Ed McBain

Consolation

“Consolation,” by Ed McBain. Copyright © 1976 by Ed McBain. First published in Mystery Monthly.

They were worried that the lady in the basement had seen the blood.

They had parked the car behind Jocko’s building, and then had come in through the back door, into the basement, carrying Jocko between them. There was a lady there, near the washing machines, but she was busy putting in detergent and they went right by her, hoping she’d think it was some guys bringing home a drunken buddy. She hardly looked at them as they went past her to the elevator. But now they were worrying she had maybe seen the blood.

Jocko was still bleeding.

The blood had slowed to a steady seep, but it was still coming from under the sleeve of his poplin windbreaker and dropping onto the floor of the elevator. There was no one in the elevator with them; they were grateful for that. They had driven past the front stoop of the building first, and had almost lost heart when they saw all those people sitting there on the steps talking; this was ten o’clock on a hot night in August, and nobody was eager to go upstairs to apartments like furnaces. It was Teddy who got the idea to drive around to the big, open parking lot behind the building, then go in the door to the basement. The sleeve of Jocko’s jacket was covered with blood, and his pants were covered with blood, and there was almost as much blood on Teddy and Colley from carrying him.

“You think she seen the blood?” Teddy asked again.

“No,” Colley said, “she didn’t see it, stop worrying about it, will you?” But he was worried himself.

The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, and they eased Jocko out into the hallway, and then belatedly looked around to see if anybody was there. Without a word they turned to their right and started toward the end of the hall. Behind them, the doors to the elevator closed, and it began whining down the shaft again. Outside apartment 5G, Colley rang the doorbell.

“Just like Jeanine to have gone to a movie,” Teddy said.

“No, she’ll be home. Night of a job, she’ll be home,” Colley said, and rang the bell again. They could hear chimes sounding inside the apartment. Colley thought he heard a television set going, but that might have been in the apartment next door. He pressed the bell button again. The peephole flap suddenly went up, and then fell again an instant later. They heard the door being unlocked — first the deadbolt, then the Fox lock, then the night chain. The door opened wide.

Jeanine stood slightly to the side to let them past. She didn’t scream, she didn’t say a word. She’d already seen them through the peephole, so she knew something had gone wrong. She just watched them silently now as they moved past her into the living room, and then she closed and locked the door behind them — first the deadbolt, then the Fox lock, and then the chain. They were standing in the middle of the living room waiting for her to tell them where to take her husband, who was dripping blood all over the rag. She didn’t ask what happened, she didn’t ask how bad it was, she didn’t say a word. She began walking toward the rear of the apartment instead, they followed her without being told to follow her. Jocko was beginning to weigh a ton. He was a big man to begin with, and now they were practically dragging him across the floor, his feet trailing, his two hundred and twenty pounds multiplying with each step they took.

“In the bathroom,” Jeanine said.

They managed to squeeze him through the narrow bath-room door by going through it sideways, and then they sat him down on the toilet bowl, and Jeanine began undressing him. She was wearing white shorts cut high on the leg, an orange halter top, no shoes. Her long, blond hair was hanging loose around her face as she took off the blue windbreaker and then began unbuttoning the white shirt under it. Both the shirt and the jacket were soaked with blood, and each time she brushed her hair away from her face, she got blood on her cheek and in the hair itself.

She had good features going a bit fleshy; Colley guessed she was in her late thirties, maybe closer to forty. Her eyes were dark green, not that pale jade you saw on most light-complexioned women, but a deeper green — like an emerald a burglar had once showed him, thing big enough to choke a horse. She had a good, sensible nose with a tiny scar on the bridge that made it look like she’d lived with the nose a long time, had sniffed around with it a little, had maybe stuck it in places where it didn’t belong, and had it broken or slashed. The nose and the eyes and the mouth, those were what gave her face definition. The mouth was full, the upper lip lifting gently away from her teeth, so that you always saw a flash of white and got the impression she was parting her lips and about to say something. Her skin was very white; he imagined she turned lobster red in the sun. Years ago, she’d been a stripper down in Dallas, Jocko told him, and she still had a stripper’s body, heavy breasts in the halter top, generous hips, good legs showing below the brief shorts, thighs a bit fleshy like her face, but the calves firm, tapering to slender ankles. Her feet were big. Her feet were peasant’s feet. They didn’t seem to go with that face and that body.

She lowered Jocko’s shirt off one shoulder and then gently tugged the sodden material away from the wound, and slid the sleeve off his. Colley caught his breath as she exposed the wound, but it wasn’t all that bad, the slug seemed to have ripped away only a small piece of flesh just below the biceps, hadn’t even entered the really. Colley’d been expecting something much worse; the cops had both been carrying .38-caliber pistols.

He realizes all at once that both of them are left-handed, they are holding their pieces in their left hands as they come down a narrow aisle formed by two standing racks. The racks are made of metal, they are green, they are maybe eight or ten feet high, and they are neatly stacked with whiskey bottles. The detectives are each at least six feet tall, they come charging down the narrow aisle like bulls coming into an arena. At the far end of the aisle, Colley sees an open door. There’s a room back there, he can see cartons piled on the floor. That’s where the cops were staked out, in the room back there...

“...shoes and socks,” Jeanine said.

“What?”

“Where the hell are you?” she said.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Take off his shoes and socks. Teddy, ran the tub.”

Colley stooped at Jocko’s feet and began unlacing his shoes. There was blood even on the shoes — Jesus, what a mess! He got off the shoes and socks and then he helped Jeanine pull down Jocko’s pants and take off his undershorts. Jocko had red crotch hair, same as the hair on his head. He had a very small pecker. Colley was surprised. Big man like that, you expected...

“Help me lift him,” Jeanine said.

