Corruption of Blood (19 page)

“Hands off my kid, lady,” she said flatly.

“Did you see what your kid did?” said the woman. She was a slim aerobic blonde dressed in a style Marlene always thought of as neatsy-keen: a navy blue car coat, red crewneck, a little pin, blue slacks, new Adidas. Under Marlene’s baleful one-eyed stare, she released Lucy.

“Yes,” said Marlene matter-of-factly, “I did. Little Jason here ripped off my daughter’s toy, my daughter asked for it back, and when she tried to take it, he pushed her. Then she decked him. You’ve got blood on your nice coat.”

“Is that what you’re teaching her? To hurt people?”

“In self-defense, yes,” said Marlene calmly. “Little Jason’s learned a valuable lesson today, madam, one that might keep him out of prison some day, provided it’s reinforced: if you take by force things that don’t belong to you, you get your lumps. Good day to you.”

Marlene took Lucy’s hand, picked up the raincoat, and strode out of the sandbox with as much dignity as such striding allows. Jason’s mother stared openmouthed after her; except that she was not dripping ropes of saliva, she looked much like a fighting bull stupefied by a skillfully brandished muleta.

Marlene steered Lucy back to the bench and put her into her raincoat. “That, that lady was yelling at me,” Lucy said, her voice uncertain. “Was I bad?”

“No, baby, you did good. You remembered never hit once when you can get two shots in. Only next time remember to keep your thumbs tucked.” She demonstrated with a fist. “You keep slugging with your thumbs up, one day you’re going to break them off.”

“Then I would have broked-off fingers like you?”

“Yeah, right,” Marlene said, and kissed her.

The nanny, observing this, put in, “You did right, sugar. Don’t let them boys push you around.”

Marlene smiled at her and said, “Well, I think we’ll be going while the going’s good. Always leave ’em bleeding is our motto.”

Jason’s mother had joined her group over at the other bench. They were talking animatedly and looking daggers at Marlene and Lucy.

“Okay, you take care now,” said the nanny. “Nice talking to you, and hey—mind what I told you, get yourself some school!”

Marlene waved at her and she and Lucy headed down the path, Lucy pushing the stroller, singing her version of “One-Trick Pony,” which, when she got to the part about a herky-jerky motion, required her to throw her body into a Dionysiac spasm, giggling madly. Marlene was required to join in this, which she did gladly, feeling better than she had in weeks.

The healing power of justice was what it was, she thought, even playground justice. Maybe especially playground justice, which seemed like the only kind she was likely to see again in this life.

She felt oddly free and she knew why. She was feeling bad, as she had when, as a schoolgirl she had come home to Queens on a Friday night, shucked out of her blue serge Sacred Heart livery, raced competently through her homework, slipped into skintight black toreador pants, a sleeveless blouse with the collar up in back, over a wired bra that transformed her young breasts into hard little conical gun turrets, between which hung the little gold cross; applied scarlet lipstick and blue eye shadow; put on gold hoop earrings; and booked out the back door to meet, waiting at the end of the block, the sideburned and leather-jacketed Rocco in his chopped and channeled 1950 Ford Fairlane.

They would cruise Queens Boulevard, hitting a sequence of drive-ins, pizzerias, and vacant lot hangouts in an order as nearly formalized as the stations of the cross. They would race their engines and lay patches of rubber. They would trade friendly insults and use phony draft cards to buy beer, and after enough beer the insults would turn less friendly and there might be scuffling, clumsy fights. A car might be stolen for a joy ride. This was what was meant by being bad, in Queens, in the early sixties.

That, and parking out by the runways at La Guardia for a bout of similarly formalized sexual groping. Of this activity Marlene was entirely in charge. She had no intention of letting the passionate bad boy go, as the saying then was, all the way, and had discovered, at fourteen, that any importunate demands in this direction could be easily forestalled by direct attention to the actual fount of desire. Marlene’s fascination with Rocco’s organ, and those of the various Roccos that succeeded him, was (if such a word is not entirely inappropriate) innocent. She regarded penises (how different each one!) much as the air force regarded its X-15 at the time—as experimental instruments, from which much might be learned. A skilled and enthusiastic
fellatiste
by fifteen, Marlene never heard any complaints about being denied the ultimate liberty from any of the Roccos.

