The Love Machine (48 page)

He kept ramming into her, driven by a fury he did not understand. When he finally rolled off her, she jumped off the bed and went to the sink. She grumbled as she washed her stomach. “Jesus, for a classy-looking guy, you play rough.”

He lay on the bed staring vacantly into space. She stood before the sink, a mass of white nudity, and applied her lipstick. “Okay, mister—start moving it. Time to go home to your wife. I bet you don’t dare try any of this stuff with her, huh? Just nice ordinary fucking.”

“I have no wife,” he said tonelessly.

“Well, go home to your mother then—I’ll bet you live with her. Guys like you always do.”

He leaped up and grabbed her by the hair.

“Hey, take it easy lover—be careful of the hair. I told you, I still got work to do. Now go home to Mommy.”

His fist cracked at her jaw. For a fleeting moment, before the pain telegraphed itself, her eyes stared at him in almost childish bewilderment. Then as the pain stabbed through her consciousness her mouth parted with a moan and she dashed toward the bathroom. He caught her by the arm.

“Please,” she whimpered. “You know I can’t make any noise, it’d bring the cops. Please—let me go.”

He grabbed her huge breasts in his hands and put his mouth to them.

“You’re biting me,” she moaned, struggling to get away. “You’ve had your fifty bucks’ worth!” With a final burst of strength she pushed her knee in his groin and broke away. He came after her. For the first time there was fear in her eyes. “Look, mister,” she shouted, “I’ll give you back your money! Go home to your mother! Suck
her
breasts!”

“What did you say?”

Sensing she had found his weakness, she lost her fright. She pulled her naked body to its full height. “I know about you mama’s boys—you’re closet queens, but you want Mama! Do I look like Mama, sonny boy? Well, go home to her. This mama has to work now.”

Once again his fist crashed at her jaw. Only this time he did not stop. He kept slamming at her. Blood was streaming from her nose and mouth. A broken bridgework fell to the floor. He felt her jaw crack, and he kept hitting her until he felt pain in his knuckles. He stopped to look at them curiously and she slumped to the floor. He stared at his hand as if it didn’t belong to him. It was covered with her blood. He looked at the limp form on the floor. He walked to the bed, lay down, and passed out.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the light on the ceiling and the shadowy bodies of three dead moths who had been lured
under the glass. Then he saw the bloody sheets. He sat up and stared curiously at his raw knuckles. Suddenly he saw the massive inert girl on the floor. Oh God—this time it hadn’t been just a nightmare. It had actually happened. He got off the bed and approached the enormous limp body. Her lips were grotesquely swollen, a trickle of blood was running out of her mouth, blood from her nose was crusted on her upper lip. He leaned over her. She was still breathing. Good God—what had he done! He dressed quickly. Then he reached in his pocket—he only had thirty dollars. That wasn’t enough. This girl had to go to the hospital. And he couldn’t just leave her. He looked around the room. No phone. He peered out into the hall—nothing there. He had to get her a doctor. There had to be a phone booth down the street.

The lobby was still deserted. He walked out of the building and the darkness of Fifty-eighth Street folded around him. He headed toward the drugstore at the corner. He had to phone for help.

“Hey, buddy boy, what are you doing around here?” It was Dip Nelson in an open convertible.

Robin walked over to the car. “I’m in trouble,” he said tone-lessly.

“Aren’t we all?” Dip laughed. “We played at the Concord last night and we bombed.”

“Dip … do you have any cash on you?”

“Have I ever—ten C’s and a check. Why?”

“Dip—give me the thousand in cash, I’ll give you a check.”

“Get in the car and tell me about it.” They drove through the park and Dip listened silently. When Robin finished, Dip said, “Let’s take first things first. One, do you think she’ll recognize you? I mean, suppose she’s seen you on TV, then what?”

Robin shrugged. “Then the shit hits the fan.”

