Runaway (16 page)

He opened the door and then slammed it shut behind him, and Cindy lay on the linoleum covering the floor, and she listened to his laughter outside in the hallway. She wiped the blood from her lip, and then she kept listening to the laughter until it drifted down the staircase and faded.

Twelve

He felt weak all at once.

He'd felt fine up on the roof, and later just roaming the streets, trying to think of a lead to Luis' killer. But it was dark now, and there was a cold wind in the streets, and up ahead he could see the lights of the Savoy, and he could hear the muted beat of the music, and then the weakness came, suddenly.

It hit him in the legs first, a drained feeling, as if someone had suddenly stolen his bones. And then the lassitude spread to his groin, and then he knew he would really be sick because he always felt that weak draining in his groin when he was ill, even when he was a kid and had bronchitis.

He thought, I should have eaten more.

I should have seen a doctor.

The weakness spread, and the lights of the Savoy began to merge with the street lights and then the stars until the whole business pinwheeled around in his head. He didn't want to collapse, but he couldn't control his legs. He stumbled sideways, slamming against the fender of a new car. I can't pass out, he thought, I can't.

But the pinwheel spun into a crazy gray, and the gray turned black and then blacker, and he heard “The Two-O'Clock Jump” blasting from up there someplace, and then his shoulder hit the fender of the car, and he fell to the pavement and didn't hear the music any more.

Marcia Clarke had added the “e” to her name when she was nineteen. Until then, she'd been plain Marcia Clark, daughter of James Clark. The addition of the “e” was a way of declaring her independence, and also an attempt at sophistication. When Marcia added the “e,” she also left the apartment of her parents on Pelham Parkway and found herself an apartment in Washington Heights. She was attending Brooklyn College at the time, and what with traveling time and asserting her new-found independence, Marcia was a very busy little girl.

For a little girl, Marcia was not at all unattractive.

She had blond hair and green eyes that were flecked with an inner circle of deep yellow. She owned a trim figure, with a narrow waist and a 34C bust, a bust she was inordinately proud of. She liked men to look at her bust. She also liked men to look at her legs, which were good legs, and she liked to remind men and women alike that “good things come in small packages.”

Marcia was a model of deportment, except the time she'd worn a very low-cut gown to a senior tea, distracting most of the red-blooded Brooklyn College males, and driving some members of the faculty practically frantic. This, too—in Marcia's reasoning—was a way of showing her independence. When she was graduated from Brooklyn, she took a job as a laboratory technician. She still maintained her apartment in Washington Heights, but, being denied senior teas, Marcia was forced to find other means of asserting her independence.

Tonight she had danced with a total of twelve colored men. She was very proud of that fact. She had never been to the Savoy Ballroom before, and here, her first time, she'd danced with twelve colored men.

At first she'd been a little frightened. She was not nineteen any longer, nor was she twenty-one and attending a senior tea in a low-cut gown. And wearing a low-cut gown to a senior tea is not exactly the same thing as wearing a low-cut gown to the Savoy Ballroom.

And her gown
was
cut low. Apparently a lot of people had been looking. She'd danced with Mark only twice, and since then she hadn't been free once, and all the men she'd danced with were colored, and she was truly excited. It was like being in a foreign land. She couldn't understand a lot of the talk, and the local jokes passed over her head completely. The music was strange, too, a wild sort of music that spread to the bones. She'd have to do this more often, even if Mark didn't like it.

Mark definitely did not like it.

Mark had not liked the idea to begin with, but she had insisted.

He had a few fortifying shots before they drove into Harlem, and the fortifying shots had put him into a semi-stupor. In that stupor, he watched Marcia cavorting about with various men of various hues.

When the thirteenth man asked for her hand, Marcia smiled graciously and curtsied, bowing over low, the front of her dress billowing out over the 34C bust.

“You're number thirteen,” she said, and Mark mumbled, and the tall Negro just smiled and whisked her onto the dance floor. She watched Mark from the circle of the Negro's arms.

