Boys & Girls Together (12 page)

“The exit’s over this way,” Sid said.

“It’s Saturday night. Not even eleven o’clock.”

“Hard day,” Sid repeated, and he started toward the exit. He was not remotely fatigued, but he wanted to remember one affirmative action on his part. In his future daydreaming he could expand on it, amplify it, color it to his advantage, removing at least part of the sting from the shellacking she had so skillfully inflicted. He chatted with her as amiably as he could, and when the taxi stopped before the deli Sid held the door open for her, paid the driver and followed her up the stairs, waiting politely by the door of her apartment as she fumbled for the key, waiting only to say goodbye. When she had the key held firmly, the yellow dress tilted abruptly, carrying the encased juts and curves into his arms as her red lips ambushed his mouth. Her strong tongue fired barrage after barrage while her shape locked itself against him. Sid reeled before the ferocity of the
blitzkrieg
, the apartment door finally halting his backward voyage, and, braced, he launched an attack of his own. His arms had barely touched her warm flesh (at last, oh, at last) when she broke from him, inserted the key, opened the door, told him she was free next Friday and, eyes fiery (yes, with passion; it had to be that), disappeared.

Sid could not move. He sent a tentative order to his legs but, when they were slow to respond, rescinded it. His body still felt her pressures, and he closed his eyes briefly, pushed back through time for thirty seconds and relived the moment, framing it forever in his mind: shock, surprise, pleasure, heat—all. Finally he turned, descending the stairs to the warm street, and started to walk. For a block or two he basked, a smile curling his strong mouth.

The night heat was not oppressive; actually, it was relaxing, and Sid swung along at a loose gait, close to humming, for he had kissed Esther Turk, he had, he had. And this coming Friday he would kiss her again. Definitely. Sid stopped. Would she let him? Sid nodded and resumed his walk. Of course she would let him. Who ever heard of one kiss? Impossible. But he had to be careful—he could not assume it was his God-given right; then she would squelch him like a bug. Back to the Red Star Inn. (Women loved going back. Memories ... memories ... ) Sid hummed the tune aloud. And after the Red Star they might just happen to walk along the lake again. And again they would sit on the rock. And they would laugh (a little off-color joke was always good for openers) and stroll and stop and then into his arms with her. What a kiss it was going to be! Here an hour before he had been happy to accept defeat and now he was back in the running. What a kiss. Whaaaat a kiss. A kiss to end all kisses. Suddenly Sid stopped dead. What? What? A kiss? “Christ,” Sid said aloud. “A
kiss
!” The humiliation! He, the one and only Sid Miller, the killer of the South Side, was plotting a kiss; he, who unquestionably could make a living as a full-time gigolo, was working up a sweat over a nineteen-year-old delicatessen keeper’s daughter. “Christ,” he said again. With one flick of her body she had sent him spinning. One seemingly unplanned embrace (she knew what she was doing, that tootsie did; she knew all right) and God’s gift to women was grappling for another peck on the lips. It was like Rockefeller scheming over a gallon of oil. But there it was.

She had hooked him.

The little bitch had hooked him.

But good.

Schmuck!
That was the word for him. Sid seethed. Ohhh, she was clever. A shrewd slut, that little Esther. She saw he was getting away, leaving her in the lurch, beating her at her own game, so she threw out a little smooch to string him along. “Hah!” Sid said, and he spun into a candy store, ordered an egg cream and downed it in a swallow. Quenched, Sid pierced the hot night, fingers snapping fast. Well, he would take her anyway. Take her, then leave her; have her to the hilt, then drop her by the wayside. He had tried being charming, he had tried being sweet; kindnesses he had showered. Could anyone have been nicer? He had wooed as a gentleman woos, and where were the results? In return for his investments she had paid him with ashes. But no matter; he would still win the day.

By being evil.

Because he had to have her. He just had to.

That, or go mad.

Wellington never mapped a campaign with more care. Sid stayed up late every night, pondering, fretting, pacing the floor. By Wednesday he had his plan and Thursday evening he went over details till he was bleary. No plan is perfect and neither was Sid’s; he needed one break from the Almighty.

Heat.

