The McBain Brief (6 page)

“You can get out of it,” he said softly.

“How?” the girl asked eagerly.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “If you know the right cop,” he said.

The girl stared at him blankly for a moment. “I haven't any money,” she said at last. “I . . . I wouldn't have done this if I had money.”

“There are other ways,” Randolph said.

“Oh.” She stared at him and then nodded slightly. “I see.”

“Well?”

“Yes,” she said, still nodding. “All right. Whatever you say.”

“Let's go,” Randolph said.

He walked briskly to the railing and leaned on it. To no one in particular, he said, “I'll be back in an hour or so.” Before he turned, he noticed the curiously sour expression on Dave Fields' face. Briskly, he walked to the girl. “Come on,” he said.

They went down the steps to the ground floor. At the desk, a patrolman was booking a seventeen-year-old kid who was bleeding from a large cut behind his ear. The blood had trailed down his neck and stained his tee-shirt a bright red. The girl gasped when she saw the boy, and then turned quickly away, heading for the steps.

“If he's the one they're booking,” Randolph said, “I hate to think what the other guy must look like.”

The girl didn't answer. She began walking quickly, and Randolph fell in beside her. “Where to?” he asked.

“My place,” she said. An undisguised coldness had crept into her voice.

“Don't take this so big,” he said. “It's part of a working day.”

“I didn't know that,” the girl said.

“Well, now you do.”

They walked in silence. Around them, the concrete fingers of the city poked at the October sky. The fingers were black with the soot of decades, grimy fingers covered with waste and not with the honest dirt of labor. The streets crawled with humanity. Old men and young men, kids playing stickball, kids chalking up the sidewalks, women with shopping bags, the honest citizens of the precinct—and the others. In the ten minutes it took them to walk from the precinct to the girl's apartment, Randolph saw fourteen junkies in the streets. Some of those junkies would be mugging before the day ended. Some would be shoplifting and committing burglaries. All would be blind by nightfall.

He saw the bright green and yellow silk jackets of a teenage gang known as “The Marauders,” and he knew that the appearance of a blue and gold jacket in their territory would bring on a street bop and broken ribs and bloody heads.

He saw the hookers and the pimps and the sneak thieves and the muggers and the ex-cons and the kids holding J. D. cards and the drunks and the fences and the peddlers of hot goods—he saw them all, and they surrounded him with a feeling of filth, a feeling he wanted desperately to search out and crush because somewhere in the filth he had lost himself.

Somewhere, long ago, a young patrolman had cracked a liquor store holdup, and the patrolman had been promoted to Detective/Third Grade, and the patrolman's name was Frank Randolph. And somewhere back there, the patrolman Frank Randolph had ceased to exist, and the detective Frank Randolph had inhabited the shell of his body. The eyes had turned hard, and the fists had turned quick, and the step had turned cautious because there was danger in these streets, and the danger awakened every animal instinct within a man, reduced him to a beast stalking blood in the narrow, dark passages of the jungle. There was hatred within the muscular body of Frank Randolph, a hatred bred of dealing with tigers, a hatred which excluded the timid antelopes who also lived in the forest. And so he walked with a young, thin girl, walked toward her apartment where he would use his shield as a wedge to enter her bed and her body. He had begun using his shield a long time ago. He was as much an addict to his shield as the junkies in the streets were addicts to the white god.

The tenement stood in a row of somber-faced buildings, buildings that solemnly mourned the loss of their latter-day splendor. The fire escapes fronting each building were hung with the trappings of life: blankets, potted plants, pillows, empty beer cans, ash
trays, guitars. Autumn had come late this year, lingering over the slow death of a hot summer, and the cliff dwellers had taken to their slum terraces, the iron-barred rectangles that gave them a piece of sky and a breath of air.

“This is it,” she said.

He followed her up the stoop. A woman was sitting on the steps, knitting. She glanced up at him as he passed, sensing immediately, with the instinct of self-preservation, that he was a cop. He could almost feel her shrinking away from him, and his own instinct asked the question, “What's she done to be afraid of?”

Garbage cans were stacked in the hallway. The refuse had been collected earlier that day, but the cans were never washed and they filled the air with the stink of waste. There was a naked light bulb hanging in the entrance foyer, but it would not be turned on until dusk.

The girl climbed the steps ahead of him. He walked behind her; her legs were remarkably good for a girl so thin. They climbed steadily. There were voices behind the doors. He heard the voices in the medley of sound, and he reflected on the doors he had broken, a quick flatfooted kick against the lock to spring it, since he'd been a detective. Rarely had he knocked on a door. Rarely had he given the occupant a chance to unlatch it. The kick was quicker, and it precluded the possibility of a door being opened to reveal a hostile gun inside.