Together, the three of them lifted him over the edge of the tub and lowered him gently into the water. The water immediately turned a murky pink. “Could stand it a trifle hotter,” Jeanine said, and turned the hot water tap open full. Jocko looked enormous lying there in the water. Massive head, red hair curling on it, eyelids closed over those pale blue eyes, menacing eyes hidden now by the closed lids; his face looked almost cherubic except for the curl of his lip betraying the meanness, even when he was unconscious. Power in the wide shoulders and huge chest — must’ve lifted weights as a kid. Pink water rippling over bulging pectorals, tiny contradictory penis hidden now, just a blush of deeper red where his crotch hair peeked through the pink water. He was still unconscious, but he twitched now, and grunted something, and Jeanine giggled unexpectedly.

“What is it?” she said. “Don’t you want your Saturday-night bath?” and giggled again.

Colley couldn’t see anything funny about their present situation. He wanted to tell her to quit making dumb jokes. But there was something even more frightening about Jocko naked in the tub there and lying on his back than when he was dressed and standing on his own two feet. Even unconscious, Colley was afraid Jocko might overhear something he said to Jeanine and get up out of the water and... well... hurt him. There’d been a big guy like Jocko in prison, and he had hurt Colley.

“You going to need me?” Teddy said. “I want to get rid of the car. Hot car sitting out there with blood all over the front seat.”

“Go ahead,” Jeanine said.

“Okay to call my wife? She’s gonna be wondering.”

“Phone’s in the bedroom,” Jeanine said, and turned off the hot water. Teddy went down the hallway to the bedroom. In the bathtub, Jocko sighed. Jeanine was soaping the wound now, gently using a sponge on it. Down the hall, Teddy began dialing the phone. The apartment was silent except for the tiny splashing sounds of Jeanine dipping the sponge and lifting it from the water and dipping it again. There was blood on her white shorts. Blood on her thigh, too. Down the hall, they could hear Teddy’s muffled voice. Jeanine pulled the stopper from the tub, and then turned on the hot and cold water faucets and tested the stream of water with her hand. With a clean wash cloth, she began rinsing off Jocko. Teddy came back up the hallway and leaned in the bathroom doorway.

“I’m gonna split,” he said, “get rid of the car.” He hesitated. “Were they both dead, Colley?”

“I don’t know,” Colley said. “Two cops sitting the store,” he explained to Jeanine. “In the back room, there.”

“Him and Jocko walked into a stakeout,” Teddy said.

“Minute Jocko threw down on the old man, the two of them came out the back yelling fuzz.”

“You shot two cops?” Jeanine said.

“I only shot one of them. Jocko—”

“Never mind who shot them,” Jeanine said. “I’m asking—”

“Yeah, two cops got shot.”

“They both looked dead,” Teddy said. “Colley, they really looked dead to me. That one lying closest to the door, his brains were all over the floor.”

“Great,” Jeanine said.

“They surprised us,” Colley said.

“Great,” she said again. “Two dead cops.”

“I ain’t so sure about them being dead,” Colley said. “I ain’t even sure about the one Teddy says had his brains—”

“It’ll be on television later,” Teddy said. “I’ll bet it’s on television. Two cops getting killed.”

“Look, we don’t know for sure—”

“They’re dead all right,” Teddy said. He looked very owlish and wise and sad behind his glasses. He also looked exhausted. He had been busy since early that morning, boosting the car in Brooklyn, and he still had to get rid of it. Before the holdup, it had only been a stolen car. Now it was a car that had been used in a felony murder... well, Colley wasn’t sure either one of them was dead. Man could look dead without being dead. Hell, Jocko’d been bleeding like a pig all the way over here, but now he looked fine. Might be the same with those cops in the liquor store. Even the one Colley had shot might not...

“I’ll call you in the morning,” Teddy said.

“You going outside like that?” Colley said.

“Huh?”

“All that blood on your clothes?”

“Shit,” Teddy said. “You got something I can put on, Jeanine? Just something to—”

“Jocko’s clothes’d be too big for you,” she said. “Maybe my raincoat.”

Together, they went out of the bathroom. Colley could hear them rummaging around in one of the closets. In the tub, Jocko mumbled something, and then fell silent. Colley heard them in the hallway again, heard the front door opening and closing, heard Jeanine relocking it. Teddy had left without saying good night. He heard Jeanine padding barefooted toward the bathroom again. She came in, went directly to the tub, and said, “Give me a hand, here.”

Colley leaned over the tub and put his under Jocko’s right arm and across his slippery back. Jeanine grabbed Jocko’s legs, and together they half lifted him, half rolled him out of the tub. Colley got a better grip on him then, and they moved him over to the toilet bowl, and sat him down again. Jocko was still unconscious; his head lolled to one side as Jeanine began drying him with a big, white towel. Watching her, Colley was reminded of something — though he couldn’t tell what. He was completely absorbed watching her. Down the hallway, he could hear a clock ticking someplace. He kept watching her. The wound had stopped bleeding completely. She patted it dry carefully, and then took some stuff from the medicine cabinet over the sink, and squeezed something from a tube onto the wound, and then put a gauze pad over it, and wrapped it with bandage and adhesive tape.

“Help me get him in the bedroom,” she said.

Colley took him from behind, like before, but grabbing him under both arms now, and Jeanine lifted his legs again, and they carried him down the hall to the bedroom. He got heavier each time they moved him; Colley was beginning to think this was what Hell must be like — lifting and carrying Jocko Wyatt through eternity.

In the bedroom, Jeanine let his legs go while she pulled back the spread and then the blanket. Colley stood there supporting Jocko, the weight of the man pulling on his arms and his shoulders and his back. His own legs were beginning to tremble.

“Come on,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, and nodded.

He had the feeling she wasn’t even talking to him. She had pulled the blanket to the foot of the bed, and was coming around to where Colley stood with Jocko collapsed against him. She seemed completely involved with her own thoughts. She picked up Jocko’s legs as if she were picking up the handles of a wheelbatrow. Together they moved him onto the bed.

