“I’ll say.” She gave him a quick sideways glance as they walked. “Looks like you picked me up all right, didn’t you?”
“It’s what I was hoping,” Stanley said. “You, I like. I got an idea we can run up some mileage together.”
“You’re cute yourself,” she said. “I’ll give you some good advice before it’s too late. Forget the mileage. Run before you get burned.”
“Like hell,” Stanley said. “What’s the danger? You married?”
“No, it’s not that. For one thing — I’m bad.”
“Big deal,” Stanley said.
“Also, I got a whammy on me.” “Whaddya mean, you got a whammy?”
“A whammy, a spell, a curse.”
“Like what?”
“Like I don’t own myself. Somebody else does.”
“Who?”
“Good-bye,” she said.
“Nothing doing,” Stanley said.
“All right, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Whaddya mean, somebody owns you? What are you, a slave?”
“More like a prisoner.”
“You’re walking around, aren’t you?” Stanley said.
“I got to go back to him every night. I got to work for him. Whatever I take goes to him. He tells me something, I got to obey. I get the screaming meemies if I try to fight it. It’s in my head. A whammy.”
“Who is this guy? Svengali?”
“Who? No, his name is Hogan. Big Boy Hogan.”
“How’d he get this whammy on you?”
“I don’t know. I was seeing him, and then — there it was.” She looked at him sideways again. “What’s the use of talking? Let’s go to your place. You got a place?”
“Sure, I got a place.” Stanley felt a little shocked; he’d meant to start working up to this. He said, “I was going to take you out to eat and—”
“I know,” she said. “Why waste time? It’s what you’re after, isn’t it?” Her eyes had turned bright and he saw the same pinpoints of excitement in them. “And you’re cute. Let’s go.”
“How about your whammy?”
“Won’t stop us. Hogan doesn’t know about you, and he can’t help what he doesn’t know.”
Stanley took her arm. “By the way, my name is Stanley Vebell.”
She laughed. “Iris Jackson. Pleased to meet you.”
Stanley liked to live fancy and Iris was happy with his East 52nd apartment. She twinkled around it, singing. A few hours with her and Stanley felt like he was hooked, whammy or no whammy; so he had to know, he had to act. When she told him she had to go back to Big Boy Hogan, Stanley said, “I’m going to break that whammy.”
“How, Stanley? How can you help me?”
“I’m going to see that Svengali and make him let you go.”
She looked at him and began to laugh. She went on laughing as he began to mutter. She laughed harder when he said: “What’s so funny? I can handle myself in a scrap.”
She said, “Big Boy would make two of you, Stanley. Big Boy is in the rackets, he’s a mobster. He has knocked off people — I personally guarantee it. He would wipe you away like a spot. You want to get killed, Stanley? You are, after all, only a dip. Dips are artists, not heavies. Dips are not tigers, not killers. You are a very cute dip, but not in Big Boy’s class. Stay away from him, Stanley.”
“I ain’t afraid of him,” Stanley muttered, but said nothing more. All those things she’d said about dips were true, but he’d thought that was fine, to make out without taking bad chances. Now, he was feeling small and low. There was not enough respect from her. He would show her, Stanley decided. He would show her he was no French pastry at heart, and he would break her whammy too, someway.
The scene was different, seeing Iris — flashes of sunlight, pools of shadow, and a lot of rainbow. Altogether, she turned him on, but full. Without her around, he felt like an empty wallet. With her, he was more than himself; he needed to be more, for her. Devil in her eyes, taunt in her voice, whammy in her soul to be rubbed away; these made him dare.
They were walking on Fifth one afternoon. She had already lifted a pair of pearl earrings in a jewelry store, with a cool finesse that had almost raised his hair, but made him proud of her. It only bothered him that the loot would go to that lousy Svengali. That goon remained the spoiler, keeping the jealousy smoldering, deep and steady. He wasn’t anxious to tangle after what Iris had told him about Big Boy, but maybe if he could wrap her up close enough, the whammy would fade.
Iris said, “Where’s his wallet, Stanley?” She’d stopped along the curb.
Stanley followed her eyes. The man was looking into a shop window at a display of Oriental art. He was tall, well-dressed and wore a wide-brimmed, Western hat. Texas type, Stanley figured automatically, big spender...
“Hip pocket,” Stanley answered, reading the clothes.
“Take him, Stanley.”
Stanley laughed.
“Why not?”
Stanley’s laugh faded as he saw she was serious. “It’s all wrong. Out on the street. Crowds aren’t close enough, I could be spotted. The guy is wrong, wide-awake — he’d know I’m close, I couldn’t scramble his mind. Reflection from the window...”
“Scared of the hard ones, Stanley?”
“I ain’t scared,” Stanley retorted quickly. “This setup just ain’t professional.”
“Small-time,” she said. “I guess you can’t help it.”
Stanley felt the contempt. He had to dare, or lose.
He eased alongside the mark, inspecting the Oriental art too. He turned sharp, from toe to scalp, a tuned-in dip, receiving waves from the passing world and the mark, sensing for the instant. This would have to be perfect.
“Different, huh?” Stanley said, nodding at the art, gentle, friendly.
“Yup, kind of like it. Bet it’d open a few eyes if I brought one back home.” The genial, open drawl was Western, all right.
“Out-of-state, huh?” Stanley’s voice was casual as he made his move. It was now. Talking, the mark was as off-base as he’d be. Couple of eye-flicks and Stanley had registered the passing scene, the crowd positions, picking a proper split-second. Stanley could work with either hand. His left hand became an eel, the ghost of an eel, flowing behind, between jacket and trousers, fingers crawling into the pocket slit, delicately absorbing the wallet, flowing back almost as soon as it had started.
The guy didn’t feel a thing. The wallet palmed up his sleeve, Stanley thought he’d made it, but the guy was sharp-eyed — been right not to trust him — and there was the dim window-reflection. The mark’s hand clapped the back pocket, leaped for Stanley’s wrist.
Stanley matched the reflex. Stanley was no longer there — he was twisting through the crowds. The mark came pounding after him, yelling. It was the first time in Stanley’s pro career that he’d been chased, but his talent held true, scared though he was. He slid among the bodies like a needle through thread, dodged into a building that he knew went through to underground shops, turned and cornered through the lower levels, walking fast, no longer running, emerged on a different street, safe, the mark lost. He was on home ground; the other guy hadn’t had a chance.
Still, Stanley was frowning. He might have been grabbed. The stunt hadn’t made sense, but if it made him bigger with Iris, it was worth it.
“That was beautiful,” Iris said later. “Thrilling. Graceful. The way you ditched him... like ballet.”
“Nothing,” Stanley said, modestly, but Iris was extra-loving for a while, and the take had been high, too.
Only, the whammy remained.
Stanley couldn’t take the knowledge that only a piece of Iris was his, most of her still belonging to the Svengali. He was hooked on her stronger all the time, like he’d never been hooked with a skirt; he needed more than her spare time.