The McBain Brief Page 7

  “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 un
buttoning 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.

  One Down

  She leaned back against the cushions of the bed, and there was that lazy, contented smile on her face as she took a drag on her cigarette. The smoke spiralled around her face, and she closed her eyes sleepily. I remembered how I had once liked that sleepy look of hers. I did not like it now.

  “It’s good when you’re home, Ben,” she said.

  “Uh-huh,” I murmured. I took a cigarette from the box on the night table, lighted it, and blew out a stream of smoke.

  “Yes, yes, it’s really good.” She drew on her cigarette, and I watched the heave of her breasts, somehow no longer terribly interested.

  “I hate your job,” she said suddenly.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes,” she said, pouting. “It’s like a . . . a wall between us. When you’re gone, I sit here and just curse your job and pray that you’ll be home again soon. I hate it, Ben. I really do.”

  “Well,” I said drily, “we have to eat, you know.”

  “Couldn’t you get another job?” she asked. It was only about the hundredth time she’d asked that same question.

  “I suppose,” I said wearily.

  “Then why don’t you?” She sat up suddenly. “Why don’t you, Ben?”

  “I like traveling,” I said. I was so tired of this, so damned tired of the same thing every time I was here. All I could think of now was what I had to do. I wanted to do it and get it over with.

  She grinned coyly. “Do you miss me when you’re on the road?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She cupped her hands behind my neck and trailed her lips across my jaw line. I felt nothing.

  “Very much?”

  She kissed my ear, shivered a little, and came closer to me.

  “Yes, I miss you very much,” I said.

  She drew away from me suddenly. “Do you like the house, Ben? I did just what you said. I moved out of the apartment as soon as I got your letter. You should have told me sooner, Ben. I had no idea you didn’t like the city.”

  “The neighbors were too snoopy,” I said. “This is better. Out in the country like this.”

  “But it’s so lonely. I’ve been here a week already, and I don’t know a soul yet.” She giggled. “There’s hardly a soul to know.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Good?” Her face grew puzzled. “What do you mean, Ben?”

  “Adele,” I told her, “you talk too much.”

  I pulled her face to mine and clamped my mouth onto hers, just to shut her up. She brought her arms up around my neck immediately, tightening them there, bringing her body close to mine. I tried to move her away from me gently, but my arms were full of her, and her lips were moist and eager. Her eyes closed tightly, and I sighed inwardly and listened to the lonely chirp of the crickets outside the window.

  “Do you love me?” she asked later.

  “Yes.”

  “Really, Ben? Really and truly?”

  “Really and truly.”

  “How much do you love me?”

  “A whole lot, Adele.”

  “But do you . . . where are you going, Ben?”

  “Something I want to get from my jacket.”

  “Oh, all right.” She stopped talking, thinking for a moment. “Ben, if you had to do it all over again, would you marry me? Would you still choose me as your wife?”

  “Of course.” I walked to the closet and opened the door. I knew just where I’d left it. In the righthand jacket pocket.

  “What is it you’re getting, Ben? A present?” She sat up against the pillows again. “Is it a present for me?”

  “In a way,” I said. I closed my fist around it and turned abruptly. Her eyes opened wide.

  “Ben! A gun. What . . . what are you doing with a gun?”

  I didn’t answer. I grinned, and she saw something in my eyes, and her mouth went slack.

  “Ben, no!” she said.

  “Yes, Adele.”

  “Ben, I’m your wife. Ben, you’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.”

  “No, Adele, I’m quite serious.”

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the covers snatching at the thin material of her gown, pulling it over her thighs.

  “Ben, why? Why are you . . . Ben, please. Please!”

  She was cringing against the wall now, her eyes saucered with fear.

  I raised the gun.

  “Ben!”

  I fired twice, and both bullets caught her over her heart. I watched the blood appear on the front of her gown, like red mud slung at a clean, white wall. She toppled forward suddenly, her eyes blank. I put the gun away, dressed, and packed my suitcase.

  It took me two days to get there. I opened the screen door and walked into the kitchen. There was the smell of meat and potatoes frying, a smell I had come to dislike intensely. The radio was blaring, the way it always was when I arrived. I grimaced.

  “Anybody home?” I called.

  “Ben?” Her voice was surprised, anxious. “Is that you, Ben?”

  “Hello, Betty,” I said tonelessly. She rushed to the front door and threw herself into my arms. Her hair was in curlers, and she smelled of frying fat.

  “Ben, Ben darling, you’re back. Oh Ben, how I missed you.”

  “Did you?”

  “Ben, let me look at you.” She held me away from her and then lifted her face and took my mouth hungrily. I could still smell the frying fat aroma.

  I pushed her away from me gently. “Hey,” I said, “cut it out. Way you’re behaving, people would never guess we’ve been married for three years already.”

  She sighed deeply. “You know, Ben,” she said, “I hate your job.”

  Kiss Me, Dudley

  She was cleaning fish by the kitchen sink when I climbed through the window, my .45 in my hand. She wore a low-cut apron, shadowed near the frilly top. When she saw me, her eyes went wide, and her lips parted, moist and full. I walked to the sink, and I picked up the fish by the tail, and I batted her over the eye with it.

  “Darling,” she murmured.

  I gave her another shot with the fish, this time right over her nose. She came into my arms, and there was ecstasy in her eyes, and her breath rushed against my throat. I shoved her away, and I swatted her full on the mouth. She shivered and came to me again. I held her close, and there was the odor of fish and seaweed about her. I inhaled deeply, savoring the taste. My father had b
een a sea captain.

  “They’re outside,” I said, “all of them. And they’re all after me. The whole stinking, dirty, rotten, crawling, filthy, obscene, disgusting mess of them. Me. Dudley Sledge. They’ve all got guns in their maggoty fists, and murder in their grimy eyes.”

  “They’re rats,” she said.

  “And all because of you. They want me because I’m helping you.”

  “There’s the money, too,” she reminded me.

  “Money?” I asked. “You think money means anything to them? You think they came all the way from Washington Heights for a lousy ten million bucks? Don’t make me laugh.” I laughed.

  “What are we going to do, Dudley?”

  “Do? Do? I’m going to go out there and cut them down like the unholy rats they are. When I get done, there’ll be twenty-six less rats in the world, and the streets will be a cleaner place for our kids to play in.”

  “Oh, Dudley,” she said.

  “But first . . .”

  The pulse in her throat began beating wildly. There was a hungry animal look in her eyes. She sucked in a deep breath and ran her hands over her hips, smoothing the apron. I went to her, and I cupped her chin in the palm of my left hand.

  “Baby,” I said.

  Then I drew back my right fist and hit her on the mouth. She fell back against the sink, and I followed with a quick chop to the gut, and a fast uppercut to the jaw. She went down on the floor and she rolled around in the fish scales, and I thought of my sea captain father, and my mother who was a nice little lass from New England. And then I didn’t think of anything but the blonde in my arms, and the .45 in my fist, and the twenty-six men outside, and the four shares of Consolidated I’d bought that afternoon, and the bet I’d made on the fight with One-Lamp Louie, and the defective brake lining on my Olds, and the bottle of rye in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet back at Dudley Sledge, Investigations.

  I enjoyed it.

  She had come to me less than a week ago.

  Giselle, my pretty red-headed secretary, had swivelled into the office and said, “Dud, there’s a woman to see you.”

  “Another one?” I asked.

  “She looks distraught.”

  “Show her in.”