Chapter 4
Farley Brock zipped up his briefcase and hurried down the stairs, without bothering to wait for the elevator. One of his "people" had Just called him to report that Howard Hardin had come back to town to pick up some things. He had to see Hardin, had to see him in any event.
Hardin had divorced his wife. She hadn't given him much opposition, once all the Juicy scandal came out. He had also lost his Job at the bank, and how he was going to live or get another well-paying Job was a matter of speculation. But Farley wasn't concerned with Hardin's personal problems. He was only concerned with his undeniable link to Sue Sills, and the whole, stinking frame-up.
He wove impatiently through downtown traffic, and got onto the expressway leading to upper Norfolk. Traffic whizzed and whined past him, cars full of happy, bland faces-sun-tanned faces that constituted traffic headed toward the beach. Funny, he thought; he'd just seen a nice kid go to jail for something she hadn't done, and in a way it had all started at the beach. Only she hadn't left that beach refreshed-no. The more he thought of Hardin, and the more he fought traffic, the angrier he became. Anger was Farley's ultimate weapon against himself. He bristled at being called an idealist or a dreamer or a knight in shining, legal armor-he'd seen too many fine lawyers windup at the bottom of a bottle or worse, deluded, disenchanted men who helplessly shook their fists at the unthinking machinery of justice. So he got angry.
"Bastards," he muttered, "whyn't you learn to drive?" Finally the exit came up and he dodged into the right lane, causing several dozen horns to honk in wild despair. He laughed. If you smack me from behind, it's your fault, creep, and with this in mind, he cut off another lane of traffic going up the ramp. When he got onto Jasmine Avenue, he drove more sedately, until he pulled in' front of Hardin's brownstone, the kind Norfolk people live in during the winter months, sitting in the old-style gloom waiting for summer and the house down at the beach. But Hardin didn't have that much dough, he knew. And his wife hadn't shared a dime of the first of her relatives' legacy, even before the divorce.
Sue had been in jail three months now.
Three months of suffering for her, three months of impotent rage for him, three months of poring over books and talking to judges and what the hell, he was getting nowhere. If Hardin didn't come across with something good, something real good like maybe even the truth (come off it, Brock!), he was going to break his head open. It wouldn't accomplish anything but much-needed release for his frustrations, but it would be better than nothing at all.
He rang the bell, and a Negro woman wearing a black satin dress and white apron answered, "I'd like to see Mr., Hardin, please." He stood there, watched a thousand tremors flicker through her eyes as she turned away, then looked at him again.
"He isn't in, sir," she said, The poor kid couldn't even tell a decent lie, he thought with momentary compassion: very momentary, "He's in, honey, and you'd just better lead me to him real fast, because he's in a lot of trouble. You hear?"
"Are you police?"
"Worse. He'll wish the cops'd gotten to him first if I don't see him," Farley threatened, "Come in," she said haltingly, and when he was inside, he saw her go into what looked like an old-fashioned drawing room, Mrs., Hardin returned with the maid, "I understand you want to see my ex-husband," she said, "I'm Lilian-Reardon," It was obvious that she'd almost said Hardin. A perfectly understandable Freudian slip, "Yes, I'm Farley Brock, Miss Sill's attorney,"
"The woman my husband had an affair with,"
"Yes." Her cold, incriminating tone wasn't a bit lost on Farley.
"My husband really isn't here, Mr., Brock, I won't allow him in this house, which is mine. He's staying at the Surf Lodge in Virginia Beach, Hardly the Butler Arms, is it?" She laughed with satisfaction, Farley hardly knew or cared; there were flea-trap motels and there were motels that made the Butler Arms look like a hot dog shack. What did he care? He had an innocent girl to consider.
"Thank you very much," he said, and began to walk toward the door. He didn't want Hardin to leave town before he got to him, "Howard'll be here for another day at least," Lilian Reardon told him. "Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Brock?"
"No thanks," he replied, "I want to talk to you-about Miss what's-her-name. The whore my husband had in the hotel with him,"
"Hardly the right description for Miss Sills," Farley bristled. ' 'Let's nor resort to comfortable little labels, and say that about a nice kid who went a little haywire over a charming man like your ex-husband, a kid who knew better, but then didn't know better after all? Surely you were that way once, Miss Reardon?"
