somehow carried even into the back room and the dance floor, “I’m damned
if I’m going to waste a good quarter.” She got up and walked across the
room toward the prettiest girl she could see, sitting at a table with
her lover and two other couples. It was exactly the way she would have
reacted to student-baiting at Juniper Hill High. The worse it got, the
taller she walked. Her heart was beating so hard she wanted to squeeze
it still. But she knew no one could hear it through her chest.
She stopped in front of the pretty girl and looked at her for a second
in incredulous silence. Then she said quietly, “Will you dance with me,
Mona?”
Mona Petry smiled at her. Nobody else in Greenwich Village would have
flouted the social code that way: walked between two lovers and taken
one away for a dance. Mona took a leisurely drag on her cigarette,
letting her pleasure show in a faint smile. Then she stood up and said,
“Yes. I will, Beebo.” Her lover threw Beebo a keen, hard look and then
relapsed into a sullen stare.
Beebo and Mona walked to the floor single file, and Mona turned when she
got clear of the tables, lifting her arms to be held. The movement was
so easy and natural that it excited Beebo and made her bold—she who knew
nothing about dancing. But she was not lacking in grace or rhythm. She
took Mona in a rather prim embrace at first, and began to move her over
the floor as the music directed.
Mona disturbed her by putting her head back and smiling up at her. At
last she said, “How did you know my name?”
“Pete Pasquini told me,” Beebo said. “How did you know mine?”
“Same answer,” Mona laughed. “He gets around, doesn’t he?”
“So they say,” Beebo said.
“You mean you don’t know from personal experience?”
“Me?” Beebo stared at her. “Should I?”
Mona chuckled. “No, you shouldn’t,” she said.
“Did I—take you away from something over there?” Beebo said.
“From some_body_,” Mona corrected her. “But it’s all right. She’s deadly
dull. I’ve been waiting for you to come over.”
Beebo felt her face get warm. “I didn’t even see you until I stood up,”
she said.
“I saw you,” Mona murmured. They danced a moment more, and Beebo pulled
her closer, wondering if Mona could feel her heart, now bongoing under
her ribs, or guess at the racing triumph in her veins.
“Did you ask Pete about me?” Mona prodded.
“A little,” Beebo admitted. And was surprised to find that the admission
felt good. “Yes,” she whispered.
“What did he say?”
“He said you were a wonderful girl.”
“Did you believe him?”
Beebo hesitated and finally said, huskily, “Yes.”
“You’re a good dancer, Beebo,” Mona said, knowing, like an expert, just
how far to go before she switched gears.
“I dance like a donkey,” Beebo grinned, strong enough in her victory to
laugh at herself.
“No, you’re a natural,” Mona insisted. “A natural dancer, I mean.”
“I don’t care what you mean, just keep dancing,” Beebo said.
Mona put her head down against Beebo’s shoulder and laughed, and Beebo
felt the same elation as a man when he has impressed a desirable girl
and she lets him know it with her flattery. Mona—so elusive, so pretty,
so dominant in Beebo’s dreams lately. Beebo was holding her tighter than
she meant to, but when she tried to loosen her embrace, Mona put both
arms about her neck and pulled her back again.
For the first time, Beebo had the nerve to look straight at her. It was
a long hungry look that took in everything: the long dark square-cut
hair and bangs; the big hazel eyes; the fine figure, slim and
exaggeratedly tall in high heels. But it was still necessary for her to
look up at Beebo.
“It’s nice you’re so tall,” Mona told her.
“Who’s the girl you’re with?” Beebo said. “I think she wants to drown
me.”
“No doubt. Her name’s Todd.”
“Is she a friend?”
“She was, till you asked for this dance,” Mona smiled.
Beebo didn’t want to make trouble. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Are you?” Mona was forward as only a world-weary girl with nothing to
learn—or lose—could be. And yet she seemed too young for such
ennui—still in her twenties. “Are you sorry about Todd?” she pressed
Beebo.
