Ed Lacy: Enter Without Desire

Enter Without Desire

Ed Lacy

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

All characters, names, places, and incidents in this novel are purely fictional. No part of this novel is based on actual incidents or real persons—which is unfortunate: in real life I would very much like to meet an Elma.

E. L.

Copyright, 1954, by Ed Lacy. Published by arrangement with the author. Printed in the U.S.A.

I sat there, waiting in this dull Bronx back yard, the gun in my right pocket, safety off. It was simple... wait till he was on top of me, one shot in the heart... then run across the lot to the car. Sid had an ordinary looking heap; nobody would notice it, or the license number. The license number—that was one of the chances I had to take—one of the too-many chances.

But this would work, if my luck held out. IF... IF... Damn, I hoped to hell he didn't have a wife and kids, looked too young for that, but even if he did—I had a wife and kid, too. God knows I didn't want to kill this detective, but I was caught in this web,

had

to do it.

Had

to...

No point in thinking about that—more important to think of some way of disposing of the gun. Couldn't pull the same gag about losing it on Tony again. Well, have to work that out, somehow. Sloppy thinking on my part not to plan.... Hell with plans, no time for it. Not like the other one.

Marshal Jameson, the promising young sculptor, sitting on his butt in a strange Bronx back yard on a sunny afternoon... carefully planning his second murder.

I grinned, a sour, nervous grin—I was damn near bawling. Me, who'd never hurt a fly, waiting with a gun for a...

I heard a car stop in front of the house. It was five to three. The dick was on time. I stood up and peered around the corner of the alley. He was alone.

I waited: no running from this, no backing out. Or was killing the easy way out for me?

CHAPTER ONE

ON NEW YEAR'S EVE day I couldn't take it any longer. Nothing special happened, the same old rut. But just as there's a boiling point, there's a breaking point, and I sure had reached it You can only go so far without a victory, even a little victory. And I was simply sick of the loneliness, the damp cold, of being hungry, of being a flop. I tried getting high on some homemade raisin wine, nipping at a quart of it during the day, but that didn't help.

New Year's Eve really didn't mean a damn to me, but somehow I felt entirely lost this time. And the wine wasn't doing a thing for me. I had exactly eighty cents in cash. And seven bucks in the postal savings but the p.o. was shut. It was six o'clock, getting dull-dark: and I looked at the stinking kerosene lamp, at the can of beans and hunk of fish I was going to have for supper, and thought... I can't stand this any longer. I'm going to New York.

Now there wasn't a thing waiting for me in New York, and I'm the guy who knows how lonely a big city can be, but right at that second all I wanted was to be with people, with all the milling impersonal people of Times Square on New Year's Eve. I wanted to see smiles, hear noise, even lots of drunken noise.

Taking my one suit out of the cedar bag, I heated a pan of water and shaved, found a clean shirt. My overcoat wasn't in bad condition and even being dressed made me feel a little better. I walked through the village, along the road that led to the highway. I never wanted to see my shack again—or any of my lousy, unfinished statues.

My luck took a change the moment I reached the highway. A sleek roadster stopped the first time I raised my thumb. A beefy young fellow in a tux was at the wheel. He asked, “Want a lift?”

“That's what I'm standing here for. Trying to get to the city.”

“Hop in. I'm headed for 62d Street and Madison Avenue.”

“That'll be perfect,” I said, getting in, feeling the rich softness of the leather seat, the power of the car as he shifted gears. The car was his badge of the thing I lacked most—security.

The guy pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket—not a pack but one cigarette. As he lit it, he asked if I wanted one. I shook my head, got my pipe out.

“Going to a New Year's party?”

“Call up a few people, see what's doing,” I said, casually, as though I was really on the town, had some place to go.

“Lousy night. I'm stuck with this dinner party at my aunt's. Boring as bell, but you know these family things. Been an unusually raw winter, hasn't it?”

It was his car; the least I could do was make conversation. “Yeah, it's been pretty rough.”

“I live in Easthampton.”

“You're quite aways out,” I said. “I'm at Sandyhook.”

He said, “Oh,” as though I was a freak, added, “You an artist?”

“I don't know. Trying to be a sculptor.”

“I knew some bim who hung around there couple summers ago. Said she was a model. Built like a goddess but very ordinary between the sheets. Took me all summer to... Say, didn't know anybody lived in those eh... shacks during the winter. Must be rugged.”

“It is.”

We didn't talk for a while, then he said, “Watch this,” and put the gas pedal on the floor. We cut through the twilight at seventy an hour and he handled the car well.

In less than twenty minutes he hit the outskirts of Brooklyn, or maybe it was Queens, and slowed down to a normal forty miles an hour. He said, “Doesn't make sense, my speeding to a dull evening. How about a shot of anti-boredom syrup?” He reached over and pulled out a nearly full pint of rye from the glove compartment. He took a long drag; then I wiped the bottle and took a big gulp.

Either that rye was damn good stuff, or it was the raisin wine and the fact I hadn't eaten a decent meal in a long time, but I was nicely high and mighty when we pulled up in front of a ritzy apartment house on East 62d Street. We took another drink while the doorman pretended he didn't see us; then we shook hands and wished each other a Happy New Year's and I floated down the street.

For a moment I was almost going to brace the guy for a buck, but I can never get that drunk. Only a buck would have been a big help. I mean all I wanted was a few beers to sort of bring the new year in—all that sentimental crap—but I was in a sentimental mood. I had a few people I could call, but at a dime a call that would slice my eighty cents to hell.

I reached 55th Street and was thinking how empty and cold Madison Avenue seemed, when it began to rain a little. That lousy rain tore it. I cut over to Broadway fast—to be near people. The rain hitting my face was as cold and damp as my shack, made me want to scream. I felt chilled to the bone.

Dropping into a drugstore, I had a cup of coffee and felt better, even though the bastards charged me twenty cents. I sat in a phone booth and decided I'd better stop acting like a one-man jerk—I didn't have enough money to be alone. I dialed Marion, almost hoping there wouldn't be any answer.

“Hell-ooo?” Her voice sounded as spirited as ever. “Marion, this is Marsh. Marsh Jameson.” I tried to sound cheerful. “Merely called to wish you all of the best.”

“Marsh, boy! When did you get into town?”

“Little while ago. Friend drove me in.”

“How's the work coming?”

“Slower than I expected, but I'm getting on,” I lied.

“Dear boy, I'm going to a party at the Martins—you know Robb and Ida Martins? Maybe you don't. He's a writer, knocks off these terrible western stories, cowboy drivel, isn't that zany? Makes scads of coin at it, too. He's giving a shindig where you're supposed to come as a cowhand, or an Indian, or something silly like that. I'm going with a young chap named Tony, a...”