“It's on the third floor,” the girl said.

“All right,” he answered, and he kept following her, watching her legs.

“Be careful, there's a broken bottle.”

He skirted the shards of brown glass, smelling the whiskey fumes as he passed the alcohol-soaked wood. The girl stopped at a door at the end of the hall. She unlocked it and waited for him
to enter. When they were both inside, she put the police lock in place, leaning the heavy, unbending steel bar against the door, hooking it securely into the steel plate embedded in the floor, so that it formed a formidable triangle against which entrance was impossible.

The kitchen was small but clean. A round table sat in the center of the room, and a bowl was on the table. A single apple rested in the bowl. The girl went to the window and lifted the shade. Light, but not sunlight, entered the room. It was a pale light that bounced from the brick walls of the tenement not four feet away, leaping the airshaft between the buildings. The girl turned.

“I . . . I don't know what to do,” she said. “I've never done this before.”

“No?” he said, and there was a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

“No. Could . . . could we talk a little?”

“What about?”

“I don't know. Anything.” The room grew silent. Patiently, Randolph waited.

“I'm . . . I'm sorry the place isn't nicer,” the girl said.

“It'll do.”

“I meant—” She shrugged.

“What?”

“I don't know. A girl likes to think—” She stopped, shrugging again. “Would you like a beer or something? I think we have some cold in the frigidaire.”

“No, thanks,” Randolph said. He grinned. “We're not allowed to drink on duty.”

The girl missed his humor. She nodded and then sat opposite him at the table. Silence crowded the room again.

“Have you been a cop long?” the girl asked.

“Eight years.”

“It must be terrible. I mean, being a cop in this neighborhood.”

For a moment, Randolph was surprised. He looked at the girl curiously and said, “What do you mean?”

“All the . . . all the dirt here,” she said.

“It . . .” He paused, studying her. “You get used to it.”

“I'll never get used to it,” she said.

She seemed about to cry. For a panicky instant, he wanted to bolt from the room. He sat undecided at the table, and then he heard himself saying, “This isn't so bad. This is a nice apartment.”

“You don't really mean that,” she said.

“No,” he answered honestly. “I don't.”

The girl seemed to want to tell him about the apartment. Words were perched on the edge of her tongue, torrents of words, it seemed, but when she spoke she only said, “I haven't got my own room.”

“That's all right,” he said. “We can use . . .” And then he stopped his tongue because he sensed the girl had meant something entirely different, and the sudden insight surprised him and frightened him a little.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“In a hotel,” he said.

“That must be nice.”

He wanted to say, “No, it's very lonely.” Instead, he said, “Yeah, it's all right.”

“I've never been to a hotel. Do people wait on you?”

“This is an apartment hotel. It's a little different.”

“Oh.”

She sat at the table, and he watched her, and suddenly she was trembling.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“I'm scared,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because of . . . of what I almost did. What I almost became.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm glad you arrested me,” she said. “I'm glad I got caught the first time. I don't want to be—”

She began crying. Randolph watched her, and he felt inordinately big, sitting across from her, awkwardly immense.

“Look,” he said, “what do you want to bawl for?”

“I . . . I can't help it.”

“Well, cut it out!” he said harshly.

“I'm sorry.” She turned and took a dish towel from the sink, daubed at her eyes with it. “I'm sorry. Let's . . . let's do it.”

“Is this really your first time?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yes.”

“What made you . . . well . . . I don't understand.”

“I got tired,” she said. “I got so damned tired. I don't want to fight any more.”

“Fight what?”

“Fight getting dirty. I'm tired of fighting.” She sighed wearily and held out her hand. “Come,” she said.

She stood stock-still, her hand extended, her shoulders back.

“Come,” she repeated.

There was a strength in the rigidity of her body and the erectness of her head. In the narrow stillness of her thin body, there was a strength and he recognized the strength because he had once possessed it. He rose, puzzled, and he reached out for her hand, and he knew that if he took her hand, if he allowed this girl to lead him into the other room, he would destroy her as surely as he had once destroyed himself. He knew this, and somehow it was very important to him that she be saved, that somewhere in the prison of the precinct, somewhere in this giant, dim, dank prison
there should be someone who was not a prisoner. And he knew with sudden painful clarity why there were potted plants on the barred fire escapes of the tenements.

He pulled back his hand.

“Keep it,” he said harshly, swiftly.

“What?”

“Keep it,” he said, and he knew she misunderstood what he was asking her to keep, but he did not explain. He turned and walked from the room, and down the steps past the stacked garbage cans in the hallway and then out into the street.

He walked briskly in the afternoon sunshine. He saw the pushers and the pimps and the prostitutes and the junkies and the fences and the drunks and the muggers.

