Chapter 13

Edie returned while he was collecting the pictures to put them away. She set the groceries on the kitchen sink, saw the snapshots, and her face colored.

"I was showing off my etchings," he grinned.

Her face colored more brightly. She scolded him. "I'm sure Mr. Harrigan didn't fly I,000 miles just to look at nasty pictures."

"They're not nasty."

"They are so."

He turned to their guest. "Do you think they're nasty?"

Harrigan covered his embarrassment with a gallant smile. "I thought they were rather nice," he said.

"And you're both a couple of naughty boys," she said, sweeping from the room.

Harrigan said, "Is she mad?"

He brushed it off. "Heck, no. I told you she's no prude."

"But...."

"To the blueprints, okay?" He stuffed the photos in his shirt pocket and re-opened the master assembly print. Harrigan was lost, slightly confused, putty as Bill had supposed he would be. The man was probably wondering if Edie really would pose in the nude, wondering whether there'd be a party, whether Alice Bradford was as naively uninhibited as Bill had promised. And girdled by sex fantasies, Harrigan was no match for Bill's carefully laid plans to shaft him clear to the hilt.

Edie furthered the cause. She donned a pair of skintight rubber Capris; she obviously wore nothing beneath them. Harrigan's mouth hung open like a kid yearning for ice cream.

"And she never wore them before," Bill blatantly pointed out. "So you must be special."

"I only put them on because they're comfortable," she said, unloading her groceries.

That was hard to believe. The rubber Capris were too tight to be comfortable, but nice ... wow, they were nice! Her buttocks were enticingly revealed; every line was defined and nothing was left to the labors of imagination. In addition, she wore the spike-heeled shoes that Bill had bought her. They afforded her a bewitching dominance that held Harrigan spellbound.

Bill was so elated by his success with Harrigan that he was tempted to phone Sinclair and give him the good news. The contracts weren't signed, sealed and delivered as yet, but Harrigan was in the bag.

And then Sinclair saved him the trouble; it was he who phoned. "How are you doing with Harrigan?"

"Great!" he answered.

"Maybe you're not doing as great as you think," Sinclair said gravely. "What do you mean?"

"I mean there's trouble down here at the office."

"Trouble?"

"That detective again. He's here. Says he wants to see you. And right away, too."

Bill was irritated by the petty annoyance of the detective. He flexed and relaxed his fist. "Tell him I'll see him tomorrow."

"I tried. I told him we had this big thing going for us ... Bill, he won't listen to reason. He wants to come out to your place right now, but I persuaded him to let me phone you first."

"What the hell does he want to see me about that's so important and can't wait until tomorrow?"

"I don't know, but...."

"Trumball?" It was another voice, a gruff one, the detective's. "Speaking."

"You don't get the pitch, do you? I said I wanted to see you."

He disliked the rough tone. An insolent bastard, the kind who threw his weight around. "There's nothing to see me about. We haven't had any more trouble with prowlers...."

"Who the hell said anything about prowlers. This is about your wife, Trumball."

"My what?"

"Your wife, sweet potato. She's in trouble. Lots of it. So you better get your hind end down here so we can talk about it. Or would you rather I come out there?"

"N-no. No, I'll come down there." He flashed Edie a worried glance.

"I won't wait long, Trumball."

He promised he'd be right down, then hung up.

"Something wrong?" Edie asked, coming slowly toward him.

"Yeah, you look like you just saw a ghost," Harrigan chided.

"It's nothing. A little business complication." He brushed past Edie. "They need me down at the office for a few minutes. I don't like to do this...."

"Go ahead, man." Harrigan began folding up blueprints. "This can wait."

"I won't be long," he said worriedly.

"What about supper?" Edie asked.

He told her he wasn't that hungry. "You guys go ahead without me. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Twenty minutes later, he was at the office, ushering Detective Joe Nuzzo inside, closing and locking the door so that they would have some degree of privacy.

