Runaway (18 page)

She wet her lips, wondering if she should leave the room to put on a robe or something. But if she walked across the room, his eyes would be on her all the way, watching her flesh against the tightness of her skirt. She wet her lips again. She did not feel very tolerant any more. She felt frightened, plain frightened. This man beside her, who was he? What was he running from? Why didn't he want to be taken to a doctor?

“Are …” She wet her lips and swallowed the solid lump in her throat. “Are the police after you?”

“No,” he said quickly.

She could not let it drop. She had her answer, but it was not the answer she wanted. And just as she had deliberately fed her own excitement earlier, she now fed her fear, deriving a crackling, spitting sort of pleasure from it.

“You
are
running from the police,” she insisted.

“No,” he said again.

“Tell me the truth,” she said.

He looked at her face, and she hoped the fear was not showing there. “All right,” he said, “I'm running from the police.”

“Wh … what did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“If the police are after you, you must have done something.”

“I didn't do anything, believe me. They say I killed a man, but—”

“Killed a man!”

“But I didn't do it, believe me. Look, miss …”

“I … I need another drink,” she said. She rose and walked shakily to the bar, trying to keep the swing out of her hips. He had killed a man, but no, he said he hadn't killed a man, and yet the police were after him. She poured a jigger full of bourbon, and then threw it off hastily, her hand trembling.

She put down her glass and made a stroking motion at her throat, her arm covering the front of her sweater. She could feel the fear mounting inside her, and there was nothing enjoyable about it now. She kept cursing herself for having been such a fool. My God, what could have been on her mind to have pulled such a crazy stunt? A man wanted for murder. Oh, my God, Mark, where are you? Come back. Mark, please. Take this … this black murderer away.

He sat on the couch, staring at the floor. He looked up suddenly with a smile on his face.

“Are you afraid of me now?” he asked.

“No,” she said quickly. “Don't … don't be silly.”

“You've nothing to be afraid of.”

“I … know.”

He kept staring at her with the curious smile on his face, and she wondered what he was thinking and suddenly she seemed to know just what he was thinking, and she expected him to get off the couch any minute and come across the room to her. She stood by the bar, petrified, waiting for the move. When it did not come, she cleared her throat and said, “I'm … a little chilly. I think I'll put on a robe.”

She went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her, not noticing in her haste that it was still partially open. She ran past the tweed coat and the slip on her bed, and then she stepped over her panties and bra where they lay on the floor in a heap. She went directly to the phone, lifting the receiver quickly.

She waited for a dial tone, and then she dialed the “O” for Operator.

When the voice came on the line, she said, “Get me the police. Quickly, please.”

She waited, hearing the phone ring on the other end. She heard the outer door of her apartment slam just as the voice on the line said, “Sergeant Haggerty.”

She paused, listening.

“Never … never mind,” she said. She hung up quickly, and then walked into the living room, hoping she'd been right. She sighed heavily.

The Negro was gone.

She called Mark immediately, and when he got there, about ten minutes later, she sobbingly told him the whole story, leaving out the emotions she had felt, but telling him everything else. Then, after she had quieted down, Mark took the tweed coat out to the incinerator in the hallway, and opened the metal door and shoved it down the chute.

Thirteen

She was standing before the full-length mirror in her dressing room, having just come off the floor. She stood in her sequined bra and G string, wearing only those and high-heeled slippers. She stood and looked at her body, thinking of what Hank Sands had done to that body, and wanting to crawl out of her skin, leave it somewhere the way a snake does. She wanted to dress quickly. She wanted to cover her body, hide it. She had felt a peculiar revulsion tonight on the floor. Hank Sands had not been in the crowd, but she could feel his eyes in the eyes of every man in the club. It was not a wholesome feeling. For the first time since she'd been working at the Yahoo, she'd felt ashamed of her job.

She turned from the mirror, reaching for the underwear piled over a chair. She was taking off one slipper when the knock sounded on the door.

“Who is it?” she said.

“Police,” the voice answered.

