Button, Button: Uncanny Stories (6 page)

"Told me we wasn't gonna do that," he muttered aside to the man in the fedora. "Told me. Stupid jackass."

Jean gasped as Lou tossed the wallet on the ground. "That's Bob's," she murmured.

"Get his things, lady," the sheriff said.

Nervously she moved over at the feet of the men and picked up the wallet, the coins, the car keys.

"All right, where is he?" the sheriff asked. "And don't waste my time!" he said angrily to the man in the fedora.

"Sheriff, I don't know what you-" started the man.

The sheriff almost lunged forward. "So help me!" he raged. Tom threw up one arm and stepped back.

"I'll tell you for a fact, Sheriff," Lou broke in. "If I'd known this fella had his woman with him, I'd never've done it."

Jean stared at the tall, ugly man, her teeth digging into her lower lip. Bob, Bob. Her mind kept saying his name.

"Where is he, I said," the sheriff demanded.

"I'll show you, I'll show you," Lou said. "I told you I never would've done it if I'd known his woman was with him."

Again he turned to the man in the fedora. "Why'd you let
him
go in there?" he demanded. "Why? Answer me that?"

"Don't know what he's talkin' about, Sheriff," Tom said blandly. "Why, I-"

"Get on the road," the sheriff ordered. "Both of you. You take us to him or you're really in trouble. I'm followin' you in the car. Don't make any wrong move, not one."

The car moved slowly behind the two walking men.

"I been after these boys for a year," the sheriff told her. "They set themselves up a nice little system robbin' men who come to the cafe, then dumpin' them in the desert and sellin' their car up north."

Jean hardly heard what he was saying. She kept staring at the road ahead, her stomach tight, her hands pressed tightly together.

"Never knew how they worked it though," the sheriff went on. "Never thought of the lavatory. Guess what they did was keep it locked for any man but one who was alone. They must've slipped up today. I guess Lou just jumped anyone who came in there. He's not any too bright."

"Do you think they-" Jean started hesitantly.

The sheriff hesitated. "I don't know, lady. I wouldn't think so. They ain't that dumb. Besides we had cases like this before and they never hurt no one worse than a bump on the head."

He honked the horn. "Come on, snap it up!" he called to the men.

"Are there snakes out there?" Jean asked.

The sheriff didn't answer. He just pressed his mouth together and stepped on the accelerator so the men had to break into a trot to keep ahead of the bumper.

A few hundred yards further on, Lou turned off and started down a dirt road.

"Oh my God, where did they take him?" Jean asked.

"Should be right down here," the sheriff said.

Then Lou pointed to a clump of trees and Jean saw their car. The sheriff stopped his coupe and they got out. "All right, where is he?" he asked.

Lou started across the broken desert ground. Jean kept feeling the need to break into a run. She had to tense herself to keep walking by the sheriff’s side. Their shoes crunched over the dry desert soil. She hardly felt the pebbles through her sandals, so intently was she studying the ground ahead.

"Ma'am," Lou said, "I hope you won't be too hard on me. If I'd known you was with him, I'd've never touched him."

"Knock it off, Lou," the sheriff said. "You're both in up to your necks, so you might as well save your breath."

Then Jean saw the body lying out on the sand, and with a sob she ran past the men, her heart pounding.

"Bob-"

She held his head in her lap, and when his eyes fluttered open, she felt as if the earth had been taken off her back.

He tried to smile, then winced at the pain. "I been hit," he muttered.

Without a word, the tears came running down her cheeks. She helped him back to their car, and as she followed the sheriff's car, she held tightly to Bob's hand all the way back

to town.

One evening in October the doorbell rang.

Frank and Sylvia Gussett had just settled down to watch television. Frank put his gin and tonic on the table and stood. He walked into the hall and opened the door.

It was a woman.

"Good evening," she said. "I represent the Exchange."

"The Exchange?" Frank smiled politely.

"Yes," said the woman. "We're beginning an experimental program in this neighborhood. As to our service-"

Their service was a venerable one. Frank gaped.

"Are you serious?" he asked.

"Perfectly," the woman said.

"But-good Lord, you can't-come to our very houses and-and-that's against the law! I can have you arrested!"

