Chapter 7
WHEN JOE ARRIVED IN MIAMI Beach he did not go looking for the hard-eyed girl named Frances who had danced for him that pre-dawn morning. In fact she had slipped from his thoughts as soon as he parted from her, by the time he got to Miami Beach he had completely forgotten her.
He fell in love with the town at first sight. He liked the semi-tropical weather, but he had expected this. It was the excitement that got him, the chrome and the glitter. Stream-lined cars and pink hotels; flashy men, tan and handsome, strolling arm in arm with gaudy, smiling women who wore pedal pushers by day and gaudy, backless, low-cut gowns by night, carried metallic purses and tripped about on glided shoes. And the palm trees on' the streets, the crowds, the taxicabs, the elaborate storefronts, the showy nightclubs, the quaint bars and cafes which sent the muted sound of laughter and the faint strains of jazz out into the balmy summer atmosphere. The very air was charged with action-the sort of action he went for. Horses and dogs were raced, long shots coming in; card games played in secret, fortunes changing hands. And cocktail glasses were clinked together, and husbands sneaking kisses from other husbands' wives, wives were laying bare their charms to other wives husbands.
He had planned to spend his days on the beach, sunning and swimming, but as it turned out he never got there. Not once. There was too much to do by night. So he slept the hot sunshiny days away, and prowled the streets by night, watching, observing, catching wise, getting the lay of the land. There was money here, big money. He smelled it as a shark does blood, thought of it, and dreamed of getting his hands on it. He was going great-had moved from the lower to the upper brackets, was hobnobbing with the rich. But this was only the first step, he would go higher. Someday he would be one of them-a flashily-dressed man, tan and handsome, strolling arm in arm with a gaudy, smiling woman, dashing in and out of taxicabs and nightclubs, playing cards the whole night through, betting horses and dogs, sneaking kisses.
But water seeks it own level, and eventually Joe Brody sought his. One night, strolling aimlessly down a side street at the south side of town near the dog track, he came upon a shabby-looking cafe called Mique's. He entered, bought a bottle of beer, and looked about him. He had sized up the place right from the outside-it was a dive. Waiters, cabbies and bellhops came here on their nights off. Overly made-up prostitutes, aging, smelling of perspiration and cheap perfume, drank beer with overdressed, undernourished race-track touts. Homosexuals clinked glasses with , lesbians fawned into the faces of sickly chambermaids. On the bandstand in the rear a cowboy strummed his guitar and sang off key. No one paid any attention to him; his song melted into, became part of, the noise and confusion.
Joe liked the place, he felt at home here. Every night after he had prowled the ritzy part of town, had looked and admired and dreamed his dreams, he returned to Mique's. He got acquainted, chatted with the prostitutes and the cabbies, teased the lesbians, flirted with the homosexuals. He got friendly with a youth named Cal Royce, and began to look forward to seeing him.
Cal was a long, lean, sickly-looking youth, sallow complexion, thin-faced, with a tendency to break out in boils. His hair was black and limp and hung down over his eyes, so that he was constantly compelled to brush it back. His eyes were small and shifty, his mouth was forever curled in a sneering grin. He was about the same age as Joe, but looked younger and was ashamed of it. Secretly he wished to give the impression of worldliness, yet, try as he might, he looked like a nasty, truant schoolboy. He was from Brooklyn and was forever bragging of it. He hated the natives or "Goddam Crackers," as he called them. He hated all southerners. And westerners, northerners and easterners too. He even hated New Yorkers if they were decent ordinary people, not slimy, crooked and deceitful as himself. In fact, if you narrowed it down, there was but one person in all the world he did not hate-Cal Royce.
Joe, seeing through him at once, nevertheless took to him. The evil Cal exuded was not distasteful. In truth he took a secret delight in someone who was more unscrupulous than himself. And he liked Cal's talk-the bragging, the jeering at others, the hints of being acquainted with those "in the know," the inside tips on the horses and dogs that some how always fell through; and the whispered descriptions of crap games played with loaded dice, of stick-ups he'd pulled, of hijacking deals in the offing, of pimping deals that anyone but he, who was too proud, would not have turned down. He knew that Cal was a liar. He had learned from others that Gal's widowed mother had money, that it was she who supported him, and that if it were not for her he would have long since starved to death. Knew also that he beat her and stole from her and insulted her shamelessly in public. Yet, in spite of all, he found Cal stimulating, could go on listening to him for hours on end. And he felt at ease with him, more so than with anyone else he had met in the last three years, with the possible exception of Rudy Go wan. Cal was useful, could fill him in on who was who in the night-life of Miami; but most important was the fact that he felt at ease with him. Somehow Joe always had it at the back of his mind that he could change. But Cal couldn't. That made Joe feel superior.
On their arrival in Miami Beach, Joe and Helen had rented a neat little apartment in a neat little two-story house on Alton Road near the MacArthur Causeway. It was here he returned at about four each morning, here he ate and shaved and showered, here he slept while the summery sun beat down.
She would weep as she sat up waiting for him-weep bitter tears, pace the floor, and curse her fate. Oh, how memories tortured her during those dark lonely hours! And if she dozed, only for a moment, she would see the faces of Sue, Henry Kohler, Barton Whitmore-beloved faces now-and hear their voices, chiding, scolding, warning her. She would moan in her sleep-actually moan-and the sound would wake her. She would get to her feet and begin to pace the floor again like a caged animal. Memories would come pushing in again, she would try to shut them out and fail miserably.
