Masters of Noir: Volume Four Read online

  He couldn't eat. He went out to the car in his best suit. He drove into the city and made some purchases.

  He was back at two, the funereal old Sunday suit behind him, splashed out now in brown and white shoes, light tan suit, coconut weave straw hat with a band matching his turquoise sport shirt. He carried packages of vivid socks, underpants, pajamas, and straw shoes in two pieces of airplane luggage.

  He put the binoculars, which he'd used at the State Fair races, into their case. He hung them by the strap across his shoulder and gave himself a sporty grin. For awhile he just walked around acquainting himself with his new clothes and personality.

  He stopped in the middle of the kitchen, frowning. He should have saved the old suit. He'd have to go to the bank and tell them to put the place up for sale, because the new life would be impossible in this community where he had a set meaning and where, if he changed the meaning, they'd think he was crazy. They'd snicker and wag their heads if they saw him in these clothes, and figure him insane because he didn't just sit and wait to die.

  He shuddered. Most of the acres were gone, most of the rooms closed ... the dimensions were narrowing, narrowing ... the old dark house had the feel of a coffin.

  He wanted to hear the sunlight sound of her “Cha cha cha ... “ He kept listening vaguely, wondering where she was. The tractor was out in the field; he could hear it. Hugh was accounted for, but where was Deena May? In the little house ... alone ... on the bed ...

  "Andrew ... “

  He turned without thinking and went toward the sound of the voice and opened the door to the glassed-in porch. He was about to say: “What is it, Melly ?” before he caught himself.

  You're crazy! he thought, frightened. Hearing voices. He stood, silent, wondering. Maybe there was some something, some communication somehow ... not voices, but a feel, a presence. There was no feel of her here; she was dead.

  He had to get out of this coffin house. He walked out into the front yard and let the sunlight soak into him and the warm air fill his lungs. From miles away he heard the bark of a dog, then a second nearer barking, and the sounds came down the line of farms like a string of firecrackers till Deena May's hound took it up. The hair stiffened on the back of his neck as he heard her sharp little voice silence the dog. She was in the back yard of the big house ... near the grape arbor, he judged.

  Barton went around the side of the house, his step cautious on the grass, his whole body caught up in a helpless, trembling anticipation.

  The arbor enclosed a rectangle of space and through the wall of vines he saw her lying on the grass within. She was propped on one elbow, her other arm lifted in a slim bare curve as her little fist crushed slowly into a succulent bunch of grapes above her upturned face. The juice streamed into her wide-open red mouth and he could see the rolling sliding motion of her arched throat as she swallowed greedily. Some of the juice ran over her chin and down her throat and ran in purple rivulets across the smooth white skin between her breasts. He could see the soft-rising slope of the side of one breast, in the blue shadow, where an upper button of her cotton dress was open. She was barefoot and barelegged. One knee was raised a few inches and a tantalizing bit of her thigh showed. She dropped the grape husks and reached her hand to the hound who licked her fingers, then licked the juice from her throat and from between her breasts. She pushed the dog away and slid her vivid blue eyes to their corners. She saw Barton and grinned slowly at him.

  "Y'all dressed up sharp, Mr. Barton.” She wagged her knee lazily from side to side and watched him from the corners of her eyes.

  He had scarcely been aware that he'd moved, but here he was within the enclosure. It was airless behind the thick vines and the sweet tart smell of the crushed grapes hung over her in the motionless heat and his throat was trembling so much he couldn't speak.

  She sat up, pivoted around on one hip to face him, both knees up and apart for an instant so he could see she wore nothing under the thin dress. She folded her feet under her and covered her legs with her skirt, her expression exaggeratedly demure. “Y’ scowling fierce. I do something to make you mad at me, Mr. Barton?” she said, her tone mocking and knowing. She indicated two heaped baskets. “You said I could just come and take all of the grapes I wanted to take. Can't I?” She gave him a pouty look. “Or must I go on away. Y’ want me to go on away, Mr. Barton? H'm?"

