“For God’s sake, Reuben—”
“Honey—”
“I want you to!”
“No, but—”
“I think you could put out the fire—once and for all—”
He held her tight to make her stop. “Think, Grace,” he pleaded. “You don’t want us to make a baby. That’s not what you want to do.”
“Oh, my dear.” She cupped his face in her hands, and the sudden sad tenderness in her eyes startled and confounded him. “My sweet Reuben. I promise you, we can’t make a baby. It’s not possible.”
He was burning for her, but he made himself say doggedly, “You can’t always go by what day of the month it is, sweetheart.”
“I know that.” She touched his lips lightly with hers, murmuring, “It won’t happen. Believe me. Love me, Reuben, make love to me.” Her mouth opened and she slipped her tongue between his lips, tickling the roof of his mouth.
His hold on her tightened and she fell back, back, pulling him on top of her, twining her legs around him again. “Yes,” she kept saying to everything he did. “Oh, God, Reuben. There, right there, right—yes.” Then she said a couple of words a nice Catholic girl shouldn’t know, and it tumbled him over the edge. He hooked his hands around her shoulders and pumped into her, his jaws grinding, body hunching, suffering the force swelling and gathering inside until he couldn’t hold anymore and he exploded. He called out her name in the intense heat of the moment, pounding into her helplessly. It went on and on, and when it was over he wanted more. Impossible; there was nothing left. How could he be this empty and feel this complete? Grace had her face turned to the side; her wild hair hid her expression. By slow degrees all his muscles gave out, and he sank down onto her as gently as he could.
She wasn’t moving. No idle, exhausted hand stroked his back, no grateful lips nuzzled his skin. He rested for a minute, listening to her breathing, which was soft and steady. Then he rolled to his side, taking her with him.
With their heads on the pillow, foreheads touching, he had to confess. “I, uh, sort of forgot about you at the end there, Gus. Was it okay? Did you, um … did you …” She just stared at him with her eyebrows raised, not helping. “Did you come?” he asked bluntly.
She seemed to think it over. Then she smiled a slow, lazy smile, sexy and mysterious. “Maybe. I’ll let you know in a minute.” She snickered at his tortured-sounding groan and burrowed deeper into the crook of his arm.
He grinned up at the ceiling, hugely relieved. He knew a satisfied woman when he felt one, and Grace had that sack-of-potatoes heft to her that meant all was well. “It was good, wasn’t it?” he gloated. In fact, it had never been better, at least for him. Maybe he’d absorbed some of the Godfather’s aphrodisiac, he thought whimsically. From her skin to his.
Grace caught his hairy thigh between her knees and gave it a squeeze, at the same time she pressed a kiss to his left nipple. “My shtarker,” she said on a yawn.
He chuckled. Some kind of strange, exhausted energy was filling him; he felt like talking—he had a hundred things to say. But when he looked down, he saw that she’d already fallen asleep, with her head on his shoulder. He kissed her, and whispered something he’d never said to anyone before. But he was safe. Even if she heard, she wouldn’t understand what he’d said, because he’d whispered it in a foreign language.
13
Nobuddy ever fergits where he buried a hatchet.
—Kin Hubbard
HIS FIRST HINT WAS the smell—a fresh, raw, grapey stab to the nose that made him afraid, at first, that a bottle of wine had burst. Maybe the Gewurztraminer from that phony Swiss vintner in Monterey he’d never trusted anyway, he had time to speculate in the second it took to pull the key out of the lock and push the door wide open. Even then, with the proof of it in front of him, around him, even behind him on the back of the door, Reuben’s brain couldn’t take it in.
Catastrophe.
He registered the broken, upended furniture and the ripped curtains, the crockery in pieces on the kitchen floor, the sofa spilling its cottony insides out on the slashed rug, the smoking remains of his desk— they must’ve burned it when they couldn’t open it. Finally the significance of the plum-colored stains on every wall penetrated the barriers of confusion he’d thrown up for protection, and he knew it was gone, all gone, every bottle in his collection. His Rieslings and Chardonnays, his Hermitage Syrahs, the Rülander Auslesen—smithereens. Madeiras and sherrys and muscats, pooling in fruity puddles at the bottom of the stairs. Sauvignons, the Trentino Gewurztraminer, all the Beaujolais, the Pinot Gris, the Pinot Noirs, all the Cabernets—gone, all gone, everything smashed to fragments against the four walls of his apartment.
