Drowned Hopes Page 3

  Sam continued his search, moving to the two drawers in the vanity. Finally, he drew back, disappointed. "Ellen, Ellen," he said. "What do you do about birth control, woman?"

  He exited the bathroom and tried her bedroom next, switching on the light. Several of Ellen’s tropical paintings were hung on the walls and there was a colorful bolt of cloth thrown over the bed.

  Sam tried the bureau top, opening a small jewelry case and pawing through Ellen’s keepsakes – examining each item with an expert’s eye. He sighed. Nothing of value there. Then he started checking out each bureau drawer. He found where she kept her underwear and fingered the filmy material.

  "Better and better," he said.

  He dug under the underwear and came up with something. He held it to the light and saw that it was a diaphragm case.

  "That’s my girl," he said.

  He opened it, examined the contents, pulling out the diaphragm and snapping it like a rubber band. Sam giggled like a boy, then wet a finger and swept it around the inside of the diaphragm. Eyes closed he sucked on the finger.

  "Delicious," he murmured.

  Then he put everything back and returned the case to its place in the drawer. Sam perked up his ears. He heard the sound of a door opening and closing and someone coming into the apartment.

  Quickly, he cut the light and flipped a long knife out, the blade gleaming in the light streaming through the open bedroom door.

  Sam moved closer to the door. Through the crack, he could see Ellen moving around the room, a cellphone cradled against her ear.

  *****

  Ellen paced, puffing angrily on a cigarette while the phone rang on the other side. No one answered for a time, then a machine voice came on, declaring that nobody was home.

  "Pick up the damned phone, Harry," Ellen growled. "It’s your sister."

  She waited, but there was no response.

  "Damn you, Harry," she finally said. "Answer the stupid phone. You know why I’m calling. I need my money right now. No more excuses."

  She turned away from the bedroom door and Sam’s face appeared in the crack, eyes glittering with interest.

  Ellen stubbed out the cigarette, smashing it into an ashtray. "Jesus Christ, Harry," she said to the answering machine. "You’ve got me living in some dump with an ex-con and his god damned gun moll girlfriend."

  Still nothing, just the beep of the answering machine.

  "You hear me, Harry," Ellen demanded. "You’d better pick up the phone. I won’t stand for this one more minute-"

  Ellen ran out of steam in mid-sentence. She snapped the phone shut and dumped it on the couch. She lit another cigarette and started pacing again. Smoking and pacing. She stopped in front of the poster and frowned. Reached out to touch the surface as if the poster had been interfered with.

  Then she shook her head. "What in hell am I going to do?" she said.

  Ellen put out the cigarette, started to get another, but the pack was empty. She crumpled it and went to the bedroom. Pushed the half-closed door open and walked in. She snapped on the light, then crossed to the bureau and opened a drawer to get out another pack.

  Suddenly she stopped.

  Something about the jewelry box caught her attention. Frowning, she opened it and fingered the contents. Satisfied everything was there, she closed the box. Then her hand went to her underwear drawer. More frowns. As if she sensed something was amiss.

  She opened the drawer, moved things around. Then shook her head. Sighing, she slid the drawer shut.

  Ellen crossed to the closet, where the door was partway open. She reached out, as if to open it wider and get something from inside.

  Instead she gave the door a violent shove and it slammed shut. "Harry, you asshole," she said.

  Ellen hurried out of the room, snapping off the light as she exited. There were sounds of her storming across the living room, the front door opening, then slamming shut.

  A moment later the closet door slowly came open and Sam stepped out, the gleaming butterfly knife in his hand.

  He chuckled, flipped it shut with an expert snap of his wrist and exited the room.

  *****

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE BLOCK PARTY was going full blast when Ellen emerged from the building.

  She strolled through the crowd, trying to forget her troubles. Forcing smiles at the playing children, sniffing at the cooking food, trying to enjoy the companionship of all the happy people.

  Ellen paused at the bandstand and swayed to the hot Spanish rock rhythms of the local group, really making herself get into the mood. Around her, people were dancing and down the street kids were shooting off fireworks. Lovers were ducking into the shadows of the trees to embrace and soon Ellen felt herself relax and her lips parted into a smile.

