Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

“His real name is Vaslav—that was Nijinsky's first name,” I said. “Then I shortened it to Slav, and finally Slob.”

“I see,” she said, not knowing what I was talking about. Joe went to the bathroom and came out while the toilet was still flushing. He said, “Give and take. How about giving us a couple of snorters?”

“Sorry, killed the only bottle I had early this morning. Like some beer?” I asked, feeling a little nervous with all that money in my pocket, and more than a little angry—Joe had a hell of a nerve bringing this babe here. Suppose Flo was still with me? Not that it would have killed Flo to meet a Stella. I was doubly annoyed with myself for being such a snob.

“Want some beer, doll?” Joe asked, going over and running his big hand through her over-blonde hair.

“Sure, good to taper off on beer,” she said, giving Slob a real rubdown.

I went into the kitchen and I heard them kissing, then Joe told her, “I'd best go in and help Georgie boy.”

He came in and put a heavy arm around my shoulder, turned on the water in the sink so she couldn't hear, said, “Jeez, what a night. I tied a big one on. Hey what do you think of Stella? Some sex-boat.”

“Not bad,” I said, pouring the beer. I knew all about Stella—all the Stellas: with a husband someplace in the background, maybe a kid or two, a busted marriage, a routine job during the week, and the frantic week-ends with any guy who treated her “nicely,” as she tried to regain her illusions of bright romance and youth over some bar; a dozen drinks fogging reality. “Listen pal,” Joe said, hesitating a bit, “hate to ask you this, but I see Flo isn't around... didn't think she would be, and...”

“What made you think that?”

“Hell, don't kid your Uncle Joe. You two never last more than a few days. Look, the point is, you see Stella, what she wants. Could we use your place—for a little while?”

“What happened to your places—get dispossessed?” I asked, angry. I don't like anybody using my place, not even for parties—seemed to give the place a dirty atmosphere, and I mean dirty in every sense of the word. At the moment all I wanted was to listen to some good records, smoke my pipe, and read the Sunday paper.

“The kid's aunt and uncle came in from Harrisburg last night,” Joe said, running a comb through his thick, black-gray hair. “The yokels got their dates mixed, thought Walt was coming home this month, 'stead of next. Whole damn month off, but you see how it is, can't take doll there. Wouldn't even bother, only she's such a hot number. I know how you feel about... it... but you see her, ready to explode and...”

“All over my bed,” I said, shutting off the water, taking the beer bottles and glasses into the living room.

We sat around, making small talk over the beer, Joe waiting for me to make a move. Finally he said, “Beer—nothing to it. Georgie, you're a man of high influence, how about getting a bottle?”

“On Sunday morning?” I said. Then I got my hat and coat, decided I might as well let him have the place. I knew Joe and it would have been even more ridiculous for me to sit in the living room reading the Times while they were in the bedroom.

“What's Sunday morning? You're known at some of the bars around here, ought to get a bottle without much trouble,” Joe said quickly, winking at me.

“I'll try.”

“That's it. Take your time.”

I looked at my wrist watch. It was almost eleven. “I'll try—till noon.”

“Great,” Joe said.

I went out, wondering how I'd kill an hour. I had seven thousand in my pocket, had been maneuvered out of my own house, and although it was a mild sunny day, I was too tired and sleepy to walk. I knew I wouldn't sleep that night either—I have a complex about other people using my bed.

I stood in front of the house for a few minutes, trying to decide whether to drop down and see Flo, take a walk, or try the peace and quiet of the church across the street. I decided against all three. I was not only irritated at having been thrown oat of my house, but the money in my pocket gave me a restless sense of power—even though it wasn't mine. I walked to the corner of Park Avenue, then turned and went back to the house, rang Henderson's bell. When he buzzed the door open, I went upstairs. He was waiting inside his door, wearing a neat silk robe, and slippers.

He said hello as we shook hands.

“Thought I'd drop in for a few minutes,” I said.

“Fine, fine. Having breakfast. Join me?”

I shook my head, took off my coat and hat. Francis was a health bug. While I sat and watched him he ate a bowl of red jello in which I could see sardines, chopped celery, and string beans suspended. He was a little gray-haired man, eccentric as hell, but full of life for a person well over 70.

“Try some, you'll like this,” he said, pointing to the mess.

“I doubt if I would.”

“Utter nonsense. Consider the contradiction: You'd eat a sardine sandwich, a salad, and take jello for dessert—and think nothing of it. But mix them all together, as they will become inside your stomach, and you turn it down.”-

“I certainly do!”

He ate a few spoonfuls of the stuff, chewing it thoroughly. “Now isn't that stupid, afraid to look at what's in your belly? You're hiding your head in your intestines, to paraphrase the ostrich and the sand business.”

I didn't answer and he finished his 'meal' in silence. I glanced about the room. He had heavy, old-fashioned furniture, with a big bronze statute of Man o' War on the ugly old mahogany sideboard.

Henderson washed his food down with a glass of carrot juice, took the dishes into the kitchen. I picked up his Times, read the front page. “Going to have Joe and some of the boys in for poker this week?” he called out.

I said I guess so and went into the kitchen. He was pouring heavy sour cream and bits of chocolate-covered graham crackers into an electrical mixer.

“Any night you wish,” he said, starting the mixer, which didn't make much noise. “Be sure Joe is there. That Joe, drawing to straights and flushes—a slow living.”

Through the door I could see the statue of Man o' War. Francis F. Henderson was a quiet, reserved old man who lived off an income. He had no visitors or family, and played a capable, if cautious, game of poker, always quitting when he lost over eight dollars. He paid his rent promptly, saw all the Broadway plays, dressed plainly, and seemed to live pretty close to the cuff. I had an idea his income was about a hundred and fifty a month—he counted his pennies and played poker to win, not for the game.

Our relation was much more than a landlord-tenant affair, but we were never really friends. I thought there was always a certain reserve, almost a cunning aloofness, about him. I knew very little about him, he picked his words when he talked, except that he had worked for many years in a bank. Once when I asked about the statue of the horse that dominated the living room, he said, “The Man —great money horse. Did a lot for me.”

And once when there was a story in the papers about some bank teller arrested for dipping in the till and losing the money on the horses, we had been making small talk about it when Henderson looked at me with a faint smile, asked, “Ever think of the number of tellers that—eh—borrow funds and aren't caught? Of course you'll never read 'bout them in the papers. In the movies and papers the teller always bets on the wrong horse. That's ridiculous—some of them must win. Same percentage for tellers as for anybody else....”

That was as much as I knew about him, but I had a fairly clear picture of a bank teller following Man o' War's career, perhaps from the very first time he raced, betting ten bucks, then a hundred, then a thousand... then retiring from the bank. If he had an income of $150 a month and was getting 5 percent on his money, that meant about $40,000 stacked away. I wondered why he had stopped at that, but when I once saw him throw in a full house because he was pretty sure I had four of a kind—which I had—I could easily picture him stopping with forty grand, careful not to push his luck too far. Which is the smart way to play anything.