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Authors: John D. MacDonald
Tags: Suspense
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those tight pants and tight shirts in bright colors. So I know she hustled those Miami boys, but I don’t know how she explained to Jimmy where the money came from.
Damn if I can understand men sometimes, how any one of them’d want to touch her. That long tangly black hair, and that long white face the sun won’t touch, and those big dull-looking black eyes, and that big bloody-looking mouth. Maybe it’s what’s under those tight shirts, great huge soft white things, so big there’s something disgusting about them, at least to me. She’s slim enough around the middle, and then comes those pulpy hips and those long lardy legs. Those thighs have a loose quiver when she walks. And it’s some walk. I won’t ever forget Christy Yale staring at her one day as she walked away from us and saying, in a sort of reverent voice, “Alice, when Moonbeam walks on the level, she looks like a sack of melons rolling downstairs.”
And she never looks clean. Her feet are grubby as a small boy’s hands. I keep wanting to get yellow soap and a stiff brush and scrub her neck for her.
Right in front of her, Captain Jimmy said proudly to me, “Alice, don’t she look exactly like Jane Russell?”
Jannifer Jean gave me a sappy smile. I swallowed hard and said, “Exactly, Jimmy.” God help me.
I’m pretty certain even Rex Rigsby put her through her paces one time. I can’t understand it. Rigsby certainly has no trouble finding better material. Poor Captain Jimmy. He must have heard the way Moonbeam screamed at Dink Western to get up.
So Jimmy is asleep in the trailer and she’s down there now. The bad thing is that Judy Engly may be with her. Jack ought to keep Judy away from her. They’ve been going over to the beach together. A bad thing. Jack can make her sound like a sack of cats, but still she’s acting restless. Meant to have kids.
So now I’ve talked myself into putting my shoes on and going down there and, if Judy is there, busting it up.
I went down the narrow stairs and into the dark office. I walked to the doorway to the little lounge and looked in. Jannifer Jean sat sloppy on the rattan couch, all alone, one white leg folded under her. She had a box of popcorn. She was chewing slowly, eyes on the screen. Every once in a while she would dip her hand in the box, shove more into her mouth, and then lick the tip of each finger.
I went in and turned the volume down to where it belonged. On the screen they were about to hang a cowboy.
“You deaf?” I asked her.
She looked at me with those dull eyes, chewing like a sleepy cow. “Lahk it loud,” she said.
“Keep it turned down, hear?”
“Show thing, Miz Stebbins.” She was watching the screen again.
“And lock the outside door when you leave. It was unlocked yesterday morning.”
“Show.”
I sighed. They hung the cowboy. I turned to go back upstairs. A voice in the dark on the other side of the screen door said, “Alice?”
“Who is it?”
“George Haley.” He opened the screen door and came in.
“George, you’re a damn pest.”
“Hell, I know that. But something new came up.”
“Come on up, then.”
He followed me up to the apartment, breathing hard on the stairs. He’s a big soft man with an oddly small head, a sun-red face, big black glasses and a gay wardrobe of pastel slacks and gaudy sports shirts which are always worn hanging outside the pants. His real-estate office is half a mile south on Broward, a little air-conditioned cinder block building not as big as the sign on the roof. D EAL D AILY WITH H ALEY .
I opened us a pair of beers. He sat in Jess’s big chair and I sat in the rocker.
“Late for a business call, George?”
“I saw the lights. Thought I’d take a chance.”
I decided to needle him some. “How you coming alongwith the most beautiful girl in Florida? Agnes thrown you out of the house yet?”
His face got redder. “Now I’m telling you, like I told Agnes and like to tell everybody that’s got the
Damn if I can understand men sometimes, how any one of them’d want to touch her. That long tangly black hair, and that long white face the sun won’t touch, and those big dull-looking black eyes, and that big bloody-looking mouth. Maybe it’s what’s under those tight shirts, great huge soft white things, so big there’s something disgusting about them, at least to me. She’s slim enough around the middle, and then comes those pulpy hips and those long lardy legs. Those thighs have a loose quiver when she walks. And it’s some walk. I won’t ever forget Christy Yale staring at her one day as she walked away from us and saying, in a sort of reverent voice, “Alice, when Moonbeam walks on the level, she looks like a sack of melons rolling downstairs.”
And she never looks clean. Her feet are grubby as a small boy’s hands. I keep wanting to get yellow soap and a stiff brush and scrub her neck for her.
Right in front of her, Captain Jimmy said proudly to me, “Alice, don’t she look exactly like Jane Russell?”
Jannifer Jean gave me a sappy smile. I swallowed hard and said, “Exactly, Jimmy.” God help me.
I’m pretty certain even Rex Rigsby put her through her paces one time. I can’t understand it. Rigsby certainly has no trouble finding better material. Poor Captain Jimmy. He must have heard the way Moonbeam screamed at Dink Western to get up.
So Jimmy is asleep in the trailer and she’s down there now. The bad thing is that Judy Engly may be with her. Jack ought to keep Judy away from her. They’ve been going over to the beach together. A bad thing. Jack can make her sound like a sack of cats, but still she’s acting restless. Meant to have kids.
So now I’ve talked myself into putting my shoes on and going down there and, if Judy is there, busting it up.
I went down the narrow stairs and into the dark office. I walked to the doorway to the little lounge and looked in. Jannifer Jean sat sloppy on the rattan couch, all alone, one white leg folded under her. She had a box of popcorn. She was chewing slowly, eyes on the screen. Every once in a while she would dip her hand in the box, shove more into her mouth, and then lick the tip of each finger.
I went in and turned the volume down to where it belonged. On the screen they were about to hang a cowboy.
“You deaf?” I asked her.
She looked at me with those dull eyes, chewing like a sleepy cow. “Lahk it loud,” she said.
“Keep it turned down, hear?”
“Show thing, Miz Stebbins.” She was watching the screen again.
“And lock the outside door when you leave. It was unlocked yesterday morning.”
“Show.”
I sighed. They hung the cowboy. I turned to go back upstairs. A voice in the dark on the other side of the screen door said, “Alice?”
“Who is it?”
“George Haley.” He opened the screen door and came in.
“George, you’re a damn pest.”
“Hell, I know that. But something new came up.”
“Come on up, then.”
He followed me up to the apartment, breathing hard on the stairs. He’s a big soft man with an oddly small head, a sun-red face, big black glasses and a gay wardrobe of pastel slacks and gaudy sports shirts which are always worn hanging outside the pants. His real-estate office is half a mile south on Broward, a little air-conditioned cinder block building not as big as the sign on the roof. D EAL D AILY WITH H ALEY .
I opened us a pair of beers. He sat in Jess’s big chair and I sat in the rocker.
“Late for a business call, George?”
“I saw the lights. Thought I’d take a chance.”
I decided to needle him some. “How you coming alongwith the most beautiful girl in Florida? Agnes thrown you out of the house yet?”
His face got redder. “Now I’m telling you, like I told Agnes and like to tell everybody that’s got the
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