The Killing Edge (12 page)

“Are you kidding? You want it too, you were asking for it.”

“You're hurting my arm.”

“I like it that way.”

“I do too, but in a minute.”

“What's that mean?” He dropped her arm and she slid from the bed.

“I mean, you turn me on, but I want to see the pictures first. That really turns me on, and then …”

“Really turns you on?”

“God, yes.”

“All right, little lady.” He moved into the kitchen and returned with a full bottle of scotch and two streaked jelly glasses. “How you want your drink?”

“Nothing. Neat.”

He bent down and pulled three large scrap books out from under the bed and placed them reverently by her side. He poured two steep drinks and sat next to her. His behavior changed as he gently handled the bulky books as if he were fondling holy articles. He slowly turned the pages of yellowing photographs.

“It all started when I made All State at Fairlawn High. Here's me at the banquet after the game with Sullivan.”

He turned page after page of what seemed like hundreds of pictures of himself: grimacing in a menacing manner for news photographers, charging full tilt at the camera with bared teeth, and then distant shots of him going through the line and creaming the quarterback, as he called it.

The bottle was two thirds empty and they were midway through the last album when the pounding started at the door.

“Whadda ya want?”

“There's a guy zonked out of his mind ripping out phone lines.”

“All right, all right, I'm coming.” He lumbered to his feet and left the album on L.C.'s lap. “Bastards. I ought to throw them out head first and let them plow a little pavement with their teeth. Take off your pants.”

“What?”

“I said, take off the A-damn pants.”

“Why?”

“I don't want you going nowhere while I'm gone. Off! Or you want me to help you?”

“No, that's all right.” She slid her slacks down over her hips. When they were off, and she was shivering in panties and bra, he snatched them from the bed.

“Not bad,” he said as he looked her over. “Wouldn't make the line, maybe the la-di-da backfield.” He laughed. “How'd you get the scar?”

“A car accident.”

“Wait until you see my scars. I'll be right back. Don't go nowhere, we got some fucking to do.” He stuffed her blouse and slacks under his arm.

“Come on, I'm getting cold.”

“Wrap a blanket around yourself.” He left slamming the door.

She knew that it was imperative to leave before he returned, and she doubted there was much time before he'd be back. Stanley's size and obvious strength would make short shrift of the drunken salesman in the club downstairs. In the closet she found a large rain coat which she slipped on. The coat was more than several sizes too large, the bottom hem touched the floor, and the shoulder seams were nearer her elbows than her shoulders.

She started for the door, turned the handle and stopped. One quick look. She went back to the last album and flipped it from the rear. On the fifth page there were pictures of Stanley on the flying bridge of a large cabin cruiser, and then another of him on the rear deck.

She recognized the Lantern City Marina in the background, and could make out the boat registration numbers in one of the pictures. She tore the picture from the album, clenched it in her fist and slipped out the door.

The narrow hallway made a right angle turn at the stairs that led down to the pavement of the club parking lot. There was a dull ache in her face and side from the blows. She held tightly to the wooden bannister and began to go down.

When she was half a dozen steps from the bottom of the flight, the outer door opened and Stanley stepped through with a wide smile on his face.

“Where you going, little lady?”

Without answering, L.C. ducked, slipped under his arms, and out the door. Snake-like his hand fastened on the voluminous cloth of the coat and spun her around.

“Let me go.”

“We're not finished, sweetheart. I'm going to turn you on.”

“You hit me.”

“You said you liked it like that, and I'm here to oblige.”

As one hand held tight to the coat, she saw his other hand pull back and clench into a fist. She raised her arms completely overhead, stooped, and was free of the coat and his grasp. She began running toward the club entrance.

The girl in tights near the entrance glanced up as L.C. ran through the door.

“Listen, lady, I said you could pass in and pass out, but you got to wear clothes.”

“Help me, please.” His hand covered her mouth and her cries were muffled into silence.

