Who He? - (19)

"Then I can't trust you."
    "You can trust me if he behaves himself."
    Gabby hesitated. At last she said: "He can't do that, Aimee. We can't let him find out he's been writing those letters ... not now. Please understand."
    Aimee's eyes lit up. "So it'll hurt him a little. It's time he found out how it feels to get hurt."
    "What are you trying to do? Punish him?"
    "That's between me and him."
    "No. I think it's between you and somebody else." Gabby examined Aimee. "You're using him to punish somebody else."
    "It's between him and my ass!" Aimee shouted.
    "Don't show me your bruise again," Gabby said. "Please listen to me. He's in trouble. Don't make it worse for him. You must have been in trouble yourself. You must know what it means to need help."
    "And who got me in trouble?" Aimee spat. "The nice respectable safe ones like you."
    "Why are you so hostile to me? You think I look down on you, don't you. Why are you so class conscious?"
    "Class my ass! What the hell do I care about class? They all gimme a lousy time ... all of them. So now it's my turn to hand out a little grief."
    "Stop whining, Aimee. You're just feeling sorry for yourself. I'm doing the same thing you are, but I'm not whining. Half the women in the world are too, and they don't whine either."
    "Do what?"
    "Sleep with men the law doesn't approve of." Gabby tried to smile. "Let's be honest, Aimee. As far as the law's concerned we're both whores. Let's stick together and help each other."
    "Get outa here," Aimee raged.
    "Not without the letter."
    "I already told you. Let him bring the dough and beg, and he'll get the letter. Now beat it."
    Gabby shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's a dreadful thing to say, but you're not even an honest whore, Aimee. You'll have to trust me for the money. Give me the letter."
    "I'll give you a kick in your high-class ass," Aimee cried. She darted at Gabby, seized her by the shoulders and pushed her toward the door. "You get the hell outa my house."
    Gabby tore her hands away. "How dare you!" she exclaimed.
    "Yeah. Now it comes! The high-tone how dare you!" Aimee screeched. "How dare anybody like me touch somebody like you, you goddam high-assed duchess!" She leaped at Gabby in a burst of fury, kicking and clutching at her hair. Gabby staggered, then swung her purse and knocked Aimee back against the wall.
    "I'll bring you down," Aimee spat.
    "You aren't bad," Gabby answered grimly. "You're spoiled. You're a spoiled, selfish, lazy slut."
    As Aimee advanced, she backed away, kicking off her shoes and stripping off her jacket to clear for action. Aimee clawed like an alley cat. Gabby threw up her left arm to defend herself from the tearing nails and cracked Aimee across the face with her right.
    Aimee began to scream. She clinched, biting and kicking, and they staggered against the window. Gabby's blouse was torn off. Both women lost their balance and clutched at the drapes. The curtains came down on top of Aimee, pole and all. When she struggled free, she had lost the dressing gown.
    She ran into the kitchen. There was a crash and she came charging back, left arm shielding her bosom, the neck of a broken beer bottle in her right fist. Gabby gave ground in terror, dodged a vicious swipe and stumbled back against the window where Aimee cornered her. In desperation she snatched up the five foot curtain pole that had fallen. She delivered a frantic chop that caught Aimee between neck and shoulder and dropped her to her knees. The beer bottle slipped out of her hand and clattered across the floor.
    Aimee clawed at Gabby's legs, ripped off her skirt and brought her down to the floor. They rolled across the room, pummeling each other with knees, elbows and hands. When they jammed against the television set, Gabby twisted on top of Aimee, took her blonde hair in both hands and hammered her head against the cabinet. After three punishing blows, she stopped.
    "Where's the letter?" she gasped.
    Aimee screeched and swore. Gabby pounded her head three times again, and Aimee went limp.
    "Where's the letter?"
    "Bedroom," Aimee answered faintly.
    "Show me."
    She got up and pulled Aimee up by the hair. Never releasing her hold, she dragged Aimee into the bedroom. Both women were gasping and gleaming with perspiration. In the bedroom Aimee fumbled at a dresser drawer. Gabby opened it for her. Under a pile of black net nylons was a sheet of blue writing paper.
    Gabby glanced at it and then released Aimee who dropped on the bed. Gabby went back to the living room, folded the sheet twice and placed it in an ash tray. She lit a match and burned the letter. She crushed the ashes with her fingers until they were dust. Suddenly she shivered.
