Case of Lucy Bending (54 page)

"Better have some dessert," he advised her. "I don't want the waitress thinking I starve you."

"I'll work it off," she assured him. "On you. That Black Forest chocolate cake sounds good."

He thought he'd take her to that grubby motel where he and Jane Holloway got it off. It was a deserted place, way out west past 1-95. And it would be amusing if they got the same room. The same bed.

When Jimbo brought the Porsche around, Bending tipped him grandly, put on his glittery cap, and zipped up the racing jacket. Superbutterball looked at him admiringly.

"And the Mardi Gras hasn't even started," she said.

They were talking tomfoolery again when they pulled out of the parking lot, and of course they didn't notice the black Pontiac Grand Prix that stayed well back, but made every turn they did.

At the motel, Bending went in to pay in advance and to register: Mr. and Mrs. Ben Cellini. He couldn't get the unit he wanted—it was occupied—but he was assigned another which the porcine proprietor assured him was "just as comfy."

Bending insisted on stashing the Porsche at the far end of the graveled parking lot, in the shadows of a stand of un-trimmed bottle palms.

"I don't like to leave it under the lights," he explained to superbutterball. "Some smartass will try to hot-wire it or rip off the hubcaps."

"Or someone you know," she said shrewdly, "might spot this cock-wagon and know you're shacked-up here."

"That, too," he said laughing.

They found their unit. He unlocked the door and switched °n the overhead light.

"I know it's not much, sugar," he said, "but stick with me, and I swear it won't be long before we have a Formica dinette set and a pop-up toaster."

"You're the only pop-up toaster I want, sweetums," she said. "Lock the door. Then you show me yours, and I'll show you mine."

While their preparations were progressing with much jollity and badinage, the black Pontiac Grand Prix, lights out, cruised slowly into the parking lot. It paused a moment, then started again and took up a position close to Bending's Porsche.

The driver and passenger, both wearing white T-shirts with sleeves rolled up above their biceps, settled down to wait.

"We'll give him fifteen minutes," mustache said. "He should be in the saddle by then."

"Leave the motor running," tattoo said. "Just in case."

"Who has the fun this time?" mustache said.

"Flip you for it," tattoo said.

Inside the motel, superbutterball was doing her best to make up for what she called the "indignity" suffered by Ronald Bending at their last meeting.

"All right, all right," he said. "I forgive you, I forgive you."

While the fun and games were going on, the two men got out of the Pontiac. Mustache stood guard at the driver's door. Tattoo, who had won the toss, went to the trunk and took out an eight-pound sledgehammer.

He set to work on the Porsche with ferocious glee.

Ronald Bending stopped what he was doing and looked up. "What's that?"

"What's what?" she said crossly. "And why are you stopping?"

"There it is again," he said. "Sounds like someone's swatting an empty boiler with a baseball bat. Can't you hear it?"

"I hear it, I hear it," she said, sighing. "What's it got to do with us?"

Then came the unmistakable shatter and tinkle of broken glass.

"My God," Bending said nervously, "are they demolishing the place for a high-rise at this hour?"

The noise continued: the metallic bong and screech of tortured metal, the crash of falling glass. Bending got out of bed and began to pull on his pants.

"Where are you going?" she demanded.

"I'll just take a look around," he said. He tried a grin that didn't work. "That damned noise destroys my concentration."

He thrust bare feet into his loafers, pulled on his nylon racing jacket.

"You stay here," he told her. "Lock the door behind me. I'll be right back after I find out what's going on."

When he went outside, there were a few other men standing uncertainly in front of their units, looking around. The fat proprietor came stumbling, trying to get suspender straps over his balbriggan undershirt.

The noise had stopped. There was nothing to be seen. Bending began walking toward his Porsche, then trotting, then running. He stopped about ten feet away. The proprietor came wheezing up. And others behind him.

"Jesus H. Christ," someone said with awe.

The body of the car had been demolished. Roof, doors, fenders, hood, side panels. Not only deep dents, but places where the metal had buckled and folded, and a few spots where the weapon used had penetrated completely, leaving jagged, paint-chipped holes. Even the hubcaps had been punished.

Every bit of glass was broken: windshield, windows, the big back plate. Headlights, taillights, parking lights were shattered. The sunroof had been hammered in, and now lay inside the car. Even the outside rearview mirror had been sheared off and lay broken on the gravel.

"I didn't see nothing," the proprietor said hoarsely. "I don't know nothing."

Ronald Bending stood staring at his dream defiled. He felt the sting of tears. He tried to tell himself it was only a
thing,
but he didn't succeed. They had done more than destroy his wonderful machine.

It was the way he saw the world and his own life. The lark had soured. This was cruelty and menace beyond measure. He saw now the darkness and the danger. The message was clear: Death lurked.

Gone the fun and games. Vanished the beauty. Stilled the nonsense jabber. The beach, the creamers, the action, the sweet fucks. None of that was real. This was real. Ugliness, pain, and the black void.

They hadn't destroyed; they had created. Fear. He could never again look at sunrise or sunset without wondering if it might be his last. They had shoved his face in the mirror and showed him his own mortality. The tap dancer was vanquished.

"Who'd want to do something like that?" a voice asked.

"The pricks," Luther Empt said wrathfully. "Lousy pricks."

Ronald Bending made no response. He was seated in an armchair in Luther's office. His knees were crossed; one foot jerked uncontrollably up and down. He was smoking one of his filter-tips. The ashtray beside him was filled with long butts, crushed and split.

"What did you do then?" Luther asked.

