Israel (61 page)

Benny opened that door. Becky glimpsed the reflection of an awesome circular bed captured in a huge mirror hung above a built-in dresser. She turned away, both thrilled and frightened, wondering what she was doing here when she knew he was about to marry another woman.

In the dining room Benny mixed drinks, then took them back to the living room. As usual, he barely sipped at his, but Becky, who had been careful to seat herself in the armchair, not on the sofa, found herself gulping the Scotch. It was far too strong, and it was going to go right to her head, but God knew she needed something to calm her nerves if she was to get through this ordeal.

“I'm sorry,” Benny began.

“Don't tell me how you feel. Tell me what you're going to do.” Was that she being so forward? How bold the Scotch was making her.

“I don't understand what you mean.”

“Are you going to marry her?” When Benny averted his eyes, she nodded. “I see.”

“I just came from seeing Stefano de Fazio,” Benny said. He went to the mantel and took two cigarettes from a box. He lit them both and handed one to Becky before returning to the sofa. “I tried to get out of it. I really did; you've got to believe me.”

“I believe you, but I don't understand. He can't force you to marry his daughter.”

Benny smiled bitterly. “Do you have any idea what the word ‘force' means?” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing, Becky.” He sighed. “There's so much you don't know and I don't know how to tell you. You know about Stefano, of course?”

“That he's a gangster?” Becky nodded. “I always knew that. My father and Stefano were once friends, but that was long ago, before Stefano turned dishonest.”

“My father was more involved with people like Stefano than I led you to believe.”

“But that was your father. It's not you.” Becky nervously fingered her empty glass. She couldn't remember ever finishing a drink before.

“It's not that simple, Becky.”

“Yes it is,” she snapped. “You lied to me.” She stubbed out her cigarette and stood to go. “Are you just a racketeer, or do you murder people as well?”

The look on Benny's face, the speed with which he rose from the sofa frightened Becky. He caught her arm as she shrank back and pulled her close to embrace her.

“Don't be afraid of me,” he implored. “Never be afraid. I'd never hurt you. I'll always be here to help you—I swear it.”

He's going to marry her, Becky realized. It's true. I've lost him. She began to cry.

“There's a lot I didn't tell you, Becky, and a lot I can't tell you, but I didn't lie. My father's heyday was long ago. He was never a real big shot because he wouldn't kill anyone, just like I told you. I've always drawn the line at that kind of rough stuff as well. Yeah, I'm involved in the rackets. Maybe right now I'm sorry I am, but that doesn't change the fix I'm in. Stefano will ruin me if I back out of this marriage.”

“Does that matter if we can be together?”

“Give up my business?” Benny shook his head. “First off, we'd have to run. Stefano told me so. We'd be running while Stefano took everything. I can't give up what my father earned. I can't and I won't.”

Becky pulled away from him. “Then it's over. I'd better go.” Her face was stiff with dried tears. She didn't want to go home looking like a wreck. “Please, can I freshen up?”

“Through the bedroom.”

The effects of the Scotch had lessened, leaving Becky with a sour taste and the beginnings of a headache. She got her purse and walked a bit unsteadily through the bedroom and into the bathroom. The walls were blue tile. Like the rest of the apartment, the bath was immaculate and splendid, and Becky found that what she had moments ago considered exquisite she now hated. This luxury, not Dolores de Fazio, was her true rival. He could not give up the trappings of wealth.

She washed her face and reapplied her makeup. When she was done she was presentable enough not to arouse suspicion when she returned home. She would not be able to bear it if her father started questioning her.

She picked up her purse and left the bathroom. Benny was in the bedroom, blocking her way out. He'd removed his jacket, vest and tie. His shirt was unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up, exposing his powerful forearms.

Once again Becky's heart began to pound. She found
it hard to breathe. The circular bed was beside her, just beyond the periphery of her vision. “Let me out of here.”

“Listen to me,” Benny said. “It doesn't have to be finished between us. I've been thinking.”

Becky held her breath. He'd reconsidered! Elation surged through her. He was going to marry her after all.