“The boss says she's a trouble maker,” Stanley said to the hat check girl.

“Boy, I can believe it.”

Her arm was twisted behind her back and she felt herself being pulled back toward the front door. Her free hand scraped along the wall as she fought for something to grab. There was a small box with a red handle inches from her fingers, and she gave a final lunge, reached it, and pulled the lever to set off the fire alarm.

The table cloth she held over her shoulders partly fell away as Pat Pasquale shoved her toward his car.

“I'm ashamed of you, L.C. I never in my wildest dreams ever thought that I'd have to pick up Roy's daughter at an armpit like that. Get in the car,” he snapped in an officious tone. As L.C. got in the front seat, Pat turned to a uniformed officer. “Book that big son-of-a-bitch on D and D.”

He got behind the wheel next to a shivering L.C. and began to drive quickly through deserted streets.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I'm taking you home to Rose. You know, I had one hell of a time getting the owner of that joint to not press charges, and the fire department isn't too happy either. What's the matter with you, Laura?”

“You don't understand, Pat.”

“I understand that you were drinking in that gorilla's room and don't have many clothes on under that tent you're wearing.”

“The sign on the door said dress optional.”

“For God's sake, Laura. Be serious.”

The Pasquales lived in an immaculate two family house in the south end of the city. Rose's smile faded at the door as she looked L.C. up and down. “Where did you find her?” she asked her husband.

“The Hot Line Lounge.”

“Oh, Laura …” She disappeared into another part of the house searching for clothes that would fit L.C. She dressed in the downstairs lavatory as Rose heated a tray of lasagna.

It had been a long day, her body was bruised, and she was tired beyond description; and yet she still held onto the rumpled and bent photograph of the cabin cruiser. She stuffed the picture in her pocket and went reluctantly into the kitchen where Rose and Pat Pasquale glowered like disapproving parents.

She had intended to explain her actions first, but the tantalizing smell of warmed food was too appealing, and she sat at the end of the table and began to eat.

“I should have known you'd get in trouble when you called me about that place,” Pat said.

“How did you happen to come to the Hot Line?” she asked through a mouthful of food.

“I picked up the fire call on the radio. I knew you were out there. What I found, I didn't expect.”

“Can't you find a real man, Laura?” Rose asked. “Without going to a place like that.”

“I have been going with someone from Lantern City. You might know him, Will Barnes.”

“I know him, he's a good man,” Pat said. “And how in hell did he let you wander up here to a dive like that?”

“It's not quite what it seems.”

“Seems!” the detective snapped. “Your face is marked, your clothes are gone, you got more than you bargained for.”

“Can I explain?”

“I wish you would.”

She started with dinner that night with Will, and then the finding of Mauve's body, and the arrest and death of Raleigh. Pat began to nod approvingly as she explained how she'd traced Stanley Peckham.

“You think that big pervert did it?”

“I'm not sure. When I first asked him about the boat at the marina he answered easily enough, he even mentioned the fight over Mauve. I imagine what happened is that Mauve flirted with him, he took it seriously, and wanted to play in his usual manner. Mauve became frightened, yelled for help, and Stanley was fired. He's certainly capable of killing someone, but if he killed Mauve, why did he so readily admit being in Lantern City?”

“They'll book him on D and D tonight. That'll put him out on the street in six hours. I could hold him on something else until Will gets up here.”

“Could you check something for me, Pat? Stanley said he had to punch in and out at the club. I'd be interested in what time he clocked in on the night of the murder.”

“I'll make a call in the morning.”

Rose smiled. “Leave finding murderers to the men, Laura. Stay out of it.”

“I can't, Rose.”

“This Mauve Bridger was a close friend?”

“No. I hardly knew her. It's hard to explain I guess my father and Frank are wrapped up in it somehow, and Raleigh once did me a huge favor, and I'm responsible for his death.”

“Like hell you are,” Pat snapped.