"Oh, you wouldn't want to do that," said the woman. She absorbed blouse-enhancing air. "Oh, wouldn't I?" said Frank and closed the door in her face.

He stood there breathing hard. Outside, he heard the sound of the woman's spike heels clacking down the porch steps and fading off.

Frank stumbled into the living room.

"It's unbelievable," he said.

Sylvia looked up from the television set. "What is?" she asked.

He told her.

"What!" She rose from her chair, aghast.

They stood looking at each other a moment. Then Sylvia strode to the phone and picked up the receiver. She spun the dial and told the operator, "I want the police."

"Strange business," said the policeman who arrived a few minutes later.

"Strange indeed," mused Frank.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" challenged Sylvia.

"Not much we can do right off, ma'am," explained the policeman. "Nothing to go on." "But my description-" said Frank.

"We can't go around arresting every woman we see in spike heels and a white blouse," said the policeman. "If she comes back, you let us know. Probably just a sorority prank, though."

"Perhaps he's right," said Frank when the patrol car had driven off.

Sylvia replied, "He'd better be."

Strangest thing happened last night," said Frank to Maxwell as they drove to work. Maxwell snickered. "Yeah, she came to our house, too," he said.

"She did?" Frank glanced over, startled, at his grinning neighbor.

"Yeah," said Maxwell. "Just my luck the old lady had to answer the door."

Frank stiffened. "We called the police," he said.

"What for?" asked Maxwell. "Why fight it?"

Frank's brow furrowed. "You mean you-don't think it was a sorority girl prank?" he asked.

"Hell, no, man," said Maxwell, "it's for real." He began to sing:

I'm just a poor little door-to-door whore;

A want-to-be-good But misunderstood . . .

"What on earth?" asked Frank.

"Heard it at a stag party," said Maxwell. "Guess this isn't the first town they've hit." "Good Lord," muttered Frank, blanching.

"Why not?" asked Maxwell. "It was just a matter of time. Why should they let all that home trade go to waste?"

"That's execrable," declared Frank.

"Hell it is," said Maxwell. "It's progress."

The second one came that night; a black-root blonde, slit-skirted and sweatered to within an inch of her breathing life.

"Hel-lo, honey," she said when Frank opened the door. "The name's Janie. Interested?" Frank stood rigid to the heels. "I-" he said.

"Twenty-three and fancy free," said Janie.

Frank shut the door, quivering.

"Again?" asked Sylvia as he tottered back.

"Yes," he mumbled.

"Did you get her address and phone number so we can tell the police?"

"I forgot," he said.

"Oh!" Sylvia stamped her mule. "You said you were going to."

"I know." Frank swallowed. "Her name was-Janie."

"That's a big help," Sylvia said. She shivered. "Now what are we going to do?"

Frank shook his head.

"Oh, this is monstrous," she said. "That we should be exposed to such-" She trembled with fury.

Frank embraced her. "Courage," he whispered.

"I'll get a dog," she said. "A vicious one."

"No, no," he said, "we'll call the police again. They'll simply have to station someone out here."

Sylvia began to cry. "It's monstrous," she sobbed, "that's all."

"Monstrous," he agreed.

What's that you're humming?" she asked at breakfast.

He almost spewed out whole wheat toast.

"Nothing," he said, choking. "Just a song I heard."

She patted him on the back. "Oh."

He left the house, mildly shaken. It is monstrous, he thought.

That morning, Sylvia bought a sign at a hardware store and hammered it into the front lawn. It read NO SOLICITING. She underlined the SOLICITING. Later she went out again and underlined the underline.

Came right to your door, you say?" asked the FBI man Frank phoned from the office. "Right to the door," repeated Frank, "bold as you please."

"My, my," said the FBI man. He clucked.

"Notwithstanding," said Frank sternly, "the police have refused to station a man in our neighborhood."

"I see," said the FBI man.

"Something has got to be done," declared Frank. "This is a gross invasion of privacy."

"It certainly is," said the FBI man, "and we will look into the matter, never fear."

After Frank had hung up, he returned to his bacon sandwich and thermos of buttermilk.

"I'm just a poor little-" he had sung before catching himself. Shocked, he totted figures the remainder of his lunch hour.

