Case of Lucy Bending (22 page)

I'll examine him and find out what it is, and cure him because no one else in the whole world can do it, and he'll want to marry me, but I'll say no, I've got to help people. Like that."

"Yes," Dr. Theodore Levin said, "that's very admirable."

"Or," she said, "like someone got a head or an arm or a leg chopped off, and I could sew it back on, and it would be just as good as new. Can they do that, Doctor Ted?"

"Well ..." he said cautiously. "Fingers sometimes. A hand or foot. I think they've done an arm. But it's still experimental, Lucy."

What am I doing? he thought desperately. I am sitting here discussing microsurgery with an eight-year-old disturbed child. Is this significant? For her or for me?

"Well, I could do it," she said firmly. "I'll sew on a head, and it will be just as good as new."

He stared at her. He was daunted by her complexity.

"Lucy," he said tentatively, "how do you feel about talking to me?"

"How do I feel?"

"When I first spoke to you, you said that you didn't have any problems, that nothing was bothering you. Do you still feel that way?"

She looked at him—oh, how she looked! The bluish-gray eyes alert and thoughtful. Full lips pursed. Golden head cocked slightly. She was judging him. He was convinced of it.

"I like to talk to you, Doctor Ted," she said quietly.

"I'm glad to hear that, because I like to talk to you, too."

He didn't say that she had slid around his question, met his direct query with a compliment. She was there, and she wasn't there. Each time he came closer, she eased away. Where did that cunning come from?

"Well, Lucy, I think our time is up."

When the door closed behind her, he thought mournfully that Mary Scotsby was right: the child had him buffaloed.

PART III

They were in that fleabag motel. Squally rain clattered against the windows, rattled off the roof. They were naked in bed, clammy bodies clasped languidly. Not a bad way to spend a wet November afternoon.

Ronald Bending took his mouth from her engorged nipple.

"You like money, don't you?" he asked.

Jane Holloway opened her eyes, looked at him.

"I give you a ten for technique," she said, "and about a three for passion."

"And you thought I was just another pretty face," he said, grinning.

"Well, what's with the question about money? What's that got to do with anything?"

He lighted cigarettes for them. Then he sat up in bed, hugging his gawky knees.

"You want to know how I figure you?" he said.

"Sure," she said, looking at him curiously.

"Some I know," he said, "and some I've guessed. I figure you're a woman with a sharp eye for the main chance. I figure you ditched that first husband of yours because you decided he was a loser. He was never going to be anything but a pencil-pusher in that rube town ban^ Twenty Gs a year tops. Then you met William Jasper Holloway and decided to move onward and upward. So now you're in Boston, married to a guy with old money. But Boston is too cold and stuffy for you, and you don't like Bill's la-di-da friends. You want to be where the action is. So you con him into moving to sunny Florida. Maybe a little mattress extortion there."

"Bastard," she said tonelessly.

"And then," he went on, "you're in the land of palm trees and year-round Bain de Soleil. You can wear those obscene bikinis of yours every day of the year if you want to, everyone's screwing up a storm, all the grass and coke you could want, and everywhere you look there's another chance to make money. Like meeting Senator What's-his-name, playing the market, keeping a safe deposit box your husband doesn't know about, and generally living the good life while the bucks pile up. Not your family's bucks, or your husband's, but
your
money. That's about it. How close am I?"

"Close enough," she said, her smile bleak. "I thought you were a lightweight. Now I think you're a mean asshole."

"As mean as they come," he said, not without pride. "Originally I was a Kentucky mountain boy. Can't get much meaner than that."

"Well," she said, "if you know—or guess—all that about me, why ask if I like money?"

"Let's have a dope," he said.

He got them two cold Pepsis from his little insulated bag. They sat up in bed, drinking, smoking, listening to the rain thrum against the thin motel walls.

"I had an idea," he said slowly, "and wanted to try it out on you."

"So? Try me."

"It's just a rough idea—I haven't worked out the details yet—but it goes like this: That deal that Bill and I are in on with Luther looks like it's going to be a real money machine. The mob guys came up with their quarter-million loan without blinking. The factory to process the porno films into TV cassettes is coming along. Luther already has one film and is figuring ways to bring down production costs. We're thinking about getting into video disks. The mob guys keep pushing. They say the market is getting bigger every month. There's zillions in it."

"So what's your idea?"

"Well . . ." he said, staring at the opposite wall, "Bill and I and Luther each have a third. Of everything. Luther's taking fifty grand for the first year to honcho the whole thing and get the production line rolling. He didn't even ask for an employment contract. Bill and I control two-thirds of the stock, and ..."

His voice trailed away.

"And," she said, with a harsh laugh, "why not wait till Luther has the whole thing set up, then freeze him out. That leaves you and Bill as equal partners."

He took a deep breath. "Yeah. Something like that. I don't know exactly how it could be done, but with Bill and me controlling two-thirds of the voting stock, it shouldn't be too difficult. As I told you, it's just a rough idea. What do you think?"

"I thought Luther was a friend of yours."

He turned to look at her. "A
friend?
Who the hell has friends anymore? Everyone has acquaintances; that's all. Well? What do you think?"

"Mmm," she said, staring at the scabby ceiling, "it's possible. Where do I come in?"

"Look," he said, "you got a nice piece of change for convincing Bill to come in on this deal, didn't you? There'd be an even bigger fee if you can con Bill into going along on this."

"No dice," she said. "I want a piece of the action. For myself alone, in my name."

"Well ..." he said cautiously, "maybe that could be worked out. How big a piece?"

"Say ten percent," she said. "Forty-five to you, forty-five to Bill, ten to me."

