Read The Anatomy of Violence Online
Authors: Charles Runyon
The Anatomy of Violence (15 page)
“Closed, Jules. Absolutely closed.”
“Good.” He grinned and squeezed my knee. “Now we can enjoy ourselves.”
I looked at him and wondered if he really thought I could forget so quickly. He was so handsome, so inhumanly sure of himself, so insulated by the power of money that he’d never learned to sense the feelings of others. That was his blind spot, and my best weapon. He’d never expect a woman not to find him irresistable.
I noticed how his hand lay on the wheel, so relaxed, yet fully in control. Was that the hand that ripped off my clothes? I thought it might be, and I hated him suddenly with a depth and violence that made my mouth dry and poured strength into my aching body. But I couldn’t let him see the hate—not until I found my proof.
I felt his hand move higher on my leg and thought:
In just ten seconds I will begin my act.
I began counting as I did when I used to bait a fishhook or dab iodine on a cut. If I really loved him, what would I do? Open my legs and clutch his hand? Or tell him to stop the car and let’s get this thing done? No, that would be out of character.
Nine … ten.
I brushed my palm lightly across his wrist and pushed gently at his hand. “Wait, Jules, until we get to the lodge.”
He smiled and put his hand on the wheel. I felt the car surge forward and watched the needle move up to hover between ninety and one hundred. So far, so good.
The village on the lake shore was dark when we arrived. Jules got the operator of the boat dock out of bed. The gaunt young man yawned, stretched a narrow chin covered with red stubble, and told Jules his inboard was out of the water getting a new cylinder block.
“Then get me an outboard,” said Jules. “I want it ready when I get back with the groceries. Wait here, Laurie.”
I stood on the pier and watched the young man fasten clamps in silence. After several minutes he squinted up at me. “So you’re cousin Jules’ new girl friend.”
“
Cousin
Jules? Are you a Curtright?”
“Most of us here are. This is where the Curtrights first settled.”
He plugged in the hoses leading to the tank. “My brother’s the town marshal, my daddy’s the sheriff, my uncle runs the grocery and hardware, I got a cousin runs a bar, and I got this here boat dock.” His voice had held a note of pride; suddenly it went flat. “And cousin Jules owns the whole works.”
“Oh?” This-sounded like Curtright City in miniature; I could expect no help here.
“Yeah, he don’t trust nobody but a Curtright.” He chuckled and tipped the propeller into the water. “Figgers whatever we steal he’ll get back sooner or later. Probably right, too. He’s sharp as a fishhook and don’t let go any easier.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Get aboard, chick.”
I took his hand and stepped in, feeling the boat roll beneath my feet. His hand went under my armpit and squeezed my breast. The other hand gripped my thigh. I drew back my arm and swung my hand against his bristled jaw as hard as the rocking boat would let me.
“Awww …” he said.
My arm was tingling all the way to the shoulder. “Now that you’ve helped me, get out!”
“Okay, okay, you ain’t interested.” He climbed onto the pier and squatted at the edge rubbing his jaw. He laughed weakly and plucked at a splinter in the dock. “You gonna tell cousin Jules?”
“I don’t know.” I sat down and pulled my skirt over my knees. “Would he fire you?”
“Fire
me?”
He laughed. “He couldn’t afford to. I’ve seen too many of you come and go.” His lip curled. “You’re all alike, too. Treat a guy mean when he’s broke; treat him like a king when he’s rich. You know why I’m still here? I see a lot and I always got the same answer, Jules went to the island by himself. That’s why!”
Footsteps pounded on the dock and he jumped up. “There she sets, Mister Curtright, just like you ordered.”
Jules stepped in, and set down a paper bag. “Push us off.”
A minute later we were sweeping across the lake; Jules, a big, dark shape in the rear with the wake fanning out behind him. I turned to the front and tried to enjoy the wind in my face, but I kept thinking of what was ahead.