The next night it was a perky brunette with a blouse front slashed to forever.

"No!" said Frank in a ringing voice.

She wiggled sumptuously. "Why?" she asked.

"I do not have to explain myself to you!" he said and shut the door, heart pistoning against his chest.

Then he snapped his fingers and opened the door again. The brunette turned, smiling. "Changed your mind, honey?" she asked.

"No. I mean yes," said Frank, eyes narrowing. "What's your address?"

The brunette looked mildly accusing.

"Now, honey," she said. "You wouldn't be trying to get me in trouble, would you?"

"She wouldn't tell me," he said dismally when he returned to the living room.

Sylvia looked despairing. "I phoned the police again," she said.

"And-?"

"And nothing. There's the smell of corruption in this."

Frank nodded gravely. "You'd better get that dog," he said. He thought of the brunette. "A big one," he added.

Wowee, that Janie," said Maxwell.

Frank downshifted vigorously and yawed around a corner on squealing tires. His face was adamantine.

Maxwell clapped him on the shoulder.

"Aw, come off it, Frankie-boy," he said, "you're not fooling me any. You're no different from the rest of us."

"I'll have no part in it," declared Frank, "and that's all there is to it."

"So keep telling that to the Mrs.," said Maxwell. "But get in a few kicks on the side like the rest of us. Right?"

"Wrong," said Frank. "All wrong. No wonder the police can't do anything. I'm probably the only willing witness in town."

Maxwell guffawed.

It was a raven-haired, limp-lidded vamp that night. On her outfit spangles moved and glittered at strategic points.

"Hel-lo, honey lamb," she said. "My name's-"

"What have you done with our dog?" challenged Frank.

"Why, nothing, honey, nothing," she said. "He's just off getting acquainted with my poodle Winifred. Now about us-"

Frank shut the door without a word and waited until the twitching had eased before returning to Sylvia and television.

Semper, by God oh God, he thought as he put on his pajamas later, fidelis.

The next two nights they sat in the darkened living room and, as soon as the woman rang the doorbell, Sylvia phoned the police.

"Yes," she whispered, furiously, "they're right out there now. Will you please send a patrol car this instant?"

Both nights the patrol car arrived after the women had gone.

"Complicity," muttered Sylvia as she daubed on cold cream. "Plain out-and-out complicity."

Frank ran cold water over his wrists.

That day Frank phoned city and state officials who promised to look into the matter.

That night it was a redhead sheathed in a green knit dress that hugged all that was voluminous and there was much of that.

"Now, see here-" Frank began.

"Girls who were here before me," said the redhead, "tell me you're not interested. Well, I always say, where there's a disinterested husband there's a listening wife."

"Now you see here-" said Frank.

He stopped as the redhead handed him a card. He looked at it automatically.

39-26-36

MARGIE

(SPECIALTIES)

BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

"If you don't want to set it up here, honey," said Margie, "you just meet me in the Cyprian Room of the Hotel Fillmore."

"I beg your pardon," said Frank and flung the card away.

"Any evening between six and seven," Margie chirped.

Frank leaned against the shut door and birds with heated wings buffeted at his face. "Monstrous," he said with a gulp. "Oh, m-mon-strous."

"Again?" asked Sylvia.

"But with a difference," he said vengefully. "I have traced them to their lair and tomorrow I shall lead the police there."

"Oh, Frank!" said Sylvia, embracing him. "You're wonderful."

"Th-thank you," said Frank.

When he came out of the house the next morning he found the card on one of the porch steps. He picked it up and slid it into his wallet.

Sylvia mustn't see it, he thought.

It would hurt her.

Besides, he had to keep the porch neat.

Besides, it was important evidence.

That evening he sat in a shadowy Cyprian Room booth revolving a glass of sherry between two fingers. Jukebox music softly thrummed; there was the mumble of postwork conversation in the air.

Now, thought Frank. When Margie arrives, I'll duck into the phone booth and call the police, then keep her occupied in conversation until they come. That's what I'll do. When Margie-

Margie arrived.

Frank sat like a Medusa victim. Only his mouth moved. It opened slowly. His gaze rooted on the jutting opulence of Margie as she waggled along the aisle, then came to gelatinous rest on a leather-topped bar stool.