“You better cover him,” Colley said.

She pulled the sheet up over his waist, and stood there looking down at him for a moment. He was breathing evenly and regularly. In the hallway outside, a light was burning; they turned it off before they went into the living room. There was a television set against one wall. Colley instantly looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty. If either of those cops was dead, the eleven o’clock news would surely carry the story.

“Place looks like a slaughterhouse,” Jeanine said, and shook her head. “Do we have to worry about cleaning up right this minute?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you expecting company is what I mean.”

“Cops, you mean?”

“Cops, I mean.”

“No, no.”

“You sure?”

“Well, I’m not sure. But even if the old guy—”

“What old guy?”

“Behind the counter.”

“Great, did you shoot him, too?”

“No, no. Come on, Jeanine, it couldn’t be helped.”

“What about him?”

“I’m saying even if he gives them a good description of us, well, it takes time, you know, to check files, you know, and come up with mug shots and fingerprints and like that. They might never get to us. I mean, even if the old guy remembers what we look like—”

“Colley,” she said, “if those cops are dead, they’ll get to you.”

“Well,” he said.

“Even if only one of those cops is dead—”

“Who said anybody’s dead? Teddy was only in the store there a minute, when he come in to help me with Jocko. Whyn’t you ask me, huh? I was the one in there with Jocko when the shooting started. I’m the one ought to know what happened in there.”

“All right,” she said, “what did happen in there, Colley?”

“They surprised us, that’s all. Jocko threw down on the guy behind the counter, and next thing you know there was fuzz.”

The cop is about to say, “Police officers!” again. He gets only part of the word out. He says “Po—” and then the bullet takes him in the mouth. It’s as if the bullet rams the rest of the word back in his throat and breaks it up into a thousand red and yellow and white globules that come flying out the back of his head and splatter all over a Seagram’s poster behind him. He does an almost comic skid, the force of the bullet knocking him backwards, his feet still moving forward and flying out from under him. He goes into the air backwards, hangs there for an instant in an upside-down swan dive, his arms thrown wide, the shield in one hand, the gun in the other, his back arched, his head thrown back and spurting blood. Then he crashes suddenly...

“...started shooting?”

“What?”

“Who was the one started shooting?”

“The one coming at me,” he said. “Holding out his badge. He was left-handed, Jeanine, both of them were left-handed. They had their pieces in their left hands, how you like that?” he said, and shook his head in amazement. “Listen,” he said, “you got anything to drink around here? I could really use a drink.”

“There’s booze in the kitchen,” she said.

“You want one?” he said.

“Mix me a light Scotch and water.”

“I’m not moving in,” he said, “I just want to see the news. I’ll go right after the news, you don’t have to worry.”

“Who’s worrying?” Jeanine said, and looked at him.

“Well, I didn’t mean actually worrying.”

“What did you mean?” she said.

She was still watching him. He couldn’t read the look on her face. He knew she was angry because of the shooting in the liquor store, and Jocko getting hurt. But there was something else mixed in with the anger.

“What I meant is I know you’re upset right now,” he said, and got up quickly and went out into the kitchen. On the counter, near the refrigerator, there was an almost full bottle of Scotch and an unopened bottle of bourbon. He pried an ice-curs tray loose from the freezer compartment and put a few cubes in each of two glasses. He was pouring Scotch literally into both glasses when he remembered she’d asked for a light one, so he poured more heavily into his glass, which made hers light by comparison. “Did you say water in this?” he called to the living room, but she either didn’t hear him or didn’t care to answer him. He himself. wanted soda, but there wasn’t any in the refrigerator, so he put a little water in both glasses and then carried them out to the living room. The living room was empty. Down the hall, he heard the shower going. He looked at his watch again. It was quarter to eleven, plenty of time before the news came on.

He turned on the set, and then sat on the sofa and took a good heavy gulp of his drink, and then another heavy gulp, and then just began sipping at it slowly. Down the hall, the shower was still going. The apartment was still except for the steady dramming of the water and the drone of the television set. A movie was on, he watched it only because he did not want to think about what had happened in the liquor store. He did not want to believe that either of those two cops were dead.

He could accept them being hurt bad, but he didn’t want to believe they were dead because then he might just as well admit he himself was dead. You kill a fuckin’ cop in this city — any city, for that matter — that was it, Charlie. So he didn’t want to believe he had killed that cop. Until he knew otherwise, why then he chose to believe the man was only hurt bad. Stupid bastard, running at him that way, holding out the badge as if it was a shield could protect him from harm. Like people hanging St. Christopher medals in their car. All those crazy bastards on the highway, you needed more than a St. Christopher medal to survive.

The sound of the water stopped. He kept watching the movie. He had no idea what the movie was about, no idea who the actors were. Down the hallway, he heard the bathroom door opening. Silence. The ticking of the clock. On the street outside, filtering up to the open windows, the distinctive laughter of a black woman. In the distance, the sound of an approaching train rattling along the elevated tracks on Westchester Avenue. Summertime. It was summertime in that apartment and beyond those open windows. Summertime. And he had shot a cop.

When she came back into the room she was wearing faded blue jeans and a white cotton T-shirt. No bra, her breasts moved fluidly beneath the thin fabric as she came barefooted into the room. She looked clean and cool and she brought the scent of soap with her. She looked younger, too, possibly because the narrow jeans hid the fleshiness of her thighs and gave her a long, slender look. Stopping just inside the door to the living room, she put her hands on her hips, and stood there watching the television screen. The movie was ending. Another train went roaring past on the avenue a block away, smothering all sound. Jeanine looked for her drink, saw it on the coffee table and leaned over to pick it up.