And when he got back to the precinct, he nodded perfunctorily at the desk sergeant and then climbed the stairs to the Detective Division.

Dave Fields met him just inside the slatted rail divider. Their eyes met, locked.

“How'd you make out?” Fields asked.

Unwaveringly, unhesitatingly, Randolph replied, “Fine. The best I've ever had,” and Fields turned away when he added, “Any coffee brewing in the Clerical Office?”

H
e sang softly to himself as he worked on the long white beach. He could see the pleasure craft scooting over the deep blue waters, could see the cottony clouds moving leisurely across the wide expanse of sky. There was a mild breeze in the air, and it touched the woolly skullcap that was his hair, caressed his brown skin. He worked with a long rake, pulling at the tangled sea vegetation that the norther had tossed onto the sand. The sun was strong, and the sound of the sea was good, and he was almost happy as he worked.

He watched the muscles ripple on his long brown arms as he pulled at the rake. She would not like it if the beach were dirty. She liked the beach to be sparkling white and clean . . . the way her skin was.

“Jonas!”

He heard the call, and turned toward the big house. He felt the same panic he'd felt a hundred times before. He could feel the trembling start in his hands, and he turned back to the rake, wanting to stall as long as he could, hoping she would not call again, but knowing she would.

“Jonas! Jo-naaaas!”

The call came from the second floor of the house, and he knew it came from her bedroom, and he knew she was just rising, and he knew exactly what would happen if he went up there. He hated what was about to happen, but at the same time it excited him. He clutched the rake more tightly, telling himself he would not answer her call, lying to himself because he knew he would go if she called one more time.

“Jonas! Where the devil are you?”

“Coming, Mrs. Hicks,” he shouted.

He sighed deeply and put down the rake. He climbed the concrete steps leading from the beach, and then he walked past the barbecue pit and the beach house, moving under the Australian pines that lined the beach. The pine needles were soft under his feet, and though he knew the pines were planted to form a covering over the sand, to stop sand from being tracked into the house, he still enjoyed the soft feel under his shoes. For an instant, he wished he were barefoot, and then scolded himself for having a thought that was strictly “native.”

He shook his head and climbed the steps to the screened back porch of the house. The hibiscus climbed the screen in a wild array of color, pinks and reds and purples. The smaller bougainvillea reached up for the sun where it splashed down through the pines. He closed the door behind him and walked through the dim cool interior of the house, starting up the steps to her bedroom.

When he reached her door, he paused outside, and then he knocked discreetly.

“Is that you, Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Well, come in.”

He opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. She was
sitting in bed, the sheet reaching to her waist. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, trailing down her back. She wore a white nylon gown, and he could see the mounds of her breasts beneath the gown, could see the erect rosebuds of her nipples. Hastily, he lowered his eyes.

“Good morning, Jonas,” she said.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hicks.”

“My, it's a beautiful morning, isn't it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Where were you when I called, Jonas?”

“On the beach, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Swimming, Jonas?” She lifted one eyebrow archly, and a tiny smile curled her mouth.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Hicks. I was raking up the . . .”

“Haven't you ever felt like taking a swim at that beach, Jonas?”

He did not answer. He stared at his shoes, and he felt his hands clench at his sides.

“Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks?”

“Haven't you ever felt like taking a swim at that beach?”

“There's lots of public places to swim, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Yes.” The smile expanded. Her green eyes were smiling now, too. She sat in bed like a slender cat licking her chops. “That's what I like about Nassau. There are lots of places to swim.” She continued smiling for a moment, and then she sat up straighter, as if she were ready for business now.

“Well,” she said, “what shall we have for breakfast? Has the cook come in, Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Eggs, I think. Coddled. And some toast and marmalade.
And a little juice.” He made a movement toward the door, and she stopped him with a wave of her hand. “Oh, there's no rush, Jonas. Stay. I want you to help me.”

He swallowed, and he put his hands behind his back to hide the trembling. “Yes . . . Mrs. Hicks.”

She threw back the sheet, and he saw her long legs beneath the hem of the short nightgown. She reached for her slippers on the floor near her bed, squirmed her feet into them, and then stood up. Luxuriantly, she stretched her arms over her head and yawned. The nightgown tightened across her chest, listing as she raised her arms, showing more of the long curve of her legs. She walked to the window and threw open the blinds, and the sun splashed through the gown, and he saw the full outline of her body, and he thought:
Every morning, every morning the same thing.

He could feel the sweat beading his brow, and he wanted to get out of that room, wanted to get far away from her and her body, wanted to escape this labyrinth that led to one exit alone.