    She took off the shreds of her stockings and put on her shoes. The blouse was hopeless. She opened Jake's bag, took out his clean shirt and put it on. Over that she put her jacket and skirt. The zipper of the skirt was wrecked. She went to the bedroom and searched the dresser until she found a couple of safety pins. While she pinned her skirt she watched Aimee who hadn't moved.
    "I'm sorry for you," Gabby said at last. "You should have had this lesson when you were a child. Maybe it isn't too late now."
    "I'm going to the cops anyway," Aimee moaned. "I'll have him put away. I'll fix both of you for this."
    "If you make any more trouble," Gabby answered in a hard voice, "I promise you'll regret it for the rest of your life."
    She went back to the living room, hoping that her threat would silence Aimee for good. She picked up Jake's coat and bag and left the apartment. Her knees gave as she went down the stairs and she was trembling; but her eyes sparkled and her face wore a triumphant smile. And when, on the street, she tasted blood from a cut inside her mouth, she spat into the gutter with the cocky assurance of a kid who has won his first fight.
    CHAPTER XIV
    Lennox awoke in the role of Mr. Lefty Leftwich from Brockton, Mass. He turned over in bed like a ship launched sideways and immediately began bellowing the ballad about feet, feet, marching up and down again, with which he had annoyed the patrons of the Baroque until Chris Barakatrones had been forced to throw him out.
    Gabby heard the racket and ran into the bedroom and turned on the lights. Lennox winced, closed his eyes, and sneezed three times in stately waltz tempo. "Less light," he muttered. "A switch on Goethe. I am excessively educated. Need more crud in my blood." He began to roar again.
    "Stop that noise, Lefty," Gabby called from the door. She came to the bed and sat down beside Lennox. She was wearing a grey skirt and a slate blue sweater. Lennox immediately reached up and seized her breasts with his heavy hands.
    "The All-Mother," he laughed.
    He hurt her. She eased his hands and said: "Yes, that's how they're tattooed, Lefty."
    He began to wrestle with her, trying to tear off the sweater.
    "Take it easy," she said. "Or do you want to hurt me?"
    "No, no, lady," Lennox apologized. "Act of homage. 'Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast. To feel forever its soft fall and swell....' Etcetera. Etcetera. Sonnet by J. Keats. Theme song of L. Leftwich." He hauled her down on the bed. She kissed him once and then bit his ear until he roared with pain.
    "Jesus!" he complained.
    "Did I hurt you?" she inquired.
    "Christ, yes!"
    "I'm sorry, Lefty." She kissed the injured ear and bit the other until he roared again.
    "Listen, lady," he said, half annoyed, half ecstatic, "No fair. You play Boys' Rules. I'm the fella. You're supposed to be the girl."
    "Male Supremacy," Gabby said. "I am so the girl. Feel your fair love's ripening breast." She pulled his face down into her bosom and banged the back of his head with her fists. She rolled him over in bed and bit his mouth. He struggled up, protesting. She caught him and huffed and puffed against his bulk until he collapsed again.
    "Fins," he said.
    "You give up?"
    "I give up. Fins."
    She braced herself on her arms and looked down at him. He looked up and grinned. "You're the first one that played Boy's Rules with me. Why aren't there more like you, lady?"
    "All girls want to, Lefty."
    "Why don't they?"
    "Because men won't let them."
    "Why not?"
    "They want girls to be girly-girly."
    "Why?"
    "Because it makes them feel manly."
    "Crazy." He tapped the tips of her breasts. "Double-relish," he said.
    "What's that mean, Lefty?"
    "It's musical ornamentation," he explained after a moment's earnest concentration. "Friend of mine, Sam Cooper, said--" He collapsed and stared at her with his mouth open.
    "Yes, Lefty? What did Sam Cooper say?"
    "Gabby?" he faltered.
    "Right here."
    "But I thought you--I thought I--"
    Lefty Leftwich fled back to Brockton.
    "W-Where've I been?"
    "Right here."
    "Gabby...."
    "Yes, darling?"
    "I think I'm going to be sick."
    She smacked her palm against his nose and thrust back determinedly. He grunted in pain.
    "Still want to be sick?" she asked after a minute.
    "No," he answered in patient agony.
    She released his nose. "Hello, Jake," she said.
    He began to cry. She soothed him. "It's all right, baby. Don't cry. What's the matter, darling? You don't have to cry."
    "It's the first time you ever called me Jake," he said in a muffled voice.
    "Is that why you're crying, sweetheart?"