Dip shook his head in wonderment. “Buddy, I don’t know how they let you cross the street alone. If you want to make it to the top, you got to see to it that the shit
never
hits the fan! Look—it would be your word against hers. Would anyone take the word of a prostitute against a solid citizen?” He looked at the clock in the car. “It’s ten thirty. What time would you say all this happened?”

Robin shrugged. “I went to a movie; I’m not wearing a watch, but it was dark when I came out.”

“Then it had to be about eight thirty, maybe nine. We’ll get our alibi set for eight just to play it safe.”

“Alibi?”

“Me, sweetheart. The Big Dipper is your alibi.
If
you need one. We say I went to your apartment at seven thirty. We sat around and talked shop, then we took a drive. When I check the car in at the garage, I’ll make sure someone there notices us.”

“But what about the girl?” Robin asked. “She’s out cold.”

“Whores never die. She’ll be out on the street tomorrow as good as new.”

Robin shook his head. “I hurt her pretty bad. I just can’t let her lie there.”

“What ever made you pick her up? Christ, I saw you with the most beautiful broad in the world at P.J.’s.”

“I don’t know, I can remember seeing her—then something like a rocket went off in my head and the rest is as if I dreamed it.”

“Look—want some advice? Leave her be. What’s one whore more or less?”

Robin suddenly gripped the door. Dip looked at him oddly. “Anything wrong, pal?”

“Dip—did you ever have a crazy feeling as if you had gone through something before, heard the same words, even though it’s just happened?”

“Sure, there’s some kind of name for it. Has to do with the mind—getting something a beat late. It happens to everyone. There’s even a song about it called ‘Where or When.’”

“Maybe,” Robin said slowly.

“So cut her from your mind. Make like it never happened,” Dip said.

“No—I can’t. She’s a human being … she might even have a kid.”

“I thought you said she was a self-admitted lesbo?”

“Yes, of course. You’re right.”

Dip drove the car down Fifty-sixth Street and pulled into the brightly lit garage. The attendant leaped to greet him. “How did she drive, Mr. Nelson?”

“Like an angel,” Dip said. “As a matter of fact my friend and I have been driving around in her since seven thirty. You recognize him, don’t you? Robin Stone—remember the
In Depth
show?”

The attendant nodded as a concession to Dip. Then he said, “Mr. Nelson, did you remember to bring that autographed picture you promised—for my daughter Betty?”

“Would I forget?” Dip opened the glove compartment and handed him a manila envelope. “All signed with love and kisses.”

They left the garage and Robin started back toward Fifty-eighth Street. Dip hurried after him and tried to talk him out of it. “Look—she could be up there turning another trick by now.”

“I only pray to God she is,” Robin muttered. They stopped before the dark building. Dip looked around cautiously. “Well, maybe I’m as nutty as you, because I’m gonna go up there with you. Come on, let’s go.”

Once again the self-service elevator creaked its way to the third floor. The door was slightly ajar just as Robin had left it. They both stared at the unconscious woman on the floor. Dip let out a low whistle. “She’s a big one.”

“Give me the thousand,” Robin said. “I’ll put it in her purse. Then we’ll call the doctor from the outside.”

“Sure, and the doctor puts her in the hospital and she comes to and rats on you.”

“But she didn’t recognize me.”

“Buddy—when a whore has a thousand bucks on her, they’re gonna ask a lot of questions. So she describes you, and that’s how trouble could start.”

“What else can we do?” Robin asked.

“You stay here, buddy boy, the Big Dipper has an idea. Lock that door. When I come back I’ll give it two short knocks. Don’t open for anything else.” Before Robin could answer, he was gone.

Robin sat on the bed and stared at the massive white body on the floor. He cradled his head in his arms. The poor bitch. What had gotten into him? This was the first time he had ever tried it with a brunette sober. And the last! Good God, suppose it had been Maggie.

