I need both hands in this traffic."
She heard a sound, something between a laugh and a snort, anger and admiration. Then, he lit the cigarette and placed it between her lips.
As they rode on, she could sense the looks he slanted at her, almost see the workings of his mind. She was a problem to him. A very special and valued employee, one whom he actually liked, had yet erred badly. It was unintentional, her one serious mistake in more than twenty years of faithful service. So there was strong argument for forgiveness. On the other hand, he was showing unusual forbearance in allowing her to live, and more hardly seemed to be indicated.
Obviously, there was much to be said for both sides of the debate. Having forgiven so much, he could forgive completely. Or having forgiven so much, he need forgive no more.
They were almost at the hotel before he reached his decision.
"I got a lot of people working for me, Lilly. I can't have things like this happening."
"It never happened before, Bo." She fought to keep her voice level, free of any hint of begging. "It won't happen again."
"It happened once," he said. "With me, that's practically making a habit of it."
"All right," she said. "You're calling the shots."
"You got any kind of long coat in the car? Anything you can wear home over your clothes?"
"No." A dull ache came into her stomach.
He hesitated, then said it didn't matter. He'd lend her his raincoat. "Ought to be right in style out here. Goddamnedest sloppiest- looking women I ever seen."
She stopped the car at the hotel entrance, and an attendant took charge of it. Bobo handed her out to the steps, then courteously gave her his arm as they entered the building. They crossed the lobby, Bobo holding himself very erect, and entered the elevator.
He had a suite on the fourth floor. Unlocking the door, he motioned for her to precede him. She did so, letting her body go limp, preparing herself for what she knew was coming. But you could never prepare for a thing like that-not fully. The sudden shoveblow sent her hurtling into the room, stumbling and tripping over her own feet. And finally landing in a skidding sprawl on the floor.
As she slowly picked herself up, he locked the door, drew the shades, and entered the bathroom, emerging immediately with a large towel. Crossing to the sideboard, he took a number of oranges from a bowl of fruit, dropped them in the towel and pulled up its ends to form a bag. He came toward her, swinging it loosely. Again, Lilly tried to brace herself with limpness.
She knew the oranges . She knew all such gimmicks, though never before had she been the victim of any. The oranges was an item from the dummy-chuckers' workbag, a frammis of the professional accident fakers.
Beaten with the fruit, a person sustained bruises far out of proportion to his actual injuries. He looked badly hurt when he was hardly hurt at all.
But he could be hurt. If he was hit hard enough and in certain areas of his body. Without feeling much pain at the time, he could have his internal organs smashed. Used in just the right way (or the wrong way), the oranges produced much the same effect as an enema or douche of plaster-of-paris.
Bobo drew closer. He stopped in front of her. He moved to one side and little behind her.
He gripped the towel with both hands. And swung.
And let the oranges spill harmlessly to the floor.
He gestured.
She bent to pick up the fruit. And then again she was sprawling. And his knees were in her back and his hand was against her head. And she was pinned, spreadeagled, against the carpet.
A couple passed in the hallway, laughing and talking. A couple from another planet. From the dining room-from another world- came the faint sound of music.
There was the click of a cigarette lighter, the smell of smoke. Then, the smell of burning flesh as he held the glowing coal against the back of her right hand. He held it with measured firmness,just enough to keep it burning without crushing it
She heard a sound, something between a laugh and a snort, anger and admiration. Then, he lit the cigarette and placed it between her lips.
As they rode on, she could sense the looks he slanted at her, almost see the workings of his mind. She was a problem to him. A very special and valued employee, one whom he actually liked, had yet erred badly. It was unintentional, her one serious mistake in more than twenty years of faithful service. So there was strong argument for forgiveness. On the other hand, he was showing unusual forbearance in allowing her to live, and more hardly seemed to be indicated.
Obviously, there was much to be said for both sides of the debate. Having forgiven so much, he could forgive completely. Or having forgiven so much, he need forgive no more.
They were almost at the hotel before he reached his decision.
"I got a lot of people working for me, Lilly. I can't have things like this happening."
"It never happened before, Bo." She fought to keep her voice level, free of any hint of begging. "It won't happen again."
"It happened once," he said. "With me, that's practically making a habit of it."
"All right," she said. "You're calling the shots."
"You got any kind of long coat in the car? Anything you can wear home over your clothes?"
"No." A dull ache came into her stomach.
He hesitated, then said it didn't matter. He'd lend her his raincoat. "Ought to be right in style out here. Goddamnedest sloppiest- looking women I ever seen."
She stopped the car at the hotel entrance, and an attendant took charge of it. Bobo handed her out to the steps, then courteously gave her his arm as they entered the building. They crossed the lobby, Bobo holding himself very erect, and entered the elevator.
He had a suite on the fourth floor. Unlocking the door, he motioned for her to precede him. She did so, letting her body go limp, preparing herself for what she knew was coming. But you could never prepare for a thing like that-not fully. The sudden shoveblow sent her hurtling into the room, stumbling and tripping over her own feet. And finally landing in a skidding sprawl on the floor.
As she slowly picked herself up, he locked the door, drew the shades, and entered the bathroom, emerging immediately with a large towel. Crossing to the sideboard, he took a number of oranges from a bowl of fruit, dropped them in the towel and pulled up its ends to form a bag. He came toward her, swinging it loosely. Again, Lilly tried to brace herself with limpness.
She knew the oranges . She knew all such gimmicks, though never before had she been the victim of any. The oranges was an item from the dummy-chuckers' workbag, a frammis of the professional accident fakers.
Beaten with the fruit, a person sustained bruises far out of proportion to his actual injuries. He looked badly hurt when he was hardly hurt at all.
But he could be hurt. If he was hit hard enough and in certain areas of his body. Without feeling much pain at the time, he could have his internal organs smashed. Used in just the right way (or the wrong way), the oranges produced much the same effect as an enema or douche of plaster-of-paris.
Bobo drew closer. He stopped in front of her. He moved to one side and little behind her.
He gripped the towel with both hands. And swung.
And let the oranges spill harmlessly to the floor.
He gestured.
She bent to pick up the fruit. And then again she was sprawling. And his knees were in her back and his hand was against her head. And she was pinned, spreadeagled, against the carpet.
A couple passed in the hallway, laughing and talking. A couple from another planet. From the dining room-from another world- came the faint sound of music.
There was the click of a cigarette lighter, the smell of smoke. Then, the smell of burning flesh as he held the glowing coal against the back of her right hand. He held it with measured firmness,just enough to keep it burning without crushing it
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