“I’m not sorry I’m dancing with you, if that’s what you mean,” Beebo
said.
“That’s what I mean,” Mona smiled. “Would you like to dance without an
audience, Beebo?”
Beebo frowned at her. “You mean ditch your friends?”
Mona could see that Beebo was offended by such a suggestion of
two-timing; and Mona was interested enough in this big, beautiful,
strange girl, not to want her offended. “They aren’t true friends,” Mona
said plaintively, “that you can count on, anyway. It’s all over between
Todd and me, too. We just came here to bury the corpse tonight. This is
where we met five months ago.”
“Five months? That’s not very long to be in love with somebody,” Beebo
said.
“I wasn’t,” Mona said.
“Was she?” It seemed indescribably sad to Beebo that one partner be in
love and the other feel nothing. She wanted everyone to be happy on this
night full of sequin-lights and clouds of music: even Todd.
“I never meant much to Todd,” Mona said. “Talk about ditching, Beebo.
I’m the one who’s getting ditched.”
“You?” Beebo held her tightly, glad for the excuse. “How could anyone
ever do that to you?”
Mona swayed against her, smiling with her eyes shut, and Beebo was too
immersed in her to notice the look on Todd’s face.
“She likes to torment her lovers,” Mona whispered. “She uses them, as if
they were things. When she gets tired of them, she puts them in a drawer
and pulls them out to show off, like trophies. That’s all she
does—collect broken hearts.”
“She sounds like a female dog,” Beebo commented. And yet the little
speech recalled disturbingly some of Jack’s remarks about Mona; as if
Mona were amusing herself by describing her own faults to Beebo and
pretending they were Todd’s.
The music ended and they stood on the floor a moment, arms still clasped
about each other. “Wait at the bar,” Mona whispered into Beebo’s ear.
“I’ll get my coat.” Beebo glanced doubtfully at the table, but Mona
said, “It’ll be better if I tell her alone. Go on.”
Beebo released her reluctantly, went to her seat and sipped at her drink
till Mona came up. She let Mona lead the way, feeling a sudden wild
exhilaration as she followed, lighting a cigarette, holding the door for
Mona, taking the street side when they reached the sidewalk.
“Was Todd angry?” she asked.
“No one wants to look the fool,” Mona said lightly, with a smile.
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t like to get you up the creek, Mona,” Beebo said.
“I didn’t want trouble.”
“I make my own trouble, Beebo. I thrive on it. The way I see it—” she
paused to give Beebo her arm, and Beebo took it smoothly with a sense of
power and burgeoning desire, “—life is flat and dreary without trouble.”
Mona dodged a puddle, then continued. “Good trouble. Exciting trouble.
You can’t just walk across the Flats forever, doing what’s expected of
you. Excitement. That’s everything to me.” Mona stopped in her tracks to
look at Beebo with bright sly eyes. “Being good isn’t exciting. Right?”
“I’m no philosopher,” Beebo said.
“I’ll prove it to you. You’re a good person, aren’t you? You felt bad
about Todd. You’ve been good all your life. But are you happy?”
“I am right now. Are you telling me to be bad?” Beebo said, laughing.
“Would making love to me be bad?” Mona asked her, so directly that Beebo
wondered if she were being made fun of. There was no respect in Mona for
the innate privacy and mystery of every human soul. She saw them all as
part of the Flats—unless they could make beautiful trouble with her.
Then, she was interested. Then, she saw an individual.
“Making love to you,” Beebo said slowly, “would have to be good.”
“I’ll make it better than good.” Mona reached up for Beebo’s shoulders,
pulling her back into the dusk of a doorway. They stood there a moment,
Beebo in a fever of need and fear, till Mona’s hand slid up behind her
head, cupped it downward, and brought their lips together.