My first look inside the lodge took my breath. I’d expected something crude, but I’d overlooked the gargantuan scale of Curtright concepts. The rectangular central room was twice the size of Jules’ vast office; animal heads cast long shadows along walls broken by a half-dozen doors. But it was dated, tarnished luxury. I felt as though I’d walked into a theatre left over from the plush, pre-TV days. “Don’t you have servants, Jules?”
“They leave when I arrive.” He took my arm and escorted me across the room. “We’re the only ones here.”
Inside a bedroom the size of a tennis court, I stood and felt awkward while Jules opened windows and let in the brisk smell of the lake. He turned down the oversized bed. He flicked the lights on and then opened a closet and waved at racks of clothing. “Help yourself. I’ll put away the food.”
I didn’t move until the door closed behind him. It was subtle as a burlesque bump; I was supposed to be stripped and in bed when he returned. I undressed slowly, my movements calm and deliberate. Reluctantly I tore the tape from my leg, unstrapped the knife, and shoved it between the mattress and the springs.
When I opened the closet, the racks spoke softly of Eileen’s presence. There were the frilly, transparent garments in the blacks and blues that had always drawn eyes to her hair. In the pocket of a terrycloth robe, I found a pair of black panties labeled:
Wednesday.
All seven pairs were now accounted for.
But Eileen hadn’t been the only visitor. The racks were gay with Ann’s bright greens and reds: pajamas, print dresses, shorts and halters, and shoes. Ann, it seemed, had come often.
I found other clothing, neither Ann’s nor Eileen’s, all sizes. I took down a set of black silk pajamas with elastic in ankles and wrists. As I slipped them on, I wondered who had worn them and what had happened to her. I turned off the light, lay on the bed to wait for Jules.
My breath came in shallow gasps and my limbs were like sticks joined by rusty hinges. I thought of Jules and felt the slow churning in my stomach. I couldn’t do it. Maybe Eileen and Ann and Simone were stronger; or maybe they loved him. But I didn’t, and I couldn’t make love to a man I hated. I knew I would claw and spit and kick … and get sick. I’d have to stall until Richard came.
Then a thought hit me like a fist in the stomach.
Richard is dead. Nobody knows I’m here.
My note would flutter in the door of the pumper’s shack until it turned yellow. How could I have put myself so completely in Jules’ hands. It must have been the shock of Richard’s death.
But I could still phone. There’d be other lodges along the lake. I’d take the boat—no, Jules had removed the oars and motor and locked them in a shed. I hadn’t thought about it then; now I knew his reason.
So I’d walk. I jumped out of bed, found moccasins in the closet, and started to put on a robe. Then I decided the black pajamas were perfect for the dark. It would be simple to follow the lake shore to the next lodge.
After thirty minutes I knew it wasn’t simple. I’d moved steadily along the rocky, five-foot slope between water and high water line. My ankles ached from turning on rocks, and the sweat-sodden pajamas clung to me like a second skin.
I’d begun to think there were no other lodges when I glimpsed a light up the slope. I climbed slowly through the thick forest and came into the open beside the front porch. It wasn’t a porch, though; it was a wide veranda with a low railing just like the one on Jules’ lodge.
I saw the winding wooden steps and put my hand to my mouth. It
was
Jules’ lodge. Lord! Had I gotten mixed up and doubled back? No, I remembered following the shoreline all the way. That must mean we were on an island, and I was on my own!
The wooden steps creaked, and I crouched in the shadows. The bulky shape climbing the steps wasn’t Jules; it was too squat, the head sank too deeply into the shoulders. There was only one man I knew who walked with that thrusting gait, swinging his belly as he put each foot forward—but what was Koch doing on the island?
Koch knocked and waited, then Jules appeared in the door. “Koch! How’d you find this place?”
“Followed you, Curtright. Had some things to tell you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around. “Man, when you shack up, you shack up in style!”
“Shut up, you idiot! She’s here. Let’s go in the study.”