The anchorman came on just then to give a quick summary of the news. They both turned to watch the screen, Jeanine standing to Colley’s left, the drink in one hand, the other hand still on her hip. The anchorman was saying something about a demonstration outside the U.N. building. Jeanine sipped at the drink, her eyes on the screen. Now the anchorman was talking about a three-alarm fire in the Wall Street area. Colley was hoping there wouldn’t be anything about the robbery. If they didn’t report it on television, that would mean neither of the two cops had been hurt bad. But then the anchorman said, “In the Bronx tonight, one detective was killed and another was seriously injured when a pair of armed men attempted to hold up a liquor store on White Plains Avenue. And in—”

“There it is,” Jeanine said.

“Shhh,” Colley said.

“...the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, a three-hour traffic jam caused tempers to flare while temperatures soared. Details on these in a moment.”

“One of them’s dead,” Jeanine said.

“I heard.”

“Great,” she said.

“Shhh, I want to hear if they—”

“Just great.”

She seemed about to say something more, but instead she angrily plucked a cigarette from the box on the coffee table, and struck a match with the same angry 1 impatient motion, and then walked to the easy chair across from the sofa and was about to sit in it when she saw she still had the burnt match in her hand. She pulled a face and came back to the coffee table and put the burnt match in the ashtray there. Then, instead of going back to the easy chair, she sat crosslegged on the floor in front of the couch, and silently and sulkily watched the screen. The commercial was over, the news team came back to elaborate on the events the anchorman had earlier summarized. Jeanine dragged on the cigarette and let out a streak of smoke. They were showing footage of the Wall Street fire now, it was really fascinating, fires fascinated Colley. They began interviewing a fireman, he was telling all about the people they’d rescued from the top floor of the office building. Then, suddenly, the liquor store appeared on the screen.

There it was all right, it was really funny seeing it there on a television screen. Earlier tonight, Colley had felt the job itself was like a goddamned movie, and now it really was a movie, right there on television. Only thing missing was the actors. Camera was roving around outside the store, showing the lettering on the plate-glass window, Carlisle Liquors, and the bottles in the window, focusing on a sign that was advertising something for $3.99, and then moving away to the front door, the door was opening, the camera was moving into the store itself, going in through the door, showing the bloodstains on the floor, and then continuing to move deeper into the store, toward the cash register, to show where the second cop had been shot.

It was just like all the newsreel movies Colley had ever seen on television, with bad lighting, most of the scene dark except for the area right near the lights, camera jogging and bouncing, reporter explaining what had happened earlier and hoping the audience would be able to reconstruct the action. This time, Colley had no trouble at all reconstructing the action; Colley had been part of the action. The reporter finished by saying the second cop had been taken to Fordham Hospital, where he was still in critical condition. Then he smiled and said, “What’s the weather for tomorrow, Frank?”

Colley got up and tamed off the set just as the weatherman appeared in front of his map. He went back to the sofa then, picked up his drink, drained the glass, and set it down on the coffee table.

“Now what?” Jeanine said.

“I don’t know what.”

“He’s dead, you killed a cop.”

“I ain’t so sure I’m the one who killed him,” Colley said.

“You just heard—”

“It could’ve been Jocko. It could’ve been the one he shot.”

“What difference does it make?” Jeanine said. “You were in there together, you’re accomplices—”

“All right.”

“...you killed a man!”

“All right, I said!”

“Great,” Jeanine said.

“I want another drink,” he said, and went out into the kitchen. As he mixed the drink he thought what a lousy break it was, the cop dying. He was beginning to convince himself the cop had really fired fret, that if only the cop had played it cool, if only everybody had kept their beads inside the store there, the cop would still be alive. As he took ice cubes from where they were melting in the tray, he became aware of how hot the apartment was. He’d been so busy carrying Jocko in, and then watching the news, he hadn’t had time to concentrate on anything else. But now he felt the heat, and felt the bloodstained clothing sticking to his flesh, and called from the kitchen, “What’s the matter with the air conditioner?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Whyn’t you turn it on?” he said.

“What for?”

“Cause it’s hot as hell in here.”

“I don’t feel hot,” she said, and he remembered Jocko telling him how much she liked the heat, how she’d been born in Florida someplace — where had he said? He went back into the living room and said, “Where you from in Florida?”

“Fort Myers.”

“Yeah, Fort Myers, that’s what Jocko said. You like it when it’s suffocating like this, huh?”

“Right, let’s talk about the weather,” she said. “We just heard the cop is dead—”

“Yeah, that’s a lousy break,” Colley said.

“But let’s talk about the weather, okay? You think it’s going to rain tomorrow? Maybe if it rains the cops won’t come looking for you.”

“They probably won’t come looking for us anyway,” Colley said. “I doubt the old man will finger us.” He drank from his glass, nodded thoughtfully, and then said, “He was scared, you know? When Jocko threw down on him. He might figure if he fingers us, we’ll go back and hurt him.”

“He might also figure you won’t be able to go back and hurt him,” Jeanine said.

“What do you mean?”

“He might figure you’ll be in jail a long, long time.”

“Well, you always get out of jail, you know.”

“They bust Jocko for this one, it’s his third offense. They’ll throw away the key.”

“Yeah,” Colley said. “I forgot about that.”

“He could get a maximum of life.”

“Yeah. But, you see, the old man don’t know that. The old man in the liquor store. He don’t know us from a hole in the wall. So he’ll be afraid to finger us, you see.”

“You hope,” Jeanine said.

“Well, sure, I hope. I mean, who the hell can say for sure what anybody’ll do nowadays? Who can figure that cop starting to shoot there in the liquor store? Comes running at me holding out his badge and shooting before he hardly has the words out of his mouth.”

“What words?”

“He yells ‘Police officers!’ and starts shooting.”