His knees felt weak; he’d have sat down on the floor, except there was broken glass everywhere. He stumbled forward and saw the note pinned to the newel post.
Dear Reuben,
We are very disappointed on account of you having turned out to be a snake and a liar. I personally am deeply hurt, having thought you were on the square. My brother Jefferson says you are lower than snail slime, and I feel likewise. The boys think you don’t deserve a warning, but I am a benevolent person. Here is the warning: If we see you again, we will kill you.
Sincerely yours,
Lincoln Croaker
He pulled his watch from his pocket and flicked it open. Eleven o’clock. The time they’d agreed on for the payment was ten. One thing you could say about Lincoln, he was a stickler for punctuality.
Thinking about what else would’ve gotten smashed if he’d been on time—his head, for instance; many of his bones—finally got Reuben moving. He took the stairs two at a time, and saw without surprise as he passed his bedroom door that they’d trashed that room, too. The bathroom was the least vandalized, probably because everything in it was nailed down; the Croakers had contented themselves with shattering the mirror over the sink and pulling the toiletries off the shelves. In fear and dread, he closed the w.c. lid and stepped up on it. The heavy enamel cover over the water tank looked undisturbed. He shoved it sideways and peeked inside. “Yes! Stupid, ignorant bastards, blockhead sons of bitches,” he muttered, full of gladness and belated wrath as he reached in and pulled out his most precious possession: his bottle of Dom Perignon Premiere Cuvee, 1882. Perfect and unscathed. And taped next to it were the two twenty-dollar gold eagles he’d stashed here long ago for emergencies.
Closer inspection of the debacle of his bedroom revealed that Lincoln and the boys had exercised uncharacteristic restraint when they’d sacked it: everything Reuben owned was in shreds, while everything of Grace’s was perfect. He found the traveling case Henri—Henry, rather; Henry the non-husband—had sent Grace with her clothes, and stuffed it with a hasty selection of skirt, shirtwaist, underwear, stockings, and shoes.
Downstairs, he found an unbroken pencil amid the wreckage, and wrote a note to Mrs. Finney on the back of an untorn envelope. He put one of the twenty-dollar gold pieces inside, and set it on top of the newel post. With a last doleful look around—brief, though; if he lingered, he was afraid he’d burst into tears—he said good-bye to the house he’d lived in for almost a year, a record for him, and walked out.
Nobody suspicious-looking was loitering around the Bunyon Arms. Nobody Chinese and suspicious-looking, that was; the denizens of this neighborhood looked more or less unsavory at all times, though less so at this early hour than they would later on in the day. The same white-haired clerk was manning the front desk, with the same diligence and attention to detail. Reuben walked past him without disturbing his rest, and went upstairs.
“Who is it?” called Grace when he tapped at the door.
Various corny, flirtatious answers occurred to him. Since he didn’t know her mood yet—she’d been dead to the world and unwakeable when he’d left—he answered prosaically, “Reuben.”
The key turned in the lock. He waited, but the door didn’t open. After a few seconds, he let himself in.
She w
as all the way across the room already, busy at the washstand, splashing and washing, wringing and drying. She had her yellow-robed back to him, and she threw a quick “Morning” over her shoulder without turning her head enough for him to see her face.
“Morning,” he hazarded, setting the traveling bag down on the bed. “Brought you some clothes.”
“Oh? I was wondering mfpgwhg.”
“Pardon?”
She took the wet towel away from her face. “I wondered where you went,” she said to the wall, and went back to splashing.
