He leaned back on the cot, resting on his elbows, inclined his head somewhat judiciously, and said, “Yeah, they're not bad.” He allowed his eyes to give her an idea of what he was going to say. His eyes were brutal. “We ought to get together sometime. What price do you charge?”

  Either it didn't get across or if it did get across she was letting it ride. She didn't say anything. She took another step toward him.

  The muscles in his jaws moved in and out. “I guess it don't do no good to call you names. I guess the only thing for me to do is slap you down.”

  She smiled thickly, lushly, her lower lip full and gleaming. She said, “You won't do that.”

  Then, sort of flowing, not fast and yet suddenly, not violently and yet with an aggressiveness that dominated the moment, she moved in on him and had her arms around his neck as she sat herself on his lap. She placed her lips against his mouth, and they were full and moist with the thick velvety warmth that became warmer. Then it was very warm and presently it was wet fire.

  He heard the whisper that had a blade in it. “You still want that other woman?”

  It was so very slow and yet with the powerful surge, the way she had her weight pressing against him, the presence of her hands at the sides of his face as her lips kissed the fire into him, and then the way her fingers crawled up past his temples and into his hair and squirmed there, and writhed.

  “You still want Doris?”

  She had him now so that his shoulders were flat upon the blanket. He looked up and saw the black flame of her eyes. He realized suddenly that his hands were on her and he told himself to stop it and make her stop it. He tried to take his hands away, but his hands refused to let go. Then his arms were wrapped around her middle and he was rolling her over, but not all the way because she was doing something with her mouth on his mouth that caused him to stop moving and sort of drove him crazy.

  “Well?” she breathed. “You still want her? You sure?”

  Then there was more of what she was doing. Then there was something else. And there was more of that. He heard the mixture of clicking and thudding as she kicked her shoes off her feet and they hit the floor. The sound was magnified in his ears and it drilled its way through his brain. It was echoed and echoed again. It was the echo of all the times she had kicked her shoes off while they were in the bed together and it was raining outside.

  “You wanna do something?” Her voice was low and husky and the color of it was dark purple. “Wouldja like to take off my girdle?”

  He put his hands on the band of elastic around her waist.

  “Do it slow,” she said.

  He started to pull the girdle down past her thighs.

  “Slower,” she said. “I wantcha to do it real slow. Do it nice.

  He lowered the girdle very slowly and got it down to her ankles. He slipped it past her ankles and let it fall to the floor. Then he was sitting up and looking down at her as she rested there on her back, smiling up at him. He bent his head toward the spicy richness of her bulging breasts.

  “Take them,” she breathed, her eyes half-closed, but with the glitter coming through the lashes.

  Then it was all the richness and the wild spice and it went on until suddenly something was pushing him away. He had no idea of what was pushing him away. It was something tangible and he could certainly feel it, but he couldn't accept the truth of it. He just couldn't believe that her hands were on his chest and she was pushing him away.

  “What is it?” he mumbled.

  “Get up.”

  “What for?”

  “Just like that.”

  He tried to put his brain in gear. “Like what?” Now he knew she really meant it. She wasn't playing, she was really pushing him away.

  She shoved him firmly and rolled herself toward the other side of the cot. Then she got up off the cot and walked around it and she was moving toward the table in the center of the room. She picked up the pack of cigarettes and took one out. She put the cigarette in her mouth and struck a match.

  As the match flared she turned and smiled at Cassidy through the flame. She inhaled deeply and as the smoke came out of her mouth, she said, “Let me have my girdle.”

  He stared down at the floor and saw the bright purple girdle. He reached down slowly and had it in his hand. “Should I bring it to you?”

  “Just let me have it.”

  “I think you want me to bring it to you,” he said. “You want me to crawl over there on my hands and knees.”

  She stood there smoking the cigarette.

  “That's what you want,” Cassidy said. “You want me to crawl.”

  She didn't reply. She took a long drag at the cigarette and blew the smoke toward Cassidy.