  Over by the bandstand someone noticed her, and her smile, and stepped away from the crowd.

  This is my natural state, Ellen thought, spreading her arms like a bird.. I’m not an old gloomy Gus. I always try to look on the bright of things.

  An image from Monty Python’s "Life Of Bryan," leaped into her head. The men hanging from the cross, doing Busby Berkley kicks while they whistled and sang: "Always look on the bright side of life…"

  Ellen started laughing, but an old woman gave her a strange look and Ellen choked it off the best she could. You weren’t allowed to look too happy. Or laugh inappropriately. They put you away for such indiscretions.

  Even so, she was still grinning at her own private joke when she reached the barricade at the street’s entrance. She didn’t notice the shadowy figure that broke away from the crowd at the bandstand to follow her.

  Ellen passed several yard sales where people were gossiping about the neighbors and bargaining good-naturedly over prices.

  It was darker near the barricade and off in the distance she heard the music of an ice cream truck. Ellen stepped out of the way when two laughing kids burst from the darkness, dripping ice cream cones in their hands.

  "Yum, that looks good," she said.

  One of the kids – a little girl – pointed beyond the barricade. "He’s right down there," she said. "Better hurry if you want some."

  The children ran off.

  Ellen laughed, then stepped past the barricade, thinking she could use a little sweet stuff to maintain her cheery attitude. As she moved off in the darkness, the shadowy figure followed.

  She walked over the bridge - then down a long dark avenue that ran through thick tropical foliage - and just where another street intersected she found the ice cream truck. A young man dressed in the traditional white ice cream man uniform with a cap and a bill, was serving a few kids. The requests were mostly for tropical freezes that Ellen had never heard of.

  When it was her turn she gave him a little girl’s smile and asked, "Do you guys still make Eskimo Pies?"

  The ice cream man laughed. "Sure we do, lady," he said. "Here you go."

  He dug an Eskimo pie out of the freezer and handed it over. Ellen paid him. "Enjoy," he said.

  Then he hopped in the truck and drove off, music playing. Ellen watched him go. She unwrapped the ice cream and took a large bite.

  "Ambrosia, thy name is Eskimo Pie," she said.

  Then she started back toward the bridge and Spanish Oaks Drive.

  But as she passed a thick clump of bushes, someone leaped out and grabbed her from behind.

  Ellen struggled and tried to scream, but the attacker was too strong, muffling her cries with a dirty towel. He dragged her back into the bushes. Ellen kicked and thrashed, but it was no use.

  Deep in the underbrush, her attacker forced her to the ground. Finding her chance, she raked the son of a bitch’s face with her nails, drawing blood.

  Pissed, the guy reared back to punch her. He was gonna mash her face, knock out her teeth, bust her dirty bitch’s nose.

  But before he could strike, a muscular hand shot out of the darkness, grabbing the attacker by the offending arm and jerking him to his feet. Ellen heard
several loud thumps and then she saw the man hanging there, held up by the enormous fist of Sam Barr.

  *****

  Sam punched the would-be rapist with his other hand and blood spurted from the man’s mouth.

  "Goddamn freak," Sam said. He hit the guy again and it was so hard Ellen could hear the sound of bones breaking.

  Sam dropped the guy and gave him a kick. The man groaned. Sam kicked him again. Then his slender butterfly knife came out and he grabbed the man by the hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat.

  Ellen gasped, "Sam, don’t."

  Surprised, Sam let the rapist go.

  Immediately, the man scrambled to his feet and limped away as fast as he could.

  Sam stared after him, wanting to follow. "Nothing I hate more than a pervert," he said.

  Then he looked over at Ellen. She was trying to straighten her clothes, but to little avail. They were ripped and torn and looked – well, like somebody had just tried to rape her.

  Sam took pity on her. He was wearing an oversized Hawaiian shirt. He stripped it off and handed it Ellen. His big chest and arm muscles gleamed in the moonlight. Sam flexed just a little, showing them off.

