“Got a light in here?” he asked Jim.
“Nope, ain’t got no reason to. No one ever uses it.”
The sheriff pulled a light string, but nothing happened.
“Don’t you believe me, Sheriff?” Jim said.
“Sure I do, Jim,” said the sheriff. “I’m just curious.”
Jean stood in the doorway looking down into the damp-smelling shed.
“Kinda beat up in here,” said the sheriff, looking at a knocked-over table and chair.
“No one’s been here for years, Sheriff,” Jim said. “Ain’t no reason to tidy it up.”
“Years, eh?” the sheriff said half to himself as he moved around the shed. Jean watched him, her hands numb at the fingertips, shaking. Why didn’t he find out where Bob was? That shred of cloth—how did it get torn from Bob’s slacks? She gritted her teeth hard. I mustn’t cry, she ordered herself. I just mustn’t cry. I know he’s all right. He’s perfectly all right.
The sheriff stopped and bent over to pick up a newspaper. He glanced at it casually, then folded it and hit it against one palm casually.
“Years, eh?” he said.
“Well, I haven’t been here in years,” Jim said hurriedly, licking his lips. “Could be that—oh, Lou or somebody been holin’ up in here sometime the last year. I don’t keep the outside door locked ya know.”
“Thought you said Lou went up north,” the sheriff said mildly.
“He did, he did. I say in the last year he might have—”
“This is yesterday’s paper, Jim,” the sheriff said.
Jim looked blank, started to say something and then closed his mouth without making a sound. Jean felt herself trembling without control now. She didn’t hear the screen door close quietly in front of the cafe or the furtive footsteps across the porch boards.
“Well—I didn’t say Lou was the only one who might have sneaked in here for a night,” Jim said quickly. “Could have been any tramp passing by.”
He stopped as the sheriff looked around suddenly, his gaze darting past Jean. “Where’s Tom?” he asked loudly.
Jean’s head snapped around. Then she backed away with a gasp as the sheriff dashed up the steps and ran by her.
“Stick around, Jim!” the sheriff called over his shoulder.
Jean rushed out of the cafe after him. As she came out on the porch she saw the sheriff shading his eyes with one hand and looking up the road. Her eyes jumped in the same direction, and she saw the man in the fedora running toward another man, a tall man.
“That’d be Lou,” she heard the sheriff murmur to himself.
He started running; then, after a few steps, he came back and jumped into his car.
“Sheriff!”
He glanced out the window and saw the look of fright on her face. “All right, hurry up! Get in!”
She jumped off the porch and ran toward the car. The sheriff pushed open the door and Jean slid in beside him and pulled it shut. The sheriff gunned his car out past the cafe and it skidded onto the road in a cloud of dust.
“What is it?” Jean asked him breathlessly.
“Your husband didn’t leave you,” was all the sheriff said.
“Where is he?” she asked in a frightened voice.
But they were already overtaking the two men who had met and were now running into the brush.
The sheriff jerked the car off the road and slammed on the brakes. He pushed out of the car, quickly reaching down for his pistol.
“Tom!” he yelled. “Lou! Stop running!”
The men kept going. The sheriff leveled his pistol barrel and fired. Jean started at the explosion and saw, far out across the rocky desert, a spout of sand jump up near the men.
They both stopped abruptly, turned and held up their hands.
“Come on back!” yelled the sheriff. “And make it fast!”
Jean stood beside the car, unable to keep her hands from shaking. Her eyes were fastened on the two men walking toward them.
“All right, where is he?” the sheriff asked as they came up.
“Who you talkin’ about, Sheriff?” asked the man in the fedora.
“Never mind that, Tom,” the sheriff said angrily. “I’m not foolin’ anymore. This lady wants her husband back. Now where—”
“Husband!” Lou looked at the man in the fedora with angry eyes. “I thought we decided agin that!”
“Shut your mouth!” the man in the fedora said, his pleasant demeanor gone entirely now.
“You told me we wasn’t gonna—” Lou started.
“Let’s see what you got in your pockets, Lou,” the sheriff said.
Lou looked at the sheriff blankly. “My pockets?” he said.
“Come on, come on.” The sheriff waved his pistol impatiently. Lou started emptying his pockets slowly.
“Told me we wasn’t gonna do that,” he muttered aside to the man in the fedora. “Told me. Stupid jackass.”
Jean gasped as Lou tossed the wallet on the ground. “That’s Bob’s,” she murmured.
“Get his things, lady,” the sheriff said.
Nervously she moved over at the feet of the men and picked up the wallet, the coins, the car keys.
“All right, where is he?” the sheriff asked. “And don’t waste my time!” he said angrily to the man in the fedora.
“Sheriff, I don’t know what you—” started the man.
The sheriff almost lunged forward. “So help me!” he raged. Tom threw up one arm and stepped back.
“I’ll tell you for a fact, Sheriff,” Lou broke in. “If I’d known this fella had his woman with him, I’d never’ve done it.”
Jean stared at the tall, ugly man, her teeth digging into her lower lip. Bob, Bob. Her mind kept saying his name.
“Where is he, I said,” the sheriff demanded.
