Girls' Dormitory (19 page)

"That isn't fair!"

"Why isn't it fair? You're marrying him for his money, aren't you? Does that make you any better than I am? Does it? You want the soft life. Well, so do I. We both can have it. We both can have what we want. You'll get yours and I'll get mine. Baby, it's a cheap price to pay for a fortune.”

And it was.

Otis had told her enough about himself so that she knew he was very rich. A few hundred one way or another would never be missed. She could keep Thelma quiet and herself happy. And in her own special way, she would even be good to Otis. A lot of women who got married had kids to support. Keeping another woman could hardly be much more expensive than that. Anyway, whether it was or not, the end result justified the means—when the end was money.

"Going to snow." The driver interrupted her thoughts.

"Is it?"

The driver nodded. "I can tell by the place where my leg was busted. Every time there's a change in the weather, it—"

She did not listen to him. What did she care about the driver and his leg? What did she care if it snowed? Hell, getting right down to it, what did she care for anything? She was going to Otis Markey, to his hotel room, and she knew what would happen after she got there. She could feel it, feel it more than she had ever felt anything else in her life before.

"Marry me," he would plead.

She would laugh at him, let him kiss her, say nothing. And then she would take him to bed. She had taken him to bed before and made him happy. She would do the same again. Then, in that brief moment when he was completely her slave, she would tell him. "I'll marry you," she would say.

Yes, she would marry him and live happily ever after on his money. He would be away a lot of the time—he said he traveled a great deal—and then she could seek out the one kind of love that made her feel like a woman. Peggy? Well, perhaps Peggy. Peggy, when she was home on vacations, could hardly refuse her. And when Peggy was not around, then somebody else. There was always somebody else. Always.

"Getting colder," the driver said.

He was a nuisance.

The driver swung the cab East off Wilson Road and headed down Carlton Drive. The slush splashed and banged under the fenders and a couple of kids on the sidewalk got soaked with it.

"Damn you!" one of the kids yelled.

"That's what I like about this town," the driver said. "Everybody damns somebody else."

Two blocks after the theater he pulled up and stopped in front of the hotel.

"A buck," he said.

She gave him two. She could afford it. Helen was on her way to a big bundle of cash.

She took the elevator to the fourth floor. It was hot and crowded in the elevator, and some woman kept telling her dog to lie down and shut up.

"Four!"

She got off and walked down the hall to room four-ten. Without knocking she opened the door and walked in.

"Hi," Jerry Dixon said.

She stood very still, her lips parted.

"Come in," Otis Markey said. "And close the door, Helen."

Otis sat on the bed, both hands curled around a drink.

Jerry was standing by the window and smoking. He watched her. Weakly, as though she were walking in her sleep, she entered the room and pushed the door shut.

"What are you doing here?" she managed.

Jerry grinned. "Not the same thing you are."

Otis got up from the bed, finished his drink, and carried the glass over to the dresser.

"This young man has been talking to me," Otis said quietly. "I'd rather not believe some of the things he has said."

Helen took a deep breath and tried to smile. This was unexpected, but she would make Jerry pay for it. She would make him pay for it a long, long time. All she had to do was pick up the phone, call the police, and he was in trouble.

"Don't believe him," she said. "He was born lying."

Otis looked from Jerry to Helen.

"He seemed to know what he was talking about."

"A good liar always does."

Jerry shrugged and shook his head when Otis Markey offered him a drink.

"We can settle this very easily," Jerry said. "We can get in a car, the three of us, and we can ride down to Frank's place on Kennedy Street. We'll go in, find Frank and you can ask him, Mr. Markey, if he ever saw this girl before. He'll tell you. He'll tell you that she used one of his rooms every weekend to entertain the men that I picked up for her."

"You picked up?"

"Yes, me." Jerry was not avoiding the issue. "I was her pimp."

Otis Markey poured a long drink and his hand shook.

"You say you love my daughter?"

"Very much. That's why I'm here."

"I can't say I think much of her choice," Otis Markey said.

"Maybe not."

"I doubt if she feels the same way about you."

"I doubt if she will—after this."

It became very quiet in the room. Otis Markey lifted the glass, then put it down and scratched his head.

"I thought a lot of you," he said to Helen.

Helen didn't know what to say.

"You were a little bit like somebody I remember from a long time ago. I don't know why. But what this young man has told me about you means that you're just the opposite."

Outwardly she tried to. remain calm but inwardly she was raging. Of all the rotten, stinking luck in the world, this was the worst. Why couldn't Jerry have kept quiet? Didn't he know that if he was tied in with Evelyn Carter's death he would go to jail?

"He's lying," she said, trying to bluff her way through. "He wanted to marry me himself and I wouldn't do it. I suppose this is his way of getting back at me."

"That's a laugh," Jerry said.

"Oh, it is, is it?"

"Sure, it is. I wouldn't marry you if you paid me. What man in his right mind would?"

Helen started to say something, but Otis Markey waved for silence.

"I've got something at stake here," he said. "I don't want to believe what I hear but I can't very well just ignore it. Seems to me that the best thing to do is go down to that place and see that man. It ought to satisfy all of us, one way or another."

Helen wanted to scream and curse. She couldn't go down there, she just couldn't. Frank would do anything to hurt her, anything. She might as well end it here, in this room, as anywhere else.

"I won't be pushed around this way," she said.

Otis Markey stared at her. "I'm not trying to push you around. All I want is the truth and I'm entitled to that."

"Then you believe him?"

"I'd rather not."

"Why don't you believe me? Why don't you believe me when I say it's a lie?" Her voice rose and she fought to control it. "Why don't you?"

Neither man said anything. The silence pulled in around her, swelling. She felt as though the world was being torn away from her, as though her whole life were being wrecked.

