The Cunning

  Be not afraid. Go forth, go forth!

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Irene hadn’t touched her drink. She couldn’t; even with the help on duty, there was so much to do. Lulu and Sylvia were dears, but they kept getting in the way. Why didn’t they just go and sit down with their husbands?

  And where were their husbands? Irene glanced around until she spotted Warren, talking to Roy Crile. Good. Now what about Homer Owens? He was over near the bar, getting a drink for Dolly Gluck, and that was good too. Tom and Jerry got their own drinks—every time she looked they seemed to be asking for refills. Not so good. Or maybe it was. After all, she wanted everyone to enjoy themselves. Carrie Humphreys was sitting near the cocktail table, reaching for the appetizers.

  Irene glanced at the tray, then moved to Mick in the kitchen doorway. “I think we could use some more of that shrimp dip,” she said.

  Mick nodded. “Will do.” He turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Why don’t you just relax?” Sylvia said. “You haven’t sat down once since we got here.”

  “In a minute.” Irene’s eyes traveled to the far corner of the room. There was Joe, standing with Ed Brice. Fine. She needn’t worry about anyone for the moment; all present and accounted for. She turned to smile at Sylvia and Lulu.

  “Sylvia’s right,” Lulu was saying. “You ought to take it easy.”

  Irene nodded and followed the two women to the grouping overlooking the patio. Sitting there she could still keep her eye on things—Gibby working at the bar, Mick bringing in fresh dip, Joe and Ed Brice. She wondered what they were talking about.

  Nothing. There was nothing to talk about, Ed made sure of that. Nobody was going to make him show his hand. So when Joe Marks came up, he refused to be drawn out.

  “How you doing?”

  “Fine. Just fine.”

  “Sure I can’t get you something? There’s some snacks over there on the table—”

  “Later.”

  And all the while he was listening to Joe Marks’ voice, trying to place it. There was something about him that rang a bell. Faces change with the years, but the voice is the last to go, and Ed knew that voice from somewhere. He was sure of it now. Maybe if he kept listening it would come to him.

  So he was grateful when Warren moved up to them.

  “Can I freshen your drink for you?” Marks said.

  “In a minute.” Warren paused uncertainly, glancing around the room. Something biting him, no doubt about it; even Joe Marks could see that. Ed stepped back, making sure he kept within earshot, as the two men spoke.

  “Looking for your wife?” Marks was saying. “She’s over there with Irene and Mrs. Owens.”

  “I know.” Warren nodded. “Mrs. Owens—she’s the lady from back east, isn’t she?”

  “Guess so.” Joe Marks smiled at him. “Tell the truth, I’m not really acquainted with my wife’s friends.”

  “Looks like we’re in the same boat then. The older I get, the harder it is to establish an identity for anyone at first meeting. Society is becoming too homogenized.”

  Ed listened carefully as Joe Marks answered.

  “Not homogenized,” he said. “Americanized. Everybody dressing and talking the same. When I was a kid you could usually label people by nationality.”

  I can still spot a Jewboy when I see one, Ed told himself. But said nothing, waiting for Warren’s reply.

  “Maybe there was something to be said for ethnic stereotypy at that,” Warren murmured. “At least it gave you some kind of label to hang on strangers, however inaccurate the process may have been.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Joe Marks said. “Remember how it was in the funny papers? The Dutchman wore wooden shores, the German smoked one of those fancy meerschaum pipes, the Englishman had a monocle.”

  “Right.” Warren nodded again. “Frenchmen were called Frogs and had pointed goatees. Italians all had mustaches and kept saying Sapristi. Hindus called you Sahib and Africans called you Bwana, and the Japanese didn’t call you anything—they just smiled and bowed a lot. As for the Bolsheviks, God only knows what they were up to over there.”

  “And nobody cared,” Joe Marks said. “We had Uncle Sam to protect us.”

  Here it comes, Ed thought. The party line.

  “You know, I kind of miss the old bastard. Used to see him around all the time. Rolling up his sleeves to fight the Depression. Pointing his finger and telling you to enlist. What do you suppose happened to him, anyway?”

