Ed Lacy: The Woman Aroused

The Woman Aroused

Ed Lacy

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Principal Characters

GEORGE JACKSON

Since splitting up with his wife, he had seen her occasionally but then he met Lee—and no other woman would do!

HENRY CONLEY

He came to George with $7,000. When he died George didn't know what to do with the money—or Henry's wife either!

LEE CONLEY

Tall, voluptuous. Next to her Lady Godiva looked like the winner of a baby contest. But no man could unlock the secret she kept from the world!

FRANCIS F. HENDERSON

George's retired neighbor. He played poker to win money and loved to look into his neighbor's windows. He gave his age as reason enough for both forms of indulgence.

JOE COLLINS

Worked for same company as George. A middle-aged Romeo, he got quite a shock when his son came home from overseas and acted just like him!

WALT COLLINS

Joe's son. His father had planned for him to

go

to college when he was discharged but the Army had taught Walt a lot, and he was changed now, changed into a wise guy—with angles!

FLO JACKSON

George's estranged wife. She saw him every now and then and they tried to start over, but when Lee came into the picture, her chances sank to a new low!

Chapter 1

I'M GEORGE JACKSON.

And this began about the time when you could still remember getting on the subway for a nickel, people were just starting to worry about the water shortage, and the current expression making the rounds was, “How corny can you get?” “How great can one be?” and the like. I know it sounds insane now, but I remember it because I found the answer to: How smart can you get? The answer to that one is easy: Too smart, brother, much too smart for your own good.

I knew it was a Sunday morning when Flo walked out on me, and it must have been near the first of the month, because we only got together when I gave her the rent from the house. Flo was (and is) my ex-wife, and we were as much in love with each other as we could be—but that wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough—we once split up arguing as to whether a certain brand of Haitian rum was dark brown or yellow. But don't think we weren't in love.

That Saturday night we started fighting over a cup of coffee and a couple of bucks. It was after midnight and we'd seen two crummy pictures at some 86th Street theatre, if one can call a neighborhood movie house a theatre. Flo and I were “trying it again”—for a few days we had been enjoying one of our periodic reunions, complete with much kissing, tears, and a good deal of genuine love.

It was early Spring, about March, and I remember it was cold and brisk as we walked down Lexington Avenue. I was trying to remember which newsstands were open late, so I could buy a Sunday paper. Flo was dressed in an ankle-length red coat with a high collar that almost went over her head. She was wearing gold ballerina slippers, and I think she was hiding her upper lip that night. Flo had nice full lips but she used lipstick as a disguise, shaping her lips the way she thought they should be. Sometimes she tried making her mouth larger or smaller, or blandly forgot her lower lip. That night she was attempting to make a thin line of her full upper lip. As I was doing my strategic figuring about the best way home to pass an open newsstand, Flo said, “I'm hungry and cold. Let's stop for coffee.”

“We'll make coffee at home.”

“Too much bother,” she said, pointing to a coffee pot that didn't look too clean. “Let's duck in here.”

“You're certainly wearing the correct outfit for a greasy spoon.”

She gave me a mock bow. “Knew you'd finally appreciate this coat—took me two days of begging before I could even buy it. If you like, we can go back to one of the better places on 86th.”

We were at 80th Street and I was damned if I'd walk back in all that cold—not to mention the fact I only had about twenty dollars to last the week. I said, “I'm broke.”

“For a character making a hundred and twenty-five per, not to mention what you win on the horses, you're always broke. Very odd.”

I could have said something nasty about the scatter pins she was wearing, my “make-up gift,” being half a week's salary, but I walked on. When I looked back, Flo had gone into the dingy coffee pot. I went in, too.

There was the usual smell of many foods, and the short, swarthy counterman with tired eyes behind the cash register, reading a morning paper. At the other end of the counter a shabby old drunk was sipping coffee. There were no tables so we sat on stools, and Flo's shoes and horrible coat which she thought were the latest style (and probably were) looked so out of place, I felt irritated as hell. We ordered two light coffees and Flo took some cake. She took out cigarettes and gave me one. We sat there and smoked and she tried to make conversation by saying what a waste of time movies were these days, but I was too annoyed to chatter.

The cup looked clean but the coffee was crummy. The drunk suddenly put a nickel in the juke box—which surprised me as he didn't look as if he could afford a nickel—and played Old Black Magic —one of Flo's favorites. She smiled, said, “See, almost like a night club. That's a terrific number—hope they're reviving that song.”

I sipped the bad coffee and kept still. It was a good song, I often danced to it, pirouetting on that “down and down we go...” part. I went back to figuring how we'd walk to the house on 74th Street so that if one newsstand was closed, we'd pass another. General George mapping his campaign. I love reading in bed Sunday mornings; sometimes I can even read through the entire Sunday Times before I get up.

When Flo finished her coffee I stood up and the counterman said, “Twenty cents.” I only had twelve cents in change, so I took out my wallet, gave him a bill as Flo said, “Georgie, play Old Black Magic before we go.”

“It's late,” I told her.

“But the number does things to me,” she said, taking a nickel from the change in my hand, walking over to the gaudy juke box, a coy sway to her slim hips.

The counterman gave me eighty cents in change as she came dancing back, holding out her arms, both of us watching her. “Want to dance?”

“Oh, stop it.”

She turned to the counterman, “Dance this one with me, handsome?”

He laughed and the drunk at the end of the counter turned his back on us. Flo began spinning about, her long coat billowing out to show her good legs, even the lace garters on her thighs. She was too much of an exhibitionist to dance well. She's always been like that, thinking more of showing off than the rhythm. When the record was over, she blew a kiss at the counterman—who had been taking in her legs—said, “Sweet dreams, honeyboy,” and made a grand exit onto Lexington Avenue.

Following her, I said, “Damn it, Flo, why don't you stop being cute, Bohemian, or whatever you think you are? Dancing around in the great tent you call a coat, showing your legs like a seventeen-year-old brat.” I was punching a bit low—Flo was hitting 34 and starting to get sensitive about her years.

“George, don't be such a stupid snob,” she said, reaching up and pinching my cheek. “The crack about my coat I'll skip, you have absolutely no sense of what's smart. But where's your romance?”