    "It's like we're finally meeting for the first time.... No ... I--I'm mixed up again. Like last week. What's today?"
    "Sunday. New Year's day."
    "What time is it?"
    "Six o'clock."
    "Morning?"
    "Evening."
    He digested that information, thought intensely and groaned. "I've lost the whole damned New Year's Eve. I'm blacked out again from ten o'clock last night. What filth am I going to start remembering now?"
    "Don't be frightened," Gabby said briskly. "I was with you from midnight on."
    "You were?"
    She nodded.
    "Did I do anything bad?"
    She shook her head.
    "Where did we meet?"
    "You called for me here."
    "And you went out with me? After that fight? After the lousy things I said to--"
    She put her hand over his mouth. "Don't talk about that. We both apologized and made up."
    "Honest?"
    "You know I never lie."
    "Did.... Did we run into Knott?"
    "No."
    "I could swear something about Knott is flitting around in the blackout. I--"
    "Your imagination," Gabby said. "On your feet, Jake. Time to get dressed and have something to eat. We've got to catch the nine o'clock plane."
    "What plane?"
    "Don't you remember anything from last night? We made up our minds to fly down to Mexico today."
    "Mexico? What for?"
    "My divorce. Your wedding." Gabby looked at him sternly. "If you're pretending amnesia to get out of it, Jake, it won't work. I've got witnesses."
    "I think," he said feebly, "I'd better have some coffee."
    He stood up, still dizzy and blurry. Gabby tossed him clean shorts. He put them on and followed her to the kitchen where he drank coffee humbly and in a hushed voice reported what he remembered of his New Year's Eve ... the trip to Islip, his insane practical jokes ... he even blurted out all he remembered of his date with Olga Bleutcher, the body incarnate. Gabby was annoyed, the more so because his memory died at the point where the date with Olga began. She covered her chagrin with a laugh.
    "The pigeons were a nuisance," she said, "But after the mothballs and the gelatine I got off lucky. You're a Monte Cristo, Jake."
    "No," he insisted. "It wasn't revenge. I swear I was trying to spread sweetness and light." He looked at her for the first time with something like focus. "What happened to your right eye? It's all red."
    "Caught cold in it last night," Gabby said briefly. "How did you manage to get rid of fatal Olga Bleutcher?"
    "I don't know. We must have gone to parties. Probably I lost her somewhere."
    "And before you lost her did you--" Gabby stopped.
    "Did I what?"
    "Nothing."
    After a moment Lennox asked: "What time did I pick you up here?"
    "Around midnight."
    "That's two hours not accounted for."
    "We won't try to account for them. We won't even ask Olga."
    "No. I mean, do you think I ran into Knott while I--"
    "Forget Knott," Gabby said. "You never ran into him and I don't think you ever will. The whole thing will blow over while we're in Mexico."
    "What'll Roy do to you if you divorce him?"
    "To hell with Roy. Now come on, Lefty. It's time to get dressed."
    "Who's Lefty?"
    "You."
    "Since when?"
    "Since last night. All of a sudden you turned to me and announced you were Lefty Leftwich from Brockton."
    Lennox grunted. "A comic, that's what I am. A New Year's comic. If you tell me I put on women's hats, I'll hang myself."
    "You didn't while you were with me. You can check with Olga some other time."
    "You aren't jealous about Olga?" Lennox asked timidly.
    "Yes," Gabby said. "I am. I could knock her block off."
    "But we had that fight, and she pestered me until--"
    "You listen to me, Jordan Lennox. We'll probably have a lot of fights in the future, but never for a minute imagine they'll give you any excuse to chase other women." She rapped him under the chin with her knuckles. "If I ever catch you, I'll knock your block off too."
    "All of a sudden you're such a fighter, all of a sudden," he said in awe. "What happened?"
    "Something."
    "What?"
    "I don't fight and tell. Now get dressed."
    He dressed and admired her for bringing him his clothes. He admired her most for preserving his sacred gimmick book from loss, theft and other catastrophe. As he placed it in his inside pocket and flexed his right arm, Gabby handed him a long white envelope.
    "This is our expense money," she said. "You had a hundred and eight dollars left from last night. I borrowed another two hundred. We can make bank arrangements in Mexico. Somebody I know at the airport--"
    "An eclectic Chinaman?"
    "No." She laughed.
    "Hasty Hawaiian?"
    "No. It's a woman I met at a WVL meeting. She got me the tickets on some kind of credit. We can settle up when we get back."
    "You're leveling about Mexico?"