Lilian Reardon smiled.
"Surely, And I still am, perhaps, even after what's happened. It's difficult to be objective in these circumstances, Mr. Brock, Of course I always knew what kind of man Howard was; weak, despicable, unprincipled,"
"And Miss Sills is innocent, I can tell you that for certain."
"You think Howard's guilty?' "Who else?' Farley asked. "But you've no proof,"
"Of course not,"
"Could I help you? Oh, not for altruistic reasons," she smiled bitterly, "but just because I'd love to see that son of a bitch rot behind bars,"
"Farley wasn't interested in motives, "Let's have that coffee, shall we?' He saw Miss Reardon smile and tell the maid to bring them coffee in the living room, where they now sat, Lil Reardon was not an ugly woman. Middle twenties, Farley guessed, red hair, probably real .possibly dyed by a twenty-five dollar pro-it wouldn't be so bad, finding out which was the case, Lilian was slim, almost boyish, but far from feminine. Perhaps that sounds a bit contradictory, but try to imagine a woman without an ounce of spare flesh; firm,, well-muscled limbs from swimming and horseback riding: pert, softball-sized breasts, not less firm-gently curved hips, long and sinuously stream-lined thighs, Lilian was woman at her most physically functional, sheared down to race-horse proportions, Her eyes twinkled in her bright, only slightly weary face, except when she talked of Howard or the divorce, Then those eyes stopped twinkling, and began to burn with slow, smoldering hate.
When the coffee came, Farley offered her a cigarette, which she took. After he lit them both, he leaned forward and put his large hands on his knees.
"You gave me a rundown on Howard's moral character a few minutes back," he said,' 'Do you think he'd go so far as to embezzle almost two million dollars?"
Lilian sighed, and puffed on her cigarette.
"Howard is not an overly bright man. Mr. Brock. Ambitious, rotten to the core, but weak. Very weak. And greedy as they come. If the whole thing is obvious, then I say he undoubtedly did it. If there're the least signs of cleverness anywhere, I say it's impossible,"
"It's obvious to me."
"Are you clever, Mr. Brock?' she asked with the old twinkle.
"Astoundingly. And so are those jurors and everyone else involved-but I'm wondering how Howard got to them so fast? There was hardly time."
"I couldn't say."
"Was money all-important to Howard?'
"No more than breathing is to most other people."
"Important."
"You're clever."
They both laughed. Then Lilian asked, "Do you think your client has a chance?'
"I don't know. If-she were guilty, or if I didn't know if she were guilty or Innocent, I'd say the hell with it and kick myself for getting a bum case. But that's not the case."
"Are you always so idealistic, Mr. Brock?' she smiled.
"I try not to be."
"You are refreshing. You know all my friends-the horsy set, I think they're called-don't give a damn for anyone or anything except what goes on in their private little world. I mean they don't know anyone outside the Club, the Florida crowd and so forth. They think that's the universe."
"And you?'
'I'm the same way. Only that's all going to change now; going to change drastically, now that I'm free,"
"That's good. It's a much bigger world than even the missile people tell you, Lilian."
"May I call you Farley?"
"I was-wondering if you'd ever get to it." Farley thought of Mrs. Hardin-now Miss Reardon in his arms while he covered her face and neck with kisses, slowly heated her up until she percolated and spilled her desire all over him with wet kisses and fluttery caresses, and he picked her up and carried her into that study, and closed the door-with her nibbling sharply at his ear until he lay her down on a couch and slowly undressed her while she stared back at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, and he cupped a breast in his hand for size, titillating the nipple into swollen firmness.
He had to leave. This was not the Farley Brock of Harvard Law School, the cold, legal reasoner. He'd just better get out now and go see Hardin at the beach.
"Well thanks for the coffee and the conversation, Lilian. I've got to be going."
"What's your hurry?'
"Have to go see that un mentionable. I really do."