  “Good question.” Warren shrugged. “Maybe he got blown up during nuclear testing. Or just choked to death in the pollution. Perhaps he’s buried away somewhere inside the Pentagon, sitting in a back room at a little desk and writing reports to the politicians—reports that nobody ever reads.”

  Damn it, enough is enough! Ed Brice felt himself flushing, heard himself burst out.

  “I’m tired of hearing what’s wrong with our country. I’d like to hear what’s right for a change.”

  “Maybe we’re all tired,” Warren said. “But being tired is no excuse for avoiding unpleasant truths. And the truth is that there are millions upon millions of people in this country who are worse than merely tired—they’re hungry, diseased, unable to cope—”

  “Too much bureaucracy,” Joe Marks nodded. “Too damned many rules and regulations.”

  “How do you expect to run the government without them?” Ed said. “That’s what laws are for.”

  “Laws are for the benefit of the governed, not the government. And they’re not doing the job.” Warren frowned. “Look at the mess we’re in right now, tearing ourselves apart over politics.”

  “Maybe we need another war,” Ed murmured. “Trouble is, we’re getting too soft. A good war would pull this country together.”

  Warren shook his head. “There are some people who think that war brings out the best in man. Personally, I believe that distinction is reserved for laxatives.”

  Joe Marks guffawed.

  Ed’s fingers curled into fists as Warren turned and walked away. He was conscious of Joe Marks’ eyes upon him but he didn’t give a damn. Maybe Marks thought it was funny, this kind of smart-ass talk. About time somebody set him straight.

  “Let me tell you something, mister—” Ed began.

  “Excuse me!”

  Carrie Humphreys’ voice. Ed recognized it and turned, but she wasn’t talking to him. The old lady had her hand on Joe’s arm.

  “Can I have a word with you for a minute?” she said.

  “Certainly.”

  Marks looked puzzled, but a glance at Carrie’s grim expression told him nothing.

  “Where can we go?”

  “Come with me.”

  Joe Marks led her off, down the hall, and Ed saw them disappear into the den.

  What the hell was going on here?

  Ignoring Warren, Ed turned and followed them. He halted just short of the den doorway and stood leaning against the wall, gazing back into the living room as though surveying the party scene. Actually he was intent only on the muted voices issuing from the den.

  Carrie’s voice, “—recognized him the minute I came in.”

  And Joe Marks. “Thanks for telling me. But I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “You don’t understand! I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Humphreys—those things happen. And from what you say, it was just carelessness.”

  “Maybe so. But I felt it was my duty to warn you. With that kind you never know. Why, he might have killed him!”

  Ed Brice scowled. Killed him? Who were they talking about?

  He didn’t know, but one thing was for sure, his hunch was correct. Something about this whole setup wasn’t kosher. And he could swear he knew Joe Marks from somewhere. Not the face, but that rasping voice—

  “Pardon me.”

  Ed looked up, startled, as someone brushed past him. It was the Gluck woman, smiling at him, carrying a drink in either hand.
She moved through the doorway into the den.

  Was she in on this too?

  Maybe he’d better take the bull by the horns. Should he follow her?

  As he hesitated, Irene Marks came down the hall.

  “Mr. Brice—there you are! I’ve been looking for you.”

  Ed blinked at her.

  “Come along,” she said. “I want to introduce you to some friends of mine.” And before he could think of an excuse, she was leading him away from the hall, back into the living room.

  By God, maybe they were all in on it!

  But whatever it was, he was going to get to the bottom of it before the night was over.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Dolly hadn’t realized it would be such a hassle.

  But every time she looked around, Joe Marks was on the move—getting drinks for this one or that, talking to one guest or another, doing the whole host schtik. There just wasn’t any way of getting next to him.

  Then she got the bright idea of wandering over in his direction with an empty glass in her hand; maybe he’d get the message and offer to bring her a refill.

