Case of Lucy Bending (36 page)

"You're right," he said, showing his teeth. "I can't fool you and I can't fool myself."

"Then what is it?" Levin asked.

⁴
'What is it?" Bending demanded loudly. "What is it?" He took his leg from the chair arm, jerked forward. "It's that goddamned tube of meat between my legs. It makes me do things I don't want to do. It controls me, for God's sake." He began to gesticulate wildly. "What can it weigh? A few ounces? Not more than a quarter of a pound—right? And it's ruined my life. Listen, it's all I can do sometimes to keep from raping some of those creamers I see on the beach. Yes, right there on the sand. Just grab them, you know. All because of that lousy tube of meat. I want to hump every woman I see. Why do you think they call me Turk? I got that name in college, and it's stuck with me all my life. Turk for a Turkish sultan with a harem. There's not one of them I can't love. They're so beautiful. Even the ugly ones. There's always
something
there. I can't help myself. It's that lousy tube of meat. All right, you wanted me to be honest. Now I've been honest. Happy?"

Levin wanted to keep the confessional going. He didn't want to give the man a chance to cool off.

"So there have been many women?"

"Yes," Bending said, nodding wildly. "Many. Many."

"Since your marriage?"

"Yes."

"In motels?"

"Motels, hotels, her apartment, my car, the office."

"And in your own home? When your wife was out?"

Bending gave him a hurt glance. "Never. I'd never do anything like that."

"Uh-huh. But you'd rape one on the beach? Right there on the sand?"

"Come on, Ted, that was just Loony Tunes time; you know that. I just said that to show you how I feel. But I'd never
do
it."

"So you do have control over that tube of meat?"

"Not enough. I still make a fool of myself. Waste time. Neglect my wife and kids. I know it."

"Is Grace aware of this, uh, predilection of yours?"

"Some. She doesn't know everything."

"Your children? Do you think they're aware of your activities?"

"Nah. How could they know? The neighbors maybe. Bill Holloway and Luther Empt—a couple of drinking buddies of mine—maybe they know, or guess."

Levin looked at the man, now slumped once again in the armchair on the other side of the desk.

"Turk, you seem to have regrets for the way you live. You've been very forthcoming so far; now let me ask you this: Are you sure you want to change? If you could?"

Bending tilted back his head, stared at the glittering stars pasted on the office ceiling.

"No," he said softly, "I guess not. First of all, I couldn't change even if I wanted to. And I don't think I want to."

"In other words, you're more or less satisfied with the way you live? You recognize that what you do is deceitful, wasteful, perhaps foolish and self-destructive, but you're willing to continue?"

"Ted," Bending said with a mocking smile, "you really have a beautiful way with words. But I guess the answer is Yes. I'm going to continue. Until I'm six feet under. And then they'll have trouble getting the lid on the coffin."

Dr. Levin smiled briefly. "In its most virulent form, your condition might be called satyriasis. But I prefer to think it's merely hypersexuality. The same thing that's troubling your daughter."

Bending stared at him. "You mean Lucy got it from me?"

Levin laughed. "Oh no. No, no, no. I've never seen any evidence that the condition is inheritable. Not genetically. But if Lucy is aware of the way you live ..."

"She isn't," the other man said crossly. "I told you that."

The doctor settled back. He took up his cold cigar, used a wooden kitchen match to relight it. He puffed contentedly, then glanced at his desk clock.

"Turk, we have a few minutes left. With your permission, I'd like to forget Lucy for a moment and talk about you. A few minutes ago, I said I had no personal or professional interest in your life except as it affects Lucy. Perhaps that was an exaggeration. Because now I find myself curious about you, the way you live. Call it nosiness, if you like. What I'd really like to know is the reason for your womanizing. You seem to ascribe it to an insatiable sexual drive. Is that all it is?"

Bending lighted another cigarette. He uncrossed his knees, crossed them again. He began to drum on one knee with the fingers of his free hand. He examined his burning cigarette intently, then looked up.

"Ted," he said, "I honestly don't know. I know the sex part is very important. Who doesn't enjoy a good bang? But maybe there's more to it than that. That bullshit I gave you about the artist's eye—well, that wasn't
all
bullshit. And also, we all have to eat so much dirt in this world, just to get along, that giving a woman pleasure and getting pleasure from her, I figure that's a kind of revenge. You know? And also the way it makes you feel. Like singing. Like you're going to live forever. Life is complicated."

"Yes," Dr. Theodore Levin said faintly, "that's true."

Former Senator Randolph Diedrickson loved intrigue.
Loved
it! It was not a folly of old age, as a gaffer might turn to tatting or Trollope. No, it was a life-long study, habit, and practice that had served him well in his political career and his bewilderingly complex private life.

Diedrickson saw intrigue as an advanced form of chess, played with human pieces. But whereas chess had rules, intrigue was a ruleless game of instinct, imagination, and invention. All the great players—Machiavelli, Richelieu, Meyer Lansky—were essentially
creative
men.

So when Jane Holloway phoned to recount the latest progress of EBH Enterprises, Inc., and to ask for the senator's advice, he listened carefully. He interrupted her recital only once:

"This Ernie Goldman—he's a Jew?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

The senator then heard her out, and promised to give the matter his careful consideration. He hung up the phone with a smile of pleased anticipation—the cat crouched at the rat hole.

Occasionally, of course, intrigue was played
pour le sport.
But generally, self-interest was the guiding principle. In this case, Diedrickson wished to retain the affection and ministrations of Jane Holloway. But surely, he reasoned, there might be other ways he could profit from moving and shaping this minor imbroglio.