"That would give you and Bill a controlling interest."

It was her turn to look at him. She put the can of cola aside. She took his testicles into her chilled hand, gripping him tightly.

"Not necessarily," she whispered, staring into his eyes.

Then, stirred more by avarice than passion, she was all over him with lips, tongue, teeth. His can of Pepsi dropped to the floor to gurgle out, while he tried to meet her onslaught.

"Jesus!" he groaned. "Take it easy!"

"Ten percent!" she hissed in his ear. "Ten percent!"

She ground him down and drained him. She emptied him out and left him nerveless and whimpering. Then she rolled away, lighted another cigarette, and watched him panting, gasping for breath.

"Let me think about it," she said coldly. "There's no rush, is there?"

He shook his head.

"You'll want to wait until the factory is finished," she told him, "and Luther has all the production bugs worked out. And you'll have to find someone who can run the business after Luther is gone. So nothing has to be decided for at least a couple of months—right?"

"Yeah," he said. "Right. No dummy you. I didn't think about finding someone to run the factory after Luther is out, but that shouldn't be too hard. So what do you say? Are you in?"

"For ten percent?" she said. "I'll think about it."

He nodded, got out of bed. He staggered a moment, put a hand on the mildewed wall to steady himself. He made his way over to the dresser, popped the tab on another can of Pepsi.

He turned his face upward and poured half a can of the cold cola onto his face, neck, shoulders, sweated torso. The liquid fizzed in his sun-streaked hair, dripped off his chin, ran in wandering rivulets down his ruddy thighs.

"You nut," she said, watching him.

He was over to the bed in two swift strides. He poured the rest of the Pepsi onto her hard breasts, flat stomach, tight thighs. She lay there and let him drench her, making no effort to avoid the stream.

"Now what?" she said, looking at him.

He shook the remaining drops onto the shaved vee between her legs.

"Now I lick it off," he said.

"Get to it, boy," she said, dark eyes glittering.

William Jasper Holloway believed that something happened when more than two men gathered. Two men, in their relationship and communication, might be capable of delicacy, understanding, restraint. But rarely could three men (or more) resist coarseness, a thickening of the spirit, a dulling of perception and sympathy.

So it was during a late evening gathering on Ronald Bending's terrace. They had come together in the darkness to hear a progress report from Luther Empt. Bending had put out bottles and ice, and they were sitting around with their shoes off, enjoying the booze and the cool November night wind.

"I swear to God," Empt said, "I think we're going to come in under budget. The slab is in, and the cinder blocks are going up. Got delivery today on all the window and door frames. There's a little slippage in the schedule, but nothing serious. Maybe we'll top out a week or ten days late, but we can live with that."

"Perhaps," Holloway said hesitantly, "we should have hired a general contractor."

"Nah," Empt said. "Why pay the money? I can put that thing together. It's just a glorified shed."

He didn't mention the kickbacks he was getting from the architect, carpenter, plumber, electrician, and all the rest. He figured Bending and Holloway guessed he was chiseling; they went along with it because they were content to leave the donkey work to him.

"Luther," Turk Bending said, voice athrob with sincerity, "you're not neglecting your own office, are you? Bill and I know how hard you've been working on this thing, and we appreciate it. But we wouldn't want your own business to suffer. Right, Bill?"

"What?" Holloway said. "Oh. Yes. Right."

"Not to worry," Luther said, pouring himself another belt and thinking these were okay guys. "I've got my plant set up so it practically runs itself."

"Oh?" Bending said casually. "Got a good Number Two man, have you?"

"The best," Empt bragged. "I'm lucky to have him, but don't tell him I told you so; he might hit me for a raise."

Bending laughed heartily. "Who's that, Luther?"

"Ernie Goldman. He's a hell of a tech. There's just one thing wrong: he loves to play the ponies, and he's always in hock to the sharks. He's into me for about three months' advance. But let him lose his shirt at the track as long as he does his job."

"Ah well," Bending said lightly, having discovered what he wanted to know, "we all have our little vices."

Then they discussed a fishing trip they might take down to the Keys. Charter a boat, just the three of them, no women allowed, stock up on booze and beer, and go down for a long weekend. Maybe try for bonefish.

"I've never netted one of those suckers," Empt said angrily. "Had them on the line a dozen times, but they always spit the hook."

"Shrimp," Bending said authoritatively. "That's what you need for bonefish—shrimp."

"What the hell do you think I was baiting with?" Luther demanded. "A knockwurst?"

He pulled on his moccasins, heaved himself to his feet. He scrubbed his scalp with his knuckles, stretched, yawned, belched.

"Don't let me break this up," he told the other two, "but I gotta split. Paperwork to do."

He waved to them and stalked away, lumbering down the beach. They watched him go.

"Paperwork, my ass," Bending said. "He's fishing for creamers tonight." He clapped Bill on the shoulder before going into the house for more ice.

He was right about the paperwork; Luther Empt had other plans.

He had resisted for almost a week. Then he had called the number jotted on the margin of his tattered Mobil roadmap. June had been happy to hear from him; he could tell by her voice; she wasn't just giving him the old come-on.

He said brusquely that he'd like to see her again, but he didn't know when he'd be able to make it. Without his suggesting it, she volunteered to stay in her apartment every night until 9:00
P.M
., waiting for his call. If he hadn't called by then, she'd figure he couldn't manage it.

He was pleased.

He had called her before he went over for drinks at Bend-ing's place. Now he didn't even re-enter his home, but went around the house to the carport. He headed south on A1A in the white Cadillac Seville. He was as excited as a kid on his first date.