Beebo came to life with a swift jerking movement. Mona’s kiss had been
light and brief, until Beebo caught her again in a violent embrace and
imprisoned her mouth. She forgot everything for a few minutes, holding
Mona there in her arms and kissing her lips, pressing her back against
the doorway and feeling the whole length of her body against Beebo’s
own.
It wasn’t till she became aware that Mona was protesting that she let
her go. She stood in front of Mona, still trembling and weak-kneed, her
breath coming fast and her head spinning, and she felt oddly apologetic.
Mona had started it, but Beebo had carried it too far. “I’m sorry,” she
panted.
“Stop saying you’re sorry all the time,” Mona told her in a sulky voice.
And, with a briskness that all but shattered the mood, she turned and
started walking off, her heels snapping against the asphalt. Beebo
stared after her, shocked. Was this the end of it?
But Mona turned back after a quarter of a block and called her. “You
aren’t going to spend the night there, are you?” she said crisply.
Beebo hurried after her, and they walked for two more blocks without
exchanging a word. Beebo could only suppose she had done something
wrong. Yet she didn’t know what, or how to make amends.
Mona stopped at a brownstone house with six front steps. “I live here,”
she said.
Beebo glanced up at it. “Shall I leave?” she said.
“Do you want to?”
“Don’t answer my questions with more questions!” Beebo said, a tide of
anger releasing her tongue. “Damn it, Mona, I don’t like evasions.”
“All right. Don’t go,” Mona said, and smiled at the outburst. She went
up the steps with Beebo coming uneasily behind her, opened the door, and
went to the first-floor apartment in the back. At her door she pulled
out her key and waited. Beebo was looking around at the hall, old and
modest, but cleanly kept. The apartments in a place like this could be
astonishingly chic. She had seen some belonging to Jack’s friends.
Mona let her take it in till Beebo became aware of the silence and
turned to her quizzically.
“Approve?” Mona said.
Beebo nodded, and Mona, as if that were the signal, turned the key in
the lock. She walked over the threshold, switched on a light, and
abruptly backed out again, preventing Beebo from entering.
“What’s wrong?” Beebo said, surprised.
“There’s someone in there,” Mona said.
Without thinking, Beebo made a lunge for the door. She had thrown
prowlers out of her father’s house before. A situation like this scared
her far less than being in that room alone with Mona—much as she wanted
it.
But Mona caught her arm. “It’s a friend of mine!” she hissed. “Beebo,
please!” Beebo stopped, irritated, waiting for an explanation. “It’s a
girl. I told her Todd and I were breaking up,” Mona shrugged. “I guess
she came over to cheer me up. We’ve been friends a long time. Oh, it’s
nothing romantic, Beebo.”
“Well, send her home,” Beebo said. It was one thing to be afraid of
Mona; but another entirely to forfeit the whole night in honor of a hen
party.
“I can’t.” Mona looked up at her in pretty distress. “She’s my one real
friend and I owe her a lot. She’s had some bad times in her own life
lately. Beebo, look—here’s my phone number. Call me in an hour. Maybe we
can still make it.” She took a scratch pad from her purse and scribbled
on it.
Beebo took it, feeling rebuffed and insulted. But Mona stood on tiptoes
and kissed her lips again. And when Beebo refused to embrace her, Mona
took her wrists and pulled them around her and gave Beebo a luxurious
kiss. “Forgive me,” she said. “It would be tough if she knew I’d brought
someone home—it really would.” She slipped out of Beebo’s arms and put a
hand on the doorknob. “Be sure to call me,” she said. And then she
disappeared inside her apartment.
Beebo stood in the hall a while, leaning on the dingy plaster and trying
to make sense out of Mona. There was no sound from the apartment.
Perhaps Mona and the girl had gone into a bedroom to talk. The idea made
Beebo angry and jealous. She went slowly down the front hall. There was
a pay phone by the entrance. Beebo went outside and sat on the front
stoop for about forty-five minutes, and then went in to call.