They were silent for several moments, drinking. Outside, another train roared past. The windows were wide open, but not a breeze came through into the apartment. Colley debated asking her again to turn on the air conditioner. Instead, he finished his drink, sucked on one of the ice cubes for a moment, and then said, “You mind if I fix myself another one of these?”

“Go ahead,” she said.

“You want another one?”

“Just freshen this a little,” she said, and handed him her glass.

He carried both glasses out into the kitchen. The Scotch bottle was almost empty. He poured some of what was left into Jeanine’s glass and the remainder in his, and then he added a little water to both glasses and carried them back into the living room.

“What it is,” he said, handing Jeanine her glass, “you get lots of cops, they’re trigger-happy. They’ll shoot little kids carrying water pistols, you know that?”

“Yeah, they’re bastards,” Jeanine said, and sipped at her drink.

“Not that we were carrying water pistols,” he said, and laughed.

“That’s for sure,” Jeanine said.

“This is really something, ain’t it?” Colley said, and took a long swallow of the drink. The booze was beginning to reach him. This was his third, and he’d poured all of them with a heavy hand, just the way he’d have poured them if the job had gone off okay. Always drank after a job, man had to celebrate, didn’t he? This one hadn’t come off, but it was the first one that hadn’t since they’d been working together, so what the hell, have a little drink anyway. He was beginning to feel a little hazy, and very comfortable and cozy here in the living room. Safe. He was beginning to feel safe.

“Thing I’m worried about,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Is I hope we won’t need a doctor for him.”

“I don’t think we’ll need a doctor.”

“You know anybody?”

“No.”

“Who’d come, I mean. If we needed him.”

“I don’t know anybody.”

“So what do we do if he starts bleeding again?”

“I don’t know. I think he’ll be okay, though. He’s a strong guy.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s strong all right,” she said. “Take more’n a bullet to kill old Jocko. Take a stake in his heart, you want to know,” she said, and laughed, and then sobered immediately and glanced past Colley toward the hallway, as though afraid the laughter might have disturbed Jocko.

“How long you been married?” Colley asked.

“Three years.”

“You were a striper when you met him, huh?”

“No, who told you that?”

“Jocko said you used to be a stripper.”

“Yeah, but that was before I met him. I haven’t been stripping for seven, eight years now. This is August, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, August.”

“I quit stripping eight years ago November.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

“Yeah, I’ve been out of it a long time.”

“How come you quit?”

“Getting old, sonny,” she said, and smiled.

“Yeah, sure,” he said.

“How old do you think I am?” she asked.

“Thirty-two, thirty-three.”

“Come on,” she said.

“Okay, thirty-seven, okay?”

“I’m forty-four,” she said. “I was thirty-six when I quit. Girl gets to be thirty-six, even if she takes good care of herself, she starts looking it, you know what I mean? Starts getting a little flabby.”

“You don’t look flabby to me,” Colley said.

“Thanks. Guys coming to strip joints, they don’t want to look at somebody who’s over the hill, they want to see young bodies.”

“You got a great body,” Colley said.

“Thanks.”

“I mean it.”

“I said thanks. Also, I was getting static from my husband. Not Jocko, this was my first husband. He said it was wrong what I was doing, shaking my ass and getting guys all hot and bothered. He turned out to be a junkie with a habit long as Southern California, but he was always bugging me about being a stripper, can you imagine? Those were the days, all right,” she said, and rolled her eyes and sighed.

“Did you like being a stripper?” he asked.

“It wasn’t bad,” she said. “Actually, it was exciting sometimes.”

“How do you mean?”

“Turning guys on,” she said. “I’d go out there, you know, and the drums’d be banging, and the lights’d be on me, and I’d start throwing myself around, and it would reach me sometimes.” She shrugged. “You know what I mean?”

“Sure,” he said.

She shrugged again, tossed her head slightly, and then took another cigarette from the box on the table. He watched her while she lighted it. She shook out the match, and he watched her breasts moving under the T-shirt, and then she walked to the window and he watched the motion of her hips in the tight blue jeans, and he kept watching her as she stood by the window with one hand cradling her elbow, hip jutting, the other hand holding the cigarette and bringing it to her mouth. The sky outside was filled with stars. There wasn’t a chance of it raining anytime soon, not with all those stars in the sky. Heat would probably last another day or two. He kept watching her.

“They’re all the same, actually,” she said. “I told Jocko I was thinking about taking a job in a massage parlor, they get good money those girls. He hit the ceiling, said that was nothing but whoring. I don’t happen to think it’s whoring. A massage ain’t the same as whoring.”

“Well, lots of massage parlors, it’s more than just a massage,” Colley said.

“You ever been in one of those massage parlors?”

“Oh, sure.”

“What do they do in there?”

“Well, they do a lot more than just massage a man.”

“What do they do?”

“Let’s just say I can see why Jocko hit the ceiling. If you were my wife, I wouldn’t like the idea of you working in a massage parlor.”

“How about my being a stripper?”

“That might be different,” Colley said. “I don’t know how I’d feel about that.”

“Uh-huh,” Jeanine said, and nodded.

“You’re thinking I’d hit the ceiling, right?”

“How’d you guess?” she said.

“Maybe I would. Good-looking woman like you,” he said, and quickly picked up his glass, and discovered it was empty, booze sure went fast around here. He tried to remember whether the bottle in the kitchen was Scotch or bourbon, the bottle that hadn’t been opened yet; he suspected it was bourbon, wasn’t good to mix Scotch with bourbon. He was feeling exceedingly content now, sitting there in the living room watching Jeanine. The job had gone wrong, true enough, but there was something very pleasant about being here with Jeanine, something reassuring about her standing there at the window looking out, though he wondered just what the hell she found so fascinating out there.

