Red-Headed Sinners Read online

  They'd rented suits and swum out to the raft and back—and then, just before they'd reached the beach, she'd looked over at Jeff and seen the terrible look on his face. An expression like nothing she had ever seen there before. She had found herself swimming as rapidly as she could, and when she reached the beach she ran to the bathhouse without once looking back.

  Later, when she finally came out in her street clothes, Jeff was waiting for her, puzzled and concerned about her. She had alibied by telling him she had become ill in the water. And she had told herself that it was merely her imagination, and she'd have to curb it.

  But the second time had been quite different. It had happened on a sultry day when Jeff had a few hours off and dropped by her apartment unexpectedly. They had been drinking Gin Bucks and were watching an old Western movie on TV. She remembered vividly how she had turned from the screen to say something to Jeff. The look was there again. His face, beneath his tan, was pale, and his dark eyes were probing hard into hers, glittering and cold and malevolent. His big body was almost rigid and his hand shook so violently that he spilled most of his drink.

  She'd left the room hurriedly. A moment later, the phone rang. She listened while Jeff answered it, and then called to her that the call had been for him and that he had to go back to work.

  Marcia got up from her chair and walked to the window, feeling a strange restlessness, a sense of unease. She pulled the drape across her nakedness and stood looking down into the street below. The rain was lessening a little now, she noticed, but it had done nothing toward breaking the almost unbearable summer heat, nothing at all. It had been a miserable day. And taking the day off from work had been a mistake; it had given her too much time to think.

  Suddenly she remembered that Jeff said he would be over in a few minutes. She'd have to hurry. She left the window and crossed to the bathroom.

  She stepped into the shower and turned on the water. The cold needlepoint spray made her gasp, but after a moment its stinging force began to work some of the tenseness out of her body.

  Things never turn out to be exactly what you hope they'll be, she thought. Jeff's free now. I don't have to worry about him any more. We can get married, like we've planned. I can have children, without wondering how long it'll be before their father gets killed.

  She turned the shower off and began to dry herself with a huge pink towel. She was filled with a strange hollowness; tiny doubts began to gnaw at the back edge of her mind, and she felt the first stirrings of something foreboding, some vague formless fear of the future.

  She tried to force her thoughts into another pattern, to forget the girl Jeff had treated so brutally—had started to strangle. She could picture the scene in her mind in all its nightmarish hideousness.

  It's like a wedge, she thought. A horrible, filthy little wedge that goes in deeper every time you think about it.

  There was a smarting at the inner corners of her wide-set gray eyes. She rubbed the towel furiously against flesh that was already glowing.

  I'll be damned if I cry, she thought. I'll just be damned if I will!

  Chapter Three

  TO JEFF STONER, the two blocks between Bailey's Bar and the parking lot where he had left his Plymouth seemed more like two miles. He felt the double shot spreading all the way through him. He wondered how many doubles a man in his condition could take and still remain upright. Not many, certainly. And the hell of it was that he needed liquor. More than he had ever needed it.

  The parking lot attendant braked Jeff's car, climbed out and handed him the keys.

  “Six bits,” he said.

  Jeff looked at him in surprise. The attendant glanced up at the dark sky and hummed impatiently, looking somehow ludicrous in his out-sized rubber slicker.

  “I'll sign a chit, Johnny,” Jeff said. “Like always.”

  Johnny shook his head. “No more chits. We just got the big word from the Department.”

  Jeff reached for his wallet. His flash-point must be pretty low this evening, he decided. Or maybe it was the whiskey. Anyhow, he should have anticipated this. He gave Johnny a dollar, waved away the change.

  “They don't let any grass grow, do they?” he said.

  Johnny shrugged. “It's no skin off mine, friend. Me, I just work here.” He walked off toward the ticket shed.

  Jeff slid behind the wheel, slammed the door hard and nosed the Plymouth out into the street. The incident, for some ridiculous reason, had irked him beyond its true importance, or lack of it. A cop lost his badge; ergo, he lost the things that went with it. Like parking privileges. Very simple. No cause to feel outraged.

