Эд Макбейн - Guns

“Did you like being a stripper?” he asked.

“It wasn’t bad,” she said. “Actually, it was exciting sometimes.”

“How do you mean?”

“Turning guys on,” she said. “I’d go out there, you know, and the drums’d be banging, and the lights’d be on me, and I’d start throwing myself around, and it would reach me sometimes.” She shrugged. “You know what I mean?”

“Sure,” he said.

She shrugged again, tossed her head slightly, and then took another cigarette from the box on the table. He watched her while she lighted it. She shook out the match, and he watched her breasts moving under the T-shirt, and then she walked to the window and he watched the motion of her hips in the tight blue jeans, and he kept watching her as she stood by the window with one hand cradling her elbow, hip jutting, the other hand holding the cigarette and bringing it to her mouth. The sky outside was filled with stars. There wasn’t a chance of it raining anytime soon, not with all those stars in the sky. Heat would probably last another day or two. He kept watching her.

“They’re all the same, actually,” she said. “I told Jocko I was thinking about taking a job in a massage parlor, they get good money those girls. He hit the ceiling, said that was nothing but whoring. I don’t happen to think it’s whoring. A massage ain’t the same as whoring.”

“Well, lots of massage parlors, it’s more than just a massage,” Colley said.

“You ever been in one of those massage parlors?”

“Oh, sure.”

“What do they do in there?”

“Well, they do a lot more than just massage a man.”

“What do they do?”

“Let’s just say I can see why Jocko hit the ceiling. If you were my wife, I wouldn’t like the idea of you working in a massage parlor.”

“How about my being a stripper?”

“That might be different,” Colley said. “I don’t know how I’d feel about that.”

“Uh-huh,” Jeanine said, and nodded.

“You’re thinking I’d hit the ceiling, right?”

“How’d you guess?” she said.

“Maybe I would. Good-looking woman like you,” he said, and quickly picked up his glass, and discovered it was empty, booze sure went fast around here. He tried to remember whether the bottle in the kitchen was Scotch or bourbon, the bottle that hadn’t been opened yet; he suspected it was bourbon, wasn’t good to mix Scotch with bourbon. He was feeling exceedingly content now, sitting there in the living room watching Jeanine. The job had gone wrong, true enough, but there was something very pleasant about being here with Jeanine, something reassuring about her standing there at the window looking out, though he wondered just what the hell she found so fascinating out there.

He debated complimenting her on her body again, woman didn’t tell you how old she was unless she wanted you to say she looked terrific. But just then another train went by outside, and she turned toward the sound of it, probably wanted to read all that terribly interesting graffiti sprayed on the sides of the cars, “Spider 107” or “Shadow 49” or “Spic 32,” dumb bastards scribbling all over the city. If she ever turned away from that window, maybe he’d look her straight in the eye and tell her she had great knockers. You’ve got great knockers, Jeanine, did you realize that? No, of course she didn’t realize it. She’d only been a stripper for Christ knew how long, only had guys yelling and hollering every time she took off her bra and twirled it in the air, but no, she didn’t realize she had great knockers. I’m stoned, he thought. I killed a fuckin cop, this is my third drink, my fourth drink, who the hell’s counting, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and don’t give a shit besides.

“You’ve got great knockers,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said.

“What are you doing there by the window?”

“I was just thinking,” she said.

“What about?”

“I was wishing something, actually.”

“What were you wishing?”

“That Jocko would die.”

He was not sure he had heard her correctly. He reasoned that she could not have said what she’d just said because he’d seen her a little while ago giving tender loving care to Jocko, even though Jocko had a very small pecker, very tender loving care indeed, washing out his wound and gentling him, yes. You did not wash away a man’s wound and then wish he was... wish he was dead.

“You want to know something about your friend Jocko?” she asked.

He shook his head. No, he did not want to know something about his friend Jocko. Jocko was his fall partner and you did not go around looking at your fall partner’s wife and thinking she had great knockers... had he said it out loud? No, he did not want to hear nothing more about Jocko, nor see him naked besides with his red crotch hair and his tiny little prick.

“Your friend Jocko beats me,” she said.

“No, no,” Colley said, and shook his head.

“Yes, yes,” Jeanine said. “He hasn’t missed a day since I came up to New York. How long’ve I been in New York now? When did I come up from Dallas?”

“I don’t know,” Colley said. “Two months ago? Five?”

“I came up on the twentieth of May. What’s today?”

“Saturday.”

“The date, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“August sixteenth, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“That’s three months,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Look at this,” she said, and seized the bottom of the T-shirt in both hands and pulled it up over her breasts. Her rib cage, her chest, the slopes and undersides of her breasts were covered with angry black-and-blue marks. “ That’s your friend,” she said, and lowered the shirt again.

“Listen,” Colley said, “you shouldn’t be saying such things about Jocko.”

“Why not?”

“He’s my fall partner, we work together. It’s not right to say such things.”

“You still think you’ve got a little gang going, don’t you?” Jeanine said. “You killed a cop tonight...”

“No, no,” he said, and shook his head.

“Yes, yes, and for all you know, the other cop might die, too. But you still think you’ve got a little holdup gang going. Jesus!” she said.

“I just don’t want to hear nothing more about Jocko,” he said.

“Are you afraid of him?”

“No.”

“Sure you are.”

“No, I am not afraid of Jocko,” he said.

“Sure you are,” she said again, and smiled.

“Fine,” he said, “have it your way. Fine. You got something I can wear out of here? I think I better leave.”

“Are you drunk?” she asked suddenly.

“No, sir, I am not drunk,” he said.

“Jesus, how did you get so drunk?”

“I am not drunk,” he said.

“You’d better get in the shower,” she said.

“Wash off the blood,” he said.

“Wash off the booze. How’d you get so drunk, man? Go get in the shower. You know where the shower is?”

“Know where the shower is,” he said.

“Right down the hall there.”

“Right down the hall.”

“Go ahead now.”

“Thanks,” he said, and went down the hall to the bathroom. He was surprised to discover that he had a big pistol, big .38 Detective Special in his pocket. He pulled the gun out and placed it on top of the toilet tank and then was further surprised to learn that his pants, his jacket and his shirt were stained with blood, where’d he get all this blood on him? He took off his pants and saw that his undershorts were soaked with blood, too. There was dried and crusted blood on his left arm, and on both hands, and all over his face. He wondered if he should get in the shower with his clothes in his arms, and then dropped them in a bundle on the tile instead. He got into the shower, drew the curtain closed, opened it again to make sure his gun was still there on the toilet tank, and then closed the curtain and turned on the water and almost scalded himself. He backed away swearing, adjusted the water gingerly, and then looked around for the soap.