He sat alone in the shade of the sundeck awning, a bottle of Mumm's Cordon Rouge chilling in a bucket alongside. He pondered the problem, pulling gently at his rubbery lower lip. He worked out his opening moves. To others they might seem impractical, even farcical. To Diedrickson, they had an elegant logic.

Political cronies had alerted him to the existence of a talented assistant district attorney in Okeechobee County. This young man had recently prosecuted a case of homicide—a wealthy orange grower had hired a professional killer to dispose of his mistress's boyfriend—and had secured a conviction.

The case received statewide media attention, and the young prosecutor was termed a "comer" in several Florida newspapers. Diedrickson contrived to meet him and liked what he saw. He was idealistic but not too idealistic, honest but not too honest, ambitious but not too ambitious, greedy but not too greedy.

Diedrickson was convinced the young man had enormous potential. Unfortunately, he was not a wealthy man and had not yet succeeded in building a money base to finance a significant political career.

The former senator had several discussions with members of his party in Florida, and ways were sought to move this young paragon along: mayor, perhaps, or state senator, and then House of Representatives, or state governor, and then— who knew? But strong funding was required.

Now, Diedrickson thought, he might very well have happened upon a money tree in this business of Jane Hollo way's. Satisfied with his preliminary plans, he opened his iced Mumm's, delighted to find he still had the strength to twist the cork.

He sampled half a glass, smacked his thick lips, belched gently, and reached for the telephone.

The meeting with Rocco Santangelo and Jimmy Stone was arranged for the following Thursday afternoon, three days before the commemoration of Christ's birth. The former senator greeted his guests in his second-floor study, a gloomy, overstuffed chamber from which his secretary had been temporarily banished.

For the occasion, Diedrickson had donned a rumpled seersucker suit that looked like mattress ticking, a white shirt with a frayed collar and black string tie clasped with a silver and turquoise ring. His bloated, purplish ankles were bare, and he wore beaded carpet slippers, the gift of a grateful constituent twenty years ago.

His two visitors were carefully, even nattily dressed. Santangelo was a watercolor of pearl grays and light blues, everything monogrammed. He was the tall, carefully groomed one. Diedrickson wondered how long it had been since he had seen clocks on men's hose.

The other, Jimmy Stone, was the short, heavy one and, the host guessed, the leader. He didn't have Santangelo's gloss, but his presence dominated. He wore a dulled black worsted suit, vested, with white shirt and black tie, socks, and shoes. An undertaker's costume, Diedrickson thought, and probably fitting.

The senator got them seated and had Renfrew serve them drinks before he left. Since both his guests asked for bourbon, Diedrickson also drank it, to suggest to them that he admired their taste. He happened to detest bourbon, but business was business.

The two men were seated in heavy Victorian armchairs, upholstered in lavender velvet now worn and greasy.

Diedrickson rolled his wheelchair out from behind the desk so he was closer to his guests. He wanted this to be an intimate meeting.

"Tell me," he said, smiling benignly, "how is my very good friend Uncle Dom?"

"He's okay, senator," Santangelo said. "His ulcer acts up sometimes, but considering his age, he's doing fine. He sends his regards."

"Well, give my best to the dear man," Diedrickson said warmly. "I was hopeful that we might get together during the joyous holiday season, but neither of us finds the rigors of travel, ah, convenient. But I intend to telephone him to wish him the very best for the new year, I do assure you."

"The present," Jimmy Stone said in his low, growly voice.

"Oh, yeah," Santangelo said, snapping his fingers. "Uncle Dom wants us to thank you for that nice present you sent his nephew Nick when he graduated."

"My pleasure," the senator said, beaming. "And what are the boy's plans for the future?"

"Wall Street," Stone said. "Bonds."

"Excellent. Glad to hear it. If you should see the lad, you might remind him that I have many true and wonderful friends in the banking community down here, and if there is any way I may be of service, he has only to ask."

His guests nodded politely, sipped their drinks, looked at him blankly, waiting . . .

"Well, gentlemen, I don't want to waste your time. I'll get right to the reason I asked you to join me today. Certain information has come to my attention which, because of my long association with and affection for Uncle Dom, I feel you should be made aware of. It concerns your plans to establish a processing facility in south Florida to convert your movie films into television cassettes."

Either they had been warned of his omniscience or trained in the art of imperturbability. They looked at him steadily, expressionless. But if they thought to daunt him by their coldness, they underestimated his mettle. He had dealt with men of their ilk before, many times, and understood that a display, even an indication, of anxiety would be fatal.

He told them of Ronald Bending's machinations to oust Luther Empt and, with the aid of William Holloway, gain control of EBH Enterprises, Inc. Then he paused in his recital, looking brightly at the two men, back and forth.

"Another drink?" he suggested smoothly. "Please help yourself at the sideboard as I am incarcerated in this ridiculous conveyance."

Santangelo rose to pour himself more bourbon, though his glass was still half-full. A sign of disquiet, Diedrickson thought. But Jimmy Stone remained seated, staring at the senator thoughtfully.

"Where did you hear all this?" he asked.

"From Holloway's wife, Jane. I understand you met her."

"Yeah," Stone said. "A bright broad."

"She is indeed," Diedrickson said. "And understandably upset at the turn things have taken. Quite naturally, she feels Bending's plans may jeopardize her husband's investment. A quarter of a million, I believe."

Rocco Santangelo had regained his seat after taking two quick swallows from his filled glass. Now he leaned forward, almost glaring.

"What has all this bullshit got to do with us?" he demanded.

"Please correct me if I am wrong," the senator said affably, "but I really can't see this Luther Empt meekly allowing himself to be fucked by his partners without uttering a word of protest. I would venture a guess that would mean a messy lawsuit that—"

"It's got nothing to do with us," Santangelo said.

"Shut up, Rock," Jimmy Stone said sharply. "Go on, senator."