Chicago was in the midst of an August bonfire and Sid prayed for it to hold. He listened to the weather forecasts on the radio every hour on the hour. At one in the morning he first heard reports of a cold front moving down from Minnesota and that news sent him quickly toward despair. The two-o’clock news repeated chill words of the arrival, but Sid, exhausted, could not wait for further bulletins. He fell asleep, the radio still going full blast. When he awoke, groggy, he staggered to the window and said hello to Friday.

It was a steamer.

For the rest of the day Sid moved. Down to the Loop for a furtive transaction with Whittaker, the Negro train porter, then back north for peanuts, quickly to another store for dry potato chips, then a long bus ride west for the best tomato juice in town. When he arrived back at his apartment he forced all the windows shut and tried to nap, first going over everything one final time. The alarm woke him on schedule and, not taking time to stretch, he burrowed through his closet for his oldest suit and, with surgical care, ripped the left trouser leg along the seam. That done, he rumpled the coat, dirtied his face good, dressed, eyed himself one final time in his full-length mirror and went forth to do battle.

“What happened to you?” Esther said, opening her apartment door, staring out.

“I tripped.” Sid hesitated in the doorway, looking at her. She was dressed all in black; black was his favorite color.

“What do you mean, tripped?”

“Fell down. I fell down. See, I was a little late getting over here so I ran across the street a block back and my foot didn’t make the curb, I guess. Anyway, I skidded and ripped the pants and—”

He stopped at her laughter.

“I don’t think it’s so funny, Esther.”

“You don’t, huh? You should see yourself.”

“Esther, I might have got hurt, Esther. All right, all right, go ahead and laugh.”

She did.

Sid waited. “Listen, I can’t take you to dinner like this. Tell you what. I’ll go home and shower and change and get back here as fast as I can. Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“An hour!”

“Maybe a little less.”

“I don’t much feel like waiting around, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Why don’t I come along with you?” And she went for her purse. Now why didn’t I think of that? Sid thought, and while her back was turned he allowed himself to beam.

They taxied through the heat, Esther grousing about food and the heat and being kept waiting. When they stopped in front of his apartment house she pursed her lips with evident disdain. Sid paid, led her up the steps and into the building. “Second floor,” he said, and he mounted the stairs ahead of her, unable to ignore the strong smell of onions clouding the hall. “Italian people live next door,” Sid explained and Esther nodded. Sid took out his key, smiled at her, unlocked his apartment and ushered her in.

“My God, it’s a steam bath.” And she retreated quickly to the hall.

“It’ll cool off quick,” Sid said, and he plunged through the still air, throwing both windows open. “In this neighborhood, leaving your windows open isn’t so smart.”

“That I believe.”

“Kitchen, bathroom, living room, bedroom,” Sid said, pointing as he spoke.

“Palatial,” she gave him.

“Now, Esther, I never once said it was a palace.”

“Maybe not, maybe not.”

“And it’s clean. You got to admit that.”

Finding no dust, she had to shrug agreement. “Still, I’ve seen better.”

“I ain’t gonna die here, Tootsie; you better believe it.” He slipped off his suit coat and hung it in the closet.

She wandered around the room. “Sid?”

“Huh?”

“You got anything to
nosh
on?”

“We’re going to a good restaurant; leave your appetite alone.”

“I asked did you have anything to
nosh
on.”

“Esther—”

“I’m
hungry
.”

“All right, all right, check the cupboard.”

“Umm,” she said a moment later. “Peanuts.”

“Well, go easy.”

“And potato chips.”

“I said go easy.”

“Peanuts I love.” She returned with a handful. “Want one?”

“I’m not spoiling my appetite.” He took off his shirt and tie, then covered himself with his robe.

“Modest fella.” And she returned to the cupboard for another handful of peanuts.

Sid tied the robe and moved to the bathroom. Closing the door, he leaned against the wall opposite the mirror and looked at himself, waiting.

“Sid?” He let her try again. “Hey, Sid.”

He opened the door a crack. “What is it? I’m trying to take a shower.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“I don’t wonder with all those peanuts.”

“What have you got that’s cool?”

“Water.”

“What else?”

Sid opened the door. She was sitting on his couch, eating peanuts. “I got some cold tomato juice.”

