Heat of Night Read online

  Norcross watched all this over the top of his Scotch glass. He hid his smirk, moved toward the hall. Neither Al nor Hollister glanced at him.

  Norcross gathered up his brief case, thinking he’d have an interesting story for Stella. With a little local research which he’d handle in the morning he could get her anything she wanted. Meantime, climbing the stairs, he felt a faint compassion for Hollister. A man couldn’t yell uncle quickly or loudly enough once his troubles started. He shrugged. Well, that was the way the trap snapped.

  “You — brought her here,” Al said. His hands trembled. He strode close to Mal. He was half a foot shorter, but stocky and quivering with the anger in him. “I want you to stay away from her — ”

  “I — ”

  Al cut him off, yelling at him. “Don’t talk to me. I don’t want to hear your talk. You stay away from her. And so you know I mean this — ”

  Before Hollister could set himself, react enough to move or lift an arm, Al drove his fist hard into him, wrist-deep below the belt.

  Mal gasped, doubling over. He gagged, caught his arms across his groin. Al struck him on the side of the head, a long looping right cross.

  Still holding his stomach with crossed arms, Mal toppled off balance, struck against a small white-covered table, knocking it over. Then he sprawled out on the floor. Gasping through his mouth, he lay on his side with fiery clouds billowing behind his eyes. Through his mind raced thoughts of what he was going to do when he got to his feet. He’d pluck the feathers off this character. He’d pull off his arms and stuff them down his goddamn throat.

  He stretched out one leg, tensing it, some of the pain in his groin relaxed. After what seemed a long time, he managed to get to his knees.

  He pulled himself up, braced on a straight chair. The room skidded in red and liquid fire. He rested another few seconds, watching Venzino warily.

  “I don’t want to hit you,” Al’s voice was miserable. “I don’t want to hit nobody. You hear this? But you got to keep away from Dolores.”

  Mal pulled himself up.

  Al’s voice raged at him, quavering. “You go ahead, mister. You love somebody. Anybody. That’s fine. You love somebody — ” he waved his arm — “that lives in a house like this. Some dame knows her way around. You got that plain enough? You get on some other kick, mister. You went on the town, okay, but you picked the wrong girl for your hot time. Be pleased that I come here instead of Big Juan. He would not have hit you so gently, he would have killed you. You’re a rich man and you’re still alive — and you want to stay that way — I think you better get away from this town for a while. You find another doll in some other town. All I ask. You want no more trouble from me or Juan — you take a little trip — ”

  “I’ll tell her goodbye — ”

  “You tell nobody goodbye. Mister, you maybe got no idea how serious this is. We’re trying to keep from having trouble. We don’t give a damn if you’re killed — but you keep pushing Big Juan and he’ll kill you. We do care about that. Now I give you the word, mister. You come near that house once more — I’ll have Juan’s gun waiting. I’ll kill you, so help me God.”

  He glared around this room where Hollister had brought Dolores. He’d said all there was to say. It was up to Hollister now. If he was a fool he’d come around one more time. If he were smart he’d clear out and let Dolores forget him. This was up to Hollister.

  Al turned and walked out. He crossed the foyer, went out the front door.

  The rain was beating down now, smacking the drive and bouncing like spilled coins. Flashes of lightning suddenly turned the whole dark wet world dazzlingly white.

  16

  GOOD LORD, VENZINO,” the sheriff said. He was a rotund man, as tall as Big Juan but with many chins and a beefy, over-fed look. He’d been sheriff for over twenty years. “This is a devil of a time of night to wake a man.”

  “I am sorry about this,” Juan said. His face was set, voice cold.

  “Well, I can see you’re not a damn bit sorry. But it’s all right. Nobody could sleep on a night like this. You ever see such a storm, Juan? We got a real twister a-blowing here. You got all your boats tied up?”

  “I got them tied up. It don’t matter. They no good anyhow.”

  “Well, shake out of that slicker and come on in. I’m getting my death of cold standing here in this doorway. Wind’s about to blow off my nightshirt.”