  To his disappointment, Ellen took no notice of his physique. Gratefully, she pulled his shirt on over the tattered clothes. It was so big she could wear it as a very roomy dress.

  "I don’t know how I can…" she started to say, but then her voice broke and she wept. Sam knelt beside her. Ellen waved him away. Then got herself under control. "I’ll be okay," she said.

  "Sure you will," Sam agreed. Then he said, "Look, I’m sorry about this. It’s really not a bad neighborhood. Nice people. I guess the party drew that creep onto our turf." He grimaced. "Like mosquitoes hunt a crowd, but worse."

  Ellen climbed to her feet, determined to get her act together. She brushed the shirt down, straightening out the wrinkles she’d made. It fell well below her knees.

  She looked up at the big man. "I’m sure they are all absolutely wonderful people," she said firmly.

  Ellen took a deep, shuddering breath. "It’s a good thing you happened along," she said.

  Sam shrugged. "Spotted that creep spookin’ up the path," he said. "Figured he was up to something. Guess I figured right."

  He offered Ellen his arm. She took it and they started to walk back toward the block party. The music and crowd sounds grew louder and Ellen gave a shaky little laugh.

  "I really owe you an apology," she said.

  "For what?" Sam asked.

  "When we met I made a snap judgment," she said. "And I was wrong."

  Sam smiled. "Ruth probably helped you along with that snap judgment," he said. Told you about my ill-spent youth, right? And you were wondering what you’d gotten yourself into. Moving next door to an ex-con."

  Ellen grimaced. "Something like that," she said.

  "It’s not a bad way to think," he said. "Very few ex-cons remain ‘exes’ for long. I could tell you stories that would… Well, it’s no time to talk about Sam Barr’s theories on the criminal justice system."

  "For a minute there I thought you were going to kill that man," Ellen said.

  Sam shrugged. "For a minute there, so did I," he said.

  "I wanted you to, I’m ashamed to admit," Ellen said. She gave a nervous laugh. "But only for that theoretical minute."

  "Nothing to be ashamed of, theoretical or otherwise," Sam said.

  They reached the apartment house again and Ruth frowned when she saw that Sam was bare-chested and Ellen was wearing Sam’s shirt.

  She looked Ellen up and down, noting her tousled appearance. "What’s going on here?" she said suspiciously.

  "Ellen just met some asshole on the way to the ice cream truck," Sam said. "Nearly got herself raped, is what is going on." He snorted. "Jesus, Ruthie," he said. "You gotta lighten up."

  Ruth was embarrassed. She went to Ellen, concerned as hell and feeling like shit for behaving the way she had. "Are you okay, honey?" she asked in her most sisterly tones.

  Ellen nodded, but tears welled up. She was starting to feel sorry for herself.

  "Come on, honey," Ruth said, pulling Ellen toward the front door. "Let’s get rid of those things and put on something fresh. And then we’ll get you a nice, strong drink."

  Soothed by Ruth’s mothering, Ellen let her take command. "Thanks, Ruthie," she said.

  Then she stopped, remembering – "Did the money come?"

  "What money?" Ruth asked.

  "The money order," Ellen said. "For the rent."

  Ruth gave her a big smile. "Oh, sure it did," she said. "See. I told you. Nothing to worry about at all."

  Then she led Ellen through the front door, Sam staring thoughtfully after them.

  "You are one lucky son of a bitch, Sam Barr," he murmured.

  *****

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ELLEN SPENT THE remainder of the weekend restlessly pacing the apartment. She unpacked her paints, stretched and prepared a new canvas, which she set up on the easel. The she cleaned her brushes, wiped off her palette, rinsed out a spare water glass. When she was finished she did the whole thing over again.

  Anything to avoid actual work.

  She even considered reorganizing her paint boxes, then admonished herself for acting like an amateur - an artist wannabe with not an ounce of courage and certainly lacking focus.

  Monday morning she finally took the large step of loading one of her brushes with color, then standing before the picture window, to stare out at the large tree in the backyard. She didn’t know what kind it was – only that it appeared very old, with a thick trunk and heavy, twisted limbs.

