Shark Infested Custard (11 page)

CHAPTER NINE

As I drove down Dixie Highway toward Hojo's I hugged the right lane and drove as slowly as I could get away with, wondering why I had exaggerated the healing properties of mygrote. Mygrote was effective in at least three cases in ten of migraine, but it sure as hell wasn't the cure-all I had claimed for it in my discourse to Jannaire. I never lied to doctors about the product, so why had I snowed Jannaire? I was trying to impress her, I decided, but I was going about it in the wrong way. Jannaire was more than just another cunt, and I would have to use other tactics to impress her, if that was what I wanted to do.

       "Look," I said, clearing my throat as we stopped at a red light at Sunset Drive, "I've got two tickets to the Player's Theater tomorrow night. It's 'The Homecoming'', a Pinter play. Perhaps you'd like to see it."

       "Yes, I'd like very much to see it. But not if you're going to tell Larry Dolman."

       "Tell him what?"

       "That you're dating me, and that I have a partial interest in Electro-Date."

       "Why not?"

       "For one thing, he works for National Security, and I don't want those snoops to know anything about my business. For another, I've been lining up Larry's next date in my mind, and I don't want him to suspect that I had anything to do with it, you see. I have a hunch that he could be very nasty if he had a grudge."

       "He could. I advise you not to play any tricks on him."

       "Oh, I won't." She laughed. "The trick'll be his problem, not mine!"

       "I don't tell Larry everything. But going to the play will just be the first date, Jannaire. My overall plan, after I convince you how sweet and charming I am, is to get you into the sack. Eventually, anyway; I'm not going to rush it."

       "A woman admires frankness, Hank, but you're awfully crude."

       "Not crude," I laughed. "Basic."

       I parked in the Hojo lot. She leaned toward me, kissed me on the lips, banging her wet hot hard tongue against my teeth. I felt the flames of her furnace breath for a second, and then she was out of the car before I realized what happened.

       "I'll meet you at the theater," she said, waving, and climbed into her silver-gray Porsche. As she backed out of the slot, I noticed that the little car had battered front fenders.

There was no way, as I thought back on this first encounter, to tell that Jannaire was married. A married woman cannot easily get out of the house for two nights in a row. She had gone to Don's birthday party with Larry, and the next night she went to the play with me. Two nights later, I met her downtown at the Top of the Columbus for cocktails and dinner. The following week I had lunch with her twice, once at Marylou's Soul House, and once at La Vista. The lunches were both short, lasting less than an hour and a half each time, but she arrived on time, and left hurriedly because of business appointments.

       My hours, the few hours I put in each week, were flexible, but Jannaire was always busy with her boutique (the Ugh! "Cutique"), her real estate interests, her designing, her clients, and with her home and husband. But I never, not once, suspected that she was married, or even that she had 'ever'' been married.

       The evidence, however, or the clue, was always there, but I had failed, in my infatuation, my frustration—and there were times when her peculiar admixture of odors made me almost insane with desire—to recognize the obvious evidence.

       She always met me somewhere, and she always drove home alone. I had never picked her up at her apartment, and I never had an opportunity to drive her home. With the number of separate dates we worked in during a period of almost six weeks—perhaps sixteen dates altogether—I should have suspected something.

       The problem was, I was always trying to get her to come to my apartment. I had never concentrated on getting her alone at her place because she said that her aunt from Cleveland was visiting her for the season. She had established this house guest early, and I had accepted the aunt as a fact of coexistence. Also, from time to time, Jannaire would make an excuse to turn down a date because she was doing something or other with her aunt. That was another peculiar thing; why did she give me her home telephone number? I had no ready story prepared to explain to a jealous husband why I was calling his wife. I had no objections to running around with a married woman, of course, but to run around in Miami, visiting public places (I had even taken her to The Mutiny, the private club at Sailboat Bay) could have—in fact, it 'did''—place a man's life in jeopardy. 'My'' life.