  Only it was the big clown who spotted her, Homer Owens. He had to play Mr. Nice and get her another drink, so she was stuck with him. Him and his cornball routine, strictly a nothing, giving out with some line about the parties they used to have back in Podunk or wherever the hell he came from.

  All the time he was zeroing in on her cleavage, while she kept an eye out for Joe Marks. And when she saw him going into the den with Carrie Humphreys, that did it.

  Lucky for her, Homer’s wife came over to join him, and this was a good chance to excuse herself and go to the john. Only she didn’t go; she went up to the bar instead and asked the big guy—Gibby, was that his name?—for two tall ones. Vodka Collins, with the good stuff, Smirnoff, 100 proof. That ought to do it.

  Then she headed down the hall to the den.

  Joe and Carrie were standing near the door when she came in and she gave them the big salute.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said.

  “Not at all.” Joe Marks smiled at her; he actually looked relieved. Whatever the old bat had cornered him about, he was glad to be rescued, and she’d counted on that.

  Carrie Humphreys gave her a dirty look, but she ignored it, holding out a glass. “Here you are,” she said. “Irene asked me to bring you this.”

  “But I don’t drink—”

  Dolly nodded. “So she told me. But she thought you might like some lemonade.”

  “Speaking of drinks,” Joe said. “Maybe I’d better go check on the liquor supply. If you’ll excuse me—”

  Dolly hadn’t counted on that. “Must you? We haven’t had a chance to talk all evening.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “Promise?” Dolly tipped him a wink.

  She wasn’t quite sure he got it, but he did nod. “Only be a minute.”

  Then he was gone and she was stuck with the Humphreys bag. Carrie was sipping her drink.

  “All right?” Dolly said.

  “Very refreshing.”

  “Good. Why don’t you go sit down and take a load off your feet?”

  “Maybe I will, just for a minute.” Carrie lowered herself into an armchair, and Dolly heard the thunk of sagging springs.

  “I meant in the living room,” Dolly said.

  “It’s too noisy out there.” Carrie settled back, raising her glass again.

  Dolly hesitated. Now what? The idea of distracting the old battle-axe with a drink had backfired. But there was no percentage in following Joe Marks and trying to corner him out there in the crowd. If she was going to score any points with him it would have to be with the two of them alone. Even if she could manage to steer him into one of the bedrooms, that was too risky at this stage of the game. So the only logical place was still right here in the den. Right here, if she could only figure a way to get rid of Carrie. My God, look at her now—all she’s had is half a shot and she’s taking off her shoes—

  “Oh, that feels good!” Carrie rubbed her ankles, the flushed features relaxing in relief. Then she raised her glass again and drank.

  Dolly’s fingers tightened around the untouched glass in her own hand. And then, staring at Carrie’s swollen feet, the answer came to her.

  “Comfy?” she said.

  “Yes, thanks. I think I’ll just sit for a while.”

  “Good, you do that.” Dolly moved toward the doorway.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back.”

  And she was as good as her word. It only took her a moment to return with Lulu Owens in tow. But now Dolly’s drink was in Lulu’s hand.

  Just one of those happy inspirations. The sight of Carrie’s feet had reminded her of Lulu’s too-tight patent-leather shoes. The whole thing worked like a charm, too—Lulu’s shoes came off and her drink went down while the two of them yacked up a storm. In a little while Dolly suggested having another lemonade and fetched the refills for them. And after that, it was only a question of time. Sure, it meant putting off getting together with Joe, but the night was young. And her chance would come, once she got Carrie off her back.

  Or onto it.

  Dolly made a point of circulating in the living room and leaving the shoeless slobs alone with their lemonade. She talked to Irene for a while and made an effort to seek out Tom and Jerry, but they were busy lapping up the lemonade themselves and didn’t seem to want company. Joe Marks she avoided, and also Warren Clark, though she knew that he was eyeing her across the room from time to time. Dolly wanted no part of him any more, even if his wife wasn’t around—but she was, sitting with Roy Crile and that old futz, Ed Brice. Something out of whack there, the two of them staying clear of each other like that, but it wasn’t her problem.