So Jules hadn’t yet missed me. The door closed behind them and I kicked off my shoes and ran up the steps. I opened the door a crack and watched them enter a room opposite my bedroom. They closed the door and I ran silently across the huge central room. Outside their door, I backed against the wall, picked out a couch deep in shadow that I could reach in one second, then listened.
Jules’ voice was heavy with sarcasm. “You’ve made some idiot moves in the last fifteen years but this takes a prize. Why aren’t you in town wrapping up the case?”
“I told you! Ben Crewes has the state on my back and I’ve got to walk on eggs. And you, for God’s sake, you walk out on it and shack up with his daughter.”
“You’re the only one who knows she’s on the island, Koch.”
“Listen, Curtright, don’t play games with that girl. She’s trying to get something on you.”
Jules laughed. “She talks a mob out from under you and you get the idea she’s dangerous. Koch, she’s a stage-struck kid who hopes I can help her. That’s why she’s here.”
“Yeah? You didn’t see what I found on her. A roll of your tape, pictures of Eileen taken right here, a letter from Ann giving everything but your name—Curtright, that girl’s on your tail and I—”
“You searched her? I thought I told you to keep your hands off her.” There was a minute of heavy silence, then Jules spoke again in a voice like velvet. “You want to question the girl, Koch?”
“Well, we should see what else—”
“Shut up until I finish. You want me to lend you one of these rooms so you’ll have plenty of time? Maybe three-four hours like you spent on Captain Riemann?”
“You told me to find out—”
I heard a slap, then Jules’ voice glided on. “Wait until I finish, Koch. I didn’t say kill Riemann. We scared him once, we could have again. I didn’t tell you to get excited and smash him up so we had to fake a car accident to explain it. And I’ll take care of Laurie, whatever she came here for. Clear?” There was no answer. “You can talk now, Lieutenant Koch.”
Koch’s voice was muffled as though his hands were over his face. “I want out of this, Curtright. I want the letter and I want out. I can’t fight the state.”
Jules’ tone became derisive. “You people make me sick, going through life like alley cats grubbing in a garbage can, running when someone shows a little fight. What do you want, more money? How much?”
“Nothing,” Koch’s voice was heavy. “Just the letter you had me write fifteen years ago.”
“Now, Koch …
Lieutenant
Koch.” Jules chuckled. “You like the sound of that? I can make you a captain.
Captain
Koch. Think of wearing those shiny bars …”
“Just give me the letter.” Koch’s voice became hoarse. “You can’t buy me off any more. I’m through, like that kid in New York you paid to put your name on the play he’d written. But I won’t end up like he did—”
“Koch, you’re talking too much.” Jules’ voice sounded bored. “I’ve been patient for fifteen years while you pried open my strong box, searched my house, tried to get into my safe deposit boxes to find the letter. You’ve spent a lot of my money, and you’ve had fun playing your little game in the back room of the police station, protected by the badge I gave you. Don’t tell me you’re sorry.”
“You damn right I’m sorry. I’m sorry your grandmother picked my name out of a phone book to tail you. I’m sorry I helped you cover up that first deal in New York, thinking you were a kid who just lost his head. I’m sorry I came when Riemann was breathing down your neck about Eileen. I’m sorry I ever met you. You’re insane!
You know that?”
Jules laughed. “Don’t bust a gut, Koch. I hate overacting. Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”
“No, I—” Panic filled Koch’s voice. “Get away from that drawer!”
“Don’t you want the letter?” Jules chuckled, and I heard the drawer slide open. “Here it is, your original confession, fifty thousand dollars’ worth. I was young then, Koch, I could get it a lot cheaper today. Don’t grab! I want you to do one more little thing for me.”
“What?” Koch’s voice was wary.
“It’s a very small thing.” He chuckled again. “My shoelace seems to be untied. Get down on your knees and tie it.”
“Oh, hell, Curtright!”
“
Tie it!”
Jules’ voice cracked like a slaver’s whip.