  He watched the smoke drifting in, saw her there on the other side of the smoke. The bright purple girdle was something blazing hot in his hand and he hurled the girdle across the room so that it struck a wall and dropped to the floor.

  “I ain't crawling,” Cassidy said.

  But saying it wasn't enough. He knew he had to do something to prevent himself from crawling. He was staggered, reeling and dizzy and almost knocked senseless with the need to have her now, right now. There was nothing else, there was only the need. He told himself she had said no, she had pushed him away. For a flashing instant it wasn't himself who was being pushed away, it was Haney Kenrick and she was shaking her head and saying no, no. But then again it was Cassidy. She was saying no to Cassidy.

  “The hell you say,” he growled, and he was up from the cot and lunging at her. She let him come close and then she jabbed at him with her fingernails. He didn't feel it. She sent the lighted cigarette against his bare chest and he didn't feel it. She scratched him again, she was punching and kicking but he didn't feel any of it, he was lifting her off the floor, lifting her high. He threw her down flat on the cot. She tried to get up and he pushed her down. Again she tried to get up and he put his hand on her face and pushed her down. She tried to bite his hand and he took it away from her face and then his hands were on her wrists. She fought and fought, but his knees pushed hard against her thighs. She screamed and her screams clashed with the roaring of the storm and the wild clatter of the rain. Then it was all one sound. It was raging thunder.

  14

  Cassidy worked his face deeper into the pillow. He heard the voice again and then he felt the hand on his shoulder. He knew he was being robbed of sleep that he needed very much. He had been sleeping for many hours but still it wasn't enough and he was aching for more sleep. Somewhat dimly he remembered what had happened with Mildred, and he knew that was why he needed all this sleep. He told himself he ought to sleep for twelve or fourteen hours.

  “Come on, get up,” Pauline said. “I brought you up something to eat.”

  He kept his eyes closed. “What time is it?”

  “Around ten-thirty.” She tugged at his shoulder. “It's ten-thirty at night and it's time you had some food in your stomach.”

  He opened his eyes and sat up. He blinked and grinned dazedly at Pauline. Then he looked past her and saw the tray on the table. He started to get out of bed and remembered he had nothing on.

  “Where's all my clothes?”

  “There's your shirt, on a chair. Your shorts are on the floor.”

  “Listen,” he said. “I want the rest of my clothes. I want my pants and I want my shoes.”

  “They're downstairs.”

  “Get them.”

  She touched her fingers to her lips in a little worried gesture. “Shealy said if you had all your clothes you'd get dressed and walk out. And you mustn't walk out. Shealy said you've got to stay here. And Spann said—”

  “What's the matter, Pauline? You afraid of Spann?”

  Her attitude changed. She tossed her head arrogantly. “Now, you know better than that. If Spann starts anything with me I'll throw him on the floor and kick him.”

  “Good,” he said. “That's fine. Now get me my clothes.”

  She made a move toward the door and then she stopped and looked at him and said, “I'll hide the clothes under a blanket. I'll tell them you said it got chilly in here and you wanted another blanket.”

  Cassidy didn't reply. He waited until she had walked out and then he slipped into the shorts and put on the shirt. He went to the table to see what was on the tray. There was a bowl of lamb stew and some bread and butter. The stew looked good and a lot of steam was coming up from it. He realized he was very hungry and this appeared to be a bowl of very fine stew. There was considerable meat in it and the gravy was thick with vegetables. He told himself to sit down and enjoy the stew. Later he would think about the situation and he would plan the getaway. But he would do that later and right now the big thing was this bowl of lamb stew.