“After Dolores and I are married I'm going to be a lot richer than I am now. I saw the way you lit up when you saw my place. I could set you up in an apartment just as nice as this—even nicer, maybe. And, well—then I could come see you . . .” He peered at her face and fell silent.

“I'm so sorry I came here,” she said faintly. “I'm so sorry you said that to me. Before at least I had our time together to remember. Now all I'll be able to remember is you asking me to be a whore.”

“Who are you to be so high and mighty?” Benny snapped. “You weren't that way when I met you. I guess I taught you pretty good—Maybe I treated you too good! I shoulda left you in that crummy grocery store with your nobody old man—”

Becky took a step forward and slapped his face.

Benny's eyes widened. “Damn you, I'll show you.” He rushed at her.

Becky shrieked at him to stay away and tried to defend herself, but his strong hands locked about her wrists, pinning them to her sides.

“Treated you right, Becky . . . Always been good to you . . .”

Becky twisted her head, trying to avoid his mouth as it closed upon hers, his tongue thrusting. He brought up his knee to pry apart her legs. In her struggle she upset their balance. Locked together, they toppled sideways onto the bed.

“You're mine, bought and paid for, Becky. Mine, and I'm claiming you.”

He released one of her wrists to tear at the buttons of her blouse, at the zipper of her skirt. Becky tried to rake his eyes with her nails. Swearing, Benny blocked her attack and then easily recaptured both wrists. Twisting them behind her back and holding them with one hand, with the other he wrenched apart the hooks of her bra. Now her breasts were bare and his lips upon them, his tongue teasing at her nipples.

Becky writhed in his grasp. The sound of her own exhausted breathing filled her ears. She tried to kick, but his legs had hers pinned. She arched her back, squirmed and twisted; she cried in pain as the sharp edge of his belt buckle dug into her naked belly.

Fighting him was useless. He was too big, too strong. His hands seemed to be everywhere on her at once. She was staked out, spread open and vulnerable beneath his bulk and strength.

“Benny, please! Oh, God,” she wailed, “don't do this!”

He was possessed by demonic savagery, unable to comprehend her. He was intent on subduing her.

Briefly she was paralyzed with shock, less at the danger to herself than at his behavior. He felt her yield slightly and relaxed his grip a little, not enough to let her wrench free but enough to let a little blood flow into her hands.

At this she heartened and started to think. As an experiment she let her legs relax a little. It worked; he eased off more too. Becky calculated swiftly. If she shifted so, he would compensate thus; she would be in as good a position as she could hope for to make her move.

Becky raised her right shoulder so that her whole arm slid up a little in spite of Benny's grip. The strap of her purse stayed put and wound up just below her elbow instead of just above it. He had to lean off her a little or lose his grip.

She stopped struggling entirely and lulled him for a moment. He took the opportunity to let go and reach for his own zipper as Becky unobtrusively hooked her elbow into the strap and got a good grip on it.

I'll teach this creep to break my heart, she vowed, and she swung her purse hard at the side of his head.

The blow startled him more than anything. He reared up on his knees, his handsome face twisted into an ugly grimace of shock and frustration. He snatched at the strap and Becky surrendered it to grab the corner of the bag and thrust it into Benny's face. She felt the metal clasp catch the skin beneath his left eye, and she twisted and scraped it across his cheek with all her strength.

Benny shrieked and rolled off her, his hand over his eye. Blood welled up between his fingers.

He pulled away from her and left the bed. Across the room, fly undone and belt buckle dangling, he collapsed into a chair. The blood was trickling down his cheek onto his shirt. He took his handkerchief from his back pocket, wadded it up and pressed it against his cheek.

Becky, still on the bed, stared at him. The room was thick with silence. She heard a door slam and a faraway voice gaily wished someone good night.

Benny said, “I'm sorry . . . I'm . . . Really, I don't know what to say. I don't know what you want to do right now. I mean—”

“Go away so I can dress,” Becky said coldly.

“Of course.” Benny looked very pale. “I'll go out in the living room. You shower, whatever you want . . . You can lock the door after me.”

