William McGivern - Savage Streets

“You’re late,” she said. “I can’t stay long.”

“I’m sorry.” They were only a few feet apart but he whispered the words as if they were conspirators on a dangerous mission. “I’m sorry, Cleo.” The sight of her youth had unnerved him; a blue kerchief was bound about her hair and beneath this her face was childishly small and vulnerable. She wore a loose-fitting sweater and skirt, loafers and thick ankle socks, a teen-ager’s uniform, sloppily amusing, childishly provocative. Last night she had been different; she must have been different, he thought with something like horror. In his panic he wondered if this were the same girl.

He couldn’t think of anything to say. “I don’t have much time,” he said at last. “Are you all right? Are you afraid of me?”

“Why should I be? It’s all over.” She was staring up at him but he could not see the expression in her eyes. “But how about you? Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Please try to understand — I lost my head. I shouldn’t have done it, I know. But I couldn’t help myself.” He was suddenly caught in an agony of remorse. “I’m sorry. I swear to God I didn’t mean to hurt you. Can’t you believe that?”

“You thought it didn’t matter what you did to me. I could tell that much.”

“You’re wrong, Cleo. Please listen to me. I’m older than you are and I understand some things better than you can. It happened because I liked you — do you see what I mean? Right from the start, from the instant I laid eyes on you, I felt that you were special.”

“Well, you took a funny way to show it.”

“But I lost my head completely. I couldn’t help myself. Some men are like that, Cleo. I’m ashamed, Cleo, ashamed of what I did, you’ve got to believe me.” This was not as he had envisioned their meeting in the sustaining warmth of fantasy. Instead of graceful, ameliorating phrases he was blurting out his guilt in accents of fear, his hands opening and closing convulsively, his voice rising in a trembling bleat. “I apologize from the bottom of my heart,” he said. “And I’m desperately sorry. Can’t you believe me, Cleo?”

“Well, that doesn’t cost anything to say.”

Norton got his nerves under control. He realized that she was preparing to bargain with him, for there had been more petulance than animosity in her tone. This was touching, he thought. It was sweet and brave of her to think she was a match for an experienced man.

“Now listen to me,” he said, attempting to harden his voice with authority. “I’ve apologized and I think you know I mean it. So there’s no further need for fussing. It’s always pleasanter in the long run to talk things over reasonably. Not much business would get done in the world if everyone went around with a chip on his shoulder. I guess you can see that, Cleo, for you’re obviously a smart little girl. What’s past is past, and there’s no point crying about it. The future is important — that’s the thing to worry about. And as far as the future is concerned, well, I could make up for last night, if you want to look at it that way.” As he saw interest quicken in her face Norton’s instinctive caution asserted itself; there was no point in overselling himself, he thought. In fact, the less she knew about him the better. “I’m not a rich man,” he said, smiling. “But we might have fun, Cleo. Do you know what I mean?”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious, I guess. But I don’t want money.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know. It’s nothing you can put into words, I guess.”

Norton realized with something close to wonder that all of his anguish and fears had been unnecessary; the dread of exposure, humiliation — that had all been a waste of emotion. He understood her perfectly now; and he knew he had never been in any danger.

Norton was suddenly aware of the silence, the faint wind above them in the trees, and of the simple fundamental fact that they were alone here in the shadows of the night, understanding each other without reservation or regret. The soft lamplight made her smooth cheeks shine like gold, and he could see the slight sweet rise of her breasts beneath the heavy wool sweater.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said.

“No, I can walk.”

“I told you I’d be nice to you. I mean it, Cleo.”

“No, not tonight.” She smiled quietly.

“Don’t tease,” he said. “Don’t do that, Cleo.”

“I’ve got to go.” She took a step backward, moving from light to shadow, her skirt flaring in the wind. He saw the flash of her bare legs, thin and white and heartbreakingly lovely in the yellow brightness. “No, Cleo, don’t go,” he said. “I won’t let you.”

Norton was reaching for her shoulders when a bolt of fire exploded across his face and shoulders. As he staggered under the blow, dimly but fearfully aware that he had been struck from behind, his first sensation was one of shock and confusion; but then the pain came dreadfully alive, flaming unendurably on his face, and he cried out and covered his head with his arms.

The girl said: “It’s him, Duke, it’s him all right.”

Norton twisted awkwardly, still holding his arms about his head. “Don’t,” he cried weakly. “Listen to me. It’s a mistake.”

A boy in a red sweater stared down at him. A leather belt was looped around his fist, the end of it flicking slowly along the graveled pathway.

“You like taking things,” the boy said. “Well, you’re going to take a beating now.”

“No, listen...” Norton straightened slowly, still holding his arms protectively about his face. “You’re wrong, she’ll tell you you’re wrong.” He turned desperately to her, his breath coming in great, uneven gasps. “Tell him, Cleo. For God’s sake, tell him I’m sorry — I apologized from the bottom of my heart. Tell him I...”

The belt sang in the air, an ugly, vindictive sound. Norton cried out as the leather cut across the back of his hands. He dropped to his knees. “Cleo, for God’s sake,” he said.

She was laughing at him, her face and eyes bright with excitement. “We’ll be friends, won’t we? You’ll be nice to me now, I know.”

“You begged for this,” Duke said. “You busted up Jerry, five of you to one, and you raped a girl young enough to be your daughter. You guys begged for it, and you’re going to get it.”

“Please,” Norton said. Blood from a cut on his forehead was running into his eyes. “I’m hurt. It’s different from what you think. Let me go. Please.”

“Sure you can go,” Duke said. “I got your license number. I can find you when I want you. Get started.”

The belt sang again, cutting across Norton’s face as he scrambled to his feet and ran. Steps sounded behind him and the belt whistled again and again, exploding viciously across his back and legs. The blood running into his eyes blinded Norton. He stumbled and fell, got up and ran again. Tears mingled with the blood on his cheeks and he could not stop the low animal sounds of pain in his throat. He ran in a staggering circle around the pond until he came to the pathway that led to the entrance of the park.

“Run, you bastard,” Duke said.

The belt sang for the last time, and Norton staggered on alone into the darkness.

Farrell was still sitting in the study of his home when the phone on the table beside him began to ring. The call was from Bill Detweiller. In a low, tense voice Detweiller said, “John, get over here as fast as you can. Norton just had the hell beat out of him by a pack of hoodlums from Hayrack. He’s too badly cut up to go home. He didn’t want to frighten Janey. So he came here.”

“When did this happen?”

“Ten or fifteen minutes ago. Look, I’ll leave my door open. Get over here and try to do something for the poor devil. He’s in sad shape. I don’t want to wake Chicky — it’s not the time or place for women.”