She stirred and moaned. He got off the bed and put a pillow under her head. Then he took his handkerchief, held it under the cold-water tap and tried to wipe the crusted blood off her lip. He stroked the hair from her face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. She half opened her eyes, moaned, and once again lapsed into unconsciousness.
“I’m sorry, you dumb whore, I’m sorry. Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.”

He opened the door when he heard the two quick taps. Dip brandished a bottle of gleaming red capsules. “Did I ever come up with an idea.”

“Seconals?” Robin asked.

Dip nodded. “Now, we just have to get them down Briinn-hilde.”

“It will kill her.”

“I only got eight. She can’t die from eight. A human being, maybe—but it would take dynamite to put that whale away.”

“But why the pills?”

“We get her on the bed, the empty pill bottle beside her—it’s got no label so it can’t be traced. Then we go out and put in a call to the police. I’ll fake the voice, say I had a date to get laid, and found her this way. I’ll say she always threatened the Dutch act. That’s the way most whores end up anyhow, unless a guy like you does it for them. Then the ambulance will come and cart her to Bellevue, pump her stomach, and by the time she comes to they’ll never believe anything she tells them nor will they care. And while she’s there they’ll patch up whatever damage you’ve done. Now all we gotta do is get Primo Camera on the bed.”

She was a dead weight. They were both out of breath when they finally propped her up. Dip forced the pills into her mouth and slugged the water down her throat. She gurgled and the pills and water came sliding down her face. Dip pushed them back, shoved more water into her mouth. Robin held her head up so she wouldn’t choke. His shirt was damp and he watched in agony until Dip finally got the pills down her.

“Okay, let’s scram,” Dip said. “Wait—” He took out a handkerchief and started wiping the place for fingerprints. He flashed Robin a wink. “All those B detective pictures I did are finally paying off. I know all the shticks. Did you touch anything, buddy boy?” Dip took a small leather case from his pocket. In it were a slim gold comb, a nail file and a nail clipper. Robin stared in horrified fascination as Dip cut her long red claws. Then he methodically cleaned the rest of her nails with a file.

“That’s in case any of your hair was in it.” He stared around
the room. “I think that covers it.” Then, using a handkerchief, Dip went into her bag and took out her wallet. “Her name is Anna-Marie Woods. She lives on Bleecker Street.”

“Give me that address.” Robin took the driver’s license and jotted down the name and address. Then he handed it back to Dipper who replaced it in her bag. “She’s got close to a hundred bucks on her—here, take it.”

“Are you crazy!” Robin pushed it away.

“You didn’t write down her address so you can take her dancing, did you? You want to send her some money, right? Well, you can also add this to it. Otherwise it’s a cinch some orderly or patient will steal it from her at Bellevue.”

Robin took the money and nodded dumbly. He understood why Dip had made it in pictures. He was constantly trying to out-think the next person. Maybe you had to when you came up the hard way.

They left the room cautiously. Their luck held and they reached the street without meeting anyone. Dip made the call, but Robin refused to leave until he was certain help arrived. Dip was against it, but they stood in a doorway across the street. Within ten minutes they heard the sirens. Three police cars pulled up before the house. Two minutes later an ambulance arrived. From nowhere a large crowd gathered—it seemed to Robin as if they emerged from the ground. “I’ve got to go over and see if she’s alive,” he whispered.

Dip started with him, but Robin pushed him back. “Now who’s not thinking? With that blond hair and Hollywood tan, you’d have the crowd forgetting the ambulance and mobbing you for autographs. No one will recognize me.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Dip hissed.

“From the look of them, I can be sure. And I’m also sure they saw
all
your B detective pictures.” Robin crossed the street and mingled with the curious onlookers. A few minutes later the ambulance attendants came down with the stretcher. He breathed easier. Her head wasn’t covered—that meant she was still alive.

He returned to Dip after the ambulance clanged its way through the red light and the crowd dispersed. Dip took his arm.
“Okay, buddy boy, I think you’ve had a big night. You better go to bed now, alone.”