15: The Trap

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=90 BGCOLOR="#CC9900" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="047005a0dwnjzk.gif"> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U><B>home</B></U></A><B>     | </B><B> </B><B> </B><B>  </B><FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FFCC66" FACE="Arial" ><B>Cassie's Writing</B></FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="id53.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="1: New Orleans"><U><B>1:  New Orleans</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id54.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="2: Mary Margaret"><U><B>2:  Mary Margaret</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id55.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="3: Rumrunners Row"><U><B>3:  Rumrunners' Row</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id56.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="4: Speakeasy"><U><B>4:  Speakeasy</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id57.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="5: Sys Deal"><U><B>5:  Sy's Deal</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id58.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="6: Reunion"><U><B>6:  Reunion</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id59.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="7: Disaster"><U><B>7:  Disaster</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id60.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="8: Petofi"><U><B>8:  Petofi</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id63.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="9: Cuddeback"><U><B>9:  Cuddeback</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id64.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="10: Angelique"><U><B>10:  Angelique</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id65.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="11: Making Plans"><U><B>11:  Making Plans</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id66.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="12: Chicago"><U><B>12:  Chicago</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id67.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="13: Nora"><U><B>13:  Nora</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id68.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="14: The Gypsy"><U><B>14:  The Gypsy</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><B>15:  The Trap</B><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id70.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="16: The Gift"><U><B>16:  The Gift</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id71.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="17: Beth"><U><B>17:  Beth</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id74.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="18: Together Again"><U><B>18:  Together Again</B></U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id75.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="19: Petofi Strikes"><U><B>19:  Petofi Strikes</B></U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U><B>Taking Wooden Nickels</B></U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=210 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>15:  The Trap</B></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" height=390 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000"> <div>      For his part, Quentin decided to approach Phil when he was in a good mood and in a vulnerable position.  Lou Ann seemed to be correct when she said Phil wouldn't remember what had happened; he didn't say a word about it to Quentin and continued to go on "walks" with him two or three times a week. Sometimes he would go along with Phil and whatever women came to their table; other times he stayed at the club to wait for Dave to finish playing. One night, he ran into Peggy and asked to talk to her.  He'd established an easy going rapport with her and figured he could trust her to do this favor for him--and the money he was paying her would make her more cooperative and discreet.  She was supposed to talk to Lee for him, and she even seemed to be looking forward to the whole thing.  As they drove to the club on a Friday night about a week later, Quentin cleared his throat and asked, "Do you think Lee might be around tonight?"</div> <div>      "I can ask for her.  Al usually will send me whoever I ask for.  You want her?"  Phil winked and leered.</div> <div>      "Well, it's just that she's really good at--" Instead of finishing the sentence, Quentin stuck his tongue in his cheek.</div> <div>      Phil laughed.  "Yeah?"</div> <div>      "Vacuum cleaner."  Quentin made a lewd sucking sound, as if he were imitating the machine.  