William McGivern - Savage Streets

She stretched out on a lounge chair with her hands behind her head. It’s a tough life in the suburbs, she thought, savoring the warm sun on her legs and face. She could imagine John’s reply to that, and it made her smile. Would you rather go downtown and listen to the big men talk? Bracket the idea clientwise, candle some eggs to see who’s chirping. What a thrill! And then home to the tunafish casserole and studio couch and the black and red abstractions on the wall. Pulse with the city’s beat. Lift sharp, hopeful breasts to all the tomorrows.

The doorbell rang and she sat up with the faint smile still on her lips. It was probably Chicky, she thought. Eager to get the word on her performance yesterday. Waiting for the reviews. I am a bitch, she thought, and swung her legs off the lounge.

She assumed they were delivery boys or salesmen at first; they smiled when she opened the door, a pair of large, well-groomed teen-agers with the sunlight shining on their healthy skin and hair. They seemed at ease; their manner was authoritative but pleasant.

“Mrs. Farrell?” The taller boy inclined his dark head politely.

“Yes, that’s right. What is it?”

They moved forward as if on cue, brushing by her before she could protest, then strolled casually into her living room.

“Now what’s all this?” she said, turning to watch them with a puzzled smile. “Salesmen used to be content to get a foot in the door. Is this some bold new approach?”

They didn’t answer; they were looking about the room, hands resting on their hips, occasionally nodding to one another as if comparing their appraisals of the pictures and furniture.

“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” she said. “I don’t believe I know either of you boys.”

“That’s all right,” the taller one said. “We’re friends of your husband.” He studied her thoughtfully, as if she were another item in the room to be classified and appraised; but underneath his surface gravity she felt the impact of a mocking sarcasm. He was older than she had judged at first, nineteen perhaps, with a slender, springy body and darkly handsome features — a sullen face, knowing and scornful, lighted now with deliberate malice. She felt an unpleasant little shock run through her as she noticed the Indian head that was sewn to the front of his red sweater.

The other boy, blond, bulky and powerful, wore a white T shirt and a gaberdine windbreaker. “It’s nice here,” he said thoughtfully and sauntered into the dining room. “Elegant as hell!”

“What do you want?” Barbara said. She knew who they were now. “What do you want here?”

The dark boy, the one she knew was called Duke, said: “Why, this is just a social call, Mrs. Farrell. We’re just here for a little chat.”

The big blond boy had turned out of sight into the kitchen. Barbara was still standing with a hand on the knob of the front door. Duke grinned at her and said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mrs. Farrell.”

Barbara closed the door. She forced herself to breathe evenly. Then she said, “Aren’t you being a little bit ridiculous?”

Duke widened his eyes. “We’re just repaying your old man’s call. He stopped by my house yesterday while I was out. He’s quite a guy.” Duke grinned as if this were a joke they might share. “Friend of the delinquent boy.”

“He simply wanted to talk to you,” Barbara said.

“Well, that was nice of him. I can’t think of anything I’d like more. A good long talk with your old man.” Duke leaned against the back of a sofa and lit a cigarette. “Maybe I could help him. He’s kind of mixed up, I think.”

“I don’t find this funny,” Barbara said sharply. “Whether you have the sense to believe this or not, he went to see you as a friend. He’s willing to do anything to prevent trouble.”

“What kind of trouble is he in, Mrs. Farrell?”

“You know precisely what I mean,” Barbara said, almost grateful for his insolent little smile; it sent a hot anger through her body. “Now if you’ve finished showing off will you kindly get out of my house.”

Jerry sauntered back from the kitchen. “Hey, Duke, Mr. Farrell is having steak for dinner. Now what do you suppose is the matter with him? He’s got a nice home, a nice wife, cute kids. How come he’s all mixed up?”

Duke blew thoughtfully on the tip of his cigarette. “These things are pretty deep sometimes. Everything may look nice and pretty on the surface, but underneath...” He shuddered theatrically. “Underneath it’s a snake pit. Now how about his job, Mrs. Farrell? He seem happy with his work? Does he have a good relationship with his boss? And has he had a raise lately? Things like that can get a guy stewing, you know.”

Barbara said, “I’ve asked you to leave. Are you going?”

The big blond boy was looking into the study. “Oh, oh,” he said. “Here’s a trouble spot. A TV set. And a bar.”

Duke snapped his fingers. “Now that might be it, Mrs. Farrell. Does he watch a lot of those unhealthy crime shows on television? Those stories about crooked cops and bank tellers running off with a blonde and a pack of dough, they can get a guy all stirred up.”

“And there’s all that booze in there,” Jerry said, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “I see him sitting there night after night watching them unhealthy shows, so tanked up he can’t hit the ground with his hat.”

“Get out of here!” Barbara said, trying to control her voice. “If you don’t leave I’m going to call the police.”

“And tell them what, Mrs. Farrell?” Duke said coldly and contemptuously; he had discarded the air of elaborate mockery, and now his eyes were sharp with bitter anger. He took a step toward her, his slender body tense with emotion. “We’re not getting out until I’m finished talking to you. Your husband thinks it’s all right to snoop around my house. Grilling my old man like he’s a cop. Asking about me. Where do I work? Who do I pal around with? Snooping around my bedroom. When do I come home at night? Where do I spend my time?”

He grinned scornfully. “Then he checks into my club with more questions, chumming up to a girl young enough to be his daughter. So I’m repaying his call. I got the same rights he has. What’s wrong with him, that’s what I want to know.”

They were standing between her and the phone, she saw, and she didn’t know whether this was accidental or not; but she did know that their manner had changed subtly in the past moment or so. She was conscious of their young male arrogance, the speculative shine of their eyes. “I’m sure Mr. Farrell had no idea there’d be any misunderstanding,” she said slowly. Jerry, she saw, was leaning against the jamb of the study door, his hands in his pockets. He was staring down at her bare legs. “Perhaps... if you like... I could ask Mr. Farrell to call you tonight.” She felt vulnerable and exposed; she hadn’t had time to put on fresh make-up after lunch, and there was an unpleasant shiver of gooseflesh on her legs. She hated her fear, but she was wise enough to respect it. She knew the meaning of the still, heavy feeling in the room, understood better than they did that a careless spark could ignite it.

Her lips were dry but she willed herself not to moisten them. She said as easily as she could manage, “I’m expecting the children home shortly, so you’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid.”

Jerry was still looking at her legs, still smiling softly. “You know, Duke,” he said, “there’s things beside booze and TV shows that get a man all stirred up. Too much or not enough — it can cause problems.”

“I know what you mean,” Duke said. “They’re called repressions. Get the cork in the bottle too tight, and wham! ” He pounded a fist into his palm and the abrupt, metallic crack of flesh against flesh made Barbara start; she stepped backward quickly, almost tripping, and Jerry laughed and said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Farrell. I’ll catch you if you fall.”