He debated complimenting her on her body again, a woman didn’t tell you how old she was unless she wanted you to say she looked terrific. But just then another train went by outside, and she turned toward the sound of it, probably wanted to read that terribly interesting, graffiti sprayed on the side of the cars, “Spider 107” or “Shadow 49” or “Spic 32,” dumb bastards scribbling all over the city. If she ever turned away from that window, maybe he’d look her straight in the eye and tell her she bad great knockers. You’ve got great knockers, Jeanine, did you realize that? No, of course she didn’t realize it. She’d only been a stripper for Christ knew how long, only had guys yelling and hollering every time she took off her bra and twirled it in the air, but no, she didn’t realize she had great knockers. I’m stoned, he thought. I killed a fuckin’ cop, this is my third drink, my fourth drink, who the hell’s counting. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and don’t give a shit besides.

“You’ve got great knockers,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said.

“What are you doing there by the window?”

“I was just thinking,” she said.

“What about?”

“I was wishing something, actually.”

“What were you wishing?”

“That Jocko would die.”

He was not sure he had heard her correctly. He reasoned that she could not have said what she’d just said because he’d seen her a little while ago giving tender loving care to Jocko in the bathtub, even though Jocko had a very small pecker, very tender loving care indeed, washing out his wound and gentling him, yes. You did not wash away a man’s wound and then wish he was, wish he was dead.

“You want to know something about your friend Jocko?” she asked.

He shook his head. No, he did not want to know something about his friend Jocko. Jocko was his fall partner and you did not go around looking at your fall partner’s wife and thinking she had great knockers... had he said it out loud? No, he did not want to hear nothing more about Jocko.

“Your friend Jocko beats me,” she said.

“No, no,” Colley said, and shook his head.

“Yes, yes,” Jeanine said. “He hasn’t missed a day since I came up to New York. How long’ve I been in New York now? When did I come up from Dallas?”

“I don’t know,” Colley said. “Two months ago? Five?”

“I came up on the twentieth of May. What’s today?”

“Saturday.”

“The date, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“August sixteenth, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“That’s three months,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“Look at this,” she said, and seized the bottom of the T-shirt in both hands and pulled it up over her breasts. Her rib cage, her chest, the slopes and undersides of her breasts were covered with angry black and blue marks. “That’s your friend,” she said, and lowered the shirt again.

“Listen,” Colley said, “you shouldn’t be saying such things about Jocko.”

“Why not?”

“He’s my fall partner, we work together. It’s not right to say such things.”

“You still think you’ve got a little gang going, don’t you?” Jeanine said. “You killed a cop tonight—”

“No, no,” he said, and shook his head.

“Yes, yes, and for all you know the other cop might die, too. But you still think you’ve got a little holdup gang going. Jesus!” she said.

“I just don’t want to hear nothing more about Jocko,” he said.

“Are you afraid of him?”

“No.”

“Sure you are.”

“No, I am not afraid of Jocko,” he said.

“Sure you are,” she said again, and smiled.

“Fine,” he said, “have it your way. Fine. You got something I can wear out of here? I think I better leave.”

“Are you drunk?” she asked suddenly.

“No, sir, I am not drunk,” he said.

“Jesus, how did you get so drunk?”

“I am not drunk,” he said.

“You’d better get in the shower,” she said.

“Wash off the blood,” he said.

“Wash off the booze. How’d you get so drunk, man? Go get in the shower. You know where the shower is?”

“Know where the shower is,” he said.

“Right down the hall there.”

“Right down the hall.”

“Go ahead now.”

“Thanks,” he said, and went down the hall to the bathroom. He was surprised to discover that he had a big pistol, big .38 Detective Special in his waistband. He pulled the gun out and placed it on top of the toilet tank, and then was further surprised to learn that his pants, his jacket, and his shirt were stained with blood, where’d he get all this blood on him? He took off his pants and saw that his undershorts were soaked with blood, too. There was dried and crusted blood on his left arm, and on both hands, and all over his face. He wondered if he should get in the shower with his clothes in his arms, and then dropped them in a bundle instead. He got into the shower, drew the curtain closed, opened it again to make sure his gun was still there on the toilet tank, and then closed the curtain and turned on the water and almost scalded himself. He backed away swearing, adjusted the water gingerly, and then looked around for the soap.

He soaped his crotch and the hair on his chest and under his arms, and remembered that when he was in prison first thing anybody soaped when they got in the shower was their crotch. Not that he looked. Guy in prison saw you looking, he figures you were ready to be turned out as his punk, next thing you knew, he was making a heavy play for you. This was nice soap, it smelled nice, he guessed it was Jeanine’s. Big guy like Jocko wouldn’t use sweet-smelling soap like this. He wondered if Jeanine had seen him looking Jocko over. He didn’t want her to think he was, you know, looking at it. Nothing wrong with a little curiosity, though. Guy’s sitting there, nothing wrong with checking him out, see how you shape up in the world. Nothing wrong with using Jeanine’s soap, either. Besides, it was the only soap here in the bathroom, so what the hell. So he’d smell like a bed of roses, so what? Dig me, girls. I’m the Queen of the Roses, he thought

There was a guy in prison, his name was Kruger, he was as big as Jocko. They all called him the Kraut, he had a scar on his cheek, they said he’d been in the German Army during World War II before coming to New York, where he got busted. What he got busted for, he took a thirteen-year-old girl up to a hotel room, burned her with cigarettes, raped her, broke both arms and legs, dislocated her jaw, blackened her eyes, knocked out seven of her teeth. He left her for dead, she sure as hell looked dead. But the girl was still alive, and she identified him by name, the stupid bastard had given her his real name when he’d picked her up in Central Park. Why she’d gone up to that hotel with him was anybody’s guess, guy old enough to be her father, take one look at him you had to know he was a bastard. First time Colley saw him in prison...

