Heat of Night Page 4

  He told himself coldly it was time to look at this whole affair realistically. It was enough just to fall in love, especially after what Stella had done to him. But Dolores was disrupting his business, fouling up his life, giving him an ulcer. There was just one way out and no matter how he tried to keep from facing the truth, he had to admit it at last.

  She carried pencils and stenographic pad and for the life of him he couldn’t say why. She ought to be in flowing gossamer robes — she often was in his recent fantasies.

  Her hair was blonde — she was a Spanish blonde with features and coloring tracing her lineage straight back to old Castile. Her blood was hot and it stirred his blood. He felt drunk when he looked at her and she was all inside him and unless he did something to end it, he was likely to remain in orbit like this forever, lost in space and off-course to hell. Well, he was going to get back on course.

  “What have you got your dictation pad for?” he heard himself saying.

  She smiled and she was lovely with soft lips and olive-black eyes. “Didn’t you want to dictate?”

  “Do I look nuts?”

  She smiled again. “It’s only two in the afternoon.”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  She came around the desk and he stood up, feeling the odd sense of panic her nearness always caused in him.

  “What do you want?” he heard this fool saying.

  “Everything! Anything! Let me show you.” She laid aside pad and pencils, reaching for his face with both hands.

  “Somebody might come in.”

  “I locked the door.”

  “What did you do that for?” How could such fool words come from the mouth of a reasonably intelligent man?

  “For this.” She pulled his head down and kissed him. “And this. And this.” Then she sighed expansively, her breath warm and sweet against his face. “Ah. I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

  “This has got to stop.”

  “Why? Don’t you love me?”

  “Of course I love you. Don’t you understand that’s what’s the matter?”

  She kissed his throat because he held his head stiffly and she could reach only above his shirt collar.

  “What’s the matter?” she whispered.

  “I’ll just tell you. The matter is I not only have to fight the violent way I want you — I have to fight you at the same time.”

  Her lips moved softly as a butterfly. “This is bad?”

  “It is for me — the position I’m in.”

  “What position are you in, darling?”

  “I’m thirty-six. You’re nineteen. I’ve been divorced. You’ve never even been married. Your family would rather I killed you than married you. I know I’ve no right in the world to touch you — and I can’t keep my hands off you.”

  She whispered, “I love you when you talk like this. So foolish. So noble.”

  “Noble? My God, if you only knew what I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “You think I don’t know? Of course I know.”

  He muttered. “How could you? You don’t even know about some of the things I’ve been thinking.”

  “But I want to know. I want to know everything with you.”

  “My God, Dolores. This has got to stop. How long do you think I can stand this?”

  “I don’t know, my love. This troubles me. You are so strong — no matter what I do, still you resist me.”

  “You make me sound like a bigger ass than I am. I’m only fighting you because I could ruin everything just by grabbing you once the way I want to. The way I’m going to if you don’t get the hell away from me.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  She went around the desk, sat down, pulling the hem of her skirt across knees whose dimples were hewn from pure gold. He felt chilled.

  He walked to the window, stood looking out at the village. Dead Bay. No movement in the street. A bread truck stood baking in the sun at the curb. Three old men hunched over a checkerboard in the shade outside the drug store. He felt her gaze on him. Why couldn’t he make her understand? He’d had a vile marriage with Stella; she’d cheated, the whole business had been a nightmare of dishonesty, the last thing he wanted. Maybe he was nuts. With Dolores he could envision a clean, honest marriage that would be consummated the night their vows were exchanged. You could make all the jokes you liked about it; there was good on this earth but a man couldn’t throw it away and expect to have anything.

  “Maybe I know I can’t have you at all,” he said aloud as if she’d been following the maze of his thoughts.

  “Why?”

  “Because Big Juan would shoot me before he would let me have you.”

  “They don’t know you. If they knew you, they’d love you as I do.”

  “Why don’t you quit this job, Dolores?”

  She sat forward. “Quit? Leave here? Why?”

  “I’ll give you a month’s pay. Two month’s. A year’s. Hell, whatever you want. But quit. Get away from here. Go marry a nice Cuban boy.”

  “I don’t want a nice Cuban boy. I want to stay with you.”

  “I’m old enough to be your father.”

  “I’m glad you’re not.”

  “You’re all — clean and new — and virginal — ”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. Also I know that every man who ever saw you wanted you. You could have anybody. Suddenly you decide you want me. You must be nuts.”

  “Yes. It is a horrible idea, isn’t it?”

  “If you don’t think so, ask Rosa Venzino. If she tells you I’m the man for you, I’ll never protest again.”

  “Poor Mama.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she doesn’t know how wonderful you are. How sad you’ve been. How hurt you’ve been … you deserve so much that’s good — I only hope I can be good enough for you.”

  He wheeled around. “Stop it, Dolores. You think I would have held you away all these nights sitting out in your backyard if I had thought there was any chance for us — if I hadn’t known there was no sense thinking about you — that you were too lovely to foul up?”

