Ed Lacy - Room To Swing

“I don't know,” I said, which seemed to annoy everybody: I was supposed to be an expert on race relations, I guess.

Kay said, “Certainly, despite the various forms of discrimination found up here, the Negro would have a better chance, a legal chance, to fight for his rights.”

“I've never been in the deep South,” I said, picking my words, careful not to talk myself out of a client, “but for one thing, I doubt if the average Southern Negro has the money to move his family anyplace.”

“Nonsense,” Hank's wife said, her voice almost angry. “If they really wanted to, they could get away—somehow.”

Kay said, “The entire history of the U.S. would have been different if the Negro had moved West right after the Civil War.”

“No,” Hank said, “they were promised forty acres and a mule, why should they have moved? Trouble was, the Republicans sold them out and screwed up Reconstruction.”

There was another battle of words and then Kay asked, “Touie, what do you think?”

I had to get off the fence, so I asked, “Why not a mass migration of Southern whites and leave the Negroes down in their homes? Be easier; there's less whites.”

Steve said that was nonsense and Hank and his wife weren't sure if I was pulling their leg. Kay laughed and winked at me. Barbara noticed it, bit her lip.

They batted it around again, off on another tack—that the white race was a minority in the world—and then the conversation died, or maybe they were just tired. Hank's wife jumped up—she had a cute figure standing—and said, “Damn, it's eleven. Our baby sitter is a high school kid and can't stay up late.” She nudged Hank with her toe. “Come on, hack, you said you were going to work tonight. Honest, I don't know how he does it, but he'll work till early in the morning.”

Steve made his big eyes as he said, “Perhaps the early-morning hours put him in an eerie mood. Someday I'd like to try a TV play of your last mystery. Have to water the sex, but I liked the plot gimmick.”

Hank got up and shook himself, belched, rubbed his belly and said, “Those damn potatoes. Try it soon, Stevie, I can use the money. I'm working on one now that ought to go over on TV. Deals with the numbers racket.” He looked at me, as if I was Mr. Digit himself.

Barbara said, “Touie should be a gold mine of information for you, Hank; he's a detective.”

The silence was like a fog in the room, everybody staring at me with renewed interest, except Kay, who sent a furious glance at Barbara.

“Well, the black eye!” Steve said, popping his eyes. “No offense, old man.”

“Say, are you a cop?” Hank asked.

“No. I—eh—well, I work in the post office but do some guard work on the side. Bouncer at dances, stuff like that.”

“Yes,” Kay put in quickly, “Touie used to be a football player.”

Steve yawned. “Maybe we ought to have lunch someday. I'm working on a factual crime series.”

“Only a matter of picking up an extra buck for me. Tell you the truth, I haven't worked at it in months,” I said, hoping that I was lying smoothly.

While Kay got their coats, Hank and his wife had one for the road. I took a shot of straight rum and Steve lit a cigar and walked around the room. Up close, he looked older than I first thought. His teeth were brownish and there were tired lines around his eyes. He could easily have been forty.

When Hank and his wife left, I moved over to the couch and Kay sat beside me. Barbara changed records on the hi-fi. Steve paced the room, puffing on his cigar nervously.

He said, “Hank's suspense stories are lousy. He's too too precious for himself. Truman Capote with a gun.”

There was an abrupt change in the atmosphere. Kay said, “This criticism comes to us live, from never-never land. Or is this just some Steve McDonald fill?”

Steve blew cigar smoke at her. “Don't waste your small talent; nobody is listening to the audition.”

“I think his books have a very subtle and skillful action movement,” Kay said, thumbing her nose at Steve. “You're jealous because he's in print.”

“To Hell with print. Right after the war, when I wrote my guts into my novel, I thought I was made. Damn thing got fine reviews—and never even sold the lousy five hundred advance I received. Hell, any TV show reaches a million times as many people. I must let you have a copy of the book someday, Kay.”

“I read it,” Barbara said. “It was forced, shallow.”

Steve threw his cigar into the fireplace. “What can a high-school teacher possibly know about literature? I've had a rough day; let's all catch the hot combo they have at the Steam Room.”

“Wonderful,” Kay said. “I'd like a few more belts.”

“Why go out? We have plenty to drink here,” Barbara put in.

“More fun getting conked in a night club. Come on, Touie.”

“I have to be up early,” I began, wondering what the devil she'd meant by conked.

“Don't we all? We'll take in the midnight show and leave. Coming, Bobby?”

Barbara, who seemed to also be Bobby, said in a weary voice, “Oh... all right.”

Kay tossed a mink cape over her shoulders as if it were an old shawl while Barbara slipped into a plain fitted cloth coat and a beret. They painted their lips, then bit into tissues to remove the excess lipstick. When they dropped the tissues on a table, Steve picked them up, said, “Like red Rokeach tests. God, I hate sloppy females.” He threw the tissues into the fire.

As I was getting into my overcoat, Barbara took Kay aside, whispered something in her ear. I heard Kay say, “Don't be silly. And so damn touchy!” She was angry, almost slammed her pipe on the table. I felt real lousy— knew damn well what Barbara was “touchy” about. She didn't want to be seen in public with me.

The elevator was so small we had to make two trips. Kay squeezed in with me. She was wearing a faint perfume but I was too mad to pay it any mind. She smiled up at me, her fingers playing with my arm. I said, “Barbara sure cut a hog... with that detective crack.”

“She's in one of her moods. But you handled it beautifully.” Her fingers stroked my bicep. “Muscles fascinate me.”

“What did you mean by getting 'conked'?”

“Conked? Oh, drunk, looped.... What did you think I meant?”

“I was just curious.” We stepped out into the tiny lobby to wait for Steve and Barbara. An elderly couple came in, gave us both that look as they waited for the elevator.

Kay played with my arm again, whispered, “How do you keep in shape?”

“At the Y. Stop feeling me like I was a horse.”

“Don't you like it?”

“I don't mix business and pleasure, to coin a shiny cliche.”

“Are you working now?”

“Let's not complicate an employer-employee relationship.” I flashed my white teeth as though joking it up, wondering how I could politely tell her I didn't especially want to sleep with her.

Steve and Barbara joined us. As we hailed a cab, Kay asked where the Jag was and that started a car discussion until we reached the Steam Room. From the outside it seemed to be a large store with a fogged window. I had that tight nervous feeling as we entered, but it fell apart soon as I saw the coloured band, and a Negro couple at a table. Checking our coats I looked the place over. It was low ceilinged with cartoon murals on the walls, the lights dim, and the combo beating out a quiet jazz. I'd been to Birdland, Cafe Society, and some of the “posh” spots, as Sybil called them, in and out of Harlem. But this really had an intimate air, like a movie night spot. The tables surrounding the small dance floor weren't jammed together, and nobody stared at us as we were given one near the bandstand.

When the waiter handed us menus, I was the only one to glance at it. There wasn't any cover or minimum, but at three bucks a shot they didn't need one. They ordered gin and tonic; I took Irish whiskey neat. The girls decided they had to go to the ladies' room and Steve said, “Never saw it to fail; second a woman gets anyplace she has to leave.”