“Not literally. I know that. But in a way, in a strange way. If I hadn't been there, if I hadn't found him on the boat, if Will wasn't my friend who was so concerned that he came to my apartment immediately … Raleigh would still be alive.”

“Maybe not.”

“Maybe not,” she echoed, but didn't believe it.

It was nearly ten the next morning before the car approached the outskirts of Lantern City. She was filled with a sense of depression, a morass that in the past had often been dissipated during a long drive. The warmth of the Pasquale home—the night spent in Rosalie's room under the canopy of the teenager's bed, surrounded by the debris of youth, all seemed to point glaringly at the barrenness of her own life.

It had been a fitful sleep, haunted by dreams of large men chasing her through a labyrinth of narrow hallways in dim buildings. Now, she wanted to go home, have a hot bath, and get to sleep. The business had been neglected for two days. It would be circumspect to stop by and see if the agency and shop were still functioning.

The Ferrari braked to a halt in front of Converse Motors. She slammed the car door and entered the showroom, surprised not to see Vic on the floor or Jane Ellen in the rear office. They could have stepped into the shop on some errand. She felt along the top of the office door for the extra key, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

L.C. blushed, blanched, and backed quickly out of the office and closed the door. She walked numbly to Jane Ellen's desk, sat down on the secretarial chair and put her hand to her cheek.

She began to laugh. It began with small giggles that turned into a paroxysm of laughter which she tried to smother. It was funny, no matter how serious you tried to make it; people in that particular position did look comical.

She was still trying to choke back the laughter and assume a stern look as the office door opened. Vic Mange, fastening his cuff links, stepped out and hurried toward her.

“Before you say anything, L.C., remember how you have always said I was the hottest salesman you ever had.”

“I'll grant that, Vic.”

“And that Jane Ellen is one hell of a secretary.”

“Very versatile,” she said and bit a knuckle.

“And these things happen between men and women that work together as closely as Jane and I.”

“I think you're overdoing the closeness bit,” she replied almost in a whisper and then slammed her fist down on the desk. “But not on company time!”

“I'll make it up to you. I'll move enough cars to make you …”

“Forget it. Where's Jane Ellen?”

“In your john.”

She brushed past the protesting salesman. “Sell cars, Vic. That's all. Just sell cars.” She went into the office and knocked softly on the bathroom door. “Come out, Jane Ellen. Coffee break is over.”

“I'm not coming out—ever.”

“It's not the end of the world, although I'm not sure the company hospital plan covers you if anything happens.”

“I was helpless. He attacked me.”

“Jane Ellen!” She couldn't stifle the laugh. “From what I saw, you were the one on …”

The bathroom door was flung open. “You think it's funny. Well, I took the seventh day in the pool. That's what I think!” the weeping secretary said as she rushed past and out to the showroom.

L.C. walked pensively toward the desk. The seventh day in the pool? What was that supposed to mean? She sat down, propped her chin on her hand for a moment, and then realized what it meant. “Good, God!” she said aloud and switched on the intercom. “Send Bennett in here.”

Eddie Bennett leaned against the door and smiled. “You wanted to see me?”

“Come in and close the door. I want you to know that I am not mad, I am not angry, I am furious.”

“Stick of gum?”

“Stop it! You are insolent, you … you …” She stood and turned to look out the window. “It's about that pool you're running.”

“Esprit de corps with the men, all that sort of thing.”

“Jane Ellen has day seven and I have recent knowledge that she is definitely not a man.”

“I didn't want to be sexist.”

She turned to glare at him. “I know what that pool is really about, and I don't like it. For God's sake, if you want that sort of game, why didn't you use Jane Ellen?”

“I figured a pool that ran for days rather than hours would be more interesting.”

“You're impossible. Hours?” She tried to keep her mouth closed in order to stem the rising flood of laughter. “You are supercilious and vain, and if you weren't so damn good at your job you'd have the sack. Hours.” She couldn't help but laugh.