Then he swallowed.</div> <div>      Phil licked his lips.  What a pig, Quentin thought.  "Lee, huh?"</div> <div>      "Actually, Phil, it doesn't really seem fair for me to have her again when you haven't," Quentin said, with wide-eyed innocence.  "I think you should try her.  See what you think."</div> <div>      "Yeah?"</div> <div>      "Yeah.  I sort of like Peggy, too."</div> <div>      "Yeah?  Hmmm."  Phil had become silent, but he was grinning lustfully.  Quentin looked out the passenger window so that Phil couldn't see him and rolled his eyes  Not just a pig, he thought contemptuously, but stupid too..  </div> <div>      Phil was impatient and restless during the evening, waiting for the whores to arrive.  They'd no sooner sat down than he was wanting to hustle everyone over to his office.  Lee smiled at him very seductively and purred, "Why don't you quench my thirst first, sug?  Then I'll quench yours."  Quentin almost laughed at the way Phil became so rattled his hands were shaking when he paid the waiter for the bottle of scotch.  He felt a hand slowly unzipping his pants and forgot Phil.  His eyes grew huge, and he turned his head to Peggy.  She was smiling at him.  Her hand slipped inside his fly.  "Ahh, Peggy--" he began.  He lowered his voice to a whisper.  "If you keep doing what you're doing, I won't be able to stand up when we leave."</div> <div>      "You're standing up just fine," she whispered back and then blew very softly into his ear.  "Thinking about all of this is making me very hot."</div> <div>      "No, no, you have to stop that," he whispered back reluctantly.  "Save it for the car, please."</div> <div>      She giggled.  The hand went away. Relieved, he pulled his zipper back up and tried to think of butchered animals--chickens with their heads cut off, gutted fish, pigs slit from throat to anus.  It worked, at least long enough to get him to the back seat of the car safely.  "Where is it?" he managed to whisper to Peggy before kissing her.</div> <div>      "See my bag?"  Peggy whispered back, putting her tongue into Quentin's mouth.  She had a large bag with her, almost as big as an overnight case.  Normally, both men would've noticed it and wondered why a whore would be carrying such a large bag around, but this was not a normal evening.  </div> <div>      Phil was in a big hurry to get into the back room. As he pulled the door shut behind him, Quentin turned to Peggy.  He was planning on necking with her a little and waiting for the right moment, but she apparently had something else in mind.  She pulled her dress up over her hips. "We have time for a quick one, Frank.  Come on."  His eyes popped open again--she didn't have anything on underneath, and he was sorely tempted.  He was up and ready, but this time reason won over impulse.  He thought Dave would be surprised when he heard about this one.  "Peggy, come on, don't do this to me," he said pleadingly.  "I don't want to screw this up."  </div> <div>      Peggy grinned lewdly at him and pulled her skirt back down. He knew he'd made the right decision because within a few minutes,  Phil began moaning audibly.  They looked at each other and laughed.  "You ready?"  Peggy asked.  She went into the bag and pulled out the bulky camera and flash.  "You know where to find me later, Frank.  I'll be waiting for you.  We'll have a nice, slow fuck then.  You can tell me all about it."</div> <div>      "You bet your life," Quentin said, kissing her.  She took up her position by the office door.  Quentin took the camera to the door of the other room, fiddling with it to get the flash ready.  He opened the door without warning and brought the camera up.  He took only a few seconds to focus on what he wanted:  a full view of Phil lying on the bed, fully erect and lustily being fellated by the human vacuum cleaner, Lee.  He took the picture; the flash went off as expected, and Quentin turned and tossed the camera gently to Peggy.  She was out the door and running.</div> <div>      "What the hell?"  Phil was screaming.  "Oh, shit!  I'm coming! Don't stop now, damn you!"  Lee sat up after the flash went off and began laughing hysterically.  Quentin shut the door and doubled over, laughing himself.  He thought he'd better get ahold of himself and fast.  He heard the a sharp crack--the ugly sound of a hand on flesh and that sobered him up very quickly.</div> <div>      The door was pulled open suddenly, and he moved to one side.  Lee was running out, clutching her clothes.  "You'll be sorry you touched me, you bastard!" she was screaming as she went out the other door as well--still clutching her clothes.  The big man was in the doorway, naked, bellowing like an enraged bull.  He grabbed Quentin by the lapels and shook him furiously.</div> <div>      "What the fuck do you think you're up to?" he yelled into Quentin's face.  