Koch groaned, and I pictured him squatting on his elephantine haunches at Jules’ feet. Then I heard the
thunk
of something heavy striking padded bone. I heard a strangled grunt, then the muffled thud of a heavy body falling on a carpet. Then silence.
I ran behind the couch as the door opened. Jules staggered past me to the back door. His shoulders were bent under the immense weight of Koch.
H
ELPLESSNESS
and sick indecision. I felt both as I sat frozen in the shadow of the couch and stared at the black rectangle of night through which Jules had gone.
I had two choices. I could go into the bedroom and lie there, hoping I could please him enough to escape death. Or I could follow him through the door, watch what he did with Koch’s body, then hide and wait for a chance to escape. I stood up and started out, my knees weak at the thought of stalking Jules through the dark forest.
Then I saw the door open to the study. I might find other proof in there, more portable than Koch’s body. The rich smell of old leather filled my nostrils as I walked in. Couch and armchairs were covered with it; books on the walls were bound with rich morocco, pungent with the smell of long-held wealth.
A miniature oil derrick, six inches tall, lay on the deep wine carpet. It pulled at my hand as I lifted it. Solid gold. At the base was inscribed,
Curtright Oils, Fifty Years.
There was a bloodstain, nearly dry, with a black hair clinging to it. This was the murder weapon, too heavy to carry. I lay it back on the carpet exactly as I’d found it.
A sealed envelope lay on the edge of the massive mahogany desk. Koch’s confession. I knew as soon as I ripped it open that the envelope was empty. Poor Koch. He died on his knees for nothing.
I walked behind the desk and found a drawer with the key still in the lock. I pawed through it with growing impatience. A cigaret lighter engraved,
To Jules, in memory of the happy nights—Lillian.
A silver spoon with a handle curving back upon itself,
from Mother.
Cards, theater passes, athletic medals, air force medals—symbols of the high points in Jules’ life, like a charm bracelet with trinkets strung on gray thread.
I found a play,
City of Cannibals,
by Jules Curtright, autographed by a cast of unknowns. I read a fragment of dialogue; if Jules had paid to have it written, he deserved his money back. I put it back and lifted out a book with one word engraved on the rich red cover,
Journal.
As I read a few scattered paragraphs, my horror grew.
He’d put down
everything—
obeying some strange compulsion.
It was enough to put Jules … somewhere. I closed the drawer, turned the key, and carried the book into the kitchen. I tied it tightly in a food-saver bag, hoping the manufacturer was honest about its water-tight qualities. Could I swim the distance? On my night circuit on the island, land had been only a faint bulge on the horizon, miles away. Still, you never knew …
I started out the door and saw that it was growing light. Jules was still out there somewhere disposing of Koch. I couldn’t risk being seen by him. I ran down the steps and crawled beneath the veranda. While I waited, I unwrapped the journal and started reading, straining my eyes in the faint light. The ink on the first page was old and faded:
Dear Grandmam, if I have given you this journal, it’s because you know you’re dying. I want you to learn the things I’ve done now that you’re helpless against me, as I was often helpless against you.
You used to say, “There’s something in the Curtright blood that turns men into weaklings.” You told me how Grand-dad opened the State Line Club and died there a senile drunk in the arms of a whore. I understood his escape; there was no softness in you. You told me how father married a woman who became notorious for infidelity. I remember his chewing the little moustache which must have been his only assertion of man-hood. I think mother only wanted a man, for a change from what you’d made of father. He came to you that last time and told you she was leaving him. You told him he should have known that if he showed his weakness to her, she would exploit it.
He showed none then, Grandmam. Not until after he cut her throat with the same razor he used to trim his little moustache. Then because he couldn’t live without her, he slashed his own. Thus I was orphaned, and you had a five-year-old mind to shape as you pleased.