  Big Juan removed his slicker, tossed it on a porch rocker. He followed the sheriff into his parlor. The dress was still clenched in his fist but now it was a soggy wad.

  He glanced about the sheriff’s living room. This man had done well for himself; he was a man who gave his family the nice things they should have. The television was new, the couch was a very modern thing, with spindly legs. Juan wondered if it would support the sheriff’s weight. He saw it never had to since the sheriff had his own large easy chair under a reading lamp. Very old, the head rest was discolored by time and oils from the sheriff’s hair. Some arguments about keeping this old chair in this fine room, Juan supposed. The sheriff sank into his chair and waved a round arm at Juan.

  “Sit down, sit down, if you can find a comfortable chair in this fool room. You know when we was kids, Venzino, a house was a place to be comfortable in. You didn’t own furniture so the neighbors would be impressed while you yourself had to go to bed if you wanted a comfortable place to squat.”

  “Is nice,” Juan said. “Is all very fine.”

  “Yeah,” the sheriff said. “Very fine. But this ain’t what you come to talk about.”

  “No.”

  “Then let me have it. People come here to see me when they got woes. When they want to be friendly — hell, I don’t know where they go.”

  Juan nodded. “It is about this man Hollister.”

  “Mal Hollister? The contracting engineer?”

  “Is right. He have fool around with my girl.”

  The sheriff whistled through his teeth. “Dolores, eh? The blonde one?”

  Juan nodded. The sheriff whistled again.

  “She’s a mighty pretty girl, Juan. You can’t expect men not to look at something like that.”

  “The look, I don’t care. The touch, I care. He touch.”

  “Wow. What kind of charges you want to make?”

  “What kind of charges you got?”

  The sheriff sighed, listening to the wind wailing around his house, lashing the palm fronds.

  “Hollister is a big man, Juan,” he said.

  “I’m a big man, too.”

  “He’s rich. Mighty powerful.”

  “This gives him no right to do what he do to my girl.”

  “No. I guess you got a point there. Still, it does mean we got to be mighty careful of what we’re doing before we do it.”

  “Does being rich give him the right to — ”

  “I never said that, Juan. But you got to make up your mind. No matter what you’ve heard. The rich in this here country are just the same as they are anywhere else. They rule, they own, and they use it just about the way they want to. Anything else you hear is bull.”

  “He hurt my girl. He’s going to pay.”

  “All right, Juan. I’m just trying to tell you. It’s a tough row. You got to be dead sure.”

  “I’m dead sure.” Juan shook out the limp wet rag of the dress but even soaked and wadded as it was, the sheriff could see how it had been ripped.

  He whistled again. He frowned and struggled up to his feet. He waddled to Juan, took the dress, stood looking at it. He shook his head. “Juan, it just don’t make sense. No matter how wild she drove him — ”

  “He already wild. She don’t have to drove him — ”

  “I’m not blaming your daughter — ”

  “Be sure you don’t.”

  “Still, Juan, you got to face the truth. Hollister is a respected man. I mean, there’s never even been a whisper of anything like this about him. I mean it, Juan, not a whisper — ”

&n
bsp; “You don’t believe what you see?”

  “I’m trying to believe it. I’m trying to stack it up against what I know about Mal Hollister, too. It just don’t make sense.”

  “It not make sense a man like that fooling around with my girl. I try to tell him, I warn him. Now you see — ”

  “Juan, listen, we’ll have to have a doctor examine the girl — ”

  “What’s this examine?”

  “You’re saying Hollister raped her, aren’t you?”

  “I’m say he tear clothes off her. Her face is all bruise. Yes — he rape her, too, if I need to say it.”

  “You’ll have to prove it, Juan. I’m not trying to make it tough. In this state rape calls for the death penalty. This is a respected, wealthy man you’re charging. I’m trying to save you a lot of trouble, your daughter a lot of embarrassment — ”

  “Embarrass? A girl should be embarrass when a man does this — ”

  “Juan, if it’s like you say — no. But — ”

  “What other way you think it is, huh? This great fine man. He’s very respected. How about my girl? You hear any talk about her she is not respected, too?”