"Left it there," Bending said. "Got home by cab. The garage towed it in this morning."

"Can they fix it, Turk?"

"I suppose," Bending said, shrugging. "The chassis is okay. But I don't want it. What's the point?"

Empt rose and poured Bending another stiff jolt of bourbon.

"Look," he said, "if you let this get you, they'll walk all over us."

Bending gave him a ghastly smile. "I've got to be honest with you, Luther. They hit me where it hurt."

"It was just a
car,
for God's sake," Empt said. Then he started selling, assuring Turk that if he stood fast, they could beat those cruds. He had a meet set up with Stone and Santangelo for next week, and once those bums saw the legal papers, they'd cave in. And—

"Luther," Bending said, holding up a palm to interrupt the pitch, "you may be right. I'm not saying you're not. But I'm getting out."

"No balls," Empt said angrily.

Bending didn't take offense. "You're absolutely right. I'm scared shitless. If they can do that, they can do
anything.
And you know something else? It'll probably sound crazy to you, but I don't want to cruise anymore. I'm afraid I won't be able to get it up." "You're nuts!"

"Probably. But that's the way I feel. I'm sorry, Luther, but I'm getting out."

"Not me," Empt said furiously. "I don't crawl for anyone. What can they do to me? Whatever it is, I can take it. Believe me, they don't know who they're tangling with."

Bending sighed. "If you say so. But think it over. These are not nice people, Luther."

He drank his glass of bourbon. Just put his head back and belted it. Then he rose slowly, took a deep breath, tugged his suit jacket down. He looked about Empt's office vaguely.

"Well," he said, with a honk of cold laughter, "it was nice while it lasted. It just didn't last, that's all. Best of luck."

"Yeah," Empt said. "See you on the beach Saturday?"

"Sure. I'm not going to curl up and die. Listen, if the weather holds, maybe we can have a cookout or something."

"Count me in," Empt said. "Whatever you say."

He watched Bending depart. The man wasn't standing so straight. He seemed hammered down, dented and broken. Luther cursed aloud, and filled his glass with more scotch. He paced back and forth across his office. He had his own troubles.

He didn't want to tell Bending, but Ernie Goldman, that creep, had just come in at noon and announced he was quitting. Just like that. Shocked, Empt asked him how come.

"Uh, I got another job."

Empt asked him with whom.

"Uh, it's a new outfit, just starting up. In Miami."

Empt asked how much they were paying.

"Uh, that's like, you know, confidential."

Getting good and sore at these evasions, Luther asked what the hell he planned to do about his salary advances, which now totaled more than five hundred dollars.

And would you believe it, the nervous, trembling Ernie Goldman fished out a tattered plastic wallet and paid off on the spot, to the last penny.

Empt asked him where he got that kind of loot.

"Uh, I had a good day at the track."

Which was, Empt knew, a lot of bullshit. The guy was lying for some reason. But that wasn't important. What was important was that Empt was losing the best tech he ever had, and it would be a pain in the ass replacing him.

He paused in his pacing to telephone May. He was going to tell her that he'd be over in an hour or so, and they'd go to that black joint and have a plate of ribs. But the phone rang on, unanswered. He wasn't bothered; he knew she'd be waiting for him.

He tried to push some paper, but he couldn't concentrate. What had happened to Bending's car . . . And to Bending .. . Ernie Goldman quitting . . . Luther Empt had a sweaty feeling that he was losing control, that he was being swept away by events.

He poured himself another scotch and resumed stalking about the office, carrying the glass. One thing was certain, he vowed: he was going to fight the bums. Holloway and Bending could weasel out, but no one screwed Luther Empt and got away with it.

He had a lot of faults; he knew that. But lack of physical courage wasn't one of them. Holloway and Bending might be scared off; nothing and nobody scared Luther Empt. He could endure pain, and if it came to dying—well, he reckoned he could get through that, too, without whimpering.

Still, there were a couple of smart precautions he could take. He would keep his .357 Magnum with him at all times: on his person, in his car, in the office, at home. If they wanted to play rough, he'd give as good as he got.

Also, in the morning he'd go to his attorney and dictate a statement to be turned over to the cops or FBI in case anything happened to him. The statement would give the details of the porn deal and point a finger straight at Rocco Santangelo and Jimmy Stone in case Empt met a violent end.

Then, at the meeting next week, Empt would make certain Santangelo and Stone knew of the existence of the statement. That should upset their dirty little applecart! The statement would serve as Luther Empt's life assurance policy .

Relaxed by the whiskey he had consumed, and emboldened by the actions he was determined to take, Empt's confidence came rushing back. He cleaned up his desk, humming. He set out for May's apartment with excited anticipation.

On the way, just because he was feeling so good, he stopped at a florist and bought his sweet girl an angel-wing begonia in a nice ceramic pot with butterflies painted on the sides. May would love that, he knew; he could see her glow of surprise and delight. How she would fly into his arms!

He had to park almost a block away and walked back to May's place, carrying the plant wrapped in white, waxy paper. As he walked, he whistled a merry tune.

He mounted the stoop to her apartment. The door was open a few inches. He stopped whistling.

She was naked on the floor, legs spread, back propped against the sofa. Blood caked on her thighs. A dried rivulet from the corner of her mouth. One eye battered, purplish, a swollen pouf. Bruises on her breasts.

Empt glanced quickly around the apartment. Her torn clothes flung. Plants upset, dirt spilling onto the floor. He put his own gift aside, closed and locked the front door. He went down on one knee beside her. She looked up at him meekly, trying to open that puffed eye.