Читать интересную книгу Shoot It Again - Ed Lacy

     “No real artist shows there.”

     “I thought the pictures were good.”

     I suddenly laughed, wondering why I was putting on an act now. “Sure, there's many damn fine artists showing there, along with the week-end dabblers. Tell you the truth, I never thought I was good enough to sell there, so I joined the sneerers.”

     “You ever read Lust For Life? I got that as a free bonus when I joined the book club. That's about an artist and... You listening, Tony?”

     Sometimes, half drunk, lazing around in bed with Lucille, I had a feeling of retirement: this effortless life would last forever. But whether or not I wanted it to continue, I was well aware of a number of definite reasons why our days were numbered.

     Mr. Ping and Shorty certainly were still on their deadly hunt for the three million bucks of 'boy' I was carrying around. For this reason I was glad Lucille never left the hotel: in the efficient business set-up of organized crime it would only be a simple matter of checking minor employees to locate a free-lance prostitute.

     Nor was I forgetting the police. Although there wasn't anything in the papers about Gus being found, and even my name and the Al Foster killing had drifted toward the back pages and then vanished... any day now the putrid odor which was Gus might escape the camphor bag tomb. Or in a few weeks the janitor would break in to evict Lucille. Once Gus's remains were found, a police dragnet would bag Lucille in short order.

     Plus there was always the chance the police had my description by now, might collar me when I left the hotel for my brief shopping walks.

     But there was a more important reason why it couldn't last—I didn't want it to! Being a pimp wasn't my idea of any last stop. Oh, I held no illusions about myself, knew the art world would never miss me, but before I'd fed my ego a number of excuses—half believed them. I was merely 'borrowing' money from women for the sake of my 'art.' Or, seducing a few dollars from a babe was cushioned by the rational that she needed the bed work, I was but giving her therapy. Or, it could be as simple as thinking she could well afford to part with a few hundred.

     But now, minus any possible self-delusion, I was a pimp. For Lucille it was a job. Once she told me, “Don't act so damn fussy... Suppose you worked at cleaning cesspools, or collecting garbage—when you finished for the day, the dirty work angle would be forgotten. Think of it like that, Tony.”

     The sordid aspect was far too real for me to kid myself. Once, waiting out in the hallway I heard Lucille scream: her 'client' had the perverted idea one of her nipples was a cigarette, was trying to light it. I had to bust in, throw the bed bug out.

     I still had hopes of making enough money to return to painting on some clean beach—but faced this contradiction: it wasn't safe for Lucille to leave the hotel, yet she was my only possible contact with any dope ring. The one time she left the place, at my urging to see if she could recognize local users—make a contact... Lucille returned with a package of wheat germ and other crap she'd purchased in a health store. When I accused her of not trying, certain if she had needed a fix, she would have made a connection—somehow—Lucille answered it was impossible without returning to her old “turf,” the hangouts where she knew the pushers, and was known.

     While this made sense, I also felt she was stalling —she was stealing from my bag: only a few ounces of the stuff but enough to make 'caps' and 'decks' to last her a long time. Except for the fear of Gus' corpse being found, Lucille had a fine thing going, didn't see any reason to risk ruining it by leaving the hotel.

     I tried every means I knew to make her find a way of selling the damn heroin—even the charm pitch... daydreams about us going to Mexico or Haiti, where she would kick the habit, then we'd marry, have kids. But I wasn't a convincing enough liar, never got to her.

     Actually I doubted Lucille really wanted to break her habit, despite becoming hysterical with self-pity at times, swearing up and down she loved me, that I was the only jasper to ever 'move' her... sexually. But at other times she wanted to turn me on, urging me to try a shot. “Tony, there's nothing in this dirty world as wonderful... as exciting... so different...”

     I even told her of Nice's clean, rocky beach, the lush and sophisticated life of the Riviera... ended feeling more dirty and homesick for Nice myself. Every breath of the funky, insecticide hotel air made me remember the good air, the soft flower colors of the Cote D'Azur.

     The seventh day we were at the hotel turned out so muggy I felt smothered in the dirt, simply had to get away. Although it was risky as hell, I couldn't stand it any more—decided to take a cab to the Long Island railroad station at Atlantic Avenue, spend the day at some quiet beach. Lucille thought I was nuts, but since I took the duffel bag with me, she went along.