“Just a moment.” She took a silk robe from a hanger on the screen and pulled it on quickly, belting it tightly around her waist. She tightened the strap on her slipper again, and went to the door.

“Yes?” she said coldly.

“May I come in?” the man said.

“All right,” she answered.

She held the door wide, and he entered the small room. He did not look like a cop. He was thin, and his hair was going, and he owned a nose that should have belonged to a hawk. He looked around the room, seemingly embarrassed.

“What do you want?” she asked. She folded her arms across the front of her robe and leaned back against the dressing table.

He reached into his pocket and flipped open a wallet. She saw the shield and nodded, and he said, “My name is Dave Trachetti. Sergeant.”

“So?” she said. She reached over for a package of cigarettes, shaking one loose and hanging it on her lip. She thought he might offer to light it. When he didn't, she struck a match herself, shook it out, and dropped it to the floor.

Trachetti smiled, still looking a little embarrassed. “I saw your show, Miss Matthews. It was very nice. I was out front when—”

“I don't go out with white men,” Cindy said. “Not even if they're cops.”

“That's not it, Miss Matthews. I wanted to talk to you about Johnny Lane,” Trachetti said.

Cindy stopped the hand with the cigarette an inch away from her mouth.

“Oh,” she said. “So that's it. I'm sorry I misunderstood. So many men come back here wanting …”

“I understand,” Trachetti said. He wet his lips nervously. “It must be a … trying profession.”

Cindy did not smile. “But about Johnny, I don't know anything. We split up a long while ago. I told you that before.”

“You don't know where he is?” Trachetti asked.

“No, I don't. Corporal, why don't you go? Find him yourself. Do me a favor, and find him yourself. Leave me alone.”

“I wish I
could
find him,” Trachetti said.

“So you can pin a phony rap on him?”

“That's just it, Miss Matthews. We …”

“Johnny didn't kill the spic, but that doesn't matter to you. You've got yourself a sucker, so now everything will be clear with the commissioner. As long as your nose is clean, what do you care? Get out, Corporal. You're wasting your time, and I'm getting chilly, and I want to dress. Get the hell out, unless you're going to book me for something.”

“I should have been a bus driver,” Trachetti said. “I swear to God I should have been a bus driver. Look, Miss Matthews, I came here to tell you we caught Luis Ortega's killer.”

She stared at him, and then she blinked her eyes, and then she leaned back against the dresser again, almost as if she'd dropped there involuntarily.

“You … you …”

“Not Johnny Lane. Another guy. We've got a confession. That's what I came here to tell you. I thought you might like to know. I thought you'd want to tell Johnny—if you can find him again after being split up so long.” He couldn't resist the sarcasm.

“You … you don't want him any more?”

“He's clean,” Trachetti said. “I told you, we've got a confession.”

“Then he's running for nothing! He doesn't have to run. You say someone else did it?”

“Didn't you know that all along, Miss Matthews?”

“Yes, but I mean … Oh, God, his arm. His arm is cut. I've got to find him, Corporal. I've got to tell him.”

“Yes,” Trachetti said.

He watched her go to the closet and take a coat from its hanger. She pulled the coat on over her robe, and the silk pulled back to show the naked length of her leg and thigh and the sequined sparkle of the G string. She belted the coat quickly and started for the door.

“It's pretty cold out there,” Trachetti said. “Maybe you ought to …”

She stopped just inside the doorway. She turned and said, “Thank you, Corporal. I'm sorry I was … Thank you. Thank you very much.”

“Do you think you can find him?” he asked.

Cindy hesitated for a moment. “I hope so,” she said. “Oh, God, I hope so.”

It was very cold, and Johnny Lane was very tired of running.

He thought of the tweed coat he'd left back in Washington Heights, and he thought, Barney is going to be sore as hell. He wondered if he shouldn't have stayed up in the Heights someplace, but with that crazy chick on the phone yelling to the cops, he was better off in Harlem. He still couldn't figure her out. What the hell was her game, anyway? He'd met up with nuts before, but she took the prize.