“You like Harlem?” the Negro asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said. She felt his arm tighten around her waist. She felt his cheek against hers, and she wondered if she should pull away, but she thought, Oh, the hell with it.

“This is only a small part of Harlem,” the man said. “You should see all of it.”

“Should I?” she asked coyly.

“I mean, if you're of a mind to.”

“I hadn't thought of it.”

“I mean, if your boy friend wouldn't mind.”

“He's not my boy friend,” she said, giggling. “He just escorted me here.”

“Then mightn't we ditch him? I mean, if you—”

“I don't think so,” Marcia said, but she did not take her cheek from the man's, nor did she move away from his tight embrace.

When he brought her back to Mark, he said, “I'll see you a little later,” and she smiled pertly. Mark was still sulking.

“Are you angry, little boy?” she asked.

“Nope,” Mark said, his speech a little thick, the liquor still reeling around inside his brain. “You can go to hell with one of these jigs, for all I care.”

“Mark! For heaven's sake!”

“What's the matter?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow.

“Watch the way you're talking,” she whispered. “If one of them should hear—”

“Hell with 'm,” he said grandly, using his arm in a musketeer gesture. “Le's get the hell out of here, Marcia, right now.”

“I'm having fun,” she said simply.

“Well, I'm not.” Mark nodded emphatically, the gesture made bigger because he was still feeling the liquor. He lowered his voice intimately. “You should see the poisoned darts the girls're flingin' at you, baby. They don't like you one bit, not one little bit, nossir.”

“Are they really?” Marcia asked, smiling and sucking in a dress-filling breath. She could not keep the smugness off her face.

“They are really,” Mark affirmed. “They will probably rip off all your clothes soon, an' carry your head on a pike.”

“Mark!”

“They will. An ol' tribal custom.”

The thought of having all her clothes ripped from her was not unappealing. A sort of a white goddess. Stripped naked, with the tribesmen at her feet. She toyed with the idea, picturing it with her mind's eye.

“Well,” she said, “I'm enjoying myself.”

“O.K., Marcia, honey, sweetie, baby, doll, I'm leaving. You can stay here if you want to, but I'm leaving.”

“Why don't you dance with some of the women?” Marcia asked.

Mark nodded sourly. “Change my luck? No, thanks. I'm goin' home. You comin' along, or do you want to stay? You pays your money and you takes your cherce.”

“I'd really like to stay a little longer. The music is so—”

“So stay. I'll be seein' you, Marcia doll. Lessee now, wha's your number again?”

“Oh Mark, you're being plain stupid.”

“Agreed. 'Night Marcia.”

“Wait.”

He whirled unsteadily. “Uhm?”

Marcia was angry. It showed in the flash of her eyes and the heave of her breasts. “What are you, a coward or something?” she asked.

“Me?” Mark considered this. “Yes,” he said gravely. “I am a coward or something. 'Night.”

“Wait,” she said, “for God's sake, wait.” She paused to catch her breath, looking very pretty when she was angry, and knowing she looked very pretty. “I'll be very angry if you force me to leave.”

“Nobody's forcin' you. Stay. Stay, honey. I don't care. I'm goin'.”

“I'll go with you,” she said suddenly, a little frightened at the thought of being left alone in Harlem. “But this is the last you'll see of me, Mark.”

Mark shrugged. “O.K., if tha's what you want.” He paused. “I'll get our coats.”

They went out onto the sidewalk, and she did not take his arm. He walked crookedly, and she said coldly, “You're drunk, do you know that?”

“So I'm drunk. I must've been drunk to take you here in the first place.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“You sore at me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, I don't care. Whattya think of that? I don' give a damn.”

“I wonder how you'll feel in the morning, when you start remembering.”

“I'll feel fine. Whattya think, you own me or something? We date a few times, an' right away—”

“A
few
times?”

“Yas, a few times,” Mark shouted. He lowered his voice. “All right, a few months, all right? Still, I don't have to go chasin' to Harlem to see you dancin' with a lot of jigs.”

“Stop calling them that!”

“It's what they are, isn't it?”