       Except for the single, swift erotic kiss I got on parting—never on greeting—a kiss that always promised everything and delivered nothing, I was no closer to seducing Jannaire after six weeks than I had been on the first night at Don's house. I had cupped her breasts in the car a couple of times, as we were driving somewhere, and they were as flrm as clenched fists. But that was all. When I propositioned her, which I did two or three times during each date, she merely smiled and changed the subject or smiled and continued to ask me questions about myself. As a consequence, Jannaire knew a great deal about me, but I knew very little about her.

       I have never been in love. I'm not even sure that I know what love is, in fact, or whether I would recognize it if it ever happened to me. But I was not, in the sense that the term is used generally, in love with Jannaire. All I really wanted with Jannaire was to screw her and screw her and screw her, and that was all. But that "all" was getting to be an obsession.

It was Sunday morning.

       Saturday night, Eddie Miller and I had gone to the White Shark to play pool and drink a few beers. The place was crowded, and it was hard to get the pool table. Once we got it, when our turn came to challenge the winners, we were able to hold it all right, but on our last game we played an old man and Sadie. Sadie, who owns the White Shark, also works the bar (The White Shark is a beer-and-wine bar only), and she had to keep leaving the game to serve customers, usually when it was her turn to shoot. The old man took a maddeningly long time to make his shots, and the single game of eight-ball we played with Sadie and the old man lasted for almost an hour. Eddie decided to quit.

       Two or three times during the evening, Eddie, preoccupied with something, had started to tell me what was troubling him, but each time he changed his mind.

       I knew, or thought I knew, what was bothering him. He was still living with the wealthy widow in Miami Springs, a move he had made stubbornly against the advice of Larry, Don, and myself, and he had now discovered, I suspected, what a mistake he had made. The woman, who was still attractive, with a good, if rather lush, figure, was almost twice as old as Eddie, and she was undoubtedly smothering him. He wanted to talk about it, but was too embarrassed. I would not under any circumstances have pulled an "I told you so," and Eddie knew me well enough to know this, but he was still reluctant to talk about his problems. I didn't push him. He would eventually come around with his problem, whatever it was, and I would advise him as well as I could.

       We left the White Shark at eleven p.m., Eddie to drive home (to the widow's house in Miami Springs), me to drive home alone to Dade Towers. He handed me a folded sheet of paper as we stood for a moment in the parking lot to suck in a little fresh, humid air.

       "What's this?" I said.

       "For now," Eddie said, "just put it in your pocket. D'you remember that game we played one night? The night you had us all make a list of everything we had in our wallets? Then you had a psychological analysis of each one of us from our lists..."

       "Sure, I remember. But it wasn't fair as far as you and Larry were concerned. I knew you guys too well already. But I hit the girls pretty well, I thought."

       "I thought so, too. I don't know how you did it, but that little chick I had, the Playboy bunny, turned as white as rice when you got onto her about her father..."

       "I can explain how I reached that conclusion. What she..."

       "I don't want an explanation, Hank. We all laughed at the time, and you said yourself that it was inaccurate, at best, but I was impressed as hell. I never said so, Hank, but I was. I really was."

       "It isn't a trick, Eddie. There is 'some'' validity to the analysis, but it's too general to be conclusive, for Christ's sake. On Larry's girl, the chubby brunette, I could say positively that she was a poor driver and she knew she was a lousy driver, because she had all of her earlier driver's licenses in her wallet. She had kept old ones, even when she got her new and current license. And she admitted, as I recall, that I was right. She felt, she said, that she really didn't deserve a driver's license, and it made her feel more secure to have as many as possible."

       "That was sharp to spot that, though. I was impressed by that analysis."

       "Hell, Eddie, you could've made the same comment. I was lucky on that one. She could've just had her current license, and I never would've figured out that she was, or thought she was, a lousy driver. Actually, she was a pretty good driver. She never had an accident, she said. If more people thought they were lousy drivers and drove more carefully, there'd be fewer accidents."

