Read Online The Beach Girls by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online
Authors: John D. MacDonald
Tags: Suspense
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had overlooked the first time.
I’d made it on my hands and knees to within ten feet of the office door when Gus loomed up in the moonlight, full of beer and curiosity, on his way back to his old scow, the
Queen Bee
.
“What the hell are you doing?” he rumbled at me.
I told him in several dozen well chosen words. In spite of my alarmed protests, he picked up the solid hundred and fifty pounds with impressive ease and carried me upstairs. I sustained further injuries in transit. He thumped my head on one door frame and my good ankle on another.
He plumped me down on the bed so hard I bounced. He knelt and fingered the puffed ankle with great gentleness and murmured sympathy. He made me work my foot until he was satisfied I hadn’t broken anything. I told him which cupboard to look in for sheeting. He tore some long strips and did a professional-looking job of binding it and tying the ends.
He knelt, admiring his handiwork, and then looked up at me. There was a sort of a click you could almost hear. And in the next second he sprang like a lion. I fought for maybe two whole seconds. Afterwards he wept, bashed his deep chest with his fist, demanding I call the police and have him locked up forever. He shouldn’t be free to assault innocent ladies. Finally I got it through his thick skull that the lady didn’t mind a bit. His whole craggy face turned into one vast mask of surprise.
“Yah?” he said.
“Yah.”
So he came back to bed. After a few months I learned not to ask him to make an honest woman of me. I meant it, too. But much as he loved the little dictator who kept him in line for so many years, marriage is not a good word to him. He was kept on short rations, I think. He is a big kid. This is like stealing apples. It gives him a delicious feeling of guilt. When he tiptoes, carrying his shoes, he lifts his knees so high he looks like a football player in slow motion. When he goes, Ssssh, half the night drivers on the Boulevard wonder if they’re getting a flat tire. He feels romantic and devilish.
I feel guilt too. And sometimes I feel ridiculous. Yet, again, we are two lonely people. Who are we hurting? But guilt is there.
I sat in the apartment by the window that looks out toward the basin. It was after ten. I saw Helen Hass walking out toward the
Shifless
. The little nightly beer picnic on D Dock had ended. Boat lights made tracks across black water.
It’s a good place. I’ll miss it.
The sound of the television in the little lounge just off the office came up through the floor. I knew who was down there. That damn Jannifer Jean, that swamp-pussy poor crickety old Jimmy Meirs brought back from Georgia three months ago. She’s maybe twenty to his fifty, but who am I to talk? Buys pretties for her. Cooks for her. Makes a damn fool of himself. If he’d ever married before, maybe he’d be smarter. He found himself a sweet chunk of trash for sure. Probably her last chance to get out of the swamps and she grabbed it. Just about smart enough to find her mouth with a fork. And from the look of her you can just tell that she got started off at twelve or thirteen and hasn’t stopped for breath since.
She hadn’t been here a week before that damn Dink Western got to her while Jimmy was off on charter. About the only streak of decency in her is not taking anybody into the trailer. Maybe she knows if I caught her at that I’d throw her off the place, Jimmy or no Captain Jimmy. She can move around from bunk to bunk.
Came near throwing her off the place that day last month when she went aboard that boat over at B Dock. Those three hotshots from Miami were aboard. Wentaboard in the afternoon and didn’t come off until nine, with Captain Jimmy, in off his charter, about to lose his mind about her. Came off half drunk and smeary-looking and told Jimmy a batch of lies he swallowed. Next morning the boat pulled out, and that afternoon Jannifer Jean went into town and came back with a whole new batch of
I’d made it on my hands and knees to within ten feet of the office door when Gus loomed up in the moonlight, full of beer and curiosity, on his way back to his old scow, the
Queen Bee
.
“What the hell are you doing?” he rumbled at me.
I told him in several dozen well chosen words. In spite of my alarmed protests, he picked up the solid hundred and fifty pounds with impressive ease and carried me upstairs. I sustained further injuries in transit. He thumped my head on one door frame and my good ankle on another.
He plumped me down on the bed so hard I bounced. He knelt and fingered the puffed ankle with great gentleness and murmured sympathy. He made me work my foot until he was satisfied I hadn’t broken anything. I told him which cupboard to look in for sheeting. He tore some long strips and did a professional-looking job of binding it and tying the ends.
He knelt, admiring his handiwork, and then looked up at me. There was a sort of a click you could almost hear. And in the next second he sprang like a lion. I fought for maybe two whole seconds. Afterwards he wept, bashed his deep chest with his fist, demanding I call the police and have him locked up forever. He shouldn’t be free to assault innocent ladies. Finally I got it through his thick skull that the lady didn’t mind a bit. His whole craggy face turned into one vast mask of surprise.
“Yah?” he said.
“Yah.”
So he came back to bed. After a few months I learned not to ask him to make an honest woman of me. I meant it, too. But much as he loved the little dictator who kept him in line for so many years, marriage is not a good word to him. He was kept on short rations, I think. He is a big kid. This is like stealing apples. It gives him a delicious feeling of guilt. When he tiptoes, carrying his shoes, he lifts his knees so high he looks like a football player in slow motion. When he goes, Ssssh, half the night drivers on the Boulevard wonder if they’re getting a flat tire. He feels romantic and devilish.
I feel guilt too. And sometimes I feel ridiculous. Yet, again, we are two lonely people. Who are we hurting? But guilt is there.
I sat in the apartment by the window that looks out toward the basin. It was after ten. I saw Helen Hass walking out toward the
Shifless
. The little nightly beer picnic on D Dock had ended. Boat lights made tracks across black water.
It’s a good place. I’ll miss it.
The sound of the television in the little lounge just off the office came up through the floor. I knew who was down there. That damn Jannifer Jean, that swamp-pussy poor crickety old Jimmy Meirs brought back from Georgia three months ago. She’s maybe twenty to his fifty, but who am I to talk? Buys pretties for her. Cooks for her. Makes a damn fool of himself. If he’d ever married before, maybe he’d be smarter. He found himself a sweet chunk of trash for sure. Probably her last chance to get out of the swamps and she grabbed it. Just about smart enough to find her mouth with a fork. And from the look of her you can just tell that she got started off at twelve or thirteen and hasn’t stopped for breath since.
She hadn’t been here a week before that damn Dink Western got to her while Jimmy was off on charter. About the only streak of decency in her is not taking anybody into the trailer. Maybe she knows if I caught her at that I’d throw her off the place, Jimmy or no Captain Jimmy. She can move around from bunk to bunk.
Came near throwing her off the place that day last month when she went aboard that boat over at B Dock. Those three hotshots from Miami were aboard. Wentaboard in the afternoon and didn’t come off until nine, with Captain Jimmy, in off his charter, about to lose his mind about her. Came off half drunk and smeary-looking and told Jimmy a batch of lies he swallowed. Next morning the boat pulled out, and that afternoon Jannifer Jean went into town and came back with a whole new batch of
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