“I’ll show you, I’ll show you,” Lou said. “I told you I never would’ve done it if I’d known his woman was with him.”
Again he turned to the man in the fedora. “Why’d you let him go in there?” he demanded. “Why? Answer me that?”
“Don’t know what he’s talkin’ about, Sheriff,” Tom said blandly. “Why, I—”
“Get on the road,” the sheriff ordered. “Both of you. You take us to him or you’re really in trouble. I’m followin’ you in the car. Don’t make any wrong move, not one.”
The car moved slowly behind the two walking men.
“I been after these boys for a year,” the sheriff told her. “They set themselves up a nice little system robbin’ men who come to the cafe, then dumpin’ them in the desert and sellin’ their car up north.”
Jean hardly heard what he was saying. She kept staring at the road ahead, her stomach tight, her hands pressed tightly together.
“Never knew how they worked it though,” the sheriff went on. “Never thought of the lavatory. Guess what they did was keep it locked for any man but one who was alone. They must’ve slipped up today. I guess Lou just jumped anyone who came in there. He’s not any too bright.”
“Do you think they—” Jean started hesitantly.
The sheriff hesitated. “I don’t know, lady. I wouldn’t think so. They ain’t that dumb. Besides we had cases like this before and they never hurt no one worse than a bump on the head.”
He honked the horn. “Come on, snap it up!” he called to the men.
“Are there snakes out there?” Jean asked.
The sheriff didn’t answer. He just pressed his mouth together and stepped on the accelerator so the men had to break into a trot to keep ahead of the bumper.
A few hundred yards further on, Lou turned off and started down a dirt road.
“Oh my God, where did they take him?” Jean asked.
“Should be right down here,” the sheriff said.
Then Lou pointed to a clump of trees and Jean saw their car. The sheriff stopped his coupe and they got out. “All right, where is he?” he asked.
Lou started across the broken desert ground. Jean k
ept feeling the need to break into a run. She had to tense herself to keep walking by the sheriff’s side. Their shoes crunched over the dry desert soil. She hardly felt the pebbles through her sandals, so intently was she studying the ground ahead.
“Ma’am,” Lou said, “I hope you won’t be too hard on me. If I’d known you was with him, I’d’ve never touched him.”
“Knock it off, Lou,” the sheriff said. “You’re both in up to your necks, so you might as well save your breath.”
Then Jean saw the body lying out on the sand, and with a sob she ran past the men, her heart pounding.
“Bob—”
She held his head in her lap, and when his eyes fluttered open, she felt as if the earth had been taken off her back.
He tried to smile, then winced at the pain. “I been hit,” he muttered.
Without a word, the tears came running down her cheeks. She helped him back to their car, and as she followed the sheriff’s car, she held tightly to Bob’s hand all the way back to town.
A Flourish of
Strumpets
One evening in October the doorbell rang.
Frank and Sylvia Gussett had just settled down to watch television. Frank put his gin and tonic on the table and stood. He walked into the hall and opened the door.
It was a woman.
“Good evening,” she said. “I represent the Exchange.”
“The Exchange?” Frank smiled politely.
“Yes,” said the woman. “We’re beginning an experimental program in this neighborhood. As to our service—”
Their service was a venerable one. Frank gaped.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Perfectly,” the woman said.
“But—good Lord, you can’t—come to our very houses and—and—that’s against the law! I can have you arrested!”
“Oh, you wouldn’t want to do that,” said the woman. She absorbed blouse-enhancing air.
“Oh, wouldn’t I?” said Frank and closed the door in her face.
He stood there breathing hard. Outside, he heard the sound of the woman’s spike heels clacking down the porch steps and fading off.
Frank stumbled into the living room.
“It’s unbelievable,” he said.
Sylvia looked up from the television set. “What is?” she asked.
He told her.
“What!” She rose from her chair, aghast.
They stood looking at each other a moment. Then Sylvia strode to the phone and picked up the receiver. She spun the dial and told the operator, “I want the police.”
“Strange business,” said the policeman who arrived a few minutes later.
“Strange indeed,” mused Frank.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” challenged Sylvia.
“Not much we can do right off, ma’am,” explained the policeman. “Nothing to go on.”
“But my description—” said Frank.
“We can’t go around arresting every woman we see in spike heels and a white blouse,” said the policeman. “If she comes back, you let us know. Probably just a sorority prank, though.”
“Perhaps he’s right,” said Frank when the patrol car had driven off.
Sylvia replied, “He’d better be.”
Strangest thing happened last night,” said Frank to Maxwell as they drove to work.
Maxwell snickered. “Yeah, she came to our house, too,” he said.
“She did?” Frank glanced over, startled, at his grinning neighbor.
“Yeah,” said Maxwell. “Just my luck the old lady had to answer the door.”
Frank stiffened. “We called the police,” he said.
“What for?” asked Maxwell. “Why fight it?”
Frank’s brow furrowed. “You mean you—don’t think it was a sorority girl prank?” he asked.
“Hell, no, man,” said Maxwell, “it’s for real.” He began to sing:
I’m just a poor little
door-to-door whore;
A want-to-be-good
But misunderstood . . .