  He sat down at the table and started to eat. He told himself it was a wonderful stew. The only food that Lundy served downstairs was lamb stew or beef stew or pickled pigs' feet that came in jars. Sometimes Lundy would go out in a boat on Sundays and then on Mondays he would offer hard-shell crabs at a dime apiece and they would go very fast. But that was in the summertime when the hard-shell crabs were running. Last summer Lundy had invited him to go out in the boat, and now it was sort of pleasant to remember that Sunday when he and Shealy and Spann and Lundy were out in the rowboat looking for hard-shell crabs. They had the fish heads to entice the crabs and then when the crabs became voracious and really went for the fish heads, they scooped up the crabs with hand nets. That had been a really fine Sunday. That night they came back to Lundy's Place and ate up every damn crab and between the four of them they must have finished twelve or fourteen quarts of beer. Then Lundy really lost control of himself and handed out cigars. They all leaned back in their chairs with the cigars and their bellies loaded up with blue-claw crab meat and beer, and they smoked their cigars and talked about crabbing and fishing. That had sure been a fine Sunday.

  There weren't many fine Sundays to remember. There were a few half-decent Sundays when he would go over to the park and watch the kids playing. He'd sit there alone on a bench and the kids would be playing and he'd buy some candy and distribute it. Sooner or later they would have him in a conversation and they would tell him all about themselves and their mommies and daddies and brothers and sisters. They were four- and five- and six-year-old kids who belonged to very large and very poor families, and most of the time they were in the park unattended, except for some older brother or sister who sat reading a comic book and paying no attention to them. It was pleasant to talk to the kids but then after a while it became somewhat difficult because he would be thinking that he had no children of his own, and it was a vacant, sort of dismal feeling. At the same time it was a damn good thing he and Mildred didn't have any children. He was always telling Mildred she'd better take special care not to get herself started, and she was always telling him he shouldn't worry his head about it, she sure as hell didn't want to be bothered with brats.

  That was why most of the Sundays had been downright miserable. That kind of talk. That kind of atmosphere. It was always that way after they were out of bed and getting dressed. When they were moving around in the small rooms of the flat and getting in each other's way. And yet, come to think of it—

  No, he said to himself. He wasn't going to think of it. He wasn't going to think of anything until he had finished this bowl of lamb stew and the bread and butter. And certainly, when he was finished with the meal, he wasn't going to needle himself with thinking about the past. The thing to do was figure a plan for getting out of here tonight and out of the city before morning. And with Doris. Yes, damnit, with Doris. He wondered why he had to emphasize it to himself. It ought to come easily, like saying he and Doris would be leaving town tonight. Like that, automatically.

  The door opened and Pauline came in carrying a folded blanket. As she approached the table she was unfolding the blanket and he saw his trousers and his shoes. He stopped eating long enough to put on the trousers and shoes, and he saw Pauline sitting down across the table and looking at him worriedly.

  He dipped the spoon into the stew, took a big mouthful, crammed bread into his mouth and frowned at Pauline.

  He swallowed the stew and the bread and said, “What's bothering you?”

  “Your clothes, I don't think I should have done it.”

  He went back to the stew. He took a final spoonful, used the last chunk of bread to wipe the bowl clean, then swallowed the bread and took a drink of water. He lit a cigarette and gave one to Pauline and lit it for her.

  “Now, look,” he said. “All you're doing is helping me.”

  “But Shealy said—”

  “The hell with what Shealy said. Look at the way Shealy loused things up. Why, if it wasn't for Shealy, I'd have been in good shape.”

  “I know that.”

  “Well?”

  “Well,” she said, “at the same time maybe it's good to look at this thing from more than one angle—”

  “That isn't you talking,” he cut in. “That's Shealy. That's the outside advice I don't want and I don't need.”

  “But, honey—”

  “But nothing.”

  “Look, honey. They're trying to work something out. They're keeping you here for your own good.”

  “Nobody's keeping me anywhere.” He stood up. He didn't like the way she was looking at him, the way she was slowly shaking her head.

  He turned away from the table and listened to the noise from outside. It was the dull persistence of the rain, the steady downpour that he knew would go on all night and probably all next day.

  He gazed morosely at the window. “This afternoon I asked you to do something for me. You said you would.”

  He waited for a reply.

