had everything easy—he lit a cigarette.

Sylvia answered the phone. Her hello was natural. When he said, “Sylvia? It’s Dix,” her voice became a bit more formal. She was conscious of him all right. She was fighting that consciousness. He’d played the game so often of breaking down that withdrawal but never with this variation, the wife of his best friend. It stimulated him.

He asked. “Do you still want me tonight?”

She was conscious of his phrasing because there was a minute hesitancy before she counter-asked, “You mean you can join us for dinner?”

“If I’m still invited.”

“Yes, indeed.” She acted pleased. “Can you make it about seven? That will give us time for a drink before we go to the club.”

“I’ll be there.”

He was pleased that he had decided to go. He lay back on the bed to finish his cigarette. He was still leisurely there when the phone sounded. He was surprised, more so when it was Sylvia again. Her voice wasn’t standoffish now. “Dix? I forgot to say, don’t dress. We’re informal at the beach.”

“Thanks,” he said. “You eased my mind. My dinner coat is out at the seams. It shrank while I was away flying.”

“Brub’s too. They fed you gentlemen altogether too well,” she laughed.

They had some easy conversation before ringing off. He didn’t want to return to the damn typewriter. He was comfortable here on his spine; he wasn’t sleepy now, just restful. It was just such delaying tactics that had let two weeks go by without writing the old skinflint. He pushed himself up and returned to the machine. Today there was incentive. He needed money for medical treatments.

Inspiration returned to him at the typewriter. He wrote a peach of a letter; it was just right, not too much nor too little. He didn’t ask for money. He was certain his back would be all right without the treatments the doctor ordered. Stuff like that. He reread the letter twice before putting it in the envelope. He decided to go and mail it now. It was a little after five. Before sealing the envelope, he drew the letter out and read it again. Yes, it was right. He sealed it quickly, put on an airmail stamp, and left the apartment.

He was walking fast. That was why he didn’t see the girl until he almost collided with her at the arched street entrance of the patio. It shocked him that he hadn’t noticed her that he hadn’t been aware. He stepped back quickly. “I beg your pardon,” he said. It wasn’t a formality as he said it; shock made each word apology for a grave error.

The girl didn’t move for a moment. She stood in his way and looked him over slowly, from crown to toe. The way a man looked over a woman, not the reverse. Her eyes were slant, her lashes curved long and golden dark. She had red-gold hair, flaming hair, flung back from her amber face, falling to her shoulders. Her mouth was too heavy with lipstick, a copper-red mouth, a sultry mouth painted to call attention to its premise. She was dressed severely, a rigid, tailored suit, but it accentuated the lift of her breasts, the curl of her hips. She wasn’t beautiful, her face was too narrow for beauty, but she was dynamite. He stood like a dolt, gawking at her.

After she’d finished looking him over, she gave him a small insolent smile. As if he were a dolt, not Dix Steele. “Granted,” she said and she walked past him into the patio.

He didn’t move. He stood and watched her, his mouth still open. She walked like a model, swaying her small buttocks. She had exquisite legs. She knew he was watching her and she didn’t care. She expected it. She took her time, skirting the small sky-blue oblong of the pool which lay in the center of the patio. She started up the stairway to the balcony of the second-floor apartments.