In person, Nuzzo was no less repugnant than he had been on the telephone. He insisted on keeping his hat on, sat at Bill's desk as though he owned it, and squashed out his cigar on the freshly polished tile floor. His dark piggish eyes fed on the wall murals, then came back to needle Bill. He was in his forties, small, but a real bastard.

With his chair occupied, Bill sat on the edge of his desk. Then, almost afraid to ask, he said, "What's it all about?"

Nuzzo played his cat-and-mouse game to the hilt. "You in a hurry?"

He withheld his temper, explained as nicely as possible that he was pressed for time.

Nuzzo was unimpressed. He picked at his fingernails, grinned. "You ain't in no hurry, Trumball. You got all night."

"Now look here...."

"You look here," Nuzzo shot back. "This is official police business. It's a serious matter and until it's settled you're not moving one stinking foot toward home."

A slow rage built up inside Bill. He came off the desk. "Then suppose you tell me what it's all about."

Nuzzo smirked. He lifted a paper sack off the floor, something he'd carried into the office with him. "Ever play grab bag, Trumball?" He held up the brown paper sack. "Ever try to guess what was in the bag ... like this one, for instance?"

Bill's eyes narrowed. What was the sonofabitch getting at? "You said my wife...."

"Your wife is a bitch, Trumball. The kind that I spit on."

Bill lurched toward him. Nuzzo sprang out of his chair and seized Bill's lapels. "Don't try it, bright boy. Don't even think about it."

An icy silence fell between the two men. Nuzzo shoved him roughly away.

"You have no right...."

"...to call her a 'bitch'?" Nuzzo finished. He laughed. "I have every right in the world, friend." He dipped into the paper sack and pulled out a photograph. "This is reason number one." He pushed the photograph into Bill's hands.

Gingerly, Bill held and examined the photograph. It looked like ... like. It was the picture of a man's skull. There was a jagged wound at the base of the skull, most of the hair was matted with dried blood.

"Would you believe your wife did that, Mr. Trumball?"

"My wife!...."

"You look so surprised. Does she fool you that much?"

Bill was speechless. Edie had fooled him, but...

"Two nights ago this was a dishwasher," Nuzzo said, dropping the photograph back in his paper sack. "An out-of-work dishwasher, but still a human being...."

"If you think my wife...."

"I don't think, Trumball. I know she did it." He picked and polished at his fingernails some more. "She went into this bar, Trumball. She was looking for trouble, looking for something. Anyway, she sat in this booth with her dress up around her ass and tried to put the make on this guy. She left, the guy went after what he thought was coming to him, only he didn't make it. Maybe she had brass knuckles ... I dunoo ... but she knocked the piss out of him. Right now he's in a coma."

The pieces had fallen sickeningly into place. Bill was horrified. This was him that Nuzzo was talking about; he had masqueraded as a girl that night and...."How do you know it was her? How can you be so sure?"

Nuzzo grinned, tore open the paper sack, and pulled out Edie's coat. "This is hers, isn't it."

"It was stolen."

"Off my back, bright boy. Two kids saw her running and jumping into her Thunderbird. They got scraps of the license number, described the car, and the rest was simple." He continued his grin. "No jury is gonna argue with evidence like that."

Bill was silent, wondering what he could say, what he would do.

Nuzzo dropped the coat back in its sack. "That's why you received the anonymous phone calls, friend. I was testing her. I wanted to see if I could scare her into coming down to the station house...."

Suddenly, Bill saw himself being washed up at the Sinclair Stamping Company maybe through the entire industry. He saw his marriage falling apart ... should he tell the truth? "How bad is he? ... I mean this man she hit?"

Nuzzo continued to evade the ash tray; he spilled cigar ash on the floor. Then coming to his feet, he said, "He'll live." He said it almost sadly.

Bill felt a wave of relief. He tried to hide his smile.

"But that doesn't end it, Trumball." He walked slowly to the window. "There'll be charges. Assault."

"It was self-defense."