“You're making me sick,” Marcia said. “You'd better shut up.”

“I didn't know you were so in love with—”

“It's not that. It's just that I can see nothing wrong with frequenting a Negro dance estab—”

“Oh, here comes your Public Speaking Two voice. Three-minute speech. Watch your 'nunciation, now. You're being timed. Go!”

“Oh, go to hell,” Marcia said.

They walked in silence for a block, and then he said, “Here's the goddamn car.”

“Look,” she said. “On the sidewalk.”

“Huh?” Mark glanced down to where the figure huddled against his right front wheel. “Oh, f'r crissakes, tha's all I need.”

“He's hurt,” Marcia said, her hand to her mouth.

“Hurt, my ass. He's drunk. Come on, give me a hand here.”

“Mark, he's hurt. We've got to help him.”

Mark stooped down and lifted the man's hand out of the gutter. “There,” he said. “Now I won't run over him. Come on, Marcia, get in.”

“He's sick, Mark, I know he's sick. Can't you see that? My God, can't you see that?”

“I can see he's drunk,” Mark said doggedly. “What the hell do you think I am, Alcoholics Anonymous?”

Marcia stooped down and opened the tweed coat. She felt the man's heart. “He's sick,” she said. “Let's take him to a doctor.”

“You're out of your mind.”

“Help me get him in the car.”

“My
car?”

“Yes, your car. Mark, if you don't help me now, I'll never—”

“Use your head, Marcia,” he pleaded. “The guy's drunk,”

“Can you smell any whiskey on him?”

“Well …”

“Unlock the car.”

Mark squeezed his eyes shut. “Marcia, you are the craziest …”

“Unlock the car.”

“All right. All right, goddamnit, but this ties it. This really ties it. This is it, baby. You can just—”

“Hurry up.”

He unlocked the door of the new Oldsmobile, and then lifted the man onto the front seat. Marcia squeezed in beside him, and then Mark went around to the door near the driver's seat and opened it.

“Are you sober enough to drive?” she asked.

“I'm sober, all right,” Mark said coldly.

The figure between them stirred.

Mark turned the ignition key and looked at the man. “He's coming around.”

“We've got to get him to a doctor,” Marcia said.

“I don't understand why you think he's—”

“Because I know he's not drunk, and people who are well don't go lying in the gutter.”

“He wasn't lying in the gutter. He was—”

“Let's take him to a doctor,” Marcia said firmly, “and let's hurry.”

“No,” the man said.

He spoke so suddenly that he startled Marcia.

“There,” Mark said, “I told you.”

“Sssssh!” she said sharply.

“No,” the man said again. “No doctor. Please. My arm'll be all right.”

He spoke so softly that she almost didn't hear him.

“His
what?
” Mark asked.

“His arm! You see, he
is
hurt. Now will you listen? Find a doctor.”

“No,” the man said, shaking his head this time. “No, please. No doctor. Please, no doctor.”

“He doesn't want to go to a doctor,” Mark said.

“I don't care what he wants. We'll take him to one.”

“No doctor,” the man mumbled. “Please, please.”

“He doesn't want one,” Mark said firmly. “Look, Marcia, let's play this smart, shall we? He's coming around now. Let's leave him outside and forget about it. Let's get out of Harlem.”

“No,” Marcia said. “We'll take him home. We can at least do that.” She shook the figure beside her. “Can you tell us where you live?” she asked. She could see the man was sick.

The man shook his head. “Don't take me home,” he said.

“Now, what the hell!” Mark said.

“Maybe he was in a street fight,” Marcia said. “Maybe they're still waiting for him. There are always street fights in Harlem.”

“Well, what the hell are we supposed to do? He doesn't want a doctor and he doesn't want to go home. Are we supposed to hold his hand all night?”

Marcia considered for a moment, biting her lip. “We'll go to my place,” she said suddenly.

“What!”

“You heard me. We'll take him to my place.”

“Now I know you're nuts. Now I know it. If I wasn't sure before, I know it now. You're going to take a strange drunk—”