Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

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“Well,” he said, hesitating, “for how long?”

“Oh, couple weeks, a month or two,” I said a little angry. After all he was warm with money and a hundred wasn't a big bite to him.

“I suppose so, only don't make it more than a month.”

I got steamed, or maybe it was the whiskey talking, for I suddenly said, “Don't be so cheap, Henderson. Suppose I make it several thousand and you make it a gift!”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice low.

I nodded toward the statue of Man O' War. “It's like this: there's a bank on 23rd Street which might be interested in one of its former tellers, by name of Francis Henderson, who likes horses and who suddenly retired. And who once told me not all bank tellers who bet on the ponies—with the bank's dough—are caught.” As soon as I said it I knew it hadn't come off right.

Henderson's eyes went large as he said like a soft sigh, “George—Jesus!” There was an uneasy, flat, silence for a moment, then he yelled, “George! Get out of here, you blackmailing bastard!”

“Now wait,” I began, trying to make my voice sound strong. “You're in no....”

“I'm going to tell you something, you louse, then I'm going to kick your tail out of here, or die trying,” Henderson said, his old wrinkled face sickly and pale.

“No point in flying off the handle, we can work this...”

“Shut your filthy mouth! Oh, you've caught me, but only in a lie. Sure I worked as a teller, was a real mousey type, too. As for stealing, I wouldn't even take an extra Christmas calendar without asking first. But you're right—I am a gambler. I had a sister who ran away from home, married a real gambler. She died almost twenty years ago, left me everything she had: her furniture—including this statue of the horse, and a fair amount of money. I always wanted to gamble and never had the nerve, but I took the biggest gamble of my life—I retired. I've been living on three thousand a year, on the assumption that I'll die before the money runs out. It's a race, and I'm betting on my bank book outlasting my life span. I'm down to less than six thousand now, which means I have to die in two years or I'll be in a bad way. Why do you think I play such a tight game of poker? The money I win means days and hours to me. And now you... you....”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Henderson, but I'm in a jam and I thought you had all kinds of coin. Not that that's any excuse for the way I acted,” I said weakly.

He stared at me for a moment and his face seemed to relax.

He shook his head. “I'm sorry for you, George, and I can't understand you. Why you and I are—were—alike. I thought we knew how to live, to look at the world, we're sophisticated in the true sense of the word. But stooping to this, my God! You'd better leave. I'm pretty worked up about this, please leave before I say things that will hurt both of us, place me on your level.”

I took my coat, opened the door, said, “Francis, forgive me. I don't know what came over me.”

He said, “There's no point in anger. Perhaps in a few months we can even be friends again. But until I ask you, I'd rather you don't come up here again. I'll send my rent directly to Flo.”

There wasn't anything I could say, so I went out. It was a cold raw night, looked like snow and I didn't have enough money to get a decent drunk on at any bar. I bought a quart of wine and went to my room.

I was in rough shape the next morning, and by borrowing a couple of bucks from Harvey, Joe, and Jake Webster, I managed to stay drunk till Christmas. The Christmas party at the office made me quite a character—I got stupid drunk and passed out on the first bottle. Joe put me to sleep in the men's lounge and when I awoke, feeling like my head had been pulled inside out, via my stomach, the party was going full force. I ate a few sandwiches and ate too fast or something, for I got sick—all over myself.

As I stumbled out to get some snow and air, I vaguely remembered Harvey telling me Flo was on the phone, asking me to come to a party, but much as I wanted to see her, I was in no shape to do anything but go to my room and sleep it off. Of course the reason I passed out was I hadn't had anything to eat for three days, unless you're the scientific type that considers alcohol as food.

I awoke to find somebody banging on my head. My brain seemed to be a jumble of small pieces, and as I gathered them together, tried to think, I knew I was in my room, but it was dark, and I was across my bed, fully dressed—even to my shoes.

The banging was somebody knocking on my door and it sounded so loud... as if I was in the middle of an echo chamber.

The banging grew louder and I called out, “Flo? Flo? Who is it?” But my mouth was two layers of horrible smelling cotton and no words came out. I stood up stiffly, waited for the room to settle down, and started for the door. It was fortunate the room was tiny, I couldn't take more than a few steps and even that little effort made me faint. I managed to open the door.

Joe was standing there. A Joe looking cheerful, drunk, and sleepy. He's been up all night, or all week, judging by his eyes. He stepped in and I shut the door, the sound of it nearly slicing my head in half. Joe opened his coat, pushed his hat back, and looked at me as I sat on the bed. He made a face, opened the window and the cold air was a life-saver. For a while he stood there, without speaking, then he sat on the one chair, pulled out a pack of butts, lit one for me. The smoke was smooth as velvet and felt wonderful in my throat and nose.

Finally I asked, “What's the visit for?”

Joe blew out a cloud of smoke, glanced around the room, said, “What a trap.”

“How did you find me?” I asked, the question sounding absolutely stupid.

“Looked in the office files. You been worrying me, boy.”

“So I been worrying you. Glad you didn't go up to the house.”

“I was up there a few days ago. She said you didn't live there no more. A foreign doll, and what a sex-boat. Came to the door with just a slip on and is she....”

“Stay away from there, Joe, stay away from her!”

“What's the matter, she turn out to be too powerful for you? Georgie boy, what's wrong? Haven't been yourself for weeks.”

“And when I was myself, what was I? Joe, I was the guy wanted to go through life playing it safe, I wouldn't play unless I had a pair, backed up. Only you can't live like that, you got to go for the inside straights sometime, it seems.”

“Buck up. What's the matter?”

“Matter? Nothing! I'm just dandy, simply ginger-dandy!”

Joe shook his head. “Boy you look like hell. And something is sure wrong. George, you're a guy with class, a fashion-plate, and look at you now... living in this flea-bag, clothes wrinkled to hell and dirty. And you smell like a sewer—an old one. And there's something awful wrong when a guy making over a hundred a week starts borrowing a buck here and there. Not that I mind, you understand, but it's a sign something is screwy. Then you had some kind of a fuss with old man Henderson, Jake says you been asking some odd questions, and finally, a couple of weeks ago when you were up to my place, you were packing a gun.”

“I was not.”

“Stop it, I felt it when we horsed around at the door.”

“It was a toy gun, a gag.”

Joe moved his chair closer. “Georgie, we been pals for a long time. Christ, you're the best friend I have in the world. I want to help you. If it's dough, I ain't no mint, but Walt and me been making a bit of folding dough. If a couple of hundred, maybe a grand....”

“Thanks, Joe, but it wouldn't solve anything. I'm in a first class mess. I'm the fox who was outfoxed... hopelessly.”

“Don't be a blip,” Joe said loudly. “Hell, as an executive you know there's, no such thing as a problem that can't be licked—everything's in transit, what you can't lick today, you will tomorrow. Now, what's with you and this doll?”

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