  "Deena May. Never go away ... “ He began hoarsely. His face was hot and he needed to sweat and he couldn't. He was feverish. He blurted. “I want you. I want you to come away with me ... “

  She shook her mass of fiery hair back and opened those round blue eyes wide at him. “Where to? C'mon down where I can hear you sweet talk.” He got awkwardly down on his knees. “C'mon, clear down,” she urged. “Where y’ gonna take me, big old Daddy Lover?"

  He sat almost touching her, his eyes fixed trance-like on her, his mouth twitchy at the corners. “New York. California. Mexico, foreign places, races, nightclubs, beaches ... Deena May, come with me. Fly. You ever fly in an airplane?"

  "No, I never. When? Buy me purties?” She thrust her leg out from under the skirt, fit the curve of her arched foot warmly against the bony round of his knee, stroking him. She wriggled her toes. “Purty high-heel shoes ... stockings,” she touched her leg, then her hip and giggled, lowering her eyes, “and all? I'd leave you put them on me, even ... “ In a sudden burst of enthusiasm she came upright, standing on her knees before him. She hunched her shoulders and ran her hands slinkily across her chest. “Naked looking green dresses and blue and skin color ones and my hair piled zoop, up like this ... “ She pushed the flaming mass of her hair in a high wad and turned to show her ears and the lovely line of her neck. “And loop earrings and pearls wound in my hair. Whoo-eee ... “ She shook her shoulders and hips, standing there on her spread knees, and sang, grinning straight and dazzlingly close into his face. “Cha cha cha-tiyata ... cha-ta-cha." She pitched forward, winding her strong wiry little arms around his neck. She pushed her wet red mouth against his, hot and open and tasting like sugar. He toppled over onto his side on the grass, panting, his hands starting over her maddening body.

  She rolled away out of reach. He pawed for her, scrambling, his eyes glazed and senseless. “Naughty big old Daddy Lover ... “ She got to her feet, kicked his hand from her ankle and danced away. She came within reach, teased him with her toe, jumped clear again. “Want it bad?"

  "Please ... “

  She touched the dimple in her chin. “Devil's in me. I set out for you, old man. My maw always said if an old man scowl at a purty young girl it ain't natural; he's fightin’ off young-man ideas and bound to lose and watch out. I been watchin’ the fierce way you look at me. Promise you'd cater to me, old man?"

  "Anything. I—I promise. Come here."

  "No, no. You cool off and chicken on me, that's what you'd end up. You chicken?"

  Her eyes were blinking and dancing. He got himself to a sitting position and stared at her, sensing her meaning.

  "What d'ya mean."

  "Hugh. He'd prevent us. And he's got it comin’ to him, the way he won't cater to me. I got it all set, but if you chicken out, y'can't never get no closer'n them spy glasses you look at me through. I seen you once, don't think I never ... “ She giggled, strutted and sang tauntingly, shaking her behind at him. “Cha cha cha-tiyata ... cha-ta-cha ... Well ... ?"

  It was dark. Heat prickled at his scalp as he sat in the crotch of the tree by the turn in the creek, a shotgun on his knees. He knew he was there to ambush and kill a young man in cold blood, and yet he wasn't. It wasn't really him, Andrew Barton, but something else in him compelled to do it, to do what he had to do to hold onto the brightness of life against ... He couldn't think it through; he needn't try ... the past was dead, only the future was living ...

  "You can drop your shotgun now, Mr. Barton."

  Barton froze. That cold, strange voice wasn't real; it was just fear and guilt working at his ears and mind ...

  "Dr
op it!” Hugh's voice chopped at him. “I got a rifle at your back."

  Barton threw the shotgun down. “Shoot me,” he said. “Go ahead and shoot me."

  "I just want my pay so I can head out. Now, climb down. I found her hiding up in your house, hound led me straight to her. I scared the truth out of her. I never thought you could lie to me, Mr. Barton. Tell me she was hustling down to meet a feller so's I could come and you could shoot me.” His voice cracked. “I never would of believed it, except I seen it's so. Now, march!"

  Barton moved along ahead of him, looking down. “Hugh, boy,” he mumbled. “I wouldn't have gone through with it. Believe me."