She had lifted the telephone receiver and was about to drop in a dime,
when she heard a bang from the end of the hall, as if someone had
dropped something heavy. It seemed to come from Mona’s door, and Beebo
rushed toward it. But at the threshold, she froze.
Mona’s voice, muffled as if through the walls of several rooms, but
discernible, penetrated the wood. “And you! You sneak in here like a rat
with the plague! God damn, how many times do I have to say it? _Call_
first. Are you deaf or just stupid?”
Beebo’s mouth opened as she strained to hear the answer. It came after a
slight pause: “Rats don’t scare you, doll. You already got the plague.”
Beebo whirled away from the door as if she had been burned, and stood
with her knuckles pressed angrily against her temples.
The voice belonged to a man.
* * * * *
It was several days before anything happened. Beebo went back to work as
usual. There were no calls, no notes, no effort on Mona’s part to get in
touch with her and explain. Or apologize.
Beebo worked dully, but gratefully. Keeping busy was a balm to her
nerves. She took pleasure in driving, taking corners faster and making
deliveries in better time as she learned the routes. During the morning
she took out groceries. In the afternoon, it was fresh-cooked, hot
Italian food in insulated cartons.
Mona and her male visitor were on Beebo’s mind so constantly that she
didn’t even take time to worry about Jack, or the possibility he might
fall in love with Pat. She saw them every evening, but said little and
saw less.
She was full of a boiling bad temper; half-persuaded to go out on the
town with as many girls as she could find, sure that Mona would hear
about it; and half-toying with the idea of dating a man out of sheer
spite. It would be nice irony—almost worth the embarrassment and social
discomfort.
She was mad enough at Mona, in fact, to be nice to Pete. After all, Mona
had stood him up too, long ago. He was still under her feet, and
although he had never made any indecent proposals, he managed to always
look as if he were just about to. Beebo was comforted to see that he
gave the same look, and likely the same impression, to every woman in
range of his sight, except his wife.
One day at noon, she went deliberately to the table in the kitchen where
he was eating and pulled up a chair, while Marie served them. Pete
looked at her with his somber eyes and stopped munching for a minute.
She ordinarily managed her schedule so she could eat before or after he
did. Marie noticed the change, as she noticed everything, but whatever
she thought, she kept her own counsel.
“How is it with Jack and Pat?” Marie said conversationally.
Beebo straightened around. “How did you know about that?” she said,
surprised.
“They was in earlier. Pat says he knows about bugs. Maybe he can stomp
out my roaches.... He is a nice boy? I never did trust blonds.”
Beebo felt threatened, as if Marie had just announced the end of Beebo’s
life with Jack. “Sure. Very nice,” she said, and swallowed her stew. She
was conscious of Pete’s piercing gaze on her face.
“So?” Marie said, nodding. “He got a friendly style.”
Beebo recounted mentally her evenings in the past week. Since Jack and
Pat had met they had been together every night. Pat was in the apartment
all day—no matter what hour Beebo dropped in during her deliveries. What
about his job? And Jack? Jack Mann was a charming and persuasive man,
and the fact that his face was plain did not alter the fact that his
strong body was clean and pleasing, nor that his wits were quick and
could make you learn and laugh.
“What’s the matter, Beebo? You don’t like rabbit?”
She started at Pete’s voice and pulled away. His face was too close. But
she was glad for the diversion. He aimed a big spoon at her stew. “Maybe
you like a cheese sandwich?”
“No, this is fine,” she said, forcing a social smile ... and then
wishing it were possible to retract it. Pete was examining her
curiously.
She ate with concentration for several moments, still seeing Pat and
Jack in her mind’s eye. Pat liked Jack already. He was afraid of the
city, and he abominated his job. If he didn’t get back to it fast, he
wouldn’t have it any more, and she knew he didn’t give a damn—as long as
somebody fed and loved him. He was like a pet: a big lovable goddamn
poodle. She knew his liking for Jack would grow to fondness, if not
love. She could see it coming, especially at night when Jack let him
talk his heart out. Nobody listened or comforted more intelligently than
Jack.