“Great. Nothing I like better.” Didn’t I know that, Sid thought. Didn’t she order it (the large glass, twice as expensive) with almost every meal he’d ever bought her?

“I’ll get it for you.”

“That’s all right. Take your shower.” She started to rise.

“You’re in my house, Esther. I’m the host, O.K.?”

“O.K.” She sat back down.

Sid sauntered to the kitchen, but, once out of sight, he started to fly. Out came the tomato juice and the ice cubes and the biggest glass he owned (bought today special), and once they were assembled he took a deep breath before reaching far behind the stove for the secret ingredient.

Vodka.

It almost amused Sid, years later, when the North Shore bridge ladies discovered the stuff. “Try it,” they would urge him. “It has no taste at all.” “No taste?” he would reply, unable not to smile. “I can’t believe it.” How could they sense that he’d known about it all his life, that he had first used it (successfully) on Midgie Greenblatt when they were both seventeen, that his father had taught him of its loosening qualities, that it was Sid’s only worthwhile legacy from his old man?

Sid poured a lot of vodka into the big glass. After came a handful of ice cubes; finally the tomato juice, sweet and cold. He gave it a quick stir with his finger, felt the glass’s exterior starting to chill, hesitated one moment more, then walked back to Esther.

“Here,” he said. “Don’t drink it too fast.”

She gulped it down. (She had to. He said drink it slow, so she had to.) Sid watched her, a dark creature of infinite curves, a sour, tantalizing bitch about to go into an unsuspected heat. God, but he wanted her, and the proximity of fulfillment did not make life any easier.

“I’m a new woman,” Esther said, putting the glass down, “Was that good!”

“You can’t taste anything when you drown yourself in it like that.”

“Let me have a little more.”

“Why don’t we just forget all about dinner,” Sid said, approximating annoyance.

“I’ll eat, don’t worry; just a little more.”

Sid grunted, took her glass and made her another drink, except with half again as much vodka. She took it from him, and as he headed for the shower he could hear her humming softly behind him.

What a shower! Sid (no singer) sang “Great Day,” “When the Organ Played at Twilight” and “Singin’ in the Rain.” All the time the water cascaded down, dancing across his shoulders, sliding along his shapely legs to the final safety of the porcelain. When he had taken as much time as he could without arousing suspicion, he turned off the knobs, threw the robe around his shoulders, a towel around his neck and gave a quick check to his pigeon.

She was sitting heavily against the back of the sofa, arms at her sides, eyes staring blankly out the window. Sid stood before her, waiting while she slowly turned her heavy head up to face him. He smiled at her and, wonder of wonders, she returned it. (That vodka, it’s fabulous.)

“I won’t be much longer,” Sid said.

She waved a hand. “Take your time, take your time.”

Without asking, Sid picked up her glass and made her the crusher in the kitchen. Half and half (at this stage, who could taste?) and easy on the ice (dilutes). Setting the drink carefully into her hand, he nodded approvingly as she sipped steadily away.

“Bes’ damn tomato juice,” Esther said.

“For you, Tootsie, only the very finest.” Sid zipped back to the bathroom and dried himself good before carefully applying exotic oils to his face, imported cream to his armpits. He hummed “Five foot two, eyes of blue” as he combed his hair, getting it to lie just right. Then he brushed his teeth with Colgate’s and stepped back, eying himself, trying to be critical. He had never looked better and he knew it as he scurried to his bedroom for his only pair of genuine silk underwear. (For you, Tootsie, only the very finest.) Then, donning his blue sharkskin slacks, he hid his belt in a bureau drawer and closed in for the kill.

“Esther?”

“What?”

“I leave my belt out there?”

“I don’t see it.”

He walked into the living room, bare-chested. He was well muscled and-she noted him with what he knew was pleasure as he approached. “Where the hell’s my belt?” He searched the room, circling closer to the couch.

“Where did you leave it?”

“That’s a bright question, Tootsie.”

She thought about it a moment before commencing to laugh, her entire body going into the action, quick tears shining in her eyes, and while she was amused (no time like the present) Sid slid down beside her, grabbed her tight, pulling her against his bare chest, and, taking dead aim, went for her mouth.

It all made for a sloppy kiss.