  "Mr. Barton, you don't know if you would of or not."

  Deena May stood scowling in a corner of the kitchen. Hugh ignored her. “I want my pay plus pay for the use of my wife."

  "I swear nothing's happened."

  "If you're the one who ain't had her, no charge. Otherwise, kindly add twenty-five.” He spun, red-faced and furious and shouted at her, “Cents!” He turned, wiped at the sudden tears in his eyes. “Now will you please pay me my money so I can get the hell away from here?"

  Deena May and Barton stood in the same room, not looking at each other. They listened after Hugh had gone and finally the old car coughed and started and went sputtering down the lane. They watched its lights turn onto the road. Then it was out of sight.

  "Good riddance of bad rubbish,” Deena May sniffed. She slid a glance at him and frowned. “What're you moping around about?"

  He turned up his hands.

  "You ain't going to try kissing me off, too, are you?"

  "I—I—” He couldn't look at her.

  "Lookit, big old Daddy Lover ... Cha cha cha-tiyata ... cha ta cha ... “ She sang and danced, shaking herself, and Barton couldn't keep himself from watching. “That's better,” she cried. “C'mon. There's nothing to bother us none now. C'mon!"

  She went up the stairs. After a moment, he lowered his head and followed.

  It was past midnight. Light from the setting moon lay like winter frost over his old body as he looked out the bedroom window at Deena May and her hound coming back across the field. She'd sneaked down there again to slut with those hoodlums she ran with. Maybe when all the negotiations on the sale of the farm were completed in a few more days and they could get away from this old coffin of a house, she would be different. He shook his head wearily. No, wherever she went she would attract the scum of creation to her.

  She reached the yard, moved out of sight at the arbor. She would be coming in shortly, he realized with a vague dread, and he wanted to get to bed and feign sleep. But he was dull and slow with fatigue and she was already in the house and coming noisily up the stairs before he could break his inertia and crawl under the covers. In two weeks she had lived up ninety percent of his remaining life, he thought hopelessly. He kept his eyes shut as she flung open the door and snapped on the light.

  "I been taking that ole hound dog for a run,” she lied stupidly. She sounded half-drunk. He didn't bother to answer. She flaunted off to the bedroom she had taken over, calling back: “Quick's I take me a bath I'll be back, and don't you go try and beg off like last night and this morning, you big old Daddy Lover, you—"

  She was burning him out like dry old tinder, and he knew what hell was like. It was fire, fire; it burned unquenchable and insatiable in her. He couldn't stand it ... he couldn't ... He moaned softly, a bone-deep ache of tiredness in him. If she would just let him alone, let him rest in peace ...

  Then she was back in a filmy nylon shorty nightgown that left her luscious, dancing legs naked to the hips; her eyes teased and her lips taunted: “Get up, big old Daddy Lover ... Lookit!” She began to prance, tilting her hips and shaking her breasts and rolling her bottom as she sang: “Cha cha cha-tiyata—cha ta cha ... “

  He crammed the pillow over his head, and writhed. “Please let me sleep!” His voice rose to a bellow of anguish.

  She laughed. “C'mon,” she taunted, and pulled the pillow away, and moved her body tantalizingly, and his cold hands reached toward her. “Cha cha cha ... “ she teased, backstepping daintily. “C'mon, you get up and dance that cute way you do, big old Daddy Lover."

  He sat up and got up and began to lift his knees and wag his rump and he heard his voice croaking, “Cha cha cha-tiyata—cha ta cha—” And then he caught sight of himself in the old bureau mirror, like a grotesque, mindless performing animal. He stopped and stared at that beautiful fire burning him to death and he knew he had to put out that fire to save himself.

  At last he lay quietly, an old man in his bed. But his bony fingers still ached from the unaccustomed tension and violence they had just endured. His heartbeat had finally calmed. His hand moved over and rested on her briefly. It were as though she were sleeping beside him. Already, her flesh was beginning to lose its heat, just as her throat had forever lost its song of lust. He sighed and shut his eyes, his body yielding to the deepest craving in it, the craving for an old man's rest.

  THE END

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  NOIR MASTER SERIES

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