Nuzzo gave him another hollow laugh. His mouth was cruel, his words biting. "That stinks, lover boy. Your wife wasn't defending her lousy honor. She doesn't have any. She went into that bar and deliberately provoked somebody into following her." He drew deeply on his cigar. "There's a name for them kind. They get a sexual kick out of beating some guy's brains in."

"She's not that kind."

"Don't con me. I've seen too many of 'em. Sadistic bitches. Get their rocks off from beating some poor bastard to a pulp. And there's only one cure for 'em, Trumball, you know. You have to give 'em a taste of their own medicine." His lips twitched, his fists were balled. "Strip them down and beat the crap out of 'em."

"But...."

"That's what I'm gonna do to her, friend. Beat the crap out of her."

Had Bill heard him correctly? His eyes widened, a slow expression of scorn came into his eyes. "What the hell kind of cop are you? Why, you're...."

"I'm one of the club, Trumball."

"A sadist!"

Nuzzo laughed. "You got your guts calling me one. You sleep with one. You're married to her."

Bill fumbled for a cigarette. He couldn't find a match and Nuzzo did not offer him one. He flung the unlit cigarette to the floor. "Just what is it you want, anyway?"

"Five minutes with her, pal. Five goddamn minutes."

"And why don't you go to some crappy whorehouse for your kicks. Why?"

Again, Nuzzo laughed. "Why should I give some worn-out chippy twenty-bucks when...." He scratched the back of his head. "...your wife is much sweeter, friend. Sweet and young and ... I saw her, friend."

"You stinking pervert!"

Nuzzo bashed him along the side of the head. He fell to the floor. Nuzzo towered over him. "Get your ass off the floor!"

Bill struggled to his feet. He clutched at the edge of the desk and pulled himself up.

"We better get one thing straight right now, Trumball. You're gonna fix it up, see. I don't give a damn how you do it, but you're gonna make it free and easy."

"like how?"

Nuzzo rapped a vest handkerchief around his knuckles. "Tell her I'm a friend." He scratched his head again. "Then tell her you have to go out and get some smokes, or something. Just beat it."

"What are you gonna do to her?"

"You won't have to watch."

"But I wanna know."

Nuzzo grinned. "Kind of nuts about her, aintcha?"

He had been, he thought. But now...."I don't want her to get her teeth kicked out."

"They won't, chum. Maybe some marks on that sassy rear end of hers ... yeah, I been watching her. Juicy."

Bill fought back the urge to swing on the bastard.

"Only when I get through with her...." He made a fist with the balled-up handkerchief. "...it won't be so juicy."

Silence. Then: "When?"

"You name it, pal."

"What about the guy in the hospital?"

"What about him?"

"The assault charges."

Nuzzo came on with more of the grin that Bill found so sickening. "Didn't I tell you, Trumball? I'm the judge and jury. We have our little play session and ... I won't remember a thing. Amnesia." He laughed cruelly.

"I'll need some time," Bill said uneasily.

"You got it. And...." He put the handkerchief back in his pocket. "...don't try to phone me. I'll phone you."

Bill swallowed. He started to pick up the paper sack, Edie's coat. Nuzzo snatched it out of his hands. "Maybe I'd better keep this for a while. Just in case."

Bill didn't argue. "Do I have a few days?" he asked.

"No more than that," Nuzzo warned. "Three days. That's it." Then he turned, and with the paper sack clutched in his hand, he walked slowly out of the office. He didn't say 'goodbye', nothing.

Bill slumped down behind his desk. He rubbed the swollen area where Nuzzo had struck him, then he put his head down and tried to think.

He sat this way in lonely silence for the next hour. There was a single buzz on the intercom Sinclair wanting to know if everything was all right.

Dejectedly, faint of voice, he said, "Yeah. Everything is just great."

And, yes, wasn't it great? He had just traded off his wife's body to a sadistic sex pervert, saved his own hide by rendering Edie's. How much worse could things get?