  But he noticed that he was gripping the wheel so tightly that the knuckles of his big hands showed white.

  He swore softly. He'd have to have another drink before he met Marcia; he was coming apart at the seams. Three blocks further on he curbed the Plymouth in front of a package store.

  The flashlight in his face hurt his eyes, blinded him. He heard a man's voice say, “Jeff! Come out of it, man!” He felt the pressure of strong fingers on his shoulder as the man shook him. He knocked the hand away.

  “Come out of it,” the man said again.

  “Turn that light off,” Jeff said. His whole body ached. There was a thick, nasty taste in his mouth and the back of his head felt as if he'd been sapped.

  The flashlight went out. “You okay?” the man asked.

  Jeff pushed himself up straight in the seat. His hand struck the bottle beside him and knocked it off onto the floorboard. He must have gone out like a light! How long had he been this way?

  “Yeah, I'm all right,” he said thickly. He recognized the other man's voice now. A brother cop. “Thanks, Mack.”

  “You think you can drive?” Mack said.

  “Sure. Sure I can drive.”

  “You were smart to pull off the road,” Mack said. He shut the door. “Well, take it easy.”

  “Sure,” Jeff said. He watched Mack walk toward his motorcycle. Must be in Logan Park, he thought. Yes, that's it. Too many trees to be anything else. He glanced at his wristwatch. The face was a little blurry, but he could make it out. Eight o'clock.

  What had happened to the three hours? He tried, painfully, to think back over his actions. He'd stopped at the liquor store, he remembered. He'd had a couple of healthy ones in the car... maybe more than a couple. He bent and lifted the fifth of whiskey. Almost half gone. It didn't seem possible.

  He stared at the bottle for a moment. One more couldn't hurt. He had to pull himself together, didn't he? He unscrewed the cap and tilted the bottle and shuddered as the whiskey scalded down his throat.

  There! That was more like it!

  He put the bottle down and lighted a cigarette. Nothing like a good jolt of whiskey to pull a man together. Absolutely nothing.

  And it made a man think more clearly, too. Everything was clear now. Clear as glass. No! Clear as a bell; that was it— clear as a bell.

  He started the motor and flicked on the headlights. Better have another jolt. Just to make sure. He tilted the bottle up longer this time, and then he released the hand brake and backed the car out of the bushes. He was in Logan Park, all right. He recognized every tree and bush and rock in it. Too bad a man couldn't be like this all the time, with his thoughts so clear and sharp and fast. Clear as a bell!

  He knew what he was going to do. Hell, he'd known all along. He was going to find that red haired girl that had caused him so much grief. She didn't realize it, but she was going to help him square himself with the Department. With the Department and with Marcia and with King City. The redhead—what was her name?—knew damned well where Piggy Ferris was holing up. She knew, and she knew he knew she knew. Get it out of her. No rough stuff this time, no crazy stuff. Just get it out of her. And then get Piggy. When he got Piggy, he'd be in clover. He'd be redeemed. Piggy and his forty grand worth of heisted ice.

  The Old Man would have to take him back if he walked in with Piggy and the ice. The Old Man would know a good cop would have to get Piggy. He'd know a good cop would get Piggy. Piggy and his damn ice!

  He drove slowly, beautifully. Best job of driving I ever did, he thought proudly. He wondered if he should have another drink. No. Wait until he got on a darker street. Citizens didn't understand that cops liked to take a drink, like everybody else. Didn't look good. The Old Man wouldn't like it. Marcia wouldn't like it. But she was going to be mighty proud of him pretty soon. Damn right!

  Connie Knight! That was the redhead's name! He knew he'd think of it. Just a matter of time. And she lived at the Barclay Court Apartments! He grinned broadly, patting the bottle on the seat beside him. Clear as a bell! He gave the Plymouth a little more gas.

  There was no one in the corridor as he pressed the buzzer beside the door of Connie Knights eighth floor apartment, and neither had there been anyone in the lobby below when he had walked along the row of mailboxes to find Connie's apartment number. He'd begun to sweat heavily in the tiny, self-service elevator. Not that it mattered. He'd been wet already, from the rain.