     We went out to Jones Beach, rented suits and towels, had lunch, and started walking along the beach. We reached an isolated spot not too near a few scattered summer houses, where we were able to sleep in the shade of a dune, even take a fast, nude, swim. It was a peaceful, wonderful afternoon, made me feel as if I was living again. Lucille got a bad bum and I had to rub her down with oil. Then she had to spoil things by giving herself a fix. It seemed to me she was “bombing” herself more frequently the last few days. Even though she was hidden by the ridge of the dune, I saw the spot where she'd cleaned the hypo needle of blood—a red smudge in the sand—which I washed away with sea water. It left me all the more determined to sell the junk for whatever I could safely get, somehow breakout from my state of stinking helplessness.

     Returning to the heat and smell of the hotel early in the evening, the desk clerk—my partner in pimping—was highly indignant at Lucille having been gone all day. “Two Johns were back—that's where the real loot is, a steady trade of weekly repeaters—and where is your broad—putting her hips down on some sand instead of on her bed! Tony, I can tell you're new at this, wise up. Make her work! With your looks, go out more, break in another gal, get yourself a stable of hustlers.”

     “Relax. She may be forced to lay... off... for a few days. Bad sunburn on her back.”

     He shook his thick head, sighed. “You'd think a whore's back would be the last place she'd let be damaged.”

     “Occupational hazard,” I told him, playing it straight-faced. The sun had left us both bushed and after rubbing her red back down, we turned in early. About an hour later, the desk man knocked on the door, told Lucille one of her customers, a little fish-eyed slob of an old goat, was willing to pay thirty dollars for a session. “When I told him your back was raw... he got all excited, upped the pay.”

     “Nothing doing,” I mumbled, still in bed.

     “Send him up—in a minute,” Lucille said, yawning as she shut the door. “Tony, wait in the can for a few minutes. That's all it will take to...”

     “Tell him to go to hell!”

     “What for? We haven't turned a dime all day. Thirty bucks—almost puts me in the call girl bracket.”

     “We can't get a decent night's sleep without some goddamn pest bothering us!”

     “This pest is parting with thirty pieces of bread. Anyway, no point in getting the hotel manager sore, ruining our set-up. Stop making such a fuss and get going.” Lucille stretched, like a pitcher warming up.

     “I'm in no mood to wait out in any damn hall!”

     “Stop pouting about nothing, Tony. When you come back, as the wise man said...”

     “Oh shut up.” Taking my duffel bag, cursing her and the world in general, I walked down the hall to the can—which smelled like yesterday's vomit— wondering what I was doing in this hell. Granted I was a lousy artist, I was an artist, not a two-bit panderer! Of course, at the moment I was an artist-murderer.

     Standing around the horrid john—far worse than the one in madame's stinking hotel—I raged at Lucille for not making a connection so I could unload the damn junk. Was she really trying, or stalling to hold on to me and my bag? If...

     Hearing our door open down the hall, I stepped out to see this plump old gent spryly heading for the stairs, happy grin on his moist face, coat buttoned cockeyed. I glared at him. I looked silly, coming out of the toilet wearing only shorts, carrying a duffel bag... but when the old windbreaker smirked at me I damn near booted him down the steps; managed instead to rush to the hall window, stare at the dull, dark street until I cooled off.

     When I entered our room Lucille was sprawled on the sheet—messy from the lotion on her back—snoring lightly. The place had this peculiar heavy odor. Staring at her gross body, the hideous darkness of the vein in her left arm—I knew I simply couldn't take this much longer. I tried to tell myself murderers and dope carriers couldn't be choosey, but it didn't help—I had to break out of this sewer.

     When I hit the damp bed, like a robot Lucille rolled over to press her hot breasts against me, still snoring. I pushed her away hard, moved to the coolest spot I could find on the sheet, tried to sleep. I had this crazy dream where I was riding a scooter on the road to Monte Carlo, somebody sitting behind me, their arms hugging my stomach. Passing the old villas and the new modern ones, the camping sites, I'd turn now and then to say something to my rider. But the rider was never the same person: like a game, I'd turn to see Syd, or Noel, Amy, a naked Lucille... and once it was Hank holding me.