The Church to one side, Marlene simply could not accept that the Creator of the Universe was overly concerned about the odd blow job. That she had finessed the virgin-whore business by becoming both and neither seemed to her a practical application of the Thomistic synthesis she had learned about in Religion 2, in which she had received an A.

Throughout this period, therefore, Marlene remained a regular communicant, both at Sacred Heart and at St. Joseph’s in the neighborhood, and a frank and voluble confessor, adding much interest to the lives of several elderly priests. Her reputation did not suffer at all, owing to both the sanctity of the confessional and the convenient fact that she went to school miles from where she hung out on weekends. At Sacred Heart she was a model student, demure, and submitting cheerfully to discipline. The Mesdames could hardly have realized that much of her good humor derived from imagining what they would do if they only knew.

Lucy had now switched songs to “Heart of Gold,” which she rendered with something approaching a genuine Neil Young whine. Marlene joined in, her thoughts turning from the past to her present situation and to Karp. Karp was not bad, ever. He had, in addition, a true heart of gold, honest and loving. Occasionally priggish, perhaps, but never would he have sucked after Bloom the way she had, never
betrayed
himself as she had …
Stop!
she told herself, that was quite enough of that. She was paying for her mistake, had ditched her job, was living in a rat hole, was dead broke, but on the other hand, she was at long last starting to recover a taste of free. Free to hang out with Lucy, who was more enjoyable company than anyone she was likely to meet in the criminal courts, or official Washington, and free to fully explore bad Marlene, something that she now discovered filled her with a certain anticipation.

Back in Federal Gardens, Marlene left Lucy snoring gently in her stroller in the living room and opened a beer for herself. She could hear loud voices and heavy movements from the apartment next door. Marlene and Karp called the couple who lived there Thug ‘n’ Dwarf. Thug was a hulking long-haul truck driver, and Dwarf was his tiny bride. Their relationship seemed to consist of silence, violent arguments, and noisy fucking. Lately the arguments had grown more violent, as Dwarf had brought home a dog without Thug’s permission. The barking and whining of this dog now added its note to the audio channel. A final burst of screaming and the door slammed next door: Thug going off to get his load. He’d be back at midnight, ready for action.

The phone rang and Marlene went into the kitchen to get it.

“God, Marlene,” said Karp, “I’ve been calling all day. Where have you been?”

“It was a nice day. We took a long walk. Why, is anything wrong?”

“No, but I just wanted to remind you that we have a dinner party to go to tonight. At the Dobbses’.”

A pause. “That’s ‘remind’ meaning ‘to inform for the first time’?” asked Marlene sweetly.

“Yeah, well, I lost track of it; Bert reminded me yesterday. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, not really. I have nothing to wear, no baby-sitter, and we have no means of transportation. I tell you what, why don’t I just huddle in the cinders and sniffle while you go to the ball?”

“You’re sounding more feisty, anyway,” said Karp. “Last couple of weeks I thought it was
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”

“Yeah, well, it’s probably just the manic phase. Couple of days I’ll try to break into the White House with a secret plan for world peace.”

“Please, don’t joke!” said Karp. “Meanwhile, smarty-pants, dumb old husband happened to take care of the baby-sitter and the car both. Clay’s going to watch Lucy, and we can borrow his car.”

“Great!” said Marlene. “Does he have a dress I could wear?”

The truth was that Marlene had packed hardly any of her own clothes during her precipitate flight from New York. She had dragooned her younger brother into leaving his comfortable Village apartment and moving into the loft, at a ruinously low rent, carefully packed all of Lucy’s clothes and toys, and, as an afterthought, emptied some of her own drawers and shelves almost at random into an army duffel bag, lest she have to walk the streets of Washington literally nude. Tony dinner parties in McLean were not uppermost in her mind during those dreadful days.

Thus, she was well supplied with undies, but the only shoes in the house, besides sneakers, were a pair of knee-high, floppy boots suitable for appearing in performances of
Der Rosenkavalier.
As for dresses and suits, Marlene had grabbed a handful of summer items, having picked up that Washington was swelteringly hot in summer, but having somehow forgotten that it was now closing in on winter. As these were obviously unsuitable, she chose a quilted grayish purple long skirt of some vague central Asian ethnicity, and a good silvery-colored French silk blouse from Saks that unfortunately had a large and indelible wine stain under the right breast.