“I certainly will—if you ever go.”

“I'll—” Benny stared at her and shrugged helplessly. “I'll get you a drink,” he said thickly, and left the room.

Becky turned the lock. She rushed into the bathroom, locked that too, and barely got the toilet seat up before she
vomited. Fortunately, there was a new toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.

She washed her face again. Reaching for her purse, Becky recoiled as she noticed blood on the clasp. Shuddering, she wiped it clean with an embroidered linen towel—take that, you rapist—and breathed deep to steady her shaking hands enough to reapply her makeup.

“You're mine, bought and paid for.”

She stared at her reflection in the mirror as her dark eyes once again filled with tears. Her knees were trembling; it was a delayed nervous reaction, she supposed. She sat down on the closed lid of the commode, stared at the blue tile and for one scant second clearly saw herself taking his safety razor, removing the blade and slitting her wrists.

“Serve the bastard right if I bled to death all over his fancy marble bathtub,” she muttered, and then laughed and knew she was going to be all right.

She dug into her purse for her cigarettes. The pack was rumpled and flat, but there was, thank God, one left. No matches, though.

She went back into the bedroom and spied the jacket she had brought, lying over the back of a chair. She patted its pockets until she found his lighter, lit her cigarette and then pondered the gold bauble lying on her palm. She turned it this way and that, capturing the light on its burnished surface. Like all Benny's possessions, it exuded his style.

She slipped the lighter into her purse. She needed a memento of this day to keep her from softening toward him; it would take awhile to root out her love, even now.

Benny left the bedroom and headed directly for the drink he'd left on the coffee table.

He shuddered, unable to understand what he had been about to do. He'd never before lost control of himself like that.

You never felt like this before, he told himself.

He was on his way to the dining room to mix them both another drink when he heard his bedroom door close and then the click of the lock. He pondered the situation, set down the glasses, lit a cigarette to steady his nerves and went to the telephone.

His address book contained the telephone number for a separate line in Stefano's study. He dialed and let it ring, imagining Stefano's cumbersome progress up the long, wide curved staircase to the second floor of the house.

“Yeah—” Stefano's guttural voice on the line.

Benny glanced at his closed bedroom door. “It's me. I've decided to take your advice. But I want a wedding present.”

“What?”

“I want the building on Cherry Street. You know what I'm talking about. The one that houses Abe Herodetzky's store. It belongs to you, right?”

“Sure it belongs to me. It's in Tony's name, but—”

“I want it.”

“Talk to me, Benny. Tell me why.”

Benny's fingers gingerly explored his cut cheek. The scab broke beneath his touch, and his face once again began to seep blood. “I got a score I want to even up.”

“This something to do with Abe's daughter?”

“Yeah. Well, do I get my wedding present or not?”

“Sure, sure,” Stefano sighed. “What the hell. It's yours. Do what you want with it. I'll have the papers sent over to your office. Okay? You happy?”

Benny pressed his bloodied handkerchief to his face. “Not yet,” he said, “but I will be.” He heard the bedroom door open behind him. “I gotta go.”

Benny hung up. He turned to see Becky watching him. She was wearing one of his crewneck sweaters.

“Sorry about the sweater,” she murmured. “I needed something to cover up my torn blouse.”

“Jesus, I'm sorry. Let me pay you for the blouse—”

Becky's eyes closed. “Stop it.” She crossed to the foyer and took her coat out of the closet. Once again Benny was treated to the sound of Becky shutting a door between them. This time it was his front door, and this time she was gone for good.

As the weeks passed Becky threw herself into her work. At Malden's one evening a few minutes before closing Wilkerson called her into his office. The stout, balding personnel manager acted inordinately gentlemanly, actually inviting her to sit down. He fumbled with his cigar as he spoke.

“There's no easy way to break this kind of news, Miss Herodetsky. I'm sorry, but we're going to have to let you go. You've been doing a fine job here, but we just don't need so many part-time employees right now. I offered you the chance to train as a supervisor. I still don't understand why you didn't.”