Peter Rabe - Benny Muscles In

Before Pendleton had moved, Benny was at the door. He tore it open. That’s when he almost fell. Pat was there, and her cold face looked startled when he put his arm around her waist to steady himself.

That was the second time she’d got in his way, but this time it helped. Pendleton was by the gun on the floor when Benny swung the girl around and Pendleton stopped where he was. His hand hadn’t even touched the gun yet.

“You idiot, you impertinent idiot!” Pat twisted around, stumbling, and her small hard fist caught Benny on the shoulder.

He held on. He dragged her through the black-and-gold room, under the columns, into the entrance hall. “You bastard!” she was yelling.

There was a junction box on the wall, hidden discreetly under the two-legged table with the mirror. The table went, then the box. Another kick and the wires tore. That took care of the phones. While the elevator doors opened, Benny held tight and watched Pendleton, who stood in the library door without moving. Then the elevator doors closed and Benny let go of the girl. He’d been right. She had felt hard and muscled, and when she swung around her balled hand caught him on the side of the head. “You bastard,” she said, but that was all she did. She turned away as if she had lost interest, and Benny couldn’t see her face.

She was wearing different clothes now. Her sweater had pulled up under her small breasts and the jacket she wore had come half off. She straightened her clothes as the elevator went down slowly, as in a bad dream.

They looked at each other and Benny felt uncomfortable under her cold, disinterested stare.

“Didn’t mean to drag you,” he said. “Sorry.”

“That’s what you got clipped for,” she said. She turned to look at the floor numbers blinking slowly over the elevator door.

“Turk got rough,” he added.

She just shrugged. He couldn’t see her face, but he had the feeling she didn’t give a damn for any explanations one way or the other.

Benny stood by the floor buttons and listened to the creeping hum when she talked again. “You needn’t worry,” she said. “I was going out anyway.”

She had meant it. When they got out at the basement garage she walked to one of the cars while Benny was running for the door. He was at the end of the alley when he heard the car squeal into the turn toward the street.

Pat Pendleton took Fifth Avenue south and then cut left into a maze of bleary streets that angled down to the East River. She stopped the car by a row of brownstones and entered one of the houses.

On the first floor a door was open to let the smoke drift out. People were singing Italian songs and a girl in a wedding dress stood in a crowd of people who were clapping their hands while the girl swung a wine bottle over her head. On the second floor the apartment doors were closed. A boy in a leather jacket was saying good night to a short girl in bobby socks and they were leaning against the wall by one of the closed doors. There was nobody on the third floor. Four empty bottles stood by one of the doors, and that’s where Pat stopped.

She knocked and a frowzy woman opened the door. She was wearing an apron, and the warm smell of stew came into the hall as she held the door open.

“Hi,” the woman said, and she stepped aside.

Pat went in and sat down at the kitchen table. “Anybody in?” she asked.

“A few.” The woman stood by the stove, turning the gas down. There was only the sound of the stew bubbling inside the pot.

“Is Harvey in?”

“No. Not for a while now.”

Pat shrugged and pulled her gloves off. They looked expensive and strange lying on the chipped tabletop.

“Coffee?” the woman asked.

“Sure. Black.”

The woman brought a cup from the stove and put it in front of Pat. Then she went back to the stove and pulled on a chain that hung down from a high ceiling vent. There were no windows in the kitchen.

“Harvey isn’t here?” Pat said.

“Haven’t seen him for months,” the woman said. She put a cigarette in her mouth and sat down at the table. “What you want him for, anyways?” When she talked she let the cigarette dangle, wobbling up and down.

“I don’t want him,” Pat said. “I was just asking.”

“He was riding the horse bad last I saw him. Out of his head most of the time.” The woman scratched where her corset ended. “They took him in, maybe.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Pat said. She was picking the polish off one fingernail.

They sat without talking for a while and then a record player started in the next room. Somebody scraped a chair, couch springs squeaked briefly.

“Why’d you come back?” the woman asked.

Pat looked up, a sharp line between her eyes. “Just slumming,” she said.

“You come here for a pop?”

Pat laughed, but it was just a sound. “I’m through with that stuff. Look what happened to Harvey.”

“Sure,” said the woman. “Sure.”

The door to the next room opened and a man in shirt sleeves stuck his head in. “Abe wants a small one,” he said. Then he looked at Pat and nodded to her. “Long time no see,” he said, and disappeared again.

He left the door open and a sweet reefer smell drifted into the kitchen. Then the woman went through the door and closed it. She was carrying a spoon, an eye dropper, and a little white capsule.

Pat kept picking at her fingernail. When she got up abruptly she almost upset her empty cup, but she did not reach for it to keep it from falling. She went into the next room, stepped aside to let the woman pass back into the kitchen, and walked over to the table. The two guys sitting there were nodding their heads and tapping their fingers on the tabletop. The phonograph gave out a sharp rhythm. There were two other men in the room and a lot of stuffed furniture. A weak bulb in the ceiling gave the room the tall dimness of a railroad station.

“Sit?” said the man who had looked through the door.

“Sure. How are you, Red?” Pat sat on the arm of his chair and watched him pull the smoke from his reefer. He blew it carefully back into his cupped hands and sucked it right down again. Then he rested back.

“Harvey ain’t here,” he said. He looked up at her and gave a dim smile.

“I know,” Pat said.

He slowly raised his arm, holding the thin cigarette, and when Pat took it he let his arm down, slowly again, and rested his hand on her thigh. Pat smoked the way he had done.

“Who’s on the couch?” she asked.

“Uptown trade,” Red said. “Don’t know him by name.”

Pat shifted her weight and started to play with Red’s fingers that were lying on her thigh. “I’m jumpy tonight, Red.” They passed the cigarette between them. “You alone, Red?”

They didn’t talk while one of the guys at the table changed records.

“Wait a while,” Red said.

Pat unbuttoned her jacket and shook it off her shoulders. When the jacket had fallen to the floor she took the reefer again. Red watched her. She looked good under the sweater.

The man on the couch turned over and sat up. There was a brittle look in his eyes and he was smiling. A little spasm at the corners of his mouth kept turning the smile on and off. He got off the couch and walked through a door to the back. While the door was open they heard movement in the dark room. Then the door closed. When it opened again the man from the couch came out, then another man and a frail-looking girl with frightened eyes. She was holding a coat close around her neck and the man next to her was carrying some things under one arm. A nylon stocking was dangling down.

“Still jumpy?” Red said. The three people had gone out through the kitchen. Pat looked at Red and made a movement with her lips. “I got the cure,” Red said, and they both got up and went into the next room.