       "I know. I know. That isn't the point. But what l've given you is a list of the shit Gladys carries in her handbag. In her wallet, and in her handbag, too. And as a favor—I hate to ask this, Hank—I'd like you to kind of look it over and give me an analysis of Gladys some time."

       "Is there anything else you want to tell me about the problem, Ed? I mean, if there's something specific, I might be able to do a better job, even though it won't actually prove anything about what kind of woman she is."

       "No, there's nothing specific I want to get into. I think I know what kind of woman she is anyway. Besides, I don't want to prejudice you any. I want you to be objective, as objective as you can, as if Gladys was a stranger, you know. I already know you don't like her..."

       "I never said I didn't like her."

       "I know you didn't. But I still want you to be objective." Eddie looked away from me, and took a rumpled Lucky Strike out of his beatup package. This was a sure sign that he was nervous. Eddie, to my envy, only smoked one package of Luckys a week. This single pack, by the end of the week, was usually wrinkled and battered because he carried it with him all the time. Sometimes he would go for two full days without even thinking about smoking a cigarette. I smoked two packs a day, and if I was drinking at night, I often went through a third. So when he did light a Lucky it was easy to see he was agitated about his problem.

       "That old trick of yours came back to me the other night, and I decided to try it," Eddie said. "On Gladys, but without her knowing anything about it. So this morning, when she took some clothes out to the washer in the utility room, I grabbed her purse and made this inventory—the one I gave you." He blushed, and took a deep drag on his Lucky "I found out something about her already I didn't know. She's forty-seven, not forty-five. She lied to me, Hank. She told me she was only forty-five. But it was on her driver's license, her age, I mean, forty-seven."

       I nodded. "She might be even older than that," I said. "She might've lied to the Highway Patrol, too. A woman who'll tell a black lie to her lover wouldn't hesitate to tell a white lie to the Highway Patrol."

       "Jesus, Hank! Cut it out, will you? It's bad enough she's forty-seven without making her fifty, for Christ's sake!"

       "I didn't say she was fifty. All I said was that she might've taken off a couple of more years on her license. The possibility is there, isn't it?"

       "I asked you to be objective, Hank."

       "I am being objective. That's what psychological analysis is, looking at every possible angle. There's nothing tricky about a wallet survey, Eddie. It just happens that we had this professor at Michigan, a Harry Stack Sullivanite, he was, who taught us how to look for shortcuts. We played this game in class with each other, and it was fun because it was so half-assed. The reason I got good at it was because I tried it again when I was staff psychologist at the Pittsburgh Recruiting Station. For example, if a draftee told me he was gay, and then I looked into his wallet and found a couple of condoms, a picture of his girl friend, and about five scraps of paper with girls' names and phone numbers on them, the evidence was contrary to what he said. It also worked the other way, with gays who claimed that they weren't gay, guys who wanted to get into the Army. I remember one sonofabitch..."

       "Look, Hank, just go over the list for me, the one I gave you, and do what you can. It might be helpful to me. Okay?"

       "I'll do it tomorrow."

       "There's no hurry, man. Next week, the week after—I don't give a shit. Okay?"

       "Sure, Eddie. I'll call you."

       "I'm sorry, Hank I got a lot on my mind these days. And that old man in there tonight drove me up the fucking wall."

       "We should've gone to a flick. The White Shark's too crowded on a Saturday night."

       "I couldn't have sat through a film. Goodnight, Hank."

       So on Sunday morning, after I finished typing my sales reports and had them ready to mail out to Atlanta the next morning, I pulled out the inventory Eddie had given me of Gladys Wilson's handbag. As I started to unfold it, a long yellow legal-sized sheet of paper, the phone rang.

       It was Jannaire. The call was unexpected, because she had told me that she and her aunt were going to spend the weekend in Palm Beach.

       "My aunt went to Palm Beach, Hank, but at the last minute yesterday afternoon I begged off. I tried to call you last night, but you didn't answer your phone."

       "I went out to play some pool, but I was home by eleven-thirty, baby."