Ed Lacy - Strip For Violence

“So funny! Ha! Ha! I'll sleep on the deck.”

“It's all yours, but I'll make up the bunk—in case you change your mind.”

We went back on deck and it was windy and cloudy. I started the engine, gave her the wheel while I pulled up anchor. We headed down the Hudson. I told her, “To be on the safe side, we'll head for the bay, anchor off Staten island. Here, somebody could swim out from the shore, take a pot shot at us.”

Still sulking, she didn't say a mumbling word, made herself another highball, got an old sweater of mine out of the cabin, and put that on and sipped her drink. It was slack tide and we made good time. I kept to the New Jersey shore, stopped at a gas station near Edgewater, filled the tank, got some water and ice.

18

The RAIN BEGAN as we passed the Battery and it was really coming down so hard I could barely make out the Statue of Liberty. The wind had picked up and we bounced around on long, gliding waves. It would be calm for an ocean liner, but my thirty-four-foot boat was rocking like a cork.

Laurie was so quiet I didn't realize at first that she was seasick. When the rain started I sent her into the cabin, but she soon came dashing out, her face a sweaty, dirty, pale green, and gave up—happily not against the wind. I told her, “Get inside. No point in both of us getting wet.”

She shook her head, said in a far-off voice, “Lord, feel awful. Never felt this sick before. Can't stand it in the cabin—too muggy.”

“Be better off if you lie down,” I said, but she only shook her wet head; stood there staring off into the dark watery night, moaning now and then. The boat was going up and down each wave and I knew how she felt—being seasick is a worse feeling than being real sick. But I couldn't leave the wheel, get her into the cabin.

It took us a long time to cross the bay, finally reach Staten Island. It was rough in the dark, the great hulls of anchored freighters looming up around us, the ferry passing like a ghost, tugs making spooky, haunting sounds with their foghorns, and all the time the boat bouncing like a seesaw. I anchored off an unused pier near the Kill van Kull and the water was fairly calm. The Narrows probably smelled better, but would be rougher. I led Laurie down to her bunk as she kept moaning, “Lord, Lord, I never felt so awfully sick!”

“Sleep will make everything okay. Going to give you some dramamine, quiet your guts, make you sleep.”

“Let me... lie down. I feel... terrible.”

I got half a dramamine pill and a little water and she refused to take it, but I shook her and she swallowed it, mumbled, “Please don't shake me. My... insides are rattling. Want to sleep.”

She started to climb into her bunk but I pulled her up. “You can't sleep in those wet things. Get you some pajamas and...”

“Let me... alone. Feel like I'm... dying.”

“Take it slow, you're not the first person to be seasick. Undress, I'll turn my back and throw you a pair of pajamas.”

She was leaning against the wall, her eyes shut. I turned and opened the chest of drawers under my bunk, heard her getting into bed. Grabbing her, I said, “Want it like this— then stand still.”

She stood there in a daze as I unbuttoned her wet dress, let it drop to her feet. I unhooked her bra and her breasts were firm and small, but surprisingly full. She had on white panties and when I pulled at them, she pushed my hands away. I unrolled her stockings, ran a rough towel over her body, helped her into bed. When she was under the covers I said, “Give me your pants.”

The dramamine had started to work, for she made an effort to get them off, but fell asleep. Reaching under the sheets, I pulled them down her legs and off.

Hanging up her things as best I could, I went on deck to check my lights, see if the anchor was dragging. Then I washed up, went to the “head,” and got into my bunk.

Laurie was breathing evenly but I couldn't doze off, although I was tired as hell. Something troubled me, pricked at my brain. Had the same sensation you get when entering a familiar room—have a vague feeling something is out of place. I'd overlooked something, a word, a gesture, that had great meaning.

19

And at the moment Laurie annoyed me. She was lying to me, holding out on the dough she must have, putting my life and hers in danger. Maybe she didn't realize that, but either she or Mrs. Brody had to have the dough and I had this strong hunch it was Laurie. I was getting the patsy treatment. Her damn smugness... me feeding her, doctoring her, putting her to bed, trying to protect her... and all the time she was treating me like I was about to rape her. And yet—well, I'd known her less than twenty-four hours and already I was in deep, even passed up Margrita because of her.

Maybe my thinking was unfair to Laurie, confused, but I lay there full of a dull sort of anger... and back of every-thing was this thing jabbing at my mind, trying to make me recall whatever it was I'd skimmed over.

I'd doze off for what seemed a few seconds, then wake with a violent start, trying hard to recall whatever it was worrying me. Listening to the steady rain, the quiet lapping of the waves, I'd glance over at Laurie, wondered if I'd gone off my rocker—loving a kid who wasn't leveling with me. All the time—the valuable time that was fast running out—she was stalling me, Louise's body was waiting to be found, maybe put my rear in the chair.

Several hours passed like that when Laurie suddenly sat up, gathered the sheet about her, as she stepped off the bunk, swaying with the gentle ride of the boat. She looked around nervously in the dim light, opened the narrow closet door, started for the deck, shivered and stepped back as the rain wet her face and shoulders. She opened another closet—where I hung my clothes—poked around the galley, swore under her breath, then climbed back into her bunk.

I knew what she was hunting for—the John, the “head” as real sailors call it. Of course she had no way of guessing that the “Blowfish Madonna” was not only a picture but the door to the bathroom. She hadn't gone to the can all the time she'd been aboard.

I lay in my bunk, full of a strange, cruel satisfaction, almost amused. I wasn't going to make a move, till she came to me, asked me where the hell it was. Sure, it was petty and stupid on my part, but in some manner I didn't bother to figure out, it was important, a way of cracking that cock-eyed selfish pride of hers.

She twisted and turned in her bunk and I felt like a monster. She sat up, she stretched out again... and finally jumped out of bed, buck naked, shook me and asked, “Hal. Where is... it?”

“That painting there, it's the door to the John,” I said, pointing.

Laurie ran to the door, nearly falling, tried to push it open. “The food the blowfish is diving for—that's the knob,” I said, getting out of bed, opening the door. She ran by me and I shut the door for her.

I sat on my bunk, not sure this wasn't all a silly dream. I didn't know exactly what I was waiting for, but there isn't too much room on a small boat, and I was damned if I was going out on the deck, in the rain.

I heard the flush of water and then it was quiet for a long time. Finally she got tired of waiting, the door opened and she stood there, her body like a dream in the dim light.

Even her face had lost that tense look—maybe she was still a bit high on the dramamine.

She shook her head slowly, said—and it sounded like a deep sigh— “No.”

I stood up but didn't move. She kept shaking her head, mumbling, “No. Oh I don't know... Oh... No.” We were about two feet apart and she slowly edged toward me. I still didn't move and when she was a few inches from me, I saw the sweat on her face, the troubled brightness in her eyes.