  “But I want nobody but you.” Her voice was very low. “If you won’t have me, I’ll walk down Main Street and I’ll give myself to the first man that asks me.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “It’s true. I know all about you. You’re afraid you’ll hurt me — afraid they won’t let me marry you.”

  “Exactly. That’s why the whole thing has got to stop. I — won’t see you again.”

  She stood up. “All right. The first man — the very first man that asks me.”

  He strode to her, touched her arm. She remained rigid. “Cut it out. I’m nuts enough. Stop torturing me.”

  “You’re torturing yourself. You’re torturing both of us.”

  “I’m trying to be honest with you.”

  “Then don’t. I’m not afraid of you. I’m only afraid of losing you.”

  “Oh, lord.” He dropped his hands. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I don’t know yet,” she replied with simple honesty. “What are we doing?”

  He shook his head; this made it worse: no girl could be this young, this honest. Yet he’d learned Dolores was utterly without pretenses. Once, at first, he’d decided it was a game with her, that it pleased her ego to have him walking on the ceiling, jingling change in his pocket, fumbling for words. He could have sworn she was laughing at him. She had to be. He’d be laughing at himself if he could stop crying inside long enough.

  His mouth pulled wryly. He no longer believed her direct and simple honesty was a game. She was nineteen, sought after, but first above everything she was virginal. From earliest girlhood she’d wanted the kind of happiness her mother had, and Rosa had drilled into her that a girl must take her body untouched to the one man for her. It was not just something Dolores believed; it was a vital part of her, coloring everything she did.
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br />   “You do want to go out with me, don’t you?” she said.

  He nodded, smiling sourly, gaze fixed on her face.

  Dolores looked up at him wondering at his odd smile. He seemed possessed of some knowledge about her and it troubled her that anyone, even Mal, should know her most intimate secrets.

  Finally, he pulled his gaze away thinking, it’s all right, Dolores, your secret is safe with me.

  “I was thinking about something special,” he said. “I’m tired sitting out in your backyard with your folks wandering around in the dark.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I knew you’d get tired of me sometime.”

  “Tired of you? I’m tired of that car. Tired of glancing around for the moon and finding Big Juan’s face peering in at me.”

  “It’s just — they don’t trust you.”

  “You don’t have to tell me what it is. Just the same, I was thinking that tonight we could have soft music, a good dinner with wine, and a view, maybe candles and — ”

  The telephone beside him rang suddenly and he tensed, startled. Dolores smiled when he cursed.

  The phone rang again and he lifted it. He listened a moment and his face went white. “For Christ’s sake, Stella. What do you want?”

  He saw Dolores breathe deeply. Dolores knew Stella was his ex-wife. He’d have been pleased if he’d thought Dolores jealous, but he’d learned from life with Stella that there need not be anything personal about a woman’s possessiveness. Often she disliked another woman’s wanting you even when she personally couldn’t use you.

  Stella said, “I want to talk to you, Mal.”

  He scowled, a lean, tall man with green eyes bitter with old hurts, an easy-smiling mouth. “You couldn’t have called at a more inopportune moment, Stella, not even if you’d tried.”

  “You think I didn’t try?”

  He covered the speaker with his hand. “Take the afternoon off, Dolores. “I’ll be by your place for you about seven.”

  Dolores nodded and stood up. She looked pale, hurt. He felt a sudden sense of frustration. It was as though Stella was clinging to him across this line. He’d make it up to Dolores tonight. He’d make up everything tonight.

  He watched her walk away from him, close the door behind herself.

  Stella said, “Where are you?”

  “I’m here.” All the life had gone out of his voice. “What did you want, Stella?”

  “Well, aren’t you abrupt?”

  “Cut it, Stella. I’m your ex-husband. By request. Nothing more. It’s that way. I want it that way.”

  “All right. I need some money.”

  “Impossible. You’re in to me for more now than I ever got from you if it had been virgin platinum — and it wasn’t — either one.”

  “Don’t be nasty. The routine was all pretty familiar to you, too.”

  “Flattery, Stella? Now? After all we’ve done to each other?”

  “I warned you to stay out of the courtroom, darling.”

  “Well, you’ll never get me in another one.”

  “I might, lover, unless you agree to up my alimony.”

  “I’ll see you in hell — ”

  “If I get there first, I’ll wait for you. Meantime, I need some money.”

  “No.”

  “Then we’ve got to meet. We’ve got to talk about this.”

  “Impossible. We’ve nothing to say.”

  “I’ll send my lawyer.”

  “Well, that’s better than coming yourself, I admit.”

  Hollister parked his Cadillac Coupe de Ville in the drive at the side of his house overlooking Dead Bay. He paused, glancing from this bluff where his fifteen-room house stood, across to the darkling sky over the Gulf, the calm circle of the bay and the roofs of the village to the east of him. Stella had wanted this place as a hideaway, she’d told him. The only item she neglected to mention was that she’d wanted it so she could hide away from him.

  He shook his head, trying to escape the bitterness that always suffused him after any interview with Stella. It darkened the world, clouded his viewpoint. He always realized what a sucker Stella considered him. She had taken him, but good. And the worst part of it was the way she’d laughed as she twisted the knife.