_And when they fall in love—then where do I go? Shack up with Mona and
her stable of strange men?_ she wondered. Jack’s remarks about Mona’s
past were haunting her days and ruining her nights.
“Beebo,” said a quiet male voice into her ear. “You want the afternoon
off?”
It was an indecent proposal, all right. His voice made it one.
“No thanks,” she said frostily.
“You look bad.”
“I’m all right,” she snapped.
“You could’ve fooled me,” he said. And when she didn’t answer, he went
on, unwilling to let the conversation die, “The way you was acting, I
thought you was sick.”
“Maybe I am,” she said sardonically. “I’ve got the plague.”
“The plague?” He stopped eating, his teeth poised around a bite, and
grinned. “Plague, like the rats bring?”
“Yeah.” Beebo frowned at him.
“I got a friend with an obsession about rats,” he said. “You seen her in
here once or twice. Mona. You know?” Beebo nodded, her eyes fixed on
him. It was the longest she had looked at him squarely. “She tells every
man she knows—and that’s plenty—he’s a rat. I asked her why once. Want
to know what she said?” He paused, building suspense, while Beebo held
her breath. “She says they’re all hairy ... filthy ... and stupid. And
they’ll sleep with anything ain’t already dead. You agree?” He grinned
at her.
Beebo turned away. “I don’t know any _men_,” she said pointedly.
Pete threw his hands out. “Is that nice to say?” he demanded. “Jack, I
can understand. All he got of man is his name. Your father, who knows?
Another fag?” Beebo got halfway out of her seat, but he protested
elaborately at once. When she simmered down, he added confidentially,
“But _me_.... Even Marie will admit that much, when she’s feeling
honest.”
“Marie’s in a position to have an opinion,” Beebo said acidly. “But I
don’t think that’s _it_.”
Pete folded his arms on the table and leaned on them, unoffended. “You
want to be in that position too, Beebo?”
“Not for a million bucks,” she said, and drank down her milk in a
gesture of scorn.
“I know a lot of good positions,” he said cozily, laughing at her.
Beebo had enough sense not to get visibly angry; not to make a scene. It
wasn’t worth it and it would only tickle Pete. If it did no more than
embarrass the two women, he would be satisfied.
She put her glass down. “What do you do with all your women, Pete?” she
asked him, making no effort to keep her voice from Marie. “Line them up
in half-hour shifts? It beats me how one mighty male can keep so many
women happy.”
She picked up her plate and took it to the sink.
Marie tossed her a grin. “You tell him, Beebo,” she said. “To hear him
talk, he’s sold out till next March.”
“I’m selling nothing, bitch,” Pete told her sharply. “What I got, I give
away.”
“Listen to Robin Hood,” Beebo cracked, and walked out of the kitchen
toward the truck with a load of Marie’s packaged foods. Pete followed
her. Marie turned and took a step toward them, thought better of it, and
returned to brood over the stove. Beebo could handle him. She didn’t
need any help.
In the parking area, Pete took some of the load from Beebo and helped
her put it in the truck. “You think I brag a lot, Beebo?” he said.
“I think you’re a creep,” she said.
He waited a moment, chagrined but not about to show it. “That mean you
don’t like me?” he said finally.
“Let’s drop it, Pete.”
“You _do_ like me?” he pestered her.
“What do you want, a friendship ring?” she demanded.
Pete shrugged, staring at the low clouds; taking out a toothpick to
spear the food specks stuck in his white teeth. “Just an opinion,” he
said.
“I told you. That’s Marie’s department. Now, if you’ll get out of my
way, I have some deliveries to make.”
He turned to her. “Everybody got an opinion, Beebo. You worked for me
over two months now. So say it. Say the truth.”
