Free The Transgressors by Jim Thompson Page A

cloudburst, and I have to jump again. An’ then there’s another one, an’—an’—” He scrubbed his face with one hand, slowly kneaded his forehead. “Used to tell us in school that where there was no ears to hear there was no sound. Same thing applies visually. Fact that folks can’t see somethin’ don’t mean it ain’t there, or if they don’t see it like it is that it ain’t. Fact that they don’t see a car bearin’ down on, don’t mean they ain’t gonna get hit. Just means they can’t see good. B-bad”—he belched—“very bad, Joyce. You can’t do that.”
    “Yes? Yes, honey?”
    “Yes, what?”
    “What is it that you can’t do?”
    “Pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time.”
    With that the stranger seemed to vanish completely, and he appeared to be himself again. Drunk, of course, but again her Tom.
    Half-kidding, apparently more amused than disturbed, he told her of his interview with Bradley and his resignation as the latter’s chief deputy.
    “The old fool!” Joyce was loyally indignant. “But don’t you feel bad about it, honey. You’re better off out of that rotten job.”
    “Out of there t’ where?” Lord asked, but Joyce didn’t seem to hear him.
    “We’ll just pull out of here, that’s what. Go to some real nice place like Florida or California.”
    “You mean I could pimp for you? Well, gee, lady, I ain’t had no experience, but I’m sure strong an’ willing to learn.”
    “Don’t, Tom. Please don’t talk like that…”
    “Or you could pimp for me,” Lord said. “I could be your he-whore.” He elaborated on this prospect, his voice rising above her pleadings and protests. “Yes, sir, that might be all right. I could get me one of them permanent waves and maybe some black silk underwear, and you could get out an’ hustle me. Hang around hotel lobbies durin’ conventions, or maybe at high-class bars. You see a likely lookin’ dame, an’ you give her the proposition.” He winked lewdly in demonstration, holding his hand to the side of his mouth. “ ‘How about a nice fella for the night, lady? I got a real hot brunette on the string that’s just itchin’ for action.’ ”
    Joyce made her face angry, her involuntarily quirking mouth severe. She said he wasn’t being a damned bit funny, and his drunkenness was no excuse for such talk. “I mean it, Tom. I’d do j-just about anything in the w-world for you. But—b-but—” She spluttered, gurgled, and, then, suddenly doubled with laughter. She rocked back and forth, still kneeling, weakly slapping the rug with her hands.
    “…so,” Lord drawled on, fiendishly, “you bring her up t’my room, and I prance around with my hand on one hip, kinda jouncin’ and flouncin’, y’ know, until her pants begin to smoke. An’ then—”
    “T-Tom, you— ha, ha, ha, ha —Tom, if y-you don’t stop, I-I’ll— aaah, ha, ha, ha, ha.… ”
    Lord grinned, mercifully subsided. He dropped down on the floor with her, and they clung together, laughing, kissing, and fondling each other. At last, they were very quiet, the only sound the beating of their own hearts and the rhythm of their own breathing and the distant drip-drip of the kitchen sink. Then, without taking her mouth from his, Joyce hooked the lamp cord with her foot, yanked, and unplugged it from the wall.
     
    Lord didn’t know how many drink-drugged days had passed when the squat, thick-set man with the cropped hair called on Joyce Lakewood. At the time, and even for some time afterward, he was not even sure that she had had such a visitor or any visitor. Everything was clear enough while it was taking place, but the clarity was dreamlike—a brilliant light flashed on in a dark room, then snapped off again, leaving a darkness that seemed never to have been penetrated.
    It was at night, he believed, when he floated up out of a black abyss and came slowly into consciousness. Still inert, sprawled on his back, he watched with slitted