dark comers of the boîtes that line the Sixties between Park and Lexington, always hiding around corners, using shabby hotel rooms for the nights he could arrange to stay in town.
It had happened two weeks ago.
Martin was sprawled out on his back, arm flung over his head. He was snoring lightly. The sheet was pulled halfway up, exposing the heavy matting on his chest. Outside the window it was dark and gray. Helen slipped from under the sheet, walked to the window, looked out through its dusty, streaked panes to the cold, cheerless street below. Above the window, the hotel sign was clicking on and off, alternately spilling a bright yellow light then darkness into the early dusk. She shivered, rubbed the backs of her arms with her palms in an effort to warm herself.
When she turned around, Martin was sitting up in bed. He was eying her nudity approvingly. Automatically she tried to cover the heavily nippled breasts with her arms, dropped them to her sides when the absurdity of it struck her.
“I’m going to get another job, Martin,” she told him. “I can’t go on like this anymore.”
She walked over to the chair where she had thrown her clothes.
“You can’t walk out on me now. Knowing how much I need you, how much you mean to me,” he told her.
“You can’t talk me out of it this time, Martin. I—I’m getting so I can’t even face myself in the mirror.” She looked around the squalid room. “How much longer do you think I can go on living in places like this, sneaking out in the morning, hoping no one will see me?”
The man got out of the bed, crossed to where she stood with, her back to him. Gently he turned her around.
“You’re just depressed, tired. It’s this damn weather.”
He put his finger under her chin, lifted her face. “You know what you need? A change of scenery, some place where the sun’s shining. How would you like that?”
“I couldn’t. I’ve never been away alone and—”
“Who said you were going alone? We’ll go together.” The girl looked up, searched his face with her eyes. “But —aren’t you afraid someone might see us, someone who would tell your wife?”
He shook his head. “We’ll take a short cruise to the Caribbean. The kind of a cruise none of my wife’s friends would be found dead on. Besides, you’ll be traveling as my niece. Who’d be the wiser?”
That day, standing barefoot on the cold floor of the hotel, with a bitter wind whipping down the man-made canyons outside, it had seemed a good idea. But the Queen had barely made Antigua before she got the hemmed-in feeling, like a kid surrounded by a gang of bullies ready to pounce on her, every time she felt someone’s eyes on her. The other women were wives, legal and legitimate. She had the feeling they could see through her, know her for what she was, resent her for what she was doing to one of their own kind. Men, she was sure, spotted her immediately and were measuring her for their bed from the moment they laid eyes on her, convinced that getting her there was a foregone conclusion and only a matter of time.
She wished she hadn’t come. She wondered if she could fake an appendicitis attack convincingly enough to make him put her on a plane at the next port of call.
The woman with Maurie Handel was just as uneasy. When she was sure he wasn’t looking, she flashed curious glances at Liddell, wondering about him. She felt the way Handel stiffened when he came face to face with Liddell. She knew they both lied when they pretended not to know each other.
Rita had known for years now that his name was Handel, not Keen. There had been the clippings she found locked in the tin box he kept at the bottom of the closet. Curiosity plus an expertly wielded hairpin had given her most of the story. The night she found the clippings she got the rest of it out of Handel.
Maurie had been the legal wonder boy for the organization. His nimble brain and silver tongue had kept the big boys out of jail
It had happened two weeks ago.
Martin was sprawled out on his back, arm flung over his head. He was snoring lightly. The sheet was pulled halfway up, exposing the heavy matting on his chest. Outside the window it was dark and gray. Helen slipped from under the sheet, walked to the window, looked out through its dusty, streaked panes to the cold, cheerless street below. Above the window, the hotel sign was clicking on and off, alternately spilling a bright yellow light then darkness into the early dusk. She shivered, rubbed the backs of her arms with her palms in an effort to warm herself.
When she turned around, Martin was sitting up in bed. He was eying her nudity approvingly. Automatically she tried to cover the heavily nippled breasts with her arms, dropped them to her sides when the absurdity of it struck her.
“I’m going to get another job, Martin,” she told him. “I can’t go on like this anymore.”
She walked over to the chair where she had thrown her clothes.
“You can’t walk out on me now. Knowing how much I need you, how much you mean to me,” he told her.
“You can’t talk me out of it this time, Martin. I—I’m getting so I can’t even face myself in the mirror.” She looked around the squalid room. “How much longer do you think I can go on living in places like this, sneaking out in the morning, hoping no one will see me?”
The man got out of the bed, crossed to where she stood with, her back to him. Gently he turned her around.
“You’re just depressed, tired. It’s this damn weather.”
He put his finger under her chin, lifted her face. “You know what you need? A change of scenery, some place where the sun’s shining. How would you like that?”
“I couldn’t. I’ve never been away alone and—”
“Who said you were going alone? We’ll go together.” The girl looked up, searched his face with her eyes. “But —aren’t you afraid someone might see us, someone who would tell your wife?”
He shook his head. “We’ll take a short cruise to the Caribbean. The kind of a cruise none of my wife’s friends would be found dead on. Besides, you’ll be traveling as my niece. Who’d be the wiser?”
That day, standing barefoot on the cold floor of the hotel, with a bitter wind whipping down the man-made canyons outside, it had seemed a good idea. But the Queen had barely made Antigua before she got the hemmed-in feeling, like a kid surrounded by a gang of bullies ready to pounce on her, every time she felt someone’s eyes on her. The other women were wives, legal and legitimate. She had the feeling they could see through her, know her for what she was, resent her for what she was doing to one of their own kind. Men, she was sure, spotted her immediately and were measuring her for their bed from the moment they laid eyes on her, convinced that getting her there was a foregone conclusion and only a matter of time.
She wished she hadn’t come. She wondered if she could fake an appendicitis attack convincingly enough to make him put her on a plane at the next port of call.
The woman with Maurie Handel was just as uneasy. When she was sure he wasn’t looking, she flashed curious glances at Liddell, wondering about him. She felt the way Handel stiffened when he came face to face with Liddell. She knew they both lied when they pretended not to know each other.
Rita had known for years now that his name was Handel, not Keen. There had been the clippings she found locked in the tin box he kept at the bottom of the closet. Curiosity plus an expertly wielded hairpin had given her most of the story. The night she found the clippings she got the rest of it out of Handel.
Maurie had been the legal wonder boy for the organization. His nimble brain and silver tongue had kept the big boys out of jail
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