He told Jeanine about how he’d been identified, and he thanked her again — even though he’d already thanked her on the phone — for letting him come over here when she knew the cops were on to him. She said that was okay, she hadn’t been asleep anyway. She told him she’d spent some time cleaning up the place after he’d left and then she’d tried to sleep in here on the sofa, but all she did was toss and turn. Colley looked at the rug. She hadn’t been able to get the bloodstains out.
“You should have used cold water,” he said.
“I did.”
“Wouldn’t take them out, huh?”
“No. I washed your clothes, too, by the way. The pants said Dry Clean Only, but I figured it was better to take a chance ruining them than leave blood on them.”
“Yeah, good,” he said. “Did the blood come out?”
“Most of it.”
“They were old pants anyway,” he said.
“Jocko’s still bleeding,” Jeanine said, gesturing with her head toward the corridor and the bedroom. “Soaked through the bandage four times since you left.”
“Looks like we’re all in fine shape, don’t it?” Colley said. “Next thing I expect to hear is Teddy got hit by a bus on the way home.”
Jeanine smiled. “You want a drink?” she said. “There’s only bourbon left, but if that’s okay...”
“Yeah, with a little water,” he said.
“You seem calm,” she said.
“I’m pretty jazzed up, you really want to know.”
“You look calm.”
He shook his head.
“I’ll get the drinks,” she said, and went out into the kitchen.
He sat on the sofa listening to the ticking of the clock. He would have to ask her where the clock was. Could hear the thing all over the apartment, but couldn’t see it anyplace. In the kitchen, he heard her opening the refrigerator. He thought of earlier tonight, of the way she’d showed him her breasts. Well, she was used to that, an ex-stripper. Still, it had been only the two of them in the apartment, Jocko unconscious down the hall. That was different from doing a strip in some joint. He got up off the sofa, started for the kitchen, and stopped. He listened down the hall, could hear nothing.
He went into the kitchen. “Need some help,” he said.
“No,” she said, “I’m doing fine.”
Her back was to him, he studied her figure. He had telephoned her forty minutes ago from a black bar in Scorpion territory, after leaping rooftops and crossing back yards and racing through alleyways. He had called because he’d told himself he would need a gun now that the cops had identified him, and the only place he could get a gun was in Jocko’s apartment. Jocko had guns. But Jocko also had a wife named Jeanine who’d pulled her T-shirt up over her breasts and showed them to him and then asked him if he was afraid of Jocko. Yes, he’d been afraid of Jocko then, and he knew that once he came down from this fantastic high, he would become afraid of Jocko all over again. He knew that if he did not make his move soon, if he did not go over to where she stood at the sink in those tight blue jeans, he would never do it.
She turned from the sink, moved to the counter alongside it, and put ice cubes into two glasses. The seal on the bourbon bottle was broken; she’d been drinking since he left the apartment. She poured whiskey into both glasses, added some water to his, and held it out to him. He went to her, and took the glass from her hand and they stood not three feet apart in the narrow kitchen, Colley against the refrigerator, Jeanine leaning against the counter. Her hands were wet, she wiped them on the thighs of the faded blue jeans, and then left them on her thighs, the fingers widespread. She looked up into his face, and suddenly there were no secrets, his eyes had told her everything she needed to know.
She kept looking into his face as he moved toward her, standing against the counter, her hands resting on her thighs. He could no longer hear the ticking of the clock. He put his glass down on the counter beside her, and then, slowly, lifted the front of the T-shirt the way she had lifted it in the living room earlier tonight, took the bottom of it in both hands and pulled the shirt up over her naked breasts.
She did not move.
She kept her hands on her thighs, the fingers spread. He noticed that she had long, slender hands, that the fingernails were painted a red as bright as the blood that had spurted from the dead cop’s head, he did not want to think about that stupid bastard, he reached up for her breasts. The T-shirt was bunched above them, she stood with her shoulders back, the breasts jutting, a faint smile on her face now, her eyes slitted, a lazy languid look in them. The water tap was dripping. He could hear the water tap, and also the ticking of the clock again as he brought his open hands up to her breasts.
She leaned into his hands.
He touched her breasts lightly, he did not want to hurt her the way Jocko had, he was afraid of causing fresh bruises. There was a sheen to her skin, the flesh was taut, the globes shimmered with secret pinks and lavenders, mother-of-pearl breasts, he touched them gently, his fingers exploring. The skin around the nipples came as a course reminder of sex, blatant and rude, the circles of darker flesh erupting in pinpoint nubs. The hardening nipples were a declaration, he responded to them wildly, tightening his hands on her breasts, cupping them to his mouth, kissing the freckled sloping tops and rounded sides, and then bringing his mouth up to hers, waiting wet and wide, and covering her lips with his.
She threw herself into him, she ground her hips against him, he visualized her on a small stage in a smoke-filled room, I’d go out there, you know, and the drums’d be banging, and the lights’d be on me, and I’d start throwing myself around, and he reached for the front of the blue jeans and found first the button and then the zipper. She was naked under the jeans, her nakedness there came as a surprise, the smooth shock of her belly, the sudden deep navel, the crisp tangled hair. He spread his fingers into her crotch and she pulled her mouth from his and whispered directly into his ear, a cannon shot in his ear, “He’ll kill you.” She was referring to Jocko, he knew she was referring to Jocko, but he could visualize only Kruger the Kraut grabbing him in the shower, Kruger squeezing his cheeks in both hands, squeezing, squeezing, and then stopping just before he fainted, and grinning and walking out, the other cons pretending nothing had happened.
“He’ll kill you,” she said again, but she was stepping out of the blue jeans, she was kicking them away across the kitchen floor, and reaching for him again, opening his fly, pulling him free with one swift tug and then leaning back against the counter, hands coming up behind his neck, mouth open, grinding again even before their bodies touched. He reached behind her and grabbed her naked buttocks in both hands and lifted her up onto the counter. He was spreading her wide when they heard the voice. He was opening her like a melon when they heard it. The first thing he thought was It’s the police; he didn’t know why he thought that.
“Jeanine,” the voice said.
The voice was hoarse, Colley could not recognize it at first. But Jeanine knew the voice immediately and reacted to it at once. She put both hands against Colley’s chest and shoved him away from her, closed her legs and slid off the counter and onto the floor. She was reaching for her blue jeans even before the voice said again, slightly louder this time, “Jeanine.” There was no question mark at the end of that voice, this was not someone used to calling her and not having her come. This was someone who beat her often and brutally, who left her bruised and aching, this was her Kruger, and his name was Jocko.