    "Of course I am. Now, it's seven o'clock. We have two hours to pick up our tickets and get weighed in. I packed your fortnighter and brought it down. It's out in the foyer...."
    "By God, you were busy today."
    "By God, you don't know how busy. All I have to do is finish packing myself. Then we'll start. Wash the dishes, Jake. Oh, and give those pigeons their freedom or something."
    He swallowed. "I can't do it, Gabby."
    "Don't be silly. Just take the cage to the window and open it. Nature'll do the rest."
    "I mean I can't go to Mexico tonight."
    "Don't be obstinate, darling. Just clean up the kitchen and keep out of my way."
    "I can't go tonight, Gabby." He took her shoulders and held her. "And don't think I'm playing noble on account of Roy. I love you so much I'll marry you even if it ruins us. I'll marry you any time or any place you say ... but I can't go tonight."
    "I want to go tonight, Jordan."
    "I'm sorry. I can't. I can't run out on the show."
    "You can so run out on the show. They fired you."
    "That isn't what I mean. I can't run out on those threats. I've got to stay and face Knott."
    "Jordan, believe me, there isn't any Knott."
    "How do you know?"
    "I just know it."
    "You mean you just hope it. Who's writing the letters? Who's threatening me?"
    "No one. It's some kind of silly joke."
    "A joke! That filth?"
    "So it's a filthy joke; but we can't take it seriously."
    "I'm taking it seriously. I want to meet the joker who's picked me out for his filthy humor. I'm going to meet him tonight."
    "Jordan, please! I want to go to Mexico tonight."
    "If he doesn't show up," Lennox continued grimly, "I'll drag Aimee Driscoll down to the precinct and we'll beat the truth out of her. We'll pry it out of Sam, too. There's got to be a pay-off tonight."
    "Jordan!" Gabby shook his arms frantically. "I want to leave tonight. I want it more than anything else. Will you do this for me?"
    "I can't, sweetheart. I've got too much to settle up first."
    "And you'll find another excuse tomorrow and the day after and the day after that...."
    "You know that's not true."
    "Remember what you said about politics? To hell with politics because we're more important. I agree, Jordan. That's the truth. And to hell with Knott and his letters too."
    "No."
    "Oh, why are you so stubborn?"
    "I have to do what has to be done," Lennox said patiently. "You go ahead and finish packing. We'll leave as soon as I've called the lunatic who's been crucifying me. I'm going up to the theater now. I'll phone you when we're off the air."
    "No," Gabby said quietly. "The packing can wait. I'll go with you."
    It was seven-thirty when they arrived at the Venice Theater. More than a hundred ticket-holders were already queued up before the main lobby, waiting for the nine o'clock show. When the doors opened at eight-thirty, there would be at least five hundred more. As Lennox took Gabby around to the stage door he passed down the length of that line, staring into each strange face, searching for his hidden enemy.
    To the deaf doorman he spoke in a low flat drone that was more effective than any shouting. He was expecting a Mr. Fu, a Mr. Hamburger, and a Mr. Eugene K. Norman. If they came to the stage door they were to be admitted and given seats. If anyone else asked for him ... A Mr. Knott, say ... Lennox was to be called at once. He repeated these instructions three times. Gabby bit her lip.
    The stage door opened into a small square foyer. To the left was the narrow corridor which led down the left hand side of the theater to the green room and thence to the right wings of the stage. There is no paradox in this reversal of left and right. Since the actor faces the audience, right and left are reversed as you cross from the theater to the stage.
    A broad curtained arch led from the stage door foyer directly into the theater orchestra, opening out into the left aisle. The curtain was not drawn now. Through the arch, Lennox could see little islands of people scattered through the orchestra ... a clump of dancers in costume, four cameramen drinking coffee from cartons, Oliver Stacy with Olga Bleutcher, Ween and Grabinett with Mason's gag writers, Avery Borden and Ned Bacon en rapport with the client.
    Lennox took Gabby's arm and marched into the orchestra. He refused to be inconspicuous. It was like running the gauntlet but he made a full circuit of the house, meeting every hostile glance with an arrogant smile. He threw the smile in their faces, daring them to accept the challenge. Every hackle in the theater arose, but before the battle could be joined, Raeburn Sachs started a muffled uproar on the P.A.:
    "Dress, please. Dress. Everybody on stage for dress."