I remember you bought me a puppy to assuage my loneliness. You said I must learn to control animals before I could control people—though the essentials were the same. When it dirtied the floor, you put your cane in my hand and told me to punish it. But I only stroked it, so you put your hand over mine and began to beat the puppy. At first I cried, but then something strange happened. And I remember how you were shaking me and prying my fingers from the cane. Blood ran from the puppy’s mouth and it was dead. Remember?
You can never forget you were Curtright City’s first beauty queen. Even now you hold your back straight and the network of wrinkles seems only a thin overlay on the strong shape of your face. Your eyes are still bright, but they don’t frighten me as they did when you caught me watching the girl down the road. I’d been watching her dress her doll, a little amused that she couldn’t see me.
But you misunderstood, and your lips spit words at me, “A Curtright does not sneak through weeds like a sheep-stealing dog. If you want to see the girl, tell her to show herself to you. Remind her that you are a Curtright.” Then because my voyeurism lacked dignity, you locked me in my room to teach me that a Curtright must show only strength to a woman.
I wanted to hurt you when you let me out, but you were too strong. So I went to the girl and did as you told me. It was the first time I’d seen a girl, and she seemed strange, strangeness prickled my spine and I wanted to hit her because she was different—like you.
For years when I was angry at you, desire for a woman would become an aching lump in my chest. But the girl’s changed; their bodies rounded and their flesh bounced as they ran like young mares on spring pasture. When I learned they wanted to be caught, the act ceased to dissolve the aching lump inside me.
Then came Lillian, remember? I was in the air force and she was an entertainer in a club near the base; not a good one, but she tried to please me. One morning after a party she was in my bed; I didn’t ask her to stay, she didn’t ask if she could. She just stayed. Your private detective must have sent you a garbled report because you flew into a panic and thought we were married. I remember what you said when you turned up at the base in your pearl choker with the big diamond on your finger:
“Get rid of her and find a strong woman, Jules. A strong woman whose blood will strengthen the Curtright line. Don’t plant your seed in worn-out soil. Look at the poor white trash the other Curtrights have become.” Your eyes crackled and your shoulders straightened. “You’d be like that if you didn’t have my blood in you. But this girl is weak, Jules. Test her and you’ll seel”
I had the strength, Grandmam. She knew nothing except how to please me and I grew bored with being pleased. I didn’t share Granddad’s affection for cloying, powder-puff women. In the end I knew she was weak because she couldn’t stop me from killing her.
She was the first, and I felt a remote sort of regret. Here was a lovely girl stopped in the act of exercising the only useful talent she possessed, pleasing me. Now I’d ended her usefulness. She’d been in my arms, moving with her own will; now she could move only when I willed it. When I moved her arms they stayed; when I opened her eyes they remained open.
I learned that death is the ultimate proof of one person’s superiority over another. I’ve never forgotten that.
I should like to die completely alone on a desert or an ocean where there is no one around to be aware of their superiority over me.
I learned, also from Lillian, that corpses are troublesome. That was when I met the man you hired to protect me from my weakness, the detective Koch. He was fat; that meant he was self-indulgent and could be trusted to act in his own interests. At first he tried to frighten me, saying he’d go to the law. But he had the money-look in his eye and I knew what he was after.
“You know,” I said to him once, “that old bitch you work for hasn’t long to live, then your gravy train ends. You’ll be back squatting in hotel corridors and that’s bad for a man of your stature.” Insecurity flickered in Koch’s eyes and I knew he’d had the same thought. I went on. “I’ll double your present salary to work for me, and you can keep what she’s giving you.”
Of course he took it, plus a lump-sum payment for writing the letter I demanded as security. Koch has been excellent for the menial task of covering up, though he has always left to me the creative task of writing his reports to you. Have you enjoyed them? Still, I have to watch him carefully, for he is not the dispassionate planner that I am. Lacking my own background, he lacks the strength to carry his growing burden of guilt.