Easily solved: she had a paisley Edwardian waistcoat, moth-holed, yes, but the moth holes did not match where the wine stain was.

Having selected her outfit, Marlene bathed and washed her hair, and put in her glassie. She paused to inspect herself in the small and blackened bathroom mirror. Her hair was an impossible mess. The lock that was usually sculpted by her hairdresser to distract from her bad eye was long grown out. She dragged a brush through the worst of the tangles, and then gave up, laughing hysterically. The errant lock she grabbed and pulled back, and looked around for something to hold it with. Ah, Lucy’s Little Orphan Annie plastic barrette—perfect! She snapped it in.

She was dressed and watching the blurry black-and-white TV with Lucy when Karp and Fulton arrived.

“Daddy, I coldcocked a asshole!” shrieked Lucy, running into Karp’s arms.

He hugged her and shot an inquiring look at Marlene, who shrugged casually.

She kissed Fulton, and said, “Thanks a million for this, Clay. Make yourself at home, such as it is. There’s beer in the fridge. Try to keep Lucy under a quart. She’s a mean drunk.”

Fulton chuckled, and said, “No problem. Speaking of which, don’t wreck my car.”

“You still driving that T-bird?”

“Uh-huh. I would’ve traded for a Caddie El Dorado last year, but my mama gave me all kinds of grief about it. Ford hired her brother in 1938 and since then everybody in the family’s got to drive their shit.”

“What is this about ‘coldcocked,’ ” asked Karp.

“What she said,” answered Marlene indifferently. “Some brat tried to boost her toy and she flattened him.” She twirled. “How do you like my outfit?”

“Great, Marl. You look great,” said Karp automatically, in the fashion of husbands.

“I look like a clown,” said Marlene cheerfully. “Let’s go to the circus!” she cried, literally skipping to the door, the clunky boots thumping, the tacky skirt flapping.

Karp followed with a measured tread. He had seen tiny glimpses of his beloved in this state from time to time; now it looked like becoming nonstop entertainment. To his credit, Karp preferred this version to the recent zombie. Manic. A good word, he thought, as he went through the door. Marlene was in the car and honking its horn in a boogie rhythm. Maniac, another good word.

In Miami, the thin man grew bored. He shaved his beard, leaving the mustache. Beards weren’t real big in this neighborhood. In violation of instructions, he went out and walked around Little Havana, and had a late meal at La Lechoneria: steak with a foot-high stack of curly fried potatoes. It was bright as day in the place, as in all Cuban restaurants, but he wore his ball hat and dark glasses. With those and the mustache, he doubted anyone would recognize him. It had, after all, been thirteen years. And, of course, everyone thought he was dead. The thin man enjoyed his meal, left a nice tip, and walked back to the house.

NINE

They had valet parking at the Dobbs house. The Karps alighted from the T-bird nonchalantly, as if they always went to parties with valet parking, and let the teenage kid drive it away. The house was a three-story, red brick, Federal-style structure, with two generous wings, its face embellished with white trim and a white-columned portico, set on two acres of landscaped grounds. There were several outbuildings, each with a white spire and a weathercock.

Past the door, in the circular entrance hall under the glittering brass-and-glass chandelier, Butch and Marlene had their coats taken by a maid in uniform—no throwing on the bed for the Dobbses—and were greeted by a small woman who introduced herself as Maggie Dobbs. As Marlene shook the proffered hand she noticed the woman’s eyes widen and her smile stiffen as she absorbed what Marlene was wearing. Marlene absorbed Mrs. Dobbs too: a fine-boned woman not much older than herself, with delicate china-doll features, a shining blond Dutch boy, and blue eyes to match. She was wearing a jacket and trousers outfit of vaguely oriental cut, in embroidered yellow brocade. Marlene judged the outfit stylish, and absurdly expensive, but somehow Maggie Dobbs failed to bring it off in the manner that Halston, or whoever, had intended. The vivid yellow washed out her pale coloring, and besides that there was something in her eyes, a faintheartedness surprising in a good-looking woman, the chatelaine of this rich place, a look more comprehensible in an unattractive teenager on the wallflower line at the junior prom.

“I love your outfit,” said Marlene.