her dark eyes, had walked by his table. He’d said, more to himself than with an intention to stop her, “That is a beautiful behind—truly beautiful.”
He’d been surprised the words had come out so clearly, so loud. He’d known the beer, with the heat, had gotten to him, because he always spoke more carefully, more loudly, when he was getting drunk. Later his words would mush, like anyone else’s. But there was that high-glow stage when he spoke very distinctly, very loudly. And he knew he’d just done so.
She’d stopped, broad and full-breasted, the thin dress displaying her ripe body well. She’d be fat, really fat, in a few more years, he’d thought at that moment. But he’d felt a sudden jab of desire that surprised him. She had a broad, copper-tinted face and quick, appraising eyes that looked you over and took you apart and yet never lost their look of pleasant invitation. He’d thought she was going to spit at him. But instead she smiled, showing perfectly even, perfectly white teeth—a beautiful smile—and said, “You are a naughty little boy, do you know that?”
She’d accepted his offer of a drink. Three hours later he’d stumbled into the small, untidy house outside of the city where she’d driven him in a rattling 1949 Ford sedan. He was not sober for five days. In that time he was virtually consumed by Charissa’s heavy, vociferous, unholy physical appetite. He’d come back to reality the sixth day. She’d told him, “Now, little boy, you have been fed well, no?” Laughter, low and full, like the sound of a quick stream. “You are all, how you say, pushed out of shape. So?” She nodded. “All right. Now is the time for you to do something else.”
It had taken him a while to sober up completely. He remembered only vaguely what the two men who’d come to the shack looked like. But they had talked, and he remembered that talk very clearly. They were planning to run a cache of dope into the country. It had to be smuggled up from Mexico. It now waited for them in a small Gulf-Coast town down there. All they had to do was sail across the Gulf in a boat owned by one of the men and pick it up. He’d never been involved in anything criminal other than stealing junk from dime stores, hubcaps, nothing serious. But the plan had seemed so simple, and his cut would be eight thousand dollars. He’d agreed. They would go in two weeks.
When the men had gone he’d asked Charissa, “Why me? I don’t know a boat from a streetcar.”
She’d smiled and started his excitement all over again. She unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it from his shoulders, a soft, knowing smile on her lips. “You are young and strong. They know what is what, but you have the muscle, see?” Later she’d said, “But, little boy, we have nothing until you earn your eight thousand dollars. Nothing on the shelves. No food. No whisky. Not even beer. You must do something now, something—ah—little. You know?”
Something little turned out to be a little gas station on the edge of New Orleans. Charissa had had her eye on it for some time. Softly, carefully, she’d explained how simple it was, then brought out a pistol he’d had no idea she owned. It was clean, oiled and loaded.
That night, very late, he’d gotten out of the car Charissa parked beside the pumps of that station. He’d asked for a map of the city and followed the attendant inside. The attendant was a young man with a pimpled chin and hair the color of com husks. Inside, Allan Garwith had removed the gun from inside his jacket and pointed it at the youth, demanding all the money in the register.
He’d never forgotten how the youth had stared at him blankly, then shaken his head. He’d been amazed and yelled for the boy to give him the money. But the boy simply stood there with a stupid, stubborn look on his face, shaking his head.
“Shoot him then!” Charissa had called, a wild edge in her voice, “and take it!”
But he’d suddenly come
He’d been surprised the words had come out so clearly, so loud. He’d known the beer, with the heat, had gotten to him, because he always spoke more carefully, more loudly, when he was getting drunk. Later his words would mush, like anyone else’s. But there was that high-glow stage when he spoke very distinctly, very loudly. And he knew he’d just done so.
She’d stopped, broad and full-breasted, the thin dress displaying her ripe body well. She’d be fat, really fat, in a few more years, he’d thought at that moment. But he’d felt a sudden jab of desire that surprised him. She had a broad, copper-tinted face and quick, appraising eyes that looked you over and took you apart and yet never lost their look of pleasant invitation. He’d thought she was going to spit at him. But instead she smiled, showing perfectly even, perfectly white teeth—a beautiful smile—and said, “You are a naughty little boy, do you know that?”
She’d accepted his offer of a drink. Three hours later he’d stumbled into the small, untidy house outside of the city where she’d driven him in a rattling 1949 Ford sedan. He was not sober for five days. In that time he was virtually consumed by Charissa’s heavy, vociferous, unholy physical appetite. He’d come back to reality the sixth day. She’d told him, “Now, little boy, you have been fed well, no?” Laughter, low and full, like the sound of a quick stream. “You are all, how you say, pushed out of shape. So?” She nodded. “All right. Now is the time for you to do something else.”
It had taken him a while to sober up completely. He remembered only vaguely what the two men who’d come to the shack looked like. But they had talked, and he remembered that talk very clearly. They were planning to run a cache of dope into the country. It had to be smuggled up from Mexico. It now waited for them in a small Gulf-Coast town down there. All they had to do was sail across the Gulf in a boat owned by one of the men and pick it up. He’d never been involved in anything criminal other than stealing junk from dime stores, hubcaps, nothing serious. But the plan had seemed so simple, and his cut would be eight thousand dollars. He’d agreed. They would go in two weeks.
When the men had gone he’d asked Charissa, “Why me? I don’t know a boat from a streetcar.”
She’d smiled and started his excitement all over again. She unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it from his shoulders, a soft, knowing smile on her lips. “You are young and strong. They know what is what, but you have the muscle, see?” Later she’d said, “But, little boy, we have nothing until you earn your eight thousand dollars. Nothing on the shelves. No food. No whisky. Not even beer. You must do something now, something—ah—little. You know?”
Something little turned out to be a little gas station on the edge of New Orleans. Charissa had had her eye on it for some time. Softly, carefully, she’d explained how simple it was, then brought out a pistol he’d had no idea she owned. It was clean, oiled and loaded.
That night, very late, he’d gotten out of the car Charissa parked beside the pumps of that station. He’d asked for a map of the city and followed the attendant inside. The attendant was a young man with a pimpled chin and hair the color of com husks. Inside, Allan Garwith had removed the gun from inside his jacket and pointed it at the youth, demanding all the money in the register.
He’d never forgotten how the youth had stared at him blankly, then shaken his head. He’d been amazed and yelled for the boy to give him the money. But the boy simply stood there with a stupid, stubborn look on his face, shaking his head.
“Shoot him then!” Charissa had called, a wild edge in her voice, “and take it!”
But he’d suddenly come
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