Listen, how’d we get on this? he thought. Listen, let’s get off this, okay? You start thinkin’ about that fuckin’ Kruger, you’ll take the nice fine edge off this fuckin’ high, who the hell wants to think about that bastard? Standing in the yard there, smoking his cigarette. Standing there. Cool gray eyes, that scar on his face. He turned his eyes to Colley, and he grinned, and a chill went up Colley’s spine. He came over, then, and stuck out his hand, and Colley shrank away from him, terrified, and he grabbed Colley’s hand in his own and squeezed it, squeezed it so hard it felt like he was going to break all the bones in it, and he kept grinning all the time, grinning.

In the shower now, Colley shivered. The water was hot, the water was pouring down on him in a steady, sobering, hot stream, but he shivered thinking of Kruger. He hadn’t known what Kruger wanted from him then, and he still didn’t know. It wasn’t sex. Kruger had his steady punk, a slender, blond kid who’d been busted for pushing dope and who Kruger had turned out two days after the kid drove up. So it wasn’t sex, he didn’t want sex from Colley. Colley didn’t know what the hell he wanted. Followed him around all over the joint. Colley’d get in the shower, he’d check six ways from tomorrow to make sure the Kraut wasn’t anywhere around. Then, minute he turned on the water and started soaping himself, the Kraut would suddenly appear, grinning, and he’d step behind Colley and grab his ass in both hands, and squeeze the cheeks so hard Colley thought he would faint from the pain. Rotten son of a bitch bastard! Three and a half years in prison, and the Kraut dogging him day and night; hurting him. Just hurting him for the sheer fucking pleasure of it. Like Jocko, he supposed. Like Jocko putting those black and blue marks all over Jeanine, what the hell was wrong with a man like that? He thought of Jeanine. He thought of Jeanine lifting the T-shirt up over her breasts. He thought of her stripping for a roomful of men. He soaped himself and he thought of her.

There was a knock on the bathroom door, he almost didn’t hear it over the sound of the water. His hand stopped.

“Yeah?” he said.

“You okay in there?” Jeanine said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“All right to come in? I’ve got some clothes for you.”

“What?”

“You can’t leave here in your own clothes, all that blood on them.”

“Oh, sure. Come on in.”

The door opened. The shower curtain billowed in toward him, the plastic sticking to his legs. The water was dramming against his groin, his prick was standing up stiff with the water drilling it and the soap running off him in long white streams.

“I’ll put them here on the counter,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“I hope the pants fit you.”

“Yeah,” he said. He did not hear the door opening and closing again. “Jeanine?”

“Yeah?”

“You still in here?”

“I’m still in here,” she said.

“I’m coming out now,” he said.

“Come on out,” she said.

“Jeanine?”

“Yeah.”

“I want to come out now.”

“So come on,” she said.

He poked his head and one shoulder around the edge of toe shower curtain. Jeanine was leaning against the sink.

“Hey,” he said.

Her eyes met his.

“Get out of here,” he said.

“Why?”

“Jeanine, you’re looking for trouble,” he said, and realized all at once that they were both whispering.

“No,” she said, “I’m looking for consolation. I’m looking to be soothed, Colley. I’m looking to be comforted.”

He hesitated a moment, and then he pushed the curtain back on the rod, and stepped out of the tub. She did not move from the sink. She kept leaning against the sink, with her hands resting on her thighs, her legs stretched out in front of her, her shoulders back. Her eyes did not leave his face as he approached her. He stopped in front of her, and lifted the front of the T-shirt the way she had lifted it in the living room not ten minutes ago, took the bottom of it in both wet hands and pulled the shirt up over her breasts.

When he is committing a robbery, he sees every detail as if he is on dope, everything is slowed down, everything moves at a rhythmic pace slower than the beat of his heart. It is the same making love to her now. He tries to remember whether it has ever been like this before, whether everything ever slowed down for him with any other woman. He believes it is because Jocko is in the bedroom across the hall. The danger of Jocko across the ball — even though Jocko has a bullet wound in his and is lying bandaged and unconscious on the bed — the danger of Jocko is what makes this so exciting, causing time to hang suspended, forcing time to come to a near stop. Like on a job. The danger of going to prison again, the danger of someone like Kruger again, the gamble, the high excitement of going in there with a pistol, it is the same as this, the same as this with her in this steamy bathroom while Jocko lies across the hall unconscious.

The steam is dissipating, the mirror is running rivulets of water behind her blond head, he cannot see himself clearly in the mirror because it is completely steamed over except for the silvery rivulets. He is soaking wet, he stands before her dripping water onto the tile floor. She is still leaning against the sink. Her hands are still on her thighs, the fingers spread. He notices that she has long, slender hands, that the fingernails are painted red as bright as the blood that spurted from the dead cop’s head, he does not want to think about that stupid bastard, he reaches up for her breasts. The T-shirt is bunched above them, she stands with her shoulders back, the breasts jutting, a faint smile on her face, her eyes slitted, a lazy, languid look in them, the steam is turning to a faint rain, it is raining in the bathroom as he reaches for her breasts, brings his open hands up to her breasts. She leans into his hands.

He touches her breasts lightly, he does not want to hurt her the way Jocko hurt her, he is almost afraid of causing fresh bruises on the white, her skin is so white. There is a sheen to her skin, the flesh is taut, the globes shimmer with secret pinks and lavenders, mother-of-pearl breasts, he touches them gently, his fingers explore. The skin around the nipples comes as a coarse reminder of sex, blatant and rude, the circles of darker flesh erupting in pinpoint mounds. The hardening nipples are a declaration, he responds to them wildly, seizing her breasts harshly, tightening his hands on them, cupping them to his mouth, kissing the freckled sloping tops and rounded sides, and then bringing his mouth up to hers, waiting wet and wide, and covering her lips with his.