     When I awoke the morning was terribly hot and humid. Lucille was making coffee, in the nude as usual, looking greasy and unbathed. Dressing, I went down to buy the paper, some rolls and jam. Returning to the room I found her sitting by the window, reading a book, scratching her breasts and rump now and then, like a pleased cow. Putting my duffel bag and packages down, I thumbed through the paper as Lucille said, “The coffee is done.” She didn't even glance up from her book.

     There wasn't anything in the paper. Taking her purse from the drawer, I pulled out three five dollar bills, announced: “Get dressed, we're going to the beach.”

     “Again? Tony, do you think it's wise?”

     “I think it's very wise—and damn necessary!” I snapped.

     “Being out on the street... Also, my back is still red...”

     “You weren't worrying about your back last night, with that old pig! More sun will help your skin, make it brown. Stay here, if you wish!”

     As she slipped on her dress and shoes. I told myself if the desk moron said a word, I'd break his nose.

     But he wasn't around, probably in the can sipping his wine, and we managed to sit in an air-conditioned car on the Long Island railroad, so by the time we reached Wantagh, and finally Jones Beach, I was in a better mood. In fact I was so relaxed, I almost forgot about the police. Still, minus her harsh make-up Lucille looked different, and with my hair cut so short... we were fairly safe. Renting suits again, we had a glass of beer and hot dogs, then strolled along the beach to 'our' deserted dunes. I took a swim while Lucille sat on the edge of the sand like a big baby, let the waves wash her off, then we slept for an hour or so. She started reading a book she'd picked up on the way out, while I stared at the mixed-green of the Atlantic, remembering the clean, ultramarine blue of the Mediterranean, wishing I had oils and a canvas with me, dared use them. Some teenagers appeared on the beach, near us, and laying on top of the dune—the hot sun soothing on my back—I watched them horse around in the water with their fins and aqualungs.

     When they left I went back to sleep until Lucille gently shook me awake. With her skin taking on a reddish-brown tan, glistening with lotions and oils, the dark hair, she looked quite charming and almost South Pacific-ish. “Tony, it's after three—how much longer are we staying here?”

     Blinking at a pastel rainbow in the salt haze, I felt of the duffel bag tied to my right hand, stretched, and then slapped her backside. “Still hot, might as well make a day of it. Leave around six, safer to be in the crowd.”

     “I'm hungry, give me a couple of bucks. What do you want to eat?”

     “Hamburger, pie, and a beer,” I said, reaching for my pants, giving her three singles. “Long walk back to the snack bar.”

     “I don't mind. My eyes are too tired to read, and I am hungry.”

     “Me too—hurry back.

     For a time I watched her walk the beach, the strong movement of hips and sturdy legs. I took a swim, enjoyed the sheer luxury of urinating on the empty beach. I tried skimming stones in the waves, took another dip and dried off, went back to the slight shade between the dunes, read Lucille's book. I gave up after a few pages and watched the waves, childishly wishing there was a secret tunnel in the Atlantic to take me... anywhere.

     Getting thirsty, I stuck my head out to look for Lucille. She was down the beach, walking along the water's edge, carrying a paper bag of food... about a hundred yards behind her was a tall, thin man wearing a straw hat, a short, squatty, bareheaded man. There was no doubting they were Ping and the knife runt! Nor could there be any doubt about Lucille knowing she was being followed—only the three of them on that stretch of the beach and the two goons stood out—they were completely dressed.

     It was too late for me to run—be a stand-out target myself if I moved.

     Cursing her for selling me out, I picked up the duffel bag, crawled around the back end of the dune: then ducking-walking like we used to do in football training, I reached a dune farther down. Pulling Gus' gun from the duffel bag, I waited. I was neither excited nor cool—but absolutely impersonal about it all. I decided to gun Ping down first, then the knife-thrower, and Lucille last. But as she came nearer I noticed that if her hips still had a gay swing, her face was tense and strained.

     When Lucille walked past 'our' dune, a sort of wild joy filled my throat—she wasn't crossing me!

     Knowing she was being followed, Lucille was deliberately walking on, taking the killers with her— and away from me. Mixed with my joy was cold anger plus a kind of twisted logic: here was the answer to my tangle—I'd knock off Ping and Shorty, then—assuming the police still hadn't found the camphor bag full of Gassy Gus, Lucille would have a few hours, even a day or two, to chance returning to her old hangouts, make the connection for the sale of my bag.