“What on earth?” asked Frank.
“Heard it at a stag party,” said Maxwell. “Guess this isn’t the first town they’ve hit.”
“Good Lord,” muttered Frank, blanching.
“Why not?” asked Maxwell. “It was just a matter of time. Why should they let all that home trade go to waste?”
“That’s execrable,” declared Frank.
“Hell it is,” said Maxwell. “It’s progress.”
The second one came that night; a black-root blonde, slit-skirted and sweatered to within an inch of her breathing life.
“Hel-lo, honey,” she said when Frank opened the door. “The name’s Janie. Interested?”
Frank stood rigid to the heels. “I—” he said.
“Twenty-three and fancy free,” said Janie.
Frank shut the door, quivering.
“Again?” asked Sylvia as he tottered back.
“Yes,” he mumbled.
“Did you get her address and phone number so we can tell the police?”
“I forgot,” he said.
“Oh!” Sylvia stamped her mule. “You said you were going to.”
“I know.” Frank swallowed. “Her name was—Janie.”
“That’s a big help,” Sylvia said. She shivered. “Now what are we going to do?”
Frank shook his head.
“Oh, this is monstrous,” she said. “That we should be exposed to such—” She trembled with fury.
Frank embraced her. “Courage,” he whispered.
“I’ll get a dog,” she said. “A vicious one.”
“No, no,” he said, “we’ll call the police again. They’ll simply have to station someone out here.”
Sylvia began to cry. “It’s monstrous,” she sobbed, “that’s all.”
“Monstrous,” he agreed.
What’s that you’re humming?” she asked at breakfast.
He almost spewed out whole wheat toast.
“Nothing,” he said, choking. “Just a song I heard.”
She patted him on the back. “Oh.”
He left the house, mildly shaken. It is monstrous, he thought.
That morning, Sylvia bought a sign at a hardware store and hammered it into the front lawn. It read NO SOLICITING. She underlined the SOLICITING. Later she went out again and underlined the underline.
Came right to your door, you say?” asked the FBI man Frank phoned from the office.
“Right to the door,” repeated Frank, “bold as you please.”
“My, my,” said the FBI man. He clucked.
“Notwithstanding,” said Frank sternly, “the police have refused to station a man in our neighborhood.”
“I see,” said the FBI man.
“Something has got to be done,” declared Frank. “This is a gross invasion of privacy.”
“It certainly is,” said the FBI man, “and we will look into the matter, never fear.”
After Frank had hung up, he returned to his bacon sandwich and thermos of buttermilk.
“I’m just a poor little—” he had sung before catching himself. Shocked, he totted figures the remainder of his lunch hour.
The next night it was a perky brunette with a blouse front slashed to forever.
“No!” said Frank in a ringing voice.
She wiggled sumptuously. “Why?” she asked.
“I do not have to explain myself to you!” he said and shut the door, heart pistoning against his chest.
Then he snapped his fingers and opened the door again. The brunette turned, smiling.
“Changed your mind, honey?” she asked.
“No. I mean yes,” said Frank, eyes narrowing. “What’s your address?”
The brunette looked mildly accusing.
“Now, honey,” she said. “You wouldn’t be trying to get me in trouble, would you?”
“She wouldn’t tell me,” he said dismally when he returned to the living
room.
Sylvia looked despairing. “I phoned the police again,” she said.
“And—?”
“And nothing. There’s the smell of corruption in this.”
Frank nodded gravely. “You’d better get that dog,” he said. He thought of the brunette. “A big one,” he added.
Wowee, that Janie,” said Maxwell.
Frank downshifted vigorously and yawed around a corner on squealing tires. His face was adamantine.
Maxwell clapped him on the shoulder.
“Aw, come off it, Frankie-boy,” he said, “you’re not fooling me any. You’re no different from the rest of us.”
“I’ll have no part in it,” declared Frank, “and that’s all there is to it.”
“So keep telling that to the Mrs.,” said Maxwell. “But get in a few kicks on the side like the rest of us. Right?”
“Wrong,” said Frank. “All wrong. No wonder the police can’t do anything. I’m probably the only willing witness in town.”
Maxwell guffawed.
It was a raven-haired, limp-lidded vamp that night. On her outfit spangles moved and glittered at strategic points.
“Hel-lo, honey lamb,” she said. “My name’s—”
“What have you done with our dog?” challenged Frank.
“Why, nothing, honey, nothing,” she said. “He’s just off getting acquainted with my poodle Winifred. Now about us—”
Frank shut the door without a word and waited until the twitching had eased before returning to Sylvia and television.
Semper, by God oh God, he thought as he put on his pajamas later, fidelis.
The next two nights they sat in the darkened living room and, as soon as the woman rang the doorbell, Sylvia phoned the police.
“Yes,” she whispered, furiously, “they’re right out there now. Will you please send a patrol car this instant?”
Both nights the patrol car arrived after the women had gone.
“Complicity,” muttered Sylvia as she daubed on cold cream. “Plain out-and-out complicity.”
Frank ran cold water over his wrists.
That day Frank phoned city and state officials who promised to look into the matter.