Not long after Lillian I took a girl by force and she fought. Oh, a little at first. And I thought, This is good when they fight, it means they’re strong, and when I find one stronger than I am, I shall make her a Curtright and bring her to you. I began looking for strength. I found a barmaid in Munich whose forearms were thick as a man’s thigh from carrying thousands of beer steins. She broke one of my ribs but it didn’t save her. A girl in Oakland beat me repeatedly at tennis; her arms and legs were like coils of steel. At the end I could hardly pry her legs free. I saw a huge woman in St. Louis cutting meat in a butcher shop. At first she thought I was joking, then it penetrated her thick skull that I wanted to take her out. In the cabin after I stripped her, she ran from me holding her elbows high and shaking the building. Her fantastic breasts slapped together with a sound like father stropping his razor before he trimmed his little moustache. But she bawled at the end and I was disappointed.
Sometimes I despair of finding one strong enough. I grow sick of them. They sprawl in my memory like those turtles I used to flip on their backs and watch while they waved their legs helplessly in the air. Now it seems as though the task will never end. So I’ve come to find enjoyment in the test itself.
I feel I must descend until I taste the guts of this life; I turn my eyes backward into my mind and see the light spiral down and down as though I were looking into a rifle barrel. Something down there is loathsome and corrupt, and maybe I shall find it.
A gap appeared in the journal. When it resumed on the next page the ink had a fresher look.
So, Grandmam, you went to sleep and didn’t wake up. It gave me no chance to give you this journal. Now there is nobody to whom I want to tell it; yet I want to set it down. I’ve learned there is another kind of strength. I learned it from a blonde named Eileen. Her eyes were of the same deep blue you see down the crevasse of a glacier.
I don’t delude myself that I was the aggressor; she spoke first the day I loaned our estate for a high-school picnic. She’d never seen a summerhouse and asked me to show it to her. We took the short cut through the woods and she told me she’d always preferred older men. I knew then we’d never reach the summerhouse.
I was surprised to discover it was her first time. The sun was slanting low through the trees when I rose and brushed dead leaves from my knees and arms. I felt warm and protective but she spoiled it when she asked brightly: “Are you through?”
She hadn’t moved. I saw that for some time she’d been rolling the damp earth into little balls. She lifted a handful and let them roll off her fingers. “I’m only fourteen. Did you know that?” A dimple appeared in each cheek as she smiled up at me.
Someone shouted her name in the distance.
She got up slowly. “They call it jailbait, or something like that, don’t they?” She giggled and caught her upper lip between her teeth. “But I guess, Mister Curtright, you’re so rich you don’t have to worry about that.” Then she turned around and said, as though to a shoeshine boy, “Brush me off.”
She intrigued me, and continued to in the months that followed. She always looked as though she were playing the angel in a Christmas pageant, even when flat on her back. Her strength was the complete selfishness of a baby unable to understand any wants but its own.
She wanted money, and I let her have it. She wanted knowledge and I knew she was milking me of experience. “Did I do it right?” she’d ask. “Was I good?” She’d keep her eyes open studying me like an innocent bystander while I fought to arouse some response inside her. Sometimes I met her baby eyes and my manhood leaked away like air from a pricked balloon. Then she’d ask brightly: “Through?” And she put her clothes on while she told me about a dress she wanted. I felt like a grownup who’d been brought a toy I couldn’t repair. Something was dead inside her, and I finally quit seeing her. She left me with an unfinished feeling.
When she walked into my office about four years later the feeling came back in double strength. She wore a white cashmere sweater and a light blue skirt that outlined her buttocks and made my palms itch. She let me look for a moment then dimpled. “May I lock the door, Jules? What I have to say is private.”
I nodded and leaned back, rolling a pencil between my hands. She took a chair beside my desk, crossed her legs, uncrossed them, took a deep breath and said, “I want to be Miss Stella, Jules.”
“The contest is six months away,” I said. I began to enjoy myself.
“I’m starting early.” Her eyes had the same wide, expectant look, but they were wiser now—much more than four years wiser.