  He moved across the walk, entering the house through the rear door. He couldn’t really blame Stella. He had been a man running, driven. His father had been wealthy, the kind of wealthy that means passage to Europe on a whim, twenty-thousand dollar parties to celebrate a long shot winning an obscure race, losing money just to beat the income tax. But by the time Mal reached high school all the wealth was gone, everything was gone, including his old man. All that remained was the desire to be somebody, to make that name respected as it once had been. God knew, he worked all the time; he’d worked his way through a university to which his father had given two dorms and an engineering building; he’d been obsessed by a need to have more money and more clothes and more cars than anyone he knew. He began by underbidding contractors on state jobs, forcing his will on others. It had consumed fifteen long years but he had piled it up. He had almost a million dollars and more to come, and he had lost his wife. She had crossed him and cheated him in every way and he didn’t blame her. You could say what you wanted, when a marriage ruptured, it tore apart from the inside, always.

  The cook turned when he entered the kitchen. Her stout face was white. “Why, Mr. Mal, you frightened me.”

  Mal grinned. “Why? What were you stealing?”

  The butler, man-of-all-work, was sitting at the kitchen table eating pie heaped with ice cream. He laughed, spewing ice cream from his mouth. The cook was his wife.

  Mal put his arm about Mrs. Harker’s broad shoulders. “Did those things I ordered arrive?”

  She nodded. “What a feast you’re planning.”

  “Right, Harker. And for two.”

  “Two?” the cook’s husband looked up from his ice cream. “I thought it was a banquet anyhow.”

  Perhaps it is, Mal thought with that chill of bitterness. Maybe it’ll be the banquet where the big bad wolf eats Little Red Riding Hood before she turns out to be Stella’s sister under the skin and devours him first.

  “It may be,” Hollister said. “But there are only two of us to be there.”

  “Fine,” Mrs. Harker said. “I’m glad you’re getting interested in some fine girl — ”

  “Interested is a mild word for what’s afflicting me,” Hollister said. He was in love with a girl half his age, a girl whose parents would rather see her dead than married to him, a girl that was begging him to take her and with whom he’d been the soul of honor. Me. Stella’s cast-off. Who was he kidding?

  “Wonderful. I always said you could be happy with some nice girl — if only she gave you half a chance.”

  “That’s enough, Reeva,” her husband’s voice was sharp. Mrs. Harker had always hated Stella. Harker didn’t mind as long as she kept her views in the kitchen.

  Hollister spoke to the butler. “I want dinner served on the closed terrace. A table for two — ”

  “With candles,” Mrs. Harker said.

  “I want the view,” Hollister admitted the view of this bay was new neither to him nor Dolores but there was always the chance that seeing it together would make it new for both of them. A man had to hope for something. He’d been planning to sell this place until he saw Dolores Venzino working in the Dead Bay branch office. Well, he’d had enough sentimental thoughts. He was thirty-six, this girl was nineteen, she was throwing herself at him and only one thing could come of it — and that might as well be tonight.

  He shivered, wondering why he hated himself.

  He went over each detail of the menu with Mrs. Harker, including wines, their temperature and the precise moment when Harker should serve them. He left nothing to chance. He never had in the last fifteen years.

  When he was sure the dinner would be what both of them would enjo
y, and would make Dolores smile with pleasure, he walked into the oversized living room that opened upon a closed terrace with view of forest, bay and Gulf. Candles and moonlight would make it irresistibly lovely. The ideal setting for the moment when a girl learned the hard facts of life, he told himself coldly, trying to forget how terribly, how tenderly, he loved her. He felt his hands sweating.

  Going into the music library he chose records for three hours of uninterrupted background. Everything had to be right, something had to give. This girl was making an idiot of him: he could hear Stella’s distant laughter, taunting, full of contempt. Stella had made a sucker of him, this girl would too, give her time. She already had — wasn’t he a fool trying to control all his natural impulses? Well, he was tired playing the clown, tired believing in that goodness that always meant so much to him. He couldn’t go on, a walking zombie like this, trying to out-think the politicians and unable to think about anything except Dolores. This had to be the night.

  6

  ROSA WAS CRYING as she washed out some clothes over a tub in the back yard. She couldn’t make her nose stop running.

  She swallowed, vision blurred. Her hand slipped on the scrub board and she uttered a blasphemy, quickly crossing herself. She needed an electric washer, that was what she needed, even the manual wringer type would be nice. There were reasons she never mentioned such a machine. No sense worrying Juan. If he knew she wanted an electric washer, it would worry him until he found some way to get it for her. And she knew what way he would find. He would go deeper into debt.

  And it might start him talking about going out in the Gulf in one of his rotting boats to find that treasure — this treasure would solve all their woes. Aiee. She’d been hearing about this treasure so long. Sometimes she even believed perhaps — truly if talking about a thing made it so …

  She sniffled and wiped her red raw knuckles across her nose leaving a trail of suds. She blew at it, sticking out her underlip.

  “Rosa.”

  She hadn’t heard Juan approach behind her. She caught her apron in her fist, wiped at her face, trying to wipe away the traces of her crying.