Judas Journey. Lee Roberts
taught me dancing, she was very strict. Kind and good, but with exact rules about a young girl’s behavior. Perhaps she was extra strict with me, because she feared that I might be like—like my mother. My aunt’s teachings will always be with me. Can you understand—a little?”
He didn’t answer, and pulled her down until she lay in his arms. Her eyes were soft and her lips trembled a little. He kissed her, gently at first, and her lips grew warm. Presently his hand went to the buttons of her blouse. She stirred, and he felt her warm tears on his face. He tried to kiss her again, but she twisted away with a little moan and he let her go. She stood up and moved away, buttoning her blouse. He watched her silently as she stopped by the record player and turned it on. There was a brief silence, and then the room was filled with the soft muted melody of a Mexican love song, all guitars and whispering drums.
He got to his feet and went to her. Gently he placed his hands on her shoulders, and he felt her stiffen a little. The music floated through the room, plaintive and haunting. He didn’t know what he thought or felt. Slowly she turned to face him. She brushed the back of a hand across her eyes and gave him a tremulous smile. “I am sorry, Rack, honest and truly.”
He tried to smile. “Don’t be. Everything’s fine.” He half turned and moved to the door. “I’d better go.”
“Rack . . .”
The music throbbed softly as he stepped into the hall and quietly closed the door.
Pete Davos was in bed, reading a newspaper. His short curly black hair glinted in the light and his broad naked torso was dark against the propped-up pillows. White teeth flashed as he greeted Ramsey. “Hi, pal.” He glanced at a watch strapped to a hairy wrist. “Only two o’clock. You’re early.”
“Yes,” Ramsey said shortly. “Simpson gone to bed?”
“Yep. He spent the whole day buying supplies and getting things lined up. I guess all we’re waiting for now is our dough from Pittsburgh.” Pete crossed his arms behind his head. “Think of that mahogany, Rack. I’m ready to pull out tonight.”
Ramsey grinned at him. “Real anxious, huh?”
“Sure. What about you?”
Ramsey didn’t answer and started to undress.
Pete said suspiciously, “You’re not gonna back out on us, are you? Because of that girl? Sara?”
“Hell, no.” Ramsey entered the closet and hung up his suit. “We’d better give notice to the boss tomorrow.”
“I already did,” Pete said, grinning. “Tomorrow’s our last day on the job. We can pick up our checks on Monday. The boss was a little sore at first—we didn’t even work long enough to join the union. But he said if we’re ever back this way, he’ll hire us again.”
Ramsey came out of the closet naked. He was built like a fullback or a heavyweight fighter. There was no fat on him and the muscles moved smoothly beneath the skin. As he went to his bed, he asked, “What about those women you lined up for tomorrow night?”
Pete sighed. “Simpson wasn’t interested, and I don’t know what I’m going to do with two of ’em. One is a cute little black-haired number. The other is too tall for me, but, boy, is she stacked. A redhead.”
“Still want me to go along?”
Pete gave Ramsey a puzzled look. “I thought you was all tied up with Sara?”
“Not tomorrow night.”
“You have a fight with her or what?”
“No.”
“I don’t get it,” Pete said. “You been with her every night this week, and all of a sudden—”
“Shut up,” Ramsey snapped, “and turn off that goddamned light.”
The light went out and Ramsey heard Pete chuckle in the darkness.
CHAPTER 5
SUNDAY NOON Ramsey opened his eyes to bright sunlight. His head pounded wickedly and his mouth was hot and dry. He squinted his eyes against the sun and tried to remember all that had happened the night before.
He and Pete had met the girls on a gulf pier where there’d been a huge dance floor and a brassy big-name band. His girl had been a redhead, all right, as Pete had said, with a short freckled nose, big blue eyes and a generous red mouth. He remembered the feel of her tall body against him as they danced, and the friendly throaty sound of her laughter. Pete’s girl had been small and dark-eyed. Her name was Arletta. The redhead was Leona. Just a couple of thirsty and healthy girls out for a good time, as he and Pete had been. A mutually enjoyable evening.
He looked across the room at Pete’s bed. It was empty, and he remembered then that Pete and Arletta had drifted away some time during the night’s revelry, leaving him and Leona alone. He had a hazy recollection of Leona’s two-room apartment, of her warm lips and sturdy body and, later, the cool dawn breeze on his face as he walked unsteadily to the Gulf Hotel. He brought his left wrist around in front of his eyes. Twelve-thirty on a Sunday afternoon. He crawled cautiously off the bed, stood up and went to the bathroom, swaying unsteadily.
He felt a little better after he’d shaved, brushed his teeth and showered. He put on cord slacks and a short-sleeved shirt and was donning socks and loafers when Pete came in. His dark skin held a pale tinge and his eyes were red-rimmed.
“Cheers,” Ramsey said. “I gather you and Arletta hit it off fine.”
Pete stumbled to the bed and held his head with both hands. He groaned.
Ramsey said, “There’s some aspirin in the bathroom.”
“Arletta gave me some. It didn’t help.”
“How about a drink, pal?”
“Please,” Pete pleaded. He stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. “Go away. Let me die.”
There was a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” Ramsey called.
Nevil Simpson stepped into the room. He peered at them over his gold-rimmed glasses and said mildly, “Big night, boys?”
Pete groaned.
Simpson moved his head slowly from side to side and lifted a reproving finger. “Moderation in all things is the secret of a happy life. Always remember the law of physics that every action has a reaction.”
“Amen,” Pete mumbled, holding his head.
Simpson winked at Ramsey and said, “You have letters from Pittsburgh at the desk.”
“That’ll be our money,” Ramsey said.
“Good. I think we can be ready to leave by Wednesday noon.”
“All right.”
Suddenly Ramsey thought of Sara Colvin. He knew that she didn’t work on Sunday, that the Jungle Tavern was closed, and late in the afternoon he telephoned her apartment. Her soft voice answered immediately.
“Yes?”
“Hello,” he said.
“Oh, Rack . . .”
“What’re you doing right now?”
“Dressing, fixing my hair.”
“For me? How about dinner, some quiet place? I think we should talk a little, Sara.”
“Rack, I—I am sorry. I did not hear from you, and I have made another engagement . . .”
His fingers tightened on the phone. “Break it.”
“I would like to, truly, but I cannot.”
“All right,” he said stiffly. “I’ll be seeing you—maybe.” He was acting badly, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. What the hell was the matter