The cold was biting, and he walked quickly, trying to work up some heat in his body. Goddamnit, why had he let her take the coat in the first place? Hadn't he learned his lesson with coats yet? How many coats and jackets and assorted wearing apparel do you have to lose before catching on? Why couldn't the day have stayed the way it was this afternoon? He hadn't needed a coat then. He'd had a coat when he didn't need it. And now, when it was colder than hell, he was running around in his shirt sleeves.

He walked up 125th Street, watching the people bundled in their overcoats, watching them and wondering where they were all going. It was very late at night. Were they going home to clean sheets and a warm bed? What did a warm bed feel like? When's the last time I slept in a warm bed? he wondered. I slept in a warm bed at Cindy's place. What's Cindy thinking by now? Just a penciled note, and I haven't even called her or anything. But how did I know I was going to pass out, and how did I know that dizzy broad was going to drag me up to her place? I should have played it cool. I should have given it to her the way she wanted it, told her yes, I'd been in a street fight, yes, I was a poor neglected nigger, yes, I needed her help and her comfort. I should have played it the cool way, instead of scaring her out of her wits. What the hell did I tell her the truth for?

And now Barney's coat is up there, and man, he's going to be sore as hell. Suppose I told Barney the truth? He'd still be sore as hell, and I can't blame him much, it was a nice coat. And he stuck his neck out for me, he did do that, even if he didn't want to. And those other guys, The Flower and the other guy, they didn't have to get me that boat. They got it for me after I told them the truth.

Or maybe they thought I was lying, and besides, they just helped me to get even with the bulls. They didn't give a damn about truth or lies or whatever. But they did get me the boat. I wonder if I should go back to the boat tonight.

How can I spend another night on that tub, with those goddamn rats roaming around? Without even a coat this time, with all that cold, damp wind blowing off the water, and the stink of garbage, but most of all the rats crawling around. Even if I didn't see a single rat, I could feel them out there. No, I wouldn't go back to that boat if you gave me a million dollars. I'd freeze to death there, and I'm gonna freeze to death here, too, unless I get a place to stay and damned soon. Why does it get so tough once night rolls around? Because then you're noticeable on the streets, jerk. Then a roaming Snow White will spot you, and then it's the kiss-off. Lord, I'm cold, I've never been so damn cold in all my life.

He passed the darkened windows of the shops on 125th Street, heading west, wondering just where he was going. He wondered, too, what the cops were doing now.

He could almost see them bustling around downtown, getting out a general alarm or whatever they got out. Would they use bloodhounds? Did city cops ever use bloodhounds? All he needed was a pack of mutts chasing him up Lenox Avenue. He smiled, the picture striking him somehow as amusing. He could just see his photo on page four of the
Daily News
, Johnny Lane up a lamppost, his pants seat torn to shreds, while the mutts stood up on their hind legs and barked and snapped. Caption: “Killer at Bay.”

Bay, you know. The hounds baying, you know.

Very funny, he told himself, but you can't wrap a joke around your back, and a laugh won't stop the wind, and the wind was sure cold.

So what now? First, he needed a place for the night.

Now there's a simple thing. How about the Waldorf, Lane? All right, how about the Waldorf? No, I don't think so. Really, my dear, after all, the
Wal
-dorf? Hardly. Not for Johnny Lane. Nothing but the best for Johnny Lane.

Well, how about Cindy's pad, then? That's the place to be. That's the place, but the cops don't want me to be there, so we'll just stay away from there, too, thank you.

A hotel, then. Any hotel. A hotel in Brooklyn or Staten Island or any goddamn place. Sure, why not? Except what makes you think the hotels aren't as alerted tonight as they were last night? And how do you check into a hotel with no luggage and in your shirt sleeves? Damnit, it's getting colder by the minute.

So where? Where?

He began giving the problem serious thought, because he recognized freezing as a very serious thing. He did not want to pass out again. He might not be so lucky next time, even if the broad had turned out to be a little loony. So in his mind he turned over every nook and cranny in Harlem, examining it minutely. When he got the idea, he considered it gravely, and then he inspected it, and then he tested it again for size.