Beebo swallowed her aggravation. This was a game of wits, and the first
man to blow off, lost. She put on the same casual cloak Pete was
wearing. “You’re my boss. You keep clear of me, I keep clear of you, and
we get along.”
“You make a big thing of keeping clear,” he said. “I smell bad, or
something?”
“I wouldn’t know. I never get that close,” Beebo said.
Something in his eyes made her swing up into the driver’s seat with
unusual speed. She started the motor, but he came around the truck and
pulled her door open.
“You want to know where Mona hangs out?” he said.
Beebo set her jaw. “Not from you,” she said tautly.
Pete grinned. “Why not? My information is as good as the next guy’s.”
It made Beebo wildly impatient. She gripped the steering wheel in hard
hands. “You through now, Pete?” she said, gunning the motor.
But he stood there, angled into the truck doorway so that she couldn’t
move without bending some of his bones the wrong way.
“It’s okay, Beebo, don’t get sore,” he said, and put a hand on her knee.
She picked it up and dropped it like a knot of worms, and he laughed.
“You know why I do that?” he asked. “’Cause you put on such a good show.
It really bugs you, don’t it? When I touch you.”
“You get the hell out of my truck or I’ll roll you flat!”
He chuckled again. “Okay,” he said. “I just got one piece of news for
you, butch. Listen: 121 McDonald Street—Paula Ash. Tonight. For those as
wants to locate Mona.” He pulled away from the truck, and Beebo backed
out in a rumble of dust and gravel.
* * * * *
It was nearly midnight before Beebo could bring herself to the McDonald
Street address. She had debated it tempestuously throughout the evening,
but without confiding in Jack. She could have gone to Mona’s apartment
instead, or called her and demanded an explanation. But something told
her Pete Pasquini had an interesting motive for sending her here. She
might get hurt; but she might also learn the truth, whatever that was,
about Mona. So she took the chance.
She was in a don’t-give-a-damn mood, expecting to find Mona with a man
in the apartment, rented under an assumed name; or Mona making love to
Paula Ash, whoever the hell she was; or even—best joke of all—Mona
waiting for her alone, while Pete peeked through the keyhole.
She stood at 121 McDonald Street in a light drizzle, partially sheltered
by an inset doorway, her hands shoved into the sleeves of her
windbreaker, and tried to make up her mind to call the jest.
At last the chill drove her into the foyer to look at mailboxes. There
was a Paula Ash, all right. Apartment 103. Beebo took a deep breath and
pushed the buzzer.
The answer came after so long a wait that Beebo was just leaving in
disgust, and had to turn back quickly to open the inner door. She had
scarcely entered the hall when a door opened ahead and a girl looked
out.
“Yes?” she said. She appeared very sleepy, as if she had been in bed for
many hours already, even though it was not quite midnight.
“May I come in?” Beebo said. She walked down the hall looking Miss Ash
over candidly. If Mona were going to stand her up, and Pete play jokes
on her, the least she could do was fall into the pit with as much
bravado as possible—and perhaps, a pretty girl in her arms.
“I don’t know,” the girl said doubtfully, opening her eyes very wide as
if the stretch would keep the lids up a few minutes more. “Who are you?”
“I’m Beebo.” Beebo looked at her, standing about three feet away in the
door, wondering if her name would register. The living room behind Paula
looked inviting after the gray rain outside.
“Beebo Who?” The girl was beginning to wake up, staring at her visitor.
Beebo smiled. “Didn’t Mona tell you?”
The girl gasped and rubbed her eyes open earnestly. “Mona!” she said,
her voice husky. “Did Mona send you here?”
“Not exactly,” Beebo said. “But I was made to think I’d find her here.”
The girl was so distressed that Beebo began to think Paula was the
victim of whatever joke was afoot, and not herself. She was moved to
apologize. “I’m sorry, Miss Ash,” she said. “There must have been a
mistake. I came expecting some sort of practical joke. I guess nobody
let either one of us in on it.”