"I can't go down there," she sobbed.

Otis Markey was gentle with her. "Why not?"

"I—can't."

It was over. She knew it was over. She had known one exciting glimpse of the future and now it was swept aside. She started to laugh, bitterly, brokenly. It was so funny, so funny. She had been so near.

"I'll pay you back," she said to Jerry, starting for the phone. "I'll pay you back good."

"Who are you calling?"

"The police. About you and Evelyn Carter."

"They already know," Jerry said. "I called them just before you got here." He started for the door. "They're expecting me and I'd better not keep them waiting."

Otis Markey poured another drink.

"I've never seen the like of it," he said. "Never. I should have stayed in Warren County."

At that moment, Helen wished that he had.

Peggy was ashamed to see her father, ashamed of all of the things that she had been, of all of the things she had done.

"That Helen really blew her stack," her father said. "She told me a lot of things about you and that Mrs. Reid and—well, I just don't want to believe them, that's all."

"I don't know about Mrs. Reid."

"I'm not interested in Mrs. Reid. I'm interested in you."

They were in his room at the hotel and it was late at night. He had been drinking heavily but he showed no signs of it. His face wasn't red the way it usually became and when he spoke his voice didn't boom.

"I don't know what to say," Peggy said.

"You can talk to me. I'm your father."

"Can I?"

"Why can't you?"

"I don't know," she replied. "I just don't know." Otis Markey started to fix another drink and then put the bottle down.

"This won't solve anything," he said.

"No."

"I used to think that it did but it doesn't. You get something like this in your hair and liquor won't budge it."

She felt small and weak and she would have given almost anything to have been anywhere but in this room with him. They had been talking about things that were a part of life, almost all of life, and she was not used to that. Before he had seemed so far away, so distant, and now he was close to her, closer than he had ever been before.

"I didn't mean to," she said.

"I know you didn't."

"It just happened, that's all."

"That's reasonable. This isn't the first time such a thing has happened when a lot of girls live together. And it won't be the last, either."

"It's the last for me," she said. "The first and last."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. But we don't have to talk about it any more. All we have to do is forget. I'll get you another car to show you how I feel."

"I don't want another car."

"You're a funny one. What do you want?"

"I'm not sure."

He looked at her closely.

"Not that Jerry, I hope."

"I don't know."

"He's as low as they come. He was selling this girl and getting money from her. And he took the other girl to her death."

"You said she threatened him."

"If you believe that."

"Don't you?"

"I don't know what to believe," her father said. "He claims he pawned your coat but there's no way of proving that until the pawn shop opens in the morning."

"A lot of people make mistakes," Peggy said.

"Yes, and he made a bundle of them."

"So did I."

"So did you."

"And you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Peggy said. "You know that and so do I. We've never been close, not the way a father and daughter should be. You've made too much money, drunk too much, and bothered with too many young girls."

"I guess you're right."

"But talking about it doesn't do any good."

"No. The thing to do is see where we have been wrong and try to right things. I'm willing if you are. I'm willing to do anything that I have to do to help both of us."

"So am I."

"Now you're talking like your mother."

"Is that good?"

"Very good."

"Was my mother pretty?"

"Like you."

"I'll take a drink," she said suddenly.

He was surprised. "I didn't know you drank."

"Not much, but I need one now."

"So do I."

They drank together in silence. For the first time with her father, she felt good, solid, and secure.

* * *

The police were firm but friendly with Jerry. The Sergeant, a middle aged man, was especially kind.

"I've got a son your age," he said. "He could get into trouble, too."

"Well, I sure did."

"But you made things better by coming in here. You lay it on the line for us and we appreciate it."

"There was nothing else to do."

"You could have run."

"Where?"

The Sergeant frowned. "Anywhere. A lot of them try it."

"And you bring them back."

He nodded. "We bring them back."

The assistant district attorney, who had been listening, wanted to go through the whole thing again.

"Where did you meet the girl?"

"What girl?"

"Helen Lee."

"At the house. At Mrs. Reid's."

"Did she approach you or did you approach her?"

"It was sort of a meeting of the minds."

"But you provided her with a room to carry on her affairs?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"It doesn't matter."

"No, I suppose it doesn't. We can't do anything about that part of it, anyway. The only thing we can do is turn her over to a social service agency and see if they can't straighten her out. She seems to want to badly enough. She was crying a lot when she told us about her association with Mrs. Reid. I think she was afraid of the woman."

"She might turn out to be somebody," Jerry said.

The assistant district attorney nodded and toyed with a huge cigar.

"Mrs. Reid will have to find another way to make a living," he said. "The college won't stand for having any girls staying with a woman like that."

Jerry yawned and stayed silent. It had been a long night, a very long night. The gray of dawn was just beginning to crowd in through the windows.

"The main thing is this Carter death. You say she forced you to help her?"

"Yes."

"Well, we can't prove that she didn't."

"No,"

"If she did, and a jury believed your story, we wouldn't have much of a case. The fact that you paid for the operation doesn't mean that you helped to kill her. Mrs. Lopez is responsible for that. Frankly, Mr. Dixon, we can't prove that your motives were anything but well-meaning."

"If misguided," the Sergeant said.

"Yes. Misguided and well-meaning." The assistant district" attorney held a match to the cigar. "The thing is the coat. You had no right to pawn that."

"No," Jerry said.

"If Miss Markey wanted to put you into a jam she could do it very easily."

"I know."

The assistant district attorney smoked contentedly on his cigar and attempted to blow a couple of smoke rings toward the ceiling.

"You say you are in love with Miss Markey?"

"Yes."

"You've gone a rather roundabout way of showing it."

"I guess I have," Jerry agreed.

The smoke rings were a flop and the assistant district attorney gave up the idea.