“Ah. Well, that’s where I went, all right. Home to get you some clothes.” The rest was too painful to speak of yet; he’d tell her in a minute. He stood with his hands in his pockets in the center of the room, watching her repetitive-looking ablutions, pondering his next conversational sally. Nothing seemed safe enough; even “How are you feeling?” was freighted, if you thought about it, with meanings and implications and complications he didn’t care to get into right now.
Maybe he’d dreamed last night. That would explain why Grace was treating him with all the warmth and friendliness of a bus conductor. He was dying to know what the night had meant to her, if anything. It had meant something to him, although he hadn’t had time to figure out exactly what. The most amazing part was this extremely strange gladness he had inside. His world had just gone to hell: he had nowhere to live, five American and who knew how many Chinese men were trying to kill him, his possessions had shrunk to twenty dollars and a bottle of champagne—and yet he couldn’t remember, drunk or sober, ever being this happy. His body and mind felt right with each other for a change, and his spirit, whatever that was, felt comfortable. He was a contented man.
Mornings after were always difficult, he reminded himself. This one went beyond difficult; but then, last night hadn’t exactly been routine as far as first-time lovemaking experiences went. What had it meant to Grace? What did she think of him now? Was she ever going to let him touch her again? Was she ever going to stop washing?
They weren’t the kind of people who talked much about their feelings, he supposed. Usually that was fine with him; women were much too keen, in Reuben’s experience, on mulling and classifying and categorizing every little speck of information once a relationship got interesting, interesting meaning physical. Right now, though, just this once, he wouldn’t have minded a quick, candid conversation in which everything got said and settled, so they could get on with being … whatever it was they were going to be to each other.
“Would you mind going out of the room while I dress?”
He stared at her. “Say that again?” He cupped his ear humorously.
Not a trace of a smile crossed her face. She put her hands on her hips, belligerent. “I’d like some privacy. Is that too much to ask?”
She was trying to pick a fight! Well, she wouldn’t get one out of him. “Of course not,” he said solicitously, walking to the window. “I’ll stand here with my back to the room—how’s that? I’m afraid it might not be safe out in the hall, Grace. Is this all right?” She made a hostile, frustrated sound, presumably of assent. While he waited, idly scanning the street below, a fantasy came into his head. In it, he spun around and grabbed her, lifted her up in the air by her narrow waist, and gave her a big, joyful, smacking kiss between her breasts. She shrieked at first, then started to laugh. He held her tight and said, something perfect—affectionate but not binding—and she agreed with him. They fell on the bed in a heap and made noisy, athletic love.
That’s the way it was supposed to be. So why wouldn’t she talk to him? What the hell was going on in that complicated female head?
Many things. Not the least of them was the realization that her body felt as if a train had run over and pulverized it. Everything ached, including her hair. She imagined this must be how circus acrobats felt after the last show. Bad acrobats, the ones who’d let themselves go. Looking at herself in the mirror over the washstand had taken an act of personal courage, and she still cringed at the memory of barbaric hair, bloodshot eyes, pasty skin where it wasn’t chapped and livid from Reuben’s beard stubble, funny little bruises on her neck whose origins she remembered perfectly. The fact that he looked disgustingly fit and well-rested only darkened her mood.
Taking him at his word, she threw off the hated yellow dressing gown and began to struggle into her clothes, keeping a wary eye on his back. He hadn’t forgotten anything in the unmentionables department, she noticed sourly as she pulled her white lawn chemise over her head. Which just went to show. His nonchalant posture annoyed her, she wasn’t sure why. She’d been hoping he would come back and act as if nothing much had happened, and that’s exactly what he was doing. Now that annoyed her, too. Did he think last night’s goings-on were an ordinary occurrence for her? A bit more intense than usual, maybe, because of the circumstances, but still, the sort of thing she was pretty much used to? Well, damn him for a horse’s behind if he did!
She yanked a silk stocking over her knee and anchored it with a garter. She already knew what he thought of her morals; he’d made it plain that night he’d kissed her outside in his backyard and then wondered what “game” she was playing when she wouldn’t jump into bed with him. Last night’s bizarre chain of events could only have reinforced his opinion.