She throws herself into him, she grinds her hips against him, he visualizes her on a small stage in a smoke-filled room. I’d go out there, you know, and the drums’d be banging, and the lights’d be on me, and I’d start throwing myself around, and he reaches for the front of the blue jeans and finds first the button, and then the zipper, which he begins to lower. She is naked under the jeans, her nakedness comes as a surprise, the smooth shock of her belly, the sudden deep navel, the crisp, tangled hair. He spreads his fingers onto her crotch and she pulls her mouth from his and whispers directly into his ear, a cannon shot in his ear, “He’ll kill you.” She is referring to Jocko, he knows she is referring to Jocko., but he can visualize only Kruger grabbing him in the shower, Kruger squeezing his cheeks in both hands, squeezing, squeezing, he will faint, and then stopping just in time, and grinning and walking out, the other cons pretending nothing has happened.

“He’ll kill you,” she says again, but she is stepping out of the blue jeans, she is kicking them away on the tile floor, she is reaching for him again, leaning back against the sink, hands coming up behind his neck, mouth open, grinding again even before their naked bodies touch. He reaches behind her and clasps her buttocks in both hands and lifts her up onto the sink. Then they hear the voice. The first thing he thinks is that it’s the police, he does not know why he thinks it’s the police. The next thing he thinks is, The door, the bathroom door, is the door locked?

“Jeanine,” the voice says.

The voice is hoarse, he cannot recognize it at first. But Jeanine knows the voice immediately, and reacts to it at once. She closes her legs, she puts her hands against Colley’s chest and shoves him away from her, she slides off the sink and onto the floor, she’s putting on her jeans before the voice says again, slightly louder this time, “Jeanine.” There is no question mark at the end of that voice, this is not someone used to calling her and not having her come, this is someone who teats her a lot, this is her Kruger, and his name is Jocko. She is pulling the T-shirt over her head now, Colley sees the swollen breasts for just an instant longer before she pulls the shirt down over them. The nipples are still hard, they poke through the thin cotton fabric, the nipples are the same but everything else is changing, everything is speeding up again, time is becoming real again, the bathroom was damp and time was becoming real.

She moved swiftly to the door. Her hand reached for the knob. She unlocked the door, and then turned to face him.

“Later,” she whisked.

“No,” he said, and shook his head.

“He’s calling me.”

“I hear him.”

“We’ll make it later.”

“No, we won’t make nothin’ later,” Colley said. “Go on, go take care of him.” He felt foolish and white and soft standing there naked with her all dressed and ready to go to Jocko. He looked toward the toilet tank, where he’d put his gun before getting into the shower. The gun was still there. He felt better knowing the gun was there.

“Yes, later,” she whispered, and went out of the bathroom.

He stood there feeling dumb. He looked down at himself. He looked around the room. He found a clean towel, and dried himself, and then found the clothes she’d brought him. Jocko’s clothes. There was no underwear or socks, only a pair of pants and what looked like an old sweater. Just the thing he needed on a hot August night, one of Jocko’s ratty old sweaters. He tried on the pants without any underwear, surprised that the waist fit him, big guy like Jocko, he expected the pants to swim on him. The pants had a button fly, and he was starting to button them when he realized something was wrong, same thing that was wrong in the liquor store when the two cops came running at him with their guns in their left hands. The pants were buttoning wrong. The buttons were on the wrong side. He realized then that they were women’s pants, they were Jeanine’s pants, and he started laughing because he’d finally got in her pants all right, but not the way he thought he’d get in them.

He debated putting on the bloodstained shirt again, and decided in favor of the sweater, no matter how damn hot it was. He still had to go down in the street, and all he needed was some cop stopping to ask about the blood on his shirt. There was only a little blood on one of his socks, so he put on the socks and shoes, and then he combed his hair with a comb he found on the counter top, lots of long, blond hair tangled in it, probably Jeanine’s, like the pants. He still thought it was comical how he’d finally got in her pants. He didn’t know how funny Jocko would think it was. He was a little afraid of going out there and looking Jocko in the eye. He lifted the gun from the toilet tank. He tucked the gun into the waistband of the pants. He pulled back his shoulders and opened the bathroom door.

Jeanine was standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

“He’s out again,” she said.

“Too bad,” Colley said.

“He was okay two or three minutes, then he drifted off again. Clothes fit you, huh?” she said.

“Yeah. I’m gonna split now. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? See how Jocko is.”

She walked him to the front door. He could hear the clock ticking. Time was with him again. She said, “I meant what I said about later.”

“Sure,” he said. “Later.”

“I’d do it now, you wanted to.”

“No, I got to get going.”

“Well, good night then,” she said, and unlocked the door for him.

“Good night,” he said.

He stepped into the hallway. The door closed behind him. He heard her fastening all the locks again. He looked at his watch as he went down the hallway to the elevator. It was close to midnight, another day. He rang for the elevator and stood watching the indicator bar as the elevator crept up the shaft, these goddamned projects never put in quality merchandise.

When he reached the street, he began walking toward the train station on Westchester Avenue. He thought about the job as he walked, thought about how wrong the job had gone, couldn’t have gone wronger — he’d killed one cop, Jocko had maybe killed another one. He thought about Jeanine, and how that had gone wrong, too, some consolation that had been; Jocko calling from the other room. Colley’d never made it with a stripper in his life, probably never would get another chance at her, no matter what she said about later. Shit, he thought, and kicked at something on the sidewalk, didn’t even know what it was, something shiny. Times he wanted to quit this racket, get himself a nice girl, his mother was always telling him to get himself a nice Italian girl, settle down someplace. Times like tonight he was tempted to do it. Who the hell needs this kind of life?

He felt the gun in the waistband of the pants.

The gun was cool against his naked skin.

Colley took the steps up to the elevated platform two at a time. He waited for the train, feeling the gun, knowing the gun was there, feeling everything would work out fine, he had a gun, he knew how to use it, everything would be fine again.

He was whistling when the train pulled in.

Content

Ed McBain
Consolation