  The door opened a couple of inches. Jeff rammed his foot between it and the jam. “Police,” he said. “Open up.” He put his shoulder against the door and pushed into the room.

  Connie Knight looked very much as if she were going to scream, Jeff decided.

  He said, “Keep your mouth shut. This isn't what you think.” He heeled the door shut behind him, glancing around the apartment to make sure she was alone. It was a small, one-room apartment with a wall bed. The doors to the bathroom and closet were open. She was alone, all right.

  She was wearing a blue housecoat, filmy but opaque, belted tightly at her small waist, and high-heeled shoes. “What the hell do you want?” she said. “A couple of answers,” Jeff told her.


  “Not from me, Buster. You ain't a cop no more. I can read real good.”

  He wondered why she kept the apartment so damn hot. A guy could get sick in a place like this. “That's why I'm here,” he said. Something flickered in her tilted green eyes.

  “You touch me again, copper,” she said, “and I'll pull a scream like you never heard before. Maybe I'll do it anyway, just for laughs.”

  Jeff reached in his pocket for cigarettes. His pack was empty. He crossed to the cocktail table in front of the studio couch and took one from a plastic box. Have to play this cool, he thought.

  “They gave me a bum deal,” he said. “It doesn't set so well.”

  She had turned as he crossed the room; her eyes had never left him. “So?”

  He shrugged. “Some cops might like to get back at them.” This heat, he thought. This damn, muggy heat. Enough to cook a man's brain. “A busted cop might get pretty mad,” he said slowly. “He might even hook up with Piggy Ferris.” He smiled at her. “But first, he'd have to know how to take the heat off Piggy.”

  Connie Knight was standing between him and the floor lamp now, her lush body silhouetted against it. Her hard mouth twisted scornfully. “I told you before. I don't know where Piggy is. And even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't tell no lousy copper. You might be busted, but you're still a copper. I hate your guts!”

  Jeff's throat felt dry and hot. He tried to grin again. This was going all wrong. If she'd only shut up a minute, so he could think. Why did she keep this place so damn hot?

  “I could use a drink,” he said, smiling.

  “Listen,” she said tightly. “You're drunk as hell already. I don't know what your pitch is, but I'm telling you, you couldn't con anybody!” She brushed past him and sat down on the studio couch. She pulled the skirt of the housecoat across her thighs and glared up at him. “Go on. Get the hell out of here.”

  Jeff stared down at her, at the red hair. He wet his lips.

  The red hair....

  The floor beneath Jeff's feet seemed to tilt a little. She was looking up at him insolently, defiantly—the way she had in the back room at Headquarters. He remembered the blood bubbling on her lips.

  The housecoat fell away from her thighs again, and this time she didn't bother about it. He couldn't take his gaze from them.

  “Get an eyeful, copper,” she said tauntingly. “And get out!”

  The naked thighs and the red hair....

  It was coming back again, the red mist, the horrible red mist that had soaked into his brain once before, that had brought the kill-fever surging up inside him.

  “Leda,” he said softly. “Leda.”

  Connie Knight tilted her head back and laughed, a bitter and mocking laugh. “Listen to that! Now he thinks I'm somebody named Leda!” She stopped laughing. There were tiny fires in her green eyes. “Damn you! Get out!”

  The red mist. He'd been too slow last time. He could remember how slowly his hands had gone out for her throat. He'd have to be faster this time. Much faster. The crimson fog swirled up around him, smothering him.

  “Leda,” he said again. His hands streaked down for her throat. Very fast. Like snakes Striking.

  He felt the bone and cartilage crunching in his hands. He smiled down at her. The red fog grew more dense. Finally his wrist began to ache. He couldn't see her at all now. There was just the impenetrable crimson curtain in front of his eyes and the blood red mist seeping through his eyes and into his brain.

  “Jeffrey!” his mother called, and he got up from the living room floor and brushed off his bare knees and trotted into the kitchen. He leaned back a little to look up at his mother, searching her face to see if this was going to be one of the good times or one of the bad times. He hoped she wouldn't scold him. He wanted her to be all laughing and smiling, the way she used to be. She was very beautiful with her hair fluffed out like that. None of the other boys' mothers was half so pretty.