"He'll be here until tomorrow night or even the next morning-tomorrow's another day."
"A day I might not be around to see," he smiled.
"I'm very, very lonely, Farley. I could use some company."
She looked coquettishly at him.
Farley didn't need a graph drawing to know what she was talking about.
"Some other time. I'm not cold-shouldering you, Lil, but I've got to-"
"See Howard, and he'll be here tomorrow, I promise. If he isn't, I'll give you plane fare to go chase him to New York. That's where he'll be going."
"I shouldn't, you know."
"Neither should the virgin have, but she did and enjoyed every minute," Lilian said tersely. "Now come on into the study and lets have a drink."
He followed her in.
Must be hung up on ESP, he thought.
"What'll it be, Counselor?'
"Bourbon and ice."
Farley watched her pour out the liquor and thought sadly that he should be seeing Hardin right this minute; that while he sat here sucking up prize booze, Sue Sills was breaking rock in Jail. One way or the other, you committed a crime. Some crimes went to the courtroom, others never left the confines of your guts.
"Thanks," he said, taking the drink from her.
"Farley-"
"Yeah?'
"I meant what I said back there in the living room."
"About what?' he asked. His heart seemed to stand still for a moment.
"Being lonely. And sometimes, Farley, it isn't cured by simple conversation."
"We all have our troubles," he answered and tossed off his drink. She took the glass quietly from him and poured out another. "But mine is easily cured-by the right man."
One more second and she'll be raping me, he thought. It was embarrassing to appear so stupid. He would either have to leave or do the obvious.
The obvious isn't always so bad.
Farley did the obvious.
"Am I the right man?' he asked, taking her in his arms. She stared calmly, wide-eyed at him for a moment.
"I'll tell you afterwards."
It was past talking, beyond the cute small-talk. He pulled her against him and crushed her lips on his, hearing her whimper savagely as she threw her arms around him.
Farley felt Lilian press her hips forward, jam her firm, warm belly into him and wriggle with something that far exceeded a college try.
She was no student.
With a girl like her, it would be damned difficult to be anything close to a teacher, but then he was never for student-teacher relationships, anyway. Equality all the way, with a touch of weight on his side.
He knew Instinctively that she wanted to be loved hard-hard and rough, that she could not afford the luxury of polite nothings and phony tenderness. Hot, animal love would cool her burning emotions, which was the thing she wanted most.
Farley pulled the hem of her dress upward, until the material bunched In his hand. He shoved it around her slim waist and put his hands against hot, sleek feeling panties.
"Don't wait," she gasped, and wriggled helpfully when he shoved a hand beneath the waistband and slid them down over deceptively full hips, hips that felt much more ample than they had appeared beneath that well-tailored dress. He touched her buttocks. They burned and squirmed In his grasp, and he kneaded the cheeks with joyful roughness, which Inflamed her even further.
"Rip it off-rip off my dress I" she whispered feverishly, and when he took the lapel in his hand and pulled, the buttons popped and flew wildly all over the study. He tore the dress off. He listened to its sound, the sound of rent material coming off bare, willing flesh. Even as he was unrolling the garters and stockings down her legs, Lilian was unsnapping her brassiere and shrugging it off her body.
She started to rip his suit apart.
"No," he said, alarmed, "I haven't got any clothes here, remember?"
Amazingly, she did.
She stopped, and smiled quietly while he undressed with unusual speed. When they next embraced, it was with naked, burning flesh against naked, burning flesh, breasts pressed firmly against a flat, muscular male chest, a smooth-as-silk woman's knee working. slowly up between a man's legs, inevitably moving toward his groin.
"I'm very lonely," she said again with a distant-sounding voice. Farley answered with a kiss. A long, burning kiss. A kiss that made her lips part moistly, made her jaw go limp with desire. Her tongue burned into his, filled his mouth, and when they sank toward the carpeted floor in one another's arms, it was with slow precision.
He brushed her nipples with his lips, and she quickly pulled him downward until his lips closed around one. It swelled like a rosebud watered with dew. He kissed the other one, while his hands stroked her all over, and then suddenly it all seemed like a waste of time.
He took her.