Well, so what? What did she care? She hadn’t done anything wrong, it was all because of the drug. Everything was the drug’s fault. She only had one regret, really, when all was said and done, only one thing she wished that she, on her end, could take back. She wished she hadn’t said, “Let’s make love in bed,” last night in the heat of the moment. And later, “Love me, Reuben, make love to me.” Love, it went without saying, had nothing to do with it, not for her and certainly not for him. She just wished she’d been more precise in her choice of words. She just wished …
Oh, who was she kidding? The truth was, she was scared to death. Last night—God, just thinking about it had her face hot and her hands trembling. All that wantonness, all that need, and the worst was knowing, deep down, that Wing’s drug wasn’t even responsible for it. Not all of it, anyway. Her passion for Reuben had come burning up from a much stronger, natural fire inside herself. She hadn’t needed the Godfather’s aphrodisiac except for an excuse. A scapegoat.
Even so, she wasn’t ashamed of herself for wanting Reuben. By some miracle, in spite of everything her stepparents had done to teach her that sex was dirty and disgusting, the lesson had never quite sunk in. So she could admit without shame that she’d been attracted to Reuben from the moment they’d met. Sex wasn’t complicated, it wasn’t a sin, and it wasn’t what scared her.
What scared her was the possibility that she was falling in love. Horrible, awful, perverted curse, absolutely out of the question! Hadn’t she had enough of abandonment and loss and disillusionment to last a lifetime? By God, she wouldn’t put herself on the line again, ever, for anyone, especially not for a man like Reuben Jones. Reuben Jones! Out of all the men in the whole world, why did she have to fall for one who was even crookeder than she was? Was it a joke? God’s idea of a good time, something to chuckle over when things got dull up in—
“Holy shit.”
She jerked her head up, fingers freezing on a jet button at the back of the rose tulle shirtwaist he’d brought, to go with her black taffeta skirt. How had he known they went together? What kind of man knew such things? “What—?” she began, when he whirled, and the look on his face stopped her heart. He lunged for her and started to pull her toward the door. “Reuben, wait, my—”
“Tom Fun’s down there with another guy, pointing at the building. Come on, Gus, they’ve found us!” She jerked out of his grasp and ran back for her shoes—she wasn’t going to run around Chinatown barefooted a second time. “Come on.” He grabbed her again and yanked her out the door. She let him pull her along the hall, hopping on one foot, holding her second shoe in her hand. “Not that way,” he muttered when she started toward the front stairs. “Back way—thi
s way. Hurry!”
A set of servants’ stairs from the Bunyon Arms’ long-dead past led down to the first floor and, more important, the door to the alley behind the building. Grace got her second shoe on and finished buttoning her blouse while Reuben scouted the alley. From the intersection with the street to the left, he motioned to her that the coast was clear; she darted out of the building and ran toward him.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they went along, walking fast, craning their necks to look behind them every few feet. The narrow street was quiet and almost empty, except for one drunken sailor winding his way toward them.
“North, I hope. Away from Chinatown.”
They reached the corner. “Then we’re going the wrong way.” She skidded to a halt, pointing to the street sign on the side of the building they’d just passed. It was in Chinese.
Before they could turn, a man trotted around the corner from the right, silent in cork-soled sandals. When he saw them, he stopped in his tracks, looking as startled as they did. He grinned nervously and shuffled closer. When Reuben tensed and tried to pull Grace behind him, the man threw up his hands, palms out. “Mean no harm!” he assured them, and stayed where he was. He was an unlikely-looking hatchet man, chubby and jolly-looking, bald except for a black fringe in back from ear to ear. Grace thought he looked like an Oriental Friar Tuck, only smaller.
“Anything we can do for you?” Reuben asked him, holding her hand.
He bowed without taking his eyes off them. “Have message. Mean no harm,” he repeated, smiling.
“What’s the message?”
“Message is, Kai Yee not want anyone to die,” he said carefully, as if reciting a poem he’d memorized. “Kai Yee only want lady. Say come, treat good, nobody hurt.” He grinned and bowed some more, waiting for applause.