  “I'm going downtown, Jeffrey,” his mother said. “If you get hungry before I get back, ask Leda to fix you something.”

  “Can't I go with you?”

  “No, dear. Not this time. Mother's only going to the dentist.”

  He said, “Oh,” and was disappointed. This was one of the good times and he would have liked to be with her. He stood quietly in the kitchen, listening to his mother's heels going down the back stairs, and then he wandered back to the living room and stared down at the jigsaw puzzle he had been working on. But he'd lost interest. He wondered if Leda was up in her room. Leda was pretty, too. She was the prettiest maid they'd ever had. And not old, like most of them. He'd heard his mother say that Leda was eighteen, but she didn't seem like a grown-up to him.

  He climbed the stairs and walked along the corridor without a sound. He turned the knob of Leda's door very carefully. He'd slip up on her and surprise her. He pushed the door open inch by inch.

  He stared at Leda a long time, wondering why she didn't have any clothes on, wondering why she was hurting herself like that. It seemed funny that she'd be lying on her bed naked and reading a magazine and hurting herself at the same time.

  And that funny expression on her face! She couldn't be hurting herself very bad, or she wouldn't look like that.

  He giggled.

  There was a flailing of white legs and arms as Leda jerked a corner of the bedspread across herself. “Jeff! Jeff, you little...”

  He'd scared her good! He laughed out loud. But, after a moment, he noticed that Leda wasn't laughing, and so he stopped too. He'd only meant to play a trick on her.

  She was looking at him strangely. She had green eyes just like a pussycat, he thought. And red hair. Some of the grown-up boys on the block called her “Rusty,” and that always made her mad.

  He said, “I didn't mean to scare you so bad, Leda. Honest.”

  She was still looking at him in that funny way.

  “I didn't mean to,” he said again. He liked Leda; he was sorry she was mad.

  Leda said, “Close the door, Jeffrey,” and now he could see that she wasn't mad, after all. She was almost smiling at him. He closed the door. He watched Leda throw the bedspread off her so that she was all naked again.

  “Come here, Jeffrey,” she said softly.

  He went to the bed and stood beside it, ready to laugh if Leda laughed. She smelled good. She always smelled good. “Has your mother left yet?” Leda said.

  Jeff nodded. “She went to the dentist.” Leda's built funny, he thought. She's pretty, but she's built funny.

  “Would you like to play a game with me, Jeff?” Leda said. He nodded eagerly.

  “And will you keep the game a secret? Even from your mother and father?”

  “Sure!” he said. “What's the game?” She told him.

  He was a little surprised. It wasn't any game he had ever heard of. It didn't sound like it would be any fun. He couldn't understand why Leda would want to play a game like that. Grown-ups were silly.

  Leda moved around on the bed. She was breathing very fast, he noticed.

  “There,” she said at last. Now, go ahead, Jeffrey.” He hesitated.

  “Please, Jeffrey,” Leda whispered.

  He liked Leda. He'd play her silly game, even if it wasn't much fun.

  Chapter Four

  GEORGE BISHOP heard Trudy murmur something in her sleep and he glanced toward the studio couch where she lay, wondering if perhaps he shouldn't cover her with the sheet again. She really shouldn't sleep raw like that; posing in the nude all day and sleeping the same way at night wasn't too healthy for a seventeen-year-old girl. Or anybody else.

  He put his can of beer down on the floor beside his chair, rubbed out his cigarette in a tray and crossed to the couch and covered her again.

  He stood looking down at her, at the unbelievably long lashes and the thick dark curls on the pillow, and once again he felt the familiar mingling of awe and pity. Awe, because of her truly exceptional beauty... and pity because she was wasting it on a man like George Bishop. A man who made his living painting pornography. And then, as always happened in moments like these, he thought of what it would be like when Trudy discovered what she was doing to herself. Girls like Trudy didn't happen to men of forty very often. Not to prematurely gray artists of little talent and less money.