She rose up to meet him, and their meshing was frighteningly precise and quick. She squirmed beneath him, drew him down deeper and deeper until she had him trapped in the sweetest way, moving against him slowly. So slowly that every inch of him trembled, every nerve rose to the surface and pressed against the skin, until he finally could not stand her steady, slow, pulsating rhythm, and busted loose like a maniac against her, steady, slow, pulsating rhythm, and busted loose like a maniac against her, moving downward with blind fury while her nails raked his back with beast-screaming joy, their shrieks mingling, their bodies trembling epileptically together before the final shudder that stilled into nothingness.
"Still lonely?" he asked.
"Not nearly so much," she smiled. "God I needed that."
Farley glanced at the clock on the wall; surprisingly, it had taken only ten minutes of his precious time. He was a hopeless victim of time, he thought turning down something like Lilian whatever-you-wanted-to-call-her for the sake of a lousy ten minutes was gross. But now he had to find her cruddy ex-husband and talk to him.
"Will I see you again?" she asked. Her tone was no longer bantering; a quiet hunger dominated her eyes as they looked into his.
"I hope so. I'll be awfully busy, running back and forth. It sounds corny, but someone's depending on me."
"It must be a wonderful feeling," she sighed.
"I don't know," he told her.
Then he was roaring down the expressway at full throttle toward Virginia Beach and the Surf Lodge.
Lilian had been right about the place. It decidedly was not the Butler Arms, but it was not a flea-trap, either. It was just one of many motels strung along the beach highway, each looking substantially like the other, lost in anonymous ugliness, each one doing its modest bit in making a once-beautiful beach look like a neon nightmare. But Farley wasn't concerned with a Save-Our-Beaches movement at the moment. He parked in the lot and walked hurriedly into the office.
"Howard Hardin; tell me what room he's in, please?" he asked the clerk at the desk.
"237, sir."
"Thanks." Farley walked around the front, and up the flight of stairs to the second tier. It was a back room facing the ocean, which at the moment looked ominous and unwelcoming as hell. It was the middle of October, and only a few occasional walkers occupied the beach at all. A cold wind blew inward and reminded him of coming winter.
He knocked on the door.
"Yeah?' came a thick voice. Then more quietly, "I don't know who the hell it is, get your skirt down, quick."
"Hardin!"
"Whattaya want?' The voice was thick because it was soaked. The bastard was drunk and probably had a woman in there with him. He'd either fight or blab, and Farley was ready for either.
"I'd like to come in."
"Whosit?'
"Farley Brock."
"Get lost!"
"I just saw your wife."
"Get lost twice!"
"How'd you like a year or so in jail? I can arrange it nicely."
"Yeah, how?'
"False registration in a motel. We both know that isn't your wife, right? Virginia has some bad, old time laws left on her books, buddy. Believe me."
The door opened. Farley grinned and walked in, grinned again at the over stacked blonde (bottle-colored) who glared desolately back at him. Her skirt was hopelessly wrinkled and her mascara and lipstick smeared all over her slightly bloated face. She was a wiped-out beach whore who'd had too many sailors in too many motels like the Surf Lodge.
"We have to talk alone," Farley said pointedly.
"Go get a hamburger or something, huh?" Howard said, and handed her a five. The broad left with a defiant, burlesque swing of her spread-out buttocks. They too had seen better days.
"What's on your mind, counselor?"
"Sue Sills."
Howard's face looked faintly, ever so faintly abashed.
"How's she doing?"
"How'd you be doing if you were doing ten long ones for something you didn't do?" A rhetorical question, but Farley was certain it answered Hardin's more straightforward one.
"The jury found her guilty."
"The jury bad greasy hands-you can't think too clearly with greasy hands, especially when the grease's colored green."
Hardin took a drink straight from the bottle. It was cheap stuff. The broad was cheap. The motel was cheap and flimsy with a gay, phony driftwood exterior. Howard was cheap. The whole goddamned world was cheap-everything came cheap and went cheap-except for a woman's life. Well, even that was cheap. Only Farley's anger wasn't cheap.