“Ahhhhhhhhh.” She let out her breath and then walked across the room to her dressing table. She sat and crossed her legs. “Do you like working for me?” she asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks,” he said quickly.

“You don't really, though, do you?”

“I like it, Mrs. Hicks,” he said.

“I like you to work for me, Jonas. I wouldn't have you leave for anything in the world. You know that, don't you, Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

There has to be a way out,
he thought.
There has to be some way. A way other than the one . . . the one
. . .

“Have you ever thought of quitting this job, Jonas?”

“No, Mrs. Hicks,” he lied.

“That's sensible, you know. Not quitting, I mean. It wouldn't
be wise for you to quit, would it, Jonas? Aside from the salary, I mean, which is rather handsome, wouldn't you say, Jonas?”

“It's a handsome salary,” he said.

“Yes. But aside from that, aside from losing the salary if you quit. I wouldn't like you to quit, Jonas. I would let Mr. Hicks know of my displeasure, and my husband is really quite a powerful man, you know that, don't you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“It might be difficult for you to get work afterwards, I mean if you ever decided to leave me. Heaven knows, there's not much work for Bahamians as it is. And Mr. Hicks is quite powerful, knowing the Governor and all, isn't that right, Jonas?”

When he did not answer, she giggled suddenly.

“Oh, we're being silly. You like the job, and I like you, so why should we talk of leaving?” She paused. “Has my husband gone to the club?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Good,” she said. “Come do my hair, Jonas.”

“I . . .”

“Come do my hair,” she said slowly and firmly.

“Y . . . yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

She held out the brush to him, and he took it and then placed himself behind her chair. He could see her face in the mirror of the dressing table, could see the clean sweep of her throat, and beneath that the first rise of her breasts where the neck of the gown ended. She tilted her head back and her eyes met his in the mirror.

“Stroke evenly now, Jonas. And gently. Remember. Gently.”

He began stroking her hair. He watched her face as he stroked, not wanting to watch it, but knowing that he was inside the trap now, and knowing that he had to watch her face, had to watch her lips part as he stroked, had to watch the narrowing of those green
eyes. Every morning, every morning, the same thing, every morning driving him out of his mind with her body and her glances, always daring him, always challenging him, and always reminding him that it could not be. He stroked, and her breath came faster in her throat, and he watched the animal pleasure on her face as the brush bristles searched her scalp.

And as he stroked, he thought again of the only way out, and he wondered if he had the courage to do it, wondered if he could ever muster the courage to stop all this, stop it finally and irrevocably. She counted softly as he stroked, and her voice was a whisper, and he continued to think of what he must do to end it, and he felt the great fear within him, but he knew he could not take much more of this, not every morning, and he knew he could not leave the job because she would make sure there would never be work for him again.

But even knowing all this, the way out was a drastic one, and he wondered what it would be like without her hair to brush every morning, without the sight of her body, without the soft caress of her voice.

Death, he thought.

Death.

“That's enough, Jonas,” she said.

He handed her the brush. “I'll tell the cook to . . .”

“No, stay.”

He looked at her curiously. She always dismissed him after the brushing. Her eyes always turned cold and forbidding then, as if she had had her day's sport and was then ready to end the farce . . . until the next morning.

“I think something bit me yesterday. An insect, I think,” she said. “I wonder if you'd mind looking. You natives . . . what I mean, you'd probably be familiar with it.”

She stood up and walked toward him, and then she began unbuttoning the yoke neck of her gown. He watched her in panic, not knowing whether to flee or stand, knowing only that he would have to carry out his plan after this, knowing that she would go further and further unless it were ended, and knowing that only he could end it, in the only possible way open for him.

He watched her take the hem of her gown in her fingers and pull it up over her waist. He saw the clean whiteness of her skin, and then she pulled the gown up over her back, turning, her breasts still covered, bending.

“In the center of my back, Jonas, do you see it?”

She came closer to him, and he was wet with perspiration now. He stared at her back, the fullness of her buttocks, the impression of her spine against her flesh.

“There's . . . there's nothing, Mrs. Hicks.” he said. “Nothing.”

She dropped the gown abruptly, and then turned to face him, the smile on her mouth again, the yoke of the gown open so that he could see her breasts plainly.

“Nothing?” she asked, smiling. “You saw nothing, Jonas?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Hicks,” he said, and he turned and left her, still smiling, her hands on her hips.

He slit his
wrists with a razor blade the next morning. He watched the blood stain the sand on the beach he'd always kept so clean, and he felt a strange inner peace possess him as the life drained out of him.

The native police did not ask many questions when they arrived, and Mrs. Hicks did not offer to show them her torn and shredded nightgown, or the purple bruises on her breasts and thighs.

She hired a new caretaker that afternoon.