  Her problem was in the den, and she knew just how to handle it. After another twenty minutes or so Dolly went back to the bar and picked up two more drinks. She caught Gibby giving her kind of a funny look—maybe he was catching on to what she was up to—but what the hell, it was none of his business. He wouldn’t say anything. And if she’d guessed right, she wasn’t going to be bothering him again.

  The third time was the charm. Carrie lying on the sofa wheezing like a walrus, and Lulu lurching into the bathroom off the den to puke.

  That’s when Dolly hurried out and found Homer Owens. He was talking to Joe Marks, but he broke off in mid-sentence when he saw the look on her face.

  “Maybe you’d better come with me,” she said. “Your wife—”

  It wasn’t necessary to say any more. As they were going down the hall, Homer could hear the sounds coming from behind the bathroom door, and the rest was easy.

  Of course Irene was upset, but somehow Dolly managed to fade into the background and let Homer take over. She couldn’t have hoped for better if she’d written the dialogue for him herself. Nothing to get excited about, these things happen, no, never mind the coffee, I think I’d better take her home and put her to bed.

  And, best of all—don’t worry about Mrs. Humphreys, I’ll drop her off on the way. Sure you can make it? That’s fine, get the other shoe on—there, now just lean on me—here we go—easy—yes, I’ve got your purse right here—

  The whole thing took a little over five minutes. And then they were out the door, the excitement died down, everybody relaxed and started talking about something else again.

  Everybody but Warren Clark. Dolly caught him staring at her across the room and wondered if he was thinking what she was thinking; that this was just a replay of what had happened to her this noon.

  So let him think. Lucky for her it had happened, because that’s how she got the idea of how to handle Carrie in the first place. Anyway, it was all over now.

  Dolly glanced at her watch and was pleasantly surprised to see that it was just ten o’clock. Still plenty of time to make her move with Joe Marks, and there wouldn’t be any interference now.

&nbsp
; The coast was clear.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Pigs. That’s what they were—pigs. Fat pig-slobs, grunting and gobbling, squealing and snorting.

  Reminded Mick of when he was a kid, helping the old man butcher hogs in the pen behind the ranch house. That’s how they sounded when he prodded them down the runway with a pole, easing them one at a time through the chute until they came out the other end. That’s where the old man was waiting with the mallet. Then—pow!—right behind the neck. And all the while the rest of them kept on snuffling and slurping back in the pen, like nothing was happening. Hogs didn’t give a damn as long as they got slopped regular.

  Like these pigs here, going after the appetizers. He couldn’t seem to put out the trays fast enough—seemed like he’d spent the whole evening just running back and forth to the kitchen.

  His feet were like killing him, but the worst part was the way the muscles in his face ached from having to smile. “More of the little crackers? Yes ma’am, coming right up, be back in a minute.”

  Out in the kitchen it was better, quieter anyhow, but even there Mrs. Marks kept after him, checking to see if they had enough dip left, and how about the cheese slices and was he sure the truck with the hot stuff would get here on time. Old bitches were all alike—only thing that worried them was feeding their fat faces.

  Then back to the living room, the pig sty. Goddam, he’d cut out from the ranch because he hated hogs, hated them almost as much as he hated the old man. And here he was, back into the whole scene again. Pigs, wheezing and chomping away. Pigs that looked like the old man. Outside of the flies and the smell, nothing was any different.

  The smell here was straight hundred proof. Gibby had his hands full at the bar, too; hands full of bottles and jiggers and little paper doilies. Swizzle sticks and ice and bitters. Green olives, maraschino cherries and onions for—what the hell did they call those?—Gibsons. Christ, what difference did it make what kind of garbage you put into the glasses as long as the shots were strong? All the pigs really wanted was a good stiff belt.

  And Gibby was giving it to them.

  Mick was satisfied to see him carrying out orders—theirs and his. Because the more they got smashed, the easier it was going to be to smash them. Pow!—just like the pigs.