Neither was Hardin's neck when his hands went around it.
"Hey what the hell you doing?" Howard croaked. Desperately, he clawed at Farley's hands, trying to work them loose.
"It's what I'm gonna do, pal, if you don't sing me a real pretty song. Like Where's the dough, why'd you frame an innocent girl, and all the rest?"
"You nuts?"
"C'mon, Howard! I'm in a real nasty mood! Don't push it."
Farley stood threateningly close to him.
Hardin turned away, his body stiff with tension. It doesn't take long for a small world to close in, and Hardin's was closing in fast.
"Gonna beat me up, counselor?' He laughed shortly, and Farley suddenly realized that Howard Hardin couldn't care less whether or not he was beaten into the proverbial pulp.
"You have the money, don't you?" he asked with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
"Sure-that's why I'm staying in a crummy joint like this one."
"Don't hand me that malarkey, Hardin. Anybody with brains'd do what you're doing."
"Well then, you just go be Perry Mason, Brock. Work for your dough. And please leave before I call a cop."
"Okay, Hardin. Okay. But let me give you a short, little sermon first; there's a nice young lady behind bars right now, and when she gets out of that institution for reform, she isn't going to be a nice young lady-she's going to be really, truly bitter, Hardin, and maybe you can sleep over it, but I can't. So have fur. in New York."
Brock slammed the door behind him. As he was walking down the steps, the broad practically bumped into him. She didn't move out of the way, but stood in front of him, hips swinging exaggeratedly against him.
"Save it for your schlock boy friend," he growled, and shoved past her. He climbed into his car and roared out of the lot, thinking you stupid sonofabitch Brock, what'd you think he'd do. Give you an embossed confession? It had been a stupid, hollow game. He'd blown his cool for sure, getting all emotional and shook up over a trifling issue like Sue Sills, Hell, girls were a dime a hundred thousand, and guys like Howard Hardin would never lose any sleep over them.
Whether they put them away or not.
He drove hurriedly back to hi!? office, to pick up the late afternoon mail and messages. He had a secretary, one he hardly ever saw and who virtually ran his office: an old, widowed lady, who'd been a legal secretary in her youth and early years of marriage to her late husband. She had a motherly attitude toward Farley that got a bit tedious once in a while, but one that he couldn't help basking in.
Maybe one of the appeals had come through. He had them going in three different courts, but until he could produce new evidence, it wasn't likely that the appeals, any of them, would be granted.
Likelihoods often become truths.
He looked at his secretary silently.
"Judge Harris says forget It until you've got some evidence to warrant a new trial," she told him sadly.
Brock nodded and stuck a cigarette into his mouth. He walked into his office and slammed the door. The secretary heard the creaking of his swivel chair as he leaned backward in it and locked his bands behind his neck with the cigarette collecting more and more ashes. Hardin had money. He had the money. He was going to New York, for a reason Brock knew not. Those were facts. How did you capitalize on those facts, make them go to work for you?
The answer came up fast.
You didn't. But you got someone who perhaps might, and who maybe might dig up some more sallent bits of info. Brick picked up his phone and dialed a quick number and waited for the ring.
Bertha awakened with a splitting headache. It was even worse than she had expected. When she got out of bed, her head throbbed and the room swam crazily; for a minute, she thought she was going to heave, and thought seriously of running to the John-but she couldn't have If she'd had to. Her legs were too weak. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for the dizziness to pass. Slowly, painfully, it did, leaving her with the relative bliss of a headache and upset stomach.
She'd had too damned much booze last night, and she never should've gone into town to begin with.
After the usual ablutions, she dressed herself. When she slipped into her boots and stood up, she felt a little better. Not much. But enough to make sustained locomotion possible. She was going to lean harder on Cindy and Sue.
Martha sat huddled in her bunk, facing the wall. When people walked by, all they could see was her back. It was still, except for faint breathing movements. She didn't cry. In fact, she hardly thought, in the strict sense of that word. Her mind lay wide open and images trickled haphazardly through it, like ants crawling through a severed piece of ground. Thoughts of being bounced back and forth between the warden and Big Bert, like unthinking pawns. It was getting to be a bit much, she thought, when she thought at all. The humiliations increased, but somehow, Big Bert was more bearable than the warden. She at least made an easier life for her. The warden didn't give a damn one way or the other.