    The dancers and Stacy returned to the stage. The cameramen returned to their cameras. Johnny Plummer put on his ear-phones and stammered to the orchestra on the low platform at the foot of the right aisle. The gag writers assembled in the center aisle, just behind the dolly-track of the No. 2 camera, to simulate contestants for the dress rehearsal. Lennox seated Gabby and excused himself to go backstage. He did not slip around through the green room. As the orchestra began its opening fanfare, he went down to the edge of the old orchestra pit, climbed up on the rail and leaped to the stage in full view.
    He turned and grinned into the lights. "Poison eaters!" he said contemptuously and walked toward the prop table in the right wings. Mason passed him on the way from his dressing room to open the dress.
    "You lousy burglar!" Mason shouted in a whisper. Even feuds must be conducted sotto voce during rehearsal.
    Irma was a step behind Mason. "You lousy burglar," she whispered. "We'll fix you for those lights."
    "What's the matter?" Lennox inquired. "Didn't you have cameras?"
    From out front came the echo of Mason's voice, the cackle of the dummy, the brassy punctuation of the orchestra. The empty house put every sound on echo. Kay Hill, in a 1920 evening gown, passed Lennox on her way to take her place on the Clara Bow "Charleston" set.
    "So you helped him add another one to his score," she hissed, her acid eyes raking Lennox.
    "Who?" he asked, bewildered.
    "The Bleutcher."
    "Maybe she added him to her score."
    The ballet girls came down the stairs from their balcony dressing room in geisha costumes, and clustered around the rosin box, shuffling their feet. Across, in the left wings, the ballet boys assembled, dressed in Lt. Pinkerton whites. Stacy ran off stage, stripping off his dinner jacket to change for his second spot.
    "Thanks, pal!" he whispered bitterly.
    "For what?"
    "For Typhoid Olga. Ask me a favor some time."
    "I'll tell Kay."
    Grabinett shot out from behind a drop, arguing furiously and soundlessly with the uniformed theater fireman. He stopped long enough to blink at Lennox.
    "And you'll pay for them Almighty signs too," he whispered. "Defacing my office!"
    "I'll tell the painter."
    Bacon swaggered in from the green room with the client and the client's daughter. He was explaining the workings of the theater like an old showman from way back. As they drifted around behind the drops, he gave Lennox one venomous glance that disemboweled him. Olga stopped long enough to confront Jake.
    "You filthy pig!" she said in a clear voice.
    "Shhh! Rehearsal! All insults in a whisper, please."
    She slapped his face and followed her father.
    "I'll tell mother," Lennox said.
    Tooky Ween waddled across the temporary bridge from the orchestra to the stage with the notes he had made for Mason's opening spot. He shook his fist at Lennox. Lennox blew him kisses. The hatreds and the hostilities were recharging him. He felt alert and stimulated. He lounged against the prop table, looking sardonic and unyielding, carrying his naked weapons ready for quick murder.
    Mason came off the stage, followed by Irma. Lennox applauded soundlessly and asked for his autograph. Mason lifted the dummy to hit him, thought better of it, and continued to his dressing room, shrugging out of his tuxedo. The orchestra blared. Irma kicked Lennox in the leg.
    "That's the wooden one," he smiled.
    Stacy rushed out in a scarlet Grenadier's uniform.
    "Olga went that way," Lennox said.
    Kay Hill came back from the Clara Bow.
    "Oliver went that way," Lennox said.
    The orchestra blared and segued into dance tempo. The geishas and Lt. Pinkertons took position before the No. 2 camera. Raeburn Sachs tore down the center aisle from the control booth and leaped up on stage. He came back into the wings.
    "Wardrobe!" he hissed. "Where's the wardrobe mistress? I told her Household Guards, not Grenadier."
    "Same thing," Lennox said.
    Sachs looked at him.
    "Don't argue with me," Lennox said mildly. "You have a talent that terrifies me. It always puts me in the wrong."
    Sachs turned, leaped across the pit and ran back to the controls.
    The orchestra fanfared. The dancers came off and ran up to the balcony. Mason charged out of his dressing room, buttoning up his Philip Nolan uniform. Across the stage a group of actors were assembling on a courtroom set before the No. 3 camera. Lennox waved to Robin, picked a bunch of artificial flowers off the prop table and threw it to her. The flowers were intercepted by Oliver Stacy's face.
    Stacy spread his shoulders and telegraphed the punch. Lennox stepped inside and hooked his right to Stacy's heart. Then he caught him before he could fall and disrupt the dress. They clinched.
    "Rehearsal! Rehearsal!" Lennox whispered.