  Then he said, “I sent you out to look for Doris.”

  Again he waited.

  He turned and glared at Pauline. “Well? What happened? Did you find her?”

  “Sure.”

  “Whaddya mean sure? Why didn't you bring her up here?”

  “I did,” Pauline said.

  He threw his hand toward the side of his face. He pressed his fingers hard against his temple.

  Pauline tightened the side of her mouth. “Should I give you the picture?”

  “No,” he said. “I can see the picture.”

  He could see the door opening and Pauline and Doris coming into the room. And Doris standing there in the doorway, looking at Mildred and him sleeping together on the cot.

  “Don't feel bad about it,” Pauline said. “Doris didn't mind.”

  He took a step backward. “What do you mean, she didn't mind?”

  “She was dead drunk. She was five miles high.”

  So then he could see Pauline taking Doris by the arm and backing out of the room and quietly closing the door. He could see the cot with Mildred and him sleeping together and then after a while Mildred waking up and getting dressed and going out. He wondered how she had the strength to lift herself out of the cot. He sure had delivered it to her. He was some man, he was. He had looked at a pair of naked breasts and had told himself he must prove he was a man. He had been so damned interested in proving he was a man that he had completely forgotten Doris.

  “You know what I am?” he muttered. “I'm a letdown artist. I build it up and then I cut the rope and I let it fall down.”

  “Honey—”

  “I let everything fall down.”

  “Listen, honey—”

  “I'm no good.”

  “Sit down a minute. Listen to me—”

  “What's the use? I'm just no goddamn good. I'm a bum. I'm a rumbum and a stumblebum and every kind of a bum. And that ain't all I am. I'm a cheap, low-down hypocrite.”

  Pauline had the bottle in her hand and she was pouring drinks. “You need something to pick you up.”

  “I need something to knock me down and bash my brains out.”

  He drank and she poured him another drink. And he drank that.

  “I'm a hypocrite,” he said. “And let me tell you something. There's nothing lower than a hypocrite.”

  “You need another drink. Here, take the bottle.”

  “Gimme the goddamn bottle.” He tilted the bottle and took a very big drink. He put the bottle on the table. “Now let me tell you why I'm a hypocrite—”

  “But you're not, you're not, you mustn't say that.”

  “I'll say it because I know it's true. I'm just a low-down louse. And here's something else. You know why I'm getting kicked around? Because I deserve it. I'm getting exactly what I deserve.”

  He had the bottle again. He took a big drink and then held it up and looked at it. “Hello,” he said.

  Pauline stood up. “Now, for Christ's sake,” she said. “Don't go crazy.”

  “I won't.” He took another drink. “Maybe I'd be better off if I could. Because then I wouldn't know. At least it makes it easier when you don't know. When you're miles and miles away from yourself.”

  “Go on,” she urged tenderly. “Take another drink.”

  “To get drunk? How could I get drunk? The way I feel tonight I could drink a gallon of it and not get drunk.”

  “Then take another nap,” she said. “Go on, get in the cot and go back to sleep. That'll do you good.”

  He lifted the bottle once more. This time he kept drinking until he emptied it.

  “It tastes like nothing at all,” he said. “I can't even taste it.”

  “Go on, honey. See if you can go to sleep.” She was shoving him gently toward the cot.

  He fell on his back across the cot. Pauline lifted his legs and got his feet on the cot.

  “Close your eyes,” she said. “Take a nice long nap.”

  He closed his eyes. “Aviation,” he mumbled.

  “What? What, honey?”

  “Aviation. I used to be in aviation.”

  “Sure. That's fine.” She was backing across the room, toward the door. “Now go to sleep.” She reached up and turned off the light.

  “Aviator. Captain. Captain pilot, chief pilot. Captain bus driver. Make the trip with Captain Cassidy and we give you a guarantee. We give you a guarantee you won't come back alive. We're all proud of Captain J. Cassidy. He's the man at the wheel. There he is, the bastard, that's him—”