He just hurt her.
Big Bert came within approximation of caring for her. It was a distant approximation, one that people under normal circumstances would never detect. But Martha was not other people, and the circumstances hardly normal.
So she sat there.
No one spoke to her.
No one cared, least of all her. People walked by, mostly guards, and looked at her curiously for a moment without slowing down their footsteps. What'd it matter to them, or to anybody? Just another con. Another hardened criminal incapable of emotion and feeling and longings like other respectable people. Sure, why not? Then it was easy, you didn't have to get all upset with attachments and personal involvements.
"Martha looks drug out," Cindy remarked to Sue. "Yeah. She's been working pretty hard." She grinned cruelly. She knew as the others did about the "arrangement" between Big Bert and the warden.
"Overtime. But you know I feel sorry for her. Like what's gonna happen to her when she gets outta here? If she ever gets out. Hell, none of these girls were bad when they came here. Now they're all dykes or leather-happy-somethin' cukoo with all of 'em. Damn shame."
"What about you and me?" Sue reminded her. "Now. What about later? What about that time when we run out of breath?" Cindy sank into gloom, and Sue stopped talking to her. She hoisted herself to the upper bunk. So that's what was on Cindy's mind, she thought. Big Bert was making it extra hard, and she was afraid she'd crack. She no longer had any confidence. She couldn't trust herself. She was beginning to see little nooks and crannies and crevices in her will to hold out.
"Don't do it, Cindy."
"Do what?"
"Crack up. Don't go Big Bert's way-only nine months to go, Cindy, nine lousy months and then you're out forever."
"Out to what? Whorin' on the bad side of town, where everybody's on relief?"
"No, something else. Something legitimate."
"You gotta live, girl. They don't feed you out there like they do here."
"You'll find something. You've got to think one step at a time. Don't crack, Cindy!"
"Okay. I'm goin' to sleep."
"You promise?" Sue called down.
"As-much as I can," Cindy sobbed. "What's the use of writin' it in blood around here?" Sue was silent, and she heard Cindy toss around into a halfway comfortable position. Then it was quiet in their cell, except for their breathing. From other cells, came other faint, nebulous sounds. Sounds everywhere, when you kept your ears peeled-it was never completely, one-hundred-per-cent quiet. There was always the knowledge that you can never be alone, can never be wholly by yourself. Darkness outside.
Lights dimming inside, until finally the whole block was dark except for the dim overhead lights in the corridor. The breathing seemed louder to Sue as she lay on her bunk listening. Slowly, the sounds became fainter, and she drifted off into sleep.
She didn't know what time it was when she awakened. At first, she didn't know quite why she awakened at all, until she heard the cell door open and close. Instinctively, she leaned over the edge of her bunk and peered downward into the darkness.
Cindy was gone.
Gone where?
Sue sat on her bunk, and fished for the last cigarette in the pack. Finding it, she struck a match in the dark, and the whole depressing cubbyhole was illuminated by it. It flickered out, plunged all into darkness again.
She strained her ears to hear something, anything that might give her a clue as to where Cindy had gone, where she had been taken. Nothing. Nothing at all.
She remembered Cindy's words: As much as I can, what's the use of writin' it in blood around here. Yes. No. You couldn't promise a thing when It came to strength, to holding out against the corruption. Where was she? With Big Bert? With the warden? What was happening, and how would Cindy be when she returned? Big Bert had been riding herd on the poor kid all day, and anything could conceivably happen. Anything at all.
Sue shuddered.
Cindy was a strong-minded person, had been as full of rebellion and defiance as Sue. How long would it be before she crumbled? How long before Sue said, "Okay, I can't take it anymore, I'll do anything at all, just leave me be?"
How long?
Now she waited quietly in the dark, keeping an unacknowl-edged vigil for her friend, waiting for her to return. She would not sleep. She would wait for her friend, her only friend, Cindy Martin.