Judd’s climax came instantly. The girl emitted a low, surprised “Hey?” and then an odd little laugh. He didn’t want her to look at him. There was light enough so that he could see every particle of powder on her face; and her bangs had been brushed back, disclosing her low, sloping forehead—practically no forehead at all, apelike. He had read about the feeling of after-disgust. But he was sure that what he felt was more, much more. Utter nausea. He had done it quickly, to have the least possible contact with her, yet she was trying to hold him to her, to be playful. He couldn’t find a word to say to her. Instead, all the while, he was trying to hear, to see, Artie. Laughter and squealing came from the other side of the car, and then silence, and his own girl giggled at what must be going on there. And then they heard Artie’s partner. “You had too much gin, sonny.” And then that girl had jumped up, shaking straight her dress, and Judd’s girl stood up as at a signal.
Suddenly the girls began jabbering gaily again, and suggesting places to dine and dance, calling them “sports.” It was as if the intercourse itself had been some minor preliminary. But he didn’t want to go anywhere with them; he didn’t even want to be in the car with them driving them back to where they had been picked up. Judd managed to conceal his distaste while returning up 63rd Street. The girl sank back into her singing, but now, over and over again, it was “Constantinople.”
Judd finally remarked, “You think you can spell it now?” and she said, “Say!” Then her partner called from behind, “How about going to the show at the Tivoli? Pola Negri’s playing.” Artie quickly made up a big story in his bootlegger role about having to meet a certain connection in a certain spot in Little Italy. No dames.
Judd pulled up at the corner, and just as the girls were beginning to look angry, Artie slipped his a ten-spot, saying that would take them to the show and maybe the Stutz would be waiting when they came out, if he finished his deal.
Judd’s girl, smiling, offered her mouth, repeating, “I hope you won’t think we’re that kind.” He couldn’t stand to kiss her; he zoomed the car away before Artie was half settled beside him.
Artie shook his head, laughing. What a pair of bags. With a bag like that he never could get really excited.
Only then Judd understood that Artie hadn’t done it. And suddenly his own nausea was gone. Artie kept on talking. It was no kick with a cheap slut, a semipro. And Judd said females were disgusting anyway; all of them were disgusting. It was a foul trick of nature to make a man need to consort with the creatures. They took a swig to get the taste out, and then Artie had an idea for some fun. Back on 63rd were some sheds, and he had an idea.
They drove west again and Artie picked out a shed at the end of a vacant lot, just an old shed—couldn’t hurt anybody. He got out of the car and went to the back of the lot and found some old newspapers and cardboard. He lighted a little bonfire against the wall of the shack. They waited till it caught on, then circled the block, coming back to see the whole shed ablaze.
Artie put his arm on Judd’s shoulder, watching. Judd felt cleansed. He wished he had thought of this himself. How Artie’s eyes glittered! He felt the wine of full friendship in them at last.
Soon they heard the fire engines coming.
Lying on his bed, one ear cocked for footsteps, Judd restrained himself. He wouldn’t give himself to the final exciting imaginings, for at any moment Max or his father might come upstairs. If he locked the door they might suspect, and that would be worse. At last he heard them on the stairs, talking; Max was going to drive downtown to a show, and would leave the old man for a card game at the club, picking him up after the show.
Good! They wouldn’t be here when Artie came.
And the image was upon him, of the first time with Artie. On the train going up to Charlevoix to be Artie’s summer guest. It was an overnight ride, and Artie had taken a compartment, and once they were in it Artie had unloaded a bottle and a deck of cards—this would be one big night. They had scouted the train looking for a couple of bims, but all the time Judd had felt sure they wouldn’t really find any; it would be themselves, the two of them in the compartment.
Judd had taken along the Perfumed Garden in French, and he translated a few of the best parts to Artie while they played a couple of hands of casino, a nickel a point, Judd winning. And all the time they were drinking, and Artie was getting looser, the way he had of clowning so you couldn’t tell exactly whether he was tight or only pretending to be tight. Artie talked of all the girls they would have in Charlevoix—he had them lined up; he knew some terrific lays on the farms around there; it would be a great summer—and all the while Judd kept feeling freer and bolder, and the pounding was in him.
He hardly knew how—perhaps he was half drunk himself, maudlin—they were patting each other. “Old pal.” Maybe singing. Then they started to go to bed. Artie lost the toss for the lower, but refused to abide by the decision. He dove into Judd’s bunk, and Judd started to push Artie out; and then horsing around like that, wrestling, they lay extended together to catch their breath, and when it began Artie made no sign, pretending to be half-drunkenly half asleep. Then Artie laughingly muttered a few dirty names, and let it happen as if he were too drunk to know or care.
In the morning they said nothing about it, both pretending to have been drunk. The Straus car was at the station for them, and they drove up to the place, the terrific showplace the Strauses had on the bluff over the lake, a reproduction of a castle on the Rhine.
They had adjoining bedrooms.
“Junior,” Max called from the hallway, and Judd leaped up from the bed and went to the door, to be told about their going downtown. Then he forced himself to sit at his desk again and look at his law notes while waiting for Artie.
As he hung up the receiver after calling Judd, Artie experienced one of those dark surges of feeling, a wave of deathliness, as if he could have sent a wave of death through the telephone and seen Judd stricken by it, paralyzed, turned to stone. Electrocution by telephone. That would be a good mystery-story idea, and it might sometime even be possible. Himself, the master criminal. He’d call up his enemies, and then they would be found dead, telephone in hand.
He saw Judd, sitting like that. And picturing it, Artie felt a flash of comprehension: Judd wanted to be caught and executed. For if you left things around like that, the glasses, the typewriter, you wanted to get caught. Like the kind of girl that leaves hairpins all over the back seat. She wants it to be known.
So Judd was a terrible danger to him. Rage and grief shuddered through Artie. Spoiled, spoiled, why did that punk bastard have to go and spoil the whole thing! All the other things he had done, the things he had done by himself, were done without a trace. Artie himself could not prove that he had done them. The last one in winter, the ice-cold night, the upturned coat collar covering the face, the tape-wound chisel in his pocket, hard against his hand, then the body falling off the pier into the lake. Had he done it, or only pictured it to himself?
That was the sad part of doing things all by yourself, on your own. You lost them. You really needed someone else to be in a thing with you: so that the deed stayed alive between you.
Then all the little things he and Judd had done together, the fires and the thing at the frat house in Ann Arbor—all those things rose up in Artie and pleaded for Judd. Pleaded for dog-eyes Jocko. But Artie wasn’t sure. He would decide about Judd after they had got rid of the typewriter. Perhaps, if the feeling came over him . . . He put his automatic into his pocket.
Artie did not fail to call out good-bye to the family, flashing a