Then she would hear his footsteps approaching in the still night. He had a peculiar shuffling walk which she could not mistake. She would pause and stand where she was, motionless, facing the door, waiting, like a lowly cur who has smelled his master from afar. Her pulses raced, yet she did not stir or blink an eye. And when he burst into the room, the spell was broken, her cup of joy ran over. She fairly threw herself at him, hugged him, kissed him, brushed his hair back with her fingers. She would have done anything in the world for him at that moment. Anything! She would have crawled to him, hugged his feet, kissed his shoes. She would have died for him, gladly.
"Oh darling-darling, I'm so lonesome without you! If only you knew!-if only you could understand!"
On some rare occasions, feeling especially kindly to her, he would promise to be home earlier the following morning. But he never kept his word.
She cooked his meals lovingly and fluttered about him when he ate.
"Is the coffee too hot, dear? ... Not so fast, dear, you'll burn your throat! Oh, whatever shall I do with you?"
He bolted his food rapaciously, and though she scolded him for it, she loved to watch him. It was proof that her cooking had pleased him. The only proof she could hope for, for he never praised it.
She would have him healthy. She-included orange juice, eggs and prunes in his diet, and even milk, which he despised.
"Drink it, dear, it's good for you."
And he drank it to stop her "nagging."
She noticed and took delight in things that no one else would notice, or care about if they did. For instance, one day she saw him read a book. It was only a soft-cover novel of the sort that flood the newsstands ... and yet that he should be reading a book! Why, it was simply wonderful!
And once she caught him doing-of all things-a crossword puzzle. She watched him slyly, from afar. And when he set the paper down and walked from the room, she ran to the table and looked to see how far he had got. Her heart skipped a beat, she blushed; tears of happiness flooded her eyes. Bless him, he had done it halfway through! Her Joe, the fierce irresponsible child, the night prowler! What made it all the more wondrous an accomplishment was that she herself had never in her life completed a crossword puzzle, though she had often tried. And indeed it was seldom she had got as far as half-way.
She shined his shoes, washed his clothes, darned his socks, scrubbed the tub and drew the water before he got in. She petted and pampered him. A glance from him would send her scurrying All the energy and warmth in her, which had previously been spent upon her sister Sue, Henry Kohler, Barton Whitmore, her home and her career, were now concentrated and spent upon him.
Her reward was abuse.
He began to snap at her irritably when he came home from his nocturnal prowlings. He laughed at her and called her "neurotic" (she wondered where he had picked up the term) when she insisted he eat what was good for him. He took her to task if the water in his bath was too hot or too cold for him.
But with the abuse came something else which more than made up for it. Tenderness. Heal and genuine tenderness. He surprised her by proving to her that he had a capacity which she had not allowed him. So when he proved to her that he had a capacity for genuine tenderness, it made for the usual sort of surprise. He had pretended before, but the effect had not got through to her. She wished to believe in it, and tried. At times she tried so hard that she succeeded. But only for a little while, and then she quit deceiving herself. Now occasionally he would kiss her on the lips, not roughly but gently, and the feeling-the unmistakable feeling-would pass from his lips to hers. Or he would suddenly, for no apparent reason, reach out and stroke her hair. And once he had taken her head in his hands, holding it imprisoned as in a vice, and looked into her eyes.
Afterwards, thinking of those moments, she would laugh at Sue, Henry and Barton. They had been mistaken. Oh, how sadly mistaken! He loved her! She could not have been deceived, she felt it!
When they had been in Miami Beach about two weeks he began to tell her of a new friend of his, a boy of his own age named Cal Royce. His description of him was simply awful! She could hardly believe that a young boy could possibly be as repulsive as that, physically. But what he said of Cal Royce's character was even worse.
"I should think you would hate him," she remarked one afternoon, as they sat together at breakfast.
He lowered his coffee cup and gazed at her perplexed."
"llate Cal? Why do you say that?"
"Why, the way you talk of him."
"I don't hate him."
"Hut your description of him, and what you said about his insulting and beating his mother! And you say he constantly talks of crime-of cheating at cards, and stealing, and fixing horse races."
"Well?"
"But doesn't that mean-?"
He shook his hand. "No. Because if I hated him I wouldn't be going to Mique's every night to find him. Fact is, I kind of like him."
The confession chilled her. "But how could you possibly? After what you tell me about him, it doesn't make sense. Oh Joe, sometimes you frighten me! You really do!"
A day or two later he explained the contradiction to her.
"I figured it out," he said. "What?" she asked.
"Why I like this guy Cal Royce, even if he is the slimiest rat I've ever come across."
She waited for him to go on.
"It's because he is what he is-because he is a slimy rat ... Looking at him, talking to him, I can say to myself, 'See Joe, you're not as evil as he is. You're evil, yeah-but not that evil.' And it's good to be able to say that to yourself-good to know there's at least one guy on earth that's worse than you are!"
That was how she came aware for the first time that Joe Brody, the hunted animal, had a conscience which sometimes bothered him.
One day she noticed him staring at her, and asked, "What is it, darling?"
"Nothing," he said, "I was just thinking." He did not tell her what it was he was thinking of.
But a moment later he called her. He was seated on the couch, and when she crossed the room and was standing near him, he said, "I've got something to ask you. You've got money in the bank-thirty grand, I believe you once told me?"
She nodded. And suddenly her heart began to beat erratically.
"Now listen carefully to a question I'm going to ask, think it over before you answer. Give me the true answer. What if I were to get my hands on your money and run off and leave you? What would you do then?"
She thought carefully, and then replied, "I'd kill myself."
"Why? Because of the money? Does money mean that much to you?"
"No," she said, "the money would have nothing to do with it. I'd kill myself simply because you had run off and left me. I'd do it if there were no money involved."
Joe nodded thoughtfully. He knew, somehow sensed it perhaps-that she meant precisely what she said.