  “I never did, Juan. I never suggested I did.”

  “All right. This man we fix him. If we not get him for rape without embarrass my girl — and examine her — we get him for something else. You got something else? Just — what you say — assault her?”

  The sheriff nodded, then scratched himself. “That’s a wild charge to make against a man like Hollister.”

  Juan stepped close to him. He took the ripped dress, shook it in the sheriff’s face.

  “I tell you this — you do something — or I do something. I not a respected man like Hollister — when I do something the charge you make will not be wild. You believe me?”

  “I believe you. In fact, I’m pleased you came to me first, Juan. So. I promise you. You go back home. You stay there. You behave yourself. First thing tomorrow, I’ll go talk to Hollister. Tell you what. You leave the dress here. I’ll confront him with it — I’ll get the truth. If you’ll wait and trust me.”

  The wind wailed about the Venzino house. Frequently a palm frond was slapped against the walls or the roof. The rain beat against the boards, thunderous in the wind.

  Bea held Dolores in her arms, soothing her, whispering to her.

  She wanted Dolores to talk to her. She’d long ago learned it relieved you to speak out the hurts inside you, lowered the pressures in you, even if the problem remained unsolved, insoluble. But she could sense that whatever was on Dolores’ mind, it wasn’t anything she could talk about, put in words. Dolores was drawn into herself, drawn inward, sick and without hope, hardly aware of what was going on around her.

  “It’s all right, Dolores,” she said. “All of us get hurt sometime. Lot of us most of the time. It’ll be all right.”

  “No. I’ve lost him — I couldn’t face him now.”

  “Who, Dolores? Who have you lost? Why can’t you face him?”

  But Dolores was crying again, softly and deep within herself. She buried her face against Bea’s matronly bosom. I feel like a mother, Bea thought, and I never had a child, probably never will. She was thinking about Al, his desire for many children, feeling sorry for him. She’d been selfish, self-centered. She pulled her thoughts back to Dolores.

  “Oh, Bea. God. You ever felt — you didn’t want to live?”

  Bea tried to laugh. “You mean there’s some other way to feel?”

  “I’m so alone.”

  “Darling, we’re all alone. Every woman who ever loved a man is alone. You never know what to do, or say, or think. Don’t worry about it. It’s just par for the course.”

  Dolores rolled away from her, buried her face in the pillow. “I’m tired,” she said. “I’m so tired.”

  “You want to sleep now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m all right.” Dolores’ voice was dead.

  “I’m right in Al’s room. You want me, you call. Hear?”

  Dolores mumbled something. Bea stood there a moment in her gown, staring down at the sobbing girl. There should be something she could do, something she could say. She knew better. She bent over, smoothed Dolores’ hair. Then sighing, she straightened. After a second she turned off the light, stood listening in the storm. What fool thing was Al doing right now? Where was he? She had to admit though, whatever he did, he was trying to do what was right.

  Alone, Dolores rolled over on her back.

  She stared at the ceiling, eyes unblinking. She did not even flinch when lightning crackled, turning the room blazingly, fearsomely white.

  She wanted to sleep. Her eyes burned and she longed to forget what had happened to her. She was afraid to sleep. She might scream again. She could not know what she’d do if she fell asleep. She had to hold herself taut like this, if not, she would scream and wail, louder than the storm, more terribly.

  The room was too small for her, the house was too small and the world was. She could not breathe any more lying on the bed. She sat up, gasping loudly through her opened mouth. She swung her feet over the side of the bed, got up, still unable to fill her aching lungs.

  She moved slowly to her door, went out into the front room. She could hear the children snoring or whispering or turning in their beds. She listened for a long time for a sound from Al’s room where Bea was. There was nothing or she could not hear anything above the storm.

