“Lola, please.”
Lola’s eyes fluttered. “What?”
“I need you to come with me, honey.”
“Where?”
“Morgan’s got me fixed up with a date. A fellow who asked for someone like me... you know, on the big side, honey, like me.”
“I’m hurtin’, Lydia. I’m hurtin’ bad.”
“I know.”
“And it feels real good to lie here.”
“I know it does. But I’m scared. All those girls that was killed, you know how they were... they were built like me. I’m askin’ you please, you gotta come with me. I helped you out tonight when you needed it. Don’t I always help you out?”
Lola looked up at her friend. “All right, Lydia. All right. Help me up outta this bed.”
Lydia washed Lola’s face, straightened out her dress. The two of them went down the stairs to the foyer of the house. Morgan was waiting there, slapping a pair of leather gloves against his palm. He frowned at the sight of Lola.
“Well, what’s she doin’ here?”
“She’s comin’ with me.”
“The gentleman didn’t ask for a pair.”
“She ain’t gonna be with me and the gentleman, Mr. Morgan. She’s only going to be around.”
“For Chrissakes, Lydia, look at her. She’s all the way hopped.”
Lola stood by the front door, her hands holding the lapels of her overcoat together, her eyes closed. She was smiling, bobbing her head a little, following some rhythm line that only she could hear. The Victrola in the living room was not running; the living room was dark.
“She’ll be okay,” said Lydia.
“She needs her rest.”
“I’m not going without her.” Lydia rested one fist on her waist, tilted her chin impudently at Morgan.
“You like it here, don’t you? You like the heat in your room, and you like that soft bed. You forgettin’ already where you came from? When I found you, you were spreading your legs for two bucks with those Filipinos down by Sailor’s Row—”
“I’m not going without her.”
Morgan scratched his dome, glanced at his watch. “All right, then. I don’t have time to stand here listenin’ to you run your hash-trap all night. So hurry up and get her in the car.”
“You’re driving? Why not a cab?”
“It’s what the gentleman asked for. He told me where to drop you, and that’s what I’m going to do. He’s paying for his pleasure, and he’s paying big.”
“Who is this guy?”
“Hell if I know. A tender I do business with across town hooked it up.”
“And he asked for me.”
“He asked for your type.” Morgan grinned. “Good thing I keep a big old thing like you in stock.”
Lydia and Lola sat in the backseat of Morgan’s big ’48 Chrysler Windsor as Morgan drove east. Lola rested her head in Lydia’s soft lap, stretched out her legs. Light came in the windows from the streetlamps above, passing over Lola’s fishbelly-white calves, disappearing, then passing over them again. Lola counted the seconds between each spear of light, soon discovered a pattern in the intervals. She found this game pleasant. Lydia hummed a tune as she stroked Lola’s hair.
The car slowed. Lola felt the downshift of the engine. Morgan stopped the Chrysler, did not cut the ignition. He turned his head to the backseat.
“Out,” he said.
“There’s nobody here,” said Lydia.
“He’ll be here.”
“You’re not gonna just leave us, are you?”
“He’ll be here,” said Morgan. “And I got some business to take care of. I’ll swing back and pick you up in a couple of hours. Wait for me on that bench over there, by that bus stop.”
“But—”
“C’mon, move it. You asked for company and you got it. Now get her up off the seat and the two of you get out. Like I say, I got business.”
Lydia pulled Lola up by her arms. She got her out of the car and moved with her along the sidewalk as the Chrysler pulled away. They had a seat on a wooden bench beneath the sole streetlamp on the block. Lola had a sleepy look around: They were on a small commercial strip where a market, a lunch counter, a Dutch bakery, and a laundry sat in a neat row. An alley cut between the bakery and the laundry, where the light of the street-lamp spread and then faded. The windows of the businesses were dark; one pre-war car sat parked on the street.
Lydia hummed the same tune she had in the car, a quaver now in her voice.
“Where are we, Lydia?”
“Northeast somewhere, I guess. Morgan crossed North Capitol a few blocks back.”
“Northeast?”
“Don’t you worry about where we’re at. Hold my hand.”
Lola reached out, felt Lydia’s large soft hand envelop hers. It was as if Lola had sunk her hand into a bowl of warm dough.
“Mmmm,” said Lola.
“That’s right, honey. You go to sleep.”
Lola heard the screech of a cat. Like the sound a cat made when its tail got stepped on. Only more human. Sharp, rising in intensity, and then cut off. There and then gone. Lola opened her eyes.
She was lying on the bench. Her hand dangled off the bench, the cold air stinging her naked fingers. Her hand had felt so warm before, when Lydia had held it.
Lola sat up. She stared into her lap, brushed weakly at the dried circle of blood. She got off the bench, walked unsteadily across the street.
“Lydia?”
She tottered on one heel, watched her shadow do a liquid dance against the asphalt. She caught her balance, edged herself between the bumper of the old car and the grille of the newer model now parked behind it.
Lola heard a shoe scrape against stone from somewhere in the alley. That would be Lydia, having a pee. Big Lydia, she could squat anyplace when she had to. Lydia and Lola, in the few months that they had known each other, they had managed to have a few laughs over that.
“Lydia?”
Lola stood at the head of the alley. In the weak gray light of the street-lamp, she could see the outline of Lydia now, lying down on a bed of black. Lydia was holding her stomach as if she were sick. A small cloud of steam rose off her body.
“Lydia, you okay?”
Lola stepped into the alley.
She bent forward to shake Lydia. She slipped a little, looked down at her feet. She saw that Lydia’s bed of black was blood. A tangled length of slick intestine snaked through Lydia’s hands.
Lola felt her knees begin to shake. “Lydia?”
Lydia did not answer. Her eyes were open wide, filmed over. Lola could see between the tear of the crimson-splattered dress, where the heat of Lydia’s organs emitted steam into the cold air.
Lola stood straight, as if electrified. She tried to but could not scream. She put her hand against the brick wall. She vomited on the bricks.
Lola Florek felt a blunt shock to the back of her head. She felt nothing after that.
Lola opened her eyes.
“Don’t look up,” said the man who stood in front of her.
She stared at his shoes. They looked to her like golfing shoes. She had seen shoes like this in Lydia’s catalogues, back at the house. Shoes that were half one color and half another. Only, these shoes, their insteps were splashed with blood. Lola kept her gaze fixed straight ahead.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” said the man. His voice was desperate and soft.
“Please,” said Lola.
“I’m sorry, you know.”