Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

The stacks, he thought, would be symbolically correct for unleashing those stacks of bills, which he had been very close to all along, but which he was now very much closer to, actually within touching distance of, actually within finger-tingling stroking distance of, five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of unmitigated loot. The girl’s hand was sweating in his own as they went rapidly down the marble corridor, as if she too sensed that he was about to unlock that avalanche of cash, turn her backside green with it as he had promised, allow her to wallow in all that filthy lucre. He spotted another door marked personnel and tried it, but it was locked, so he kept running down the corridor with the girl’s sweaty hand in his own, the smell of money enveloping both of them, trying doors, waiting for the door that would open to their touch, open upon rows and rows of dusty books in soaring stacks behind which they would allow the bills to trickle through their fingers, floating noiselessly on the silent air, if only Henry and George did not get to them first.

And then, unexpectedly (the only way he was beginning to expect), one of the doors opened on more books than he had ever seen in his life, stacked from floor to ceiling in metal racks stretching as far as the eye could see. He closed the door behind them, and then locked it. Taking her hand, he led her between the columns of books, wondering if any of them were the very encyclopedias he used to sell before he took the gamble, the gamble which was now to pay off in half a million lovely dollar bills.

“Oh my,” the girl said, “but it’s spooky in here.”

“Shhh,” he said, and clung tightly to her sweating hand. In the distance, he could hear footsteps, a library page running to get another book on birds for one of the learned old gentlemen reading in one of the wood-paneled rooms. He led her away from the footsteps, led her deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of books, doubting he would ever be able to find his way out again, but not caring because the money smell hung heavy on the air now, mingling with the musty aroma of old books. The patter of feet disappeared in the distance. There was suddenly a cul-de-sac as private as a woodland copse, books stacked on every side of them, surrounding them, a dim red light burning somewhere over a distant exit door, their escape when they needed it.

“Are you going to lay me now?” the girl asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“First the money,” she said.

It galled him that she said those words because they were only the ancient words whispered in cribs from Panama to Mozambique, and he did not expect them from this girl who had said she would do it on roller coasters.

“I have the money,” he said.

“Where?”

“I have it,” he insisted.

“Yes indeed, baby, but where?”

“Right here,” he said, and kissed her.

He thought, as he kissed her, that if she still insisted on the money first, he would probably produce it because that’s what money was for, to buy the things you wanted and needed. He thought, however, as he kissed her, that it would be so much nicer if she did not insist on the money, but instead offered herself to him in all her medieval, black-velveted, delicate charm, offered herself freely and willingly and without any promises, gave to him, simply gave to him without any hope of receiving anything in return; that, he thought, would be very nice. He almost lost himself in that single kiss, almost produced the money the instant his lips touched hers because the money no longer seemed important then, the only important thing was the sweetness of her mouth. The girl too, he thought, was enjoying the kiss as much as he, straining against him now with a wildness he had not anticipated, her arms encircling, the fingers of one hand widespread at the back of his neck the way he had seen stars doing it in movies but had never had done to him even by Irene who was really very passionate though sometimes shy, her belly moving in against him, her breasts moving in against him, her thighs, her crotch, everything suddenly moving in freely and willingly against him, just the way he wanted it, “The money,” she whispered.

He pressed her tight against the wall and rode the black skirt up over her thighs. She spread her legs as he drove in against her, and then arched her back and twisted away, trying to elude his thrust, rising onto her toes in retreat, dodging, and giggling as her evasive action seemed to work, and then gasping as she accidentally subsided upon the crest of another assault. “The money,” she said insistently, “the money,” and tried to twist away as he moved in against her again, rising on her toes again, almost losing a shoe, only to be caught once more by a fierce and sudden ascent, her own sharp twisting descent breaking unexpectedly against him. “The money,” she moaned, “the money,” and seized his moving hips as though to push him away from her, and then found her hands moving with his hips, accepting his rhythm, assisting him, and finally pulling him against her eagerly. Limply, clinging to the wall, one arm loose around his neck, the other dangling at her side, she sank to the jacket he had spread on the floor and said again by tireless rote, softly, “The money, the money.” She was naked beneath her skirt now, its black velvet folds crushed against her belly. His hands touched, stroked, pretended, possessed. She stretched her legs as though still in retreat, protesting, trying to sidestep though no longer on her feet. Weaponless, in angry reprimand, she snapped her groin up sharply against his demanding hand, a short petulant whiplash, and then sighingly moved against him in open surrender, shaking her head, breathing the words once in broken defiance, “The money.” Lifting herself to him, she tilted groin and buttocks up, opened skirt and legs, funneled him toward her and onto her and into her, “Turn you green,” he whispered, “Yes yes turn me,” she said, “Spread you like honey,” he whispered, “Oh yes spread me,” she said, and he rushed deep inside her with a sureness he had dreamt long ago, and remembering she murmured, “Oh you louse you promised.”

He had not, of course, broken his promise. He had told her he would cause her to lay down in green pastures, and that was exactly what he had done, though not letting her in on the secret, even lovers had to keep their little secrets. But he had most certainly done what he’d promised. Suddenly, he began chuckling. Holding her close, his lips against her throat, he began chuckling, and she said, “Stop that, you nut, it tickles.”

“Do you know what we just did?” he said, sitting up.

“Yes, I know what we just did,” Merilee answered, demurely lowering her skirt.

“Do you know where?”

“In the New York Public Library.”

“Right. Do you know on what?”

“On the floor.”

“Wrong.”

“Excuse me, on your jacket.”

“Wrong.”

“On what then?”

“On half a million dollars,” Mullaney said, and got to his feet and dusted off his trousers and then offered his hand to the girl. “May I?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she said, puzzled, and took his hand. He helped her to her feet, grinned, and picked up the jacket. As he dusted it off, he said, “Do you hear anything?”

“No.”

“Listen.”

“I still don’t hear anything.”

“Listen,” he said, and deliberately brushed his hand over the jacket in long sweeping palmstrokes, striking dust from the shoulders and the back and the sleeves, and keeping his head cocked to one side all the while, grinning at the girl, who kept listening and hearing nothing, and watching him as though making love had done something to his head.

“I don’t hear anything,” she said.