  She walked wearily into the kitchen. She closed the door and snapped on the light. The dishes were washed, the water glasses the kids had used lined the drainboard. And there was the knife.

  She moved to it woodenly, picked it up, closing her fingers about its handle. She stared at it a long time and then pressed the point between her breasts at the soft place in her solar plexus. She tightened her mouth thinking that it took only a little courage to thrust the knife hard into her. It gleamed so sharply, like a surgeon’s instrument. If she closed her eyes, drove the knife into her, it would all be over. She held her breath, waited … and could not do it.

  She felt tears burn her eyes. She hadn’t the courage it took to do it. Not because she was afraid to die but because the pain might be so terrible she’d stop instinctively before she’d thrust it into her heart. Suppose she could not do it all the way — this would be worse. No. She dropped the knife on the drain, the sound of its clattering fall lost in rumble of thunder.

  It had seemed an easy way to die but now she knew better. It took strength and it took courage when the pain fought against your desires, and it had to be all the way. She couldn’t do it because it was almost like drowning yourself, you would fight for your life despite your desire to die, your need to die.

  She looked about the wanly lighted kitchen. There had to be some way, a way which when started couldn’t be stopped.

  She went to the cabinet, opened it. The small box was marked, “Rodent Exterminator, poison. Keep out of reach of small children and pets.” The carton was old, label smudged, the list of antidotes long ago torn away. She stared at the box, thinking that if it were started, no one could stop it in time. They wouldn’t know how.

  She took down the carton with its red top.

  She thought about Rosa and her eyes brimmed with tears. To take one’s own life was a sin to Rosa. But Rosa’s beliefs no longer touched Dolores. She couldn’t reconcile herself to a religion that denied her the man she loved, no matter who he was, what human mistake he’d made. If God was a gentle father He wouldn’t deny His children a chance at happiness on this earth.

  She got a glass, set it on the drainboard. Her hands shook. If she drank this quickly there could be no turning back. Once started, nothing could stop it.

  This was what it had to be. She poured the powder into the glass and carefully replaced the box on the high shelf where the children couldn’t get to it.

  Then she turned and ran water into the glass, stirred it quickly.


  She closed her eyes and drank it down. She felt her mouth and throat scald, felt instant nausea. She heard the glass drop from her fingers.

  She turned, moving away from the fallen glass, going toward her room. If only she could get back to her bed, no matter how great the pain she would not cry out. She would stuff something in her mouth. Her mouth burned so horribly.

  She stumbled and sprawled out on the floor.

  She tried to get up and could not, she tried to move and she could not. The sharp pains grabbed at her stomach and twisted. She bit the back of her hand to keep from screaming. She tried to think about Mal.

  The kitchen door was thrown open. Bea stood looking down at her, then her gaze touched the glass, flew back to Dolores’ face.

  Dolores’ mouth was swelling, seared.

  Bea screamed.

  Abruptly the dogs were yowling again at the kitchen door, the children bounced from their beds.

  Bea raged at them to get back in bed and most of them obeyed. They’d never seen Aunt Bea as wild as this before, never heard her speak so loudly.

  Luis and Linda were trying to help her get Dolores to her bed when Al came in the front door.

  17

  NOBODY SPOKE. None of them moved. The wind hurtled in past Al in the open doorway. Finally he closed it, leaned against the door, staring at Dolores.

  At last Bea was able to speak. She stared at AI, her eyes bright with tears. “She tried to kill herself, Al. She drank poison.”

  At the sound of Bea’s voice, Al was able to move. He strode forward, shoved the children out of the way.

  Dolores’ swollen mouth moved. She said, “Mal.”

  Al swung her up in his arms, cursing. He cursed Mal Hollister, he cursed himself because he hadn’t killed him.

  He moved through Dolores’ bedroom door with her in his arms. Gently he placed her on the bed.

  Bea was at his heels. “It was my fault, Al.”

  Al was staring at Dolores’ blistered mouth, trying to think what to do — take Dolores to a doctor, bring one here. His mind was numb, he was helpless.