“You have an even chance.” I put my fingers together and looked up at the ceiling. “So do an estimated twenty-two other girls. If you surpass them in poise, performance, pulchritude …”
She laughed. “You think I came up here for an even chance?” She got up and sat down on my desk, crumpling a pile of correspondence. Her knees were only inches from my face. “I’ve thought about you these three years. I’ve learned a lot.”
“Eileen, I can’t promise anything until I know about your talent, your figure …”
“My figure?” She caught the hem of her skirt and lifted it above her stockings. “Did you think I’d lose my shape so quickly?”
“Maybe.” Her legs tapered toward an interesting shadow, but I reached past her to pick up a payroll I wouldn’t have to sign for several days. “You could probably get third.”
She slid off the desk, her eyes narrowed. I looked at the payroll without seeing it, feeling her presence beside me. Finally she asked, “May I use your restroom?”
I jerked my shoulder at a door. Then I turned my back and waited, glancing at my watch several times. After five minutes the door opened and I heard her voice, now husky, “Jules?”
Leisurely I swiveled around. She’d left her shoes on, and her breasts danced as she walked across the deep rug. They were fuller than I remembered, but still had only a faint touch of color at the tips. “Now—” She stopped beside my chair and smiled down at me. “Can you make up your mind?”
“Sure.” I kept my hands on the desk. “You can have second.”
She trilled a little laugh and slid into my lap, putting her arms around my neck. “I’ve learned a
lot
in these last few years.”
“First comes high.”
She pressed her breasts hard against my chest. “I expected that, Jules.” She caught my earlobe in her teeth and and moved her jaw from side to side. Her breath smelled sweet, like candy, and felt hot in my ear. Eileen had never had hot breath before. Maybe she
had
changed. “You know where I live?”
“Of course.”
I stood up quickly and she caught the desk to keep from falling. “Come tonight and don’t let anyone see you.”
“I’ll be there.” She stood with her palms back against the desk, hips thrust forward, eyes wide and innocent. I felt a tightness growing in my chest. Then I remembered what I’d suffered from her before and I walked out. In the corridor, I pictured her dressing in the empty office and I laughed. I was glad she’d come to me.
I made her keep coming for the next six months. I submitted her to the old degradations and found new ones. I had her pose for photos and told her I’d pin them in the post office if she ever displeased me. I made her work at the State Line Club and instructed Ace to see that she got the roughest, drunkest and dirtiest men. Afterward, she came to me still sweet and fresh and virginal, untouched by it all. I told her she stank of other men and made her bathe. She did, then returned to me hot and eager, an accomplished and passionate love partner. She told me she loved me, and I had no reason to doubt her until the last time …
I gave her the contest as promised and she walked out on me at the banquet. I found her at the Barn and told Ann to have her meet me in one of the stone shelter houses I’d given the city ten years before. For several minutes I watched couples walk by, then I saw Eileen approaching, lovely in the blue lace formal I’d given her. “Come on,” I said when she was inside. “We’re going to the lodge.”
She shook her head and smiled. “Six months was enough, Jules. Laurie and I have plans.”
“You want to end it, now that you’ve won?”
“I
have
ended it, Jules.” She snapped her fingers under my nose. “Wake up, Jules Curtright, it’s over. No more dirty drunks at the State Line Club, no more sexy pictures at the lodge, no more boredom from Jules Curtright—”
I gripped her arm. “Boredom?”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Go to Ann, big shot. She loves you, the great big idiot.”
I twisted her arm. “What do you mean,
boredom?”
“I mean you bored me, big shot, all the way, every stinking lousy minute.” She put her face close to mine. “The only reason I ever helped was so you’d finish sooner. There was a little bookkeeper about sixty who brought his trade to the State Line Club. He gave me a bigger thrill—”
I closed her mouth with my fist and threw her down on the concrete floor. She struggled and I suddenly wanted her. I took out the tape and felt the cold wind blow through my head. Later it started raining and a couple ran in from the park. They sat in the dark and kissed while I twisted the net around her throat. Eileen had strength, but not enough.