  Despite its age, the tree’s canopy was healthy and bright tropical green. But more amazing still were the hundreds upon hundreds of bright red blossoms that stood out from all that green. It was almost like a kid’s painting of a fruit tree, with big daubs of red among the green.

  Ellen looked closer, noting that the blossoms had yellow centers.

  Then she pulled back, looking again at the basic structure of the tree. Undressing it, until it was only an old tree. She leaned forward and touched the paintbrush to the glass and sketched a faint outline of the tree on the window. Suddenly, she broke away and moved quickly to her easel, where the blank canvas sat, waiting… impatient for Ellen to take charge.

  Ellen hesitated, intimidated by that unblemished expanse. Then a determined look transformed her face and then her body language. And she sprang at that canvas – at first, as if it were an opponent. But then as a lover, stroking, smoothing, adding and subtracting… until after a long time it seemed nearly complete.

  She stepped back.

  A fabulous still of vibrant tropical life had emerged from the canvas after three long hours of labor.

  Ellen smiled at first, then frowned. Her brush hand kept going to back to the tree. Something was missing. Something was wrong.

  She felt terribly frustrated. "What damn, you?" she said to the painting. "What are you trying to tell me?"

  The cell phone rang, jarring her. She looked around the room, bewildered at first, then spotted her cell phone sitting on a nearby table. Mood broken and disgusted, she threw the brush down and strode over to the table.

  She picked up the phone and flipped it open. "Yes?" she said, very abrupt.

  Then her eyes widened in surprise as she heard the voice. "Oh, it’s you, Harry," she said.

  She listened some more, face full of suspicion. "I don’t need lunch at your club, Harry," she said. "What I need is my money. "

  More listening. Frown marks creasing her forehead. The anger building. Then –"Don’t start with me, Harry," she said. "Just do the right thing for a change."

  But Harry started to motormouth, cutting her off. Finally, she sighed. "Okay, Harry," she said, she said. "As always, you win. I’ll see you at one o’clock. And never mind the stupid limo. I’ll get myself there, if you don’t mind."

  She cut the connection.

  Then
she stood there – very still – emotions boiling.

  Ellen closed her eyes, holding the cell phone to her breast like a child. Breathing in and out, getting herself under control.

  Then she looked at the painting. Sudden hatred flared. "What shit," she said.

  And she grabbed a brush loaded with red pigment and slashed a large "X" across the painting.

  "Not," she shouted.

  "Not. Not. Not."

  *****

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SAM HAD A CLASSIC 1973 Mustang convertible pulled up in front of the building.

  He had the hood popped, his hands and arms deep in the engine, singing along to a Charlie Ryan rock-a-billy song on the stereo: "Well, I wound it up to 110; Twisted the speedometer cable right off the end…."

  Barr swiveled his hips like Elvis as he sang, getting in the groove for a day he was certain was filled with opportunity. "Had my foot glued right to the floor; I said, "That's all there is - there ain't no more…"

  The Mustang had been ripped off an antique dealer’s lot up in Alabama by a car thief Sam had met in the slammer. When the guy had come around to brag about his score, Sam had in turn ripped the car thief off, thumping him liberally about the head and shoulders until he made himself scarce. Remembering the look on the asshole’s bloody face, Sam choked with laughter. Then he stepped back and viewed his handiwork with more than a little pride.

  All he had to now do was monkey with the numbers, fix some stuff the asshole dealer in Alabama had tried to foist off on the unsuspecting public, and he’d clear a good ten grand, no questions asked, from a Broward County deputy he knew who had a hard-on for old Mustangs.

  He was about to let loose with another verse of "Hot Rod Lincoln," when he heard the front door of the apartment building bang open and looked up to see Ellen charge out, very pissed looking. Before the door closed, there was light streaming in from the hall behind her and with her thin summer dress Ellen was revealed as if she’d been stripped naked.

  What a sexy lady, Sam thought. He wouldn’t mind making time with her. Jesus but it’d be intriguing to get past that classy armor she wore. Dig down, see what kind of a woman she was beneath it all.