Not surprisingly, he punched Quentin hard and knocked him down.  Hits like a bouncer too, Quentin thought, scrambling backwards to get away from Phil's hands.  Phil was reaching for him, to pull him to his feet again.</div> <div>      "Now, now, now, Phil!" Quentin warned, yelling to get the angry man's attention.  "You don't want to hit me again--I'm warning you!  I don't have the camera, Phil." He rolled to one side as Phil charged him, putting his leg out and tripping the large man.  Phil crashed to the floor.  Quentin jumped onto his back, kneeling on his lower back and pulling one of Phil's arms behind his back.</div> <div>      "Off, off, you son of a bitch!" Phil howled in rage and pain.</div> <div>      "I will--when you listen."  Quentin pulled harder on Phil's arm, and Phil roared again.  "Listen--SON--you aren't going to hit me again.  That's the first thing, got it?"</div> <div>      "Yeah, right, all right!" Phil gasped.</div> <div>      "All right, Phil.  I'll let you go, but you're going to listen to me.  I need your help, and you're gonna help me whether you like it or not."</div> <div>      "You fucking son of a bitch!  If you wanted my help, why didn't you just ask me?"</div> <div>      "Phil, you're not listening to me.  I said you are going to help me--whether you want to or not.  You won't want to.  But you have no choice, you understand?  I don't have the camera."</div> <div>      Phil roared again in rage and struggled.  Quentin pulled up on his arm again.  "Fuck you!  You're breakin my arm!"</div> <div>      "Quit fighting me then, and I'll stop!"  Quentin was beginning to enjoy himself immensely.  Phil became totally motionless except for the heaving of his chest as he gasped deeply.  "Take it easy, SON, or you'll pass out."  Quentin felt the rumble of a growl beginning beneath him.  He wanted to laugh but didn't.  "Listen, you might as well calm down.  We need to talk.  I'll get up but you don't make a move toward me, you hear?"</div> <div>      "Yeah," Phil grunted. "Get off already."</div> <div>      Quentin let go of Phil's arm and slowly got up, backing away until he was safely out of Phil's reach.  Phil got up slowly.  His face was a sight to behold.  It reminded Quentin of Edward's face when he'd gotten so angry--purple, pulsing veins standing out on his forehead.  Quentin wasn't frightened this time. Phil even looked a little ludicrous, stark naked as he was; he was still dangerous, though, and if Quentin didn't have something to hold over his head, he was sure Phil would be mopping up the floor with him.  "Maybe you should go put your pants on, Phil," Quentin said and laughed contemptuously.</div> <div>      Snarling, Phil went and got his pants.  As he stepped into them, he glared at Quentin and said, "You're gonna be sorry you did this, Frank.  I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but you're gonna pay for this."</div> <div>      "Not as long as I've got the picture," Quentin said.  "Let's talk, shall we?  About that picture--I'm going to have it developed.  I'll have more than one copy.  One for Nora and one for the police and one for your boss--the City of Chicago, is it?  Not only were you committing adultery, cousin Phillip, you were also breaking the law.  I believe that particular act is illegal in Illinois?"</div> <div>      "Oh, you mother fucker," Phil growled, furious and frustrated.</div> <div>      "No, Phil.  I never did.  I wouldn't.  But you?  I think you would fuck your own mother," Quentin spat contemptuously.</div> <div>      "All right, you prick, what do you want anyway?"</div> <div>      "I need you to do something for me."</div> <div>      "You said that, you piece of shit!  What is it?"</div> <div>      "Look, Phil, don't call me names, either, got it?  I want you to help me bring a man to Chicago by the name of Geraldo Bartelli."</div> <div>      Phil's jaw dropped.  "Christ!  What do you want with him?"</div> <div>      "Never mind.  You know him?"</div> <div>      "Hell, yes, I know him."  Phil looked so shocked, he no longer seemed angry.  "Well, I don't KNOW him.  I know OF him.  Do you have any idea who you're trying to mess with, you damn fool?"</div> <div>      "Oh, I know," Quentin said, very softly.  "How do you know him, Phil?"</div> <div>      "He's been here before.  He has some....peculiar tastes.  He's not someone you'd forget so easy--if you don't know that then you don't know what you're getting mixed up in."</div> <div>      Quentin grunted.  Peculiar tastes--that was putting it mildly.  "Listen, you're going to help me get him here, peculiar tastes and all."</div> <div>      "How?"</div> <div>      "I want you to pass some information to your friend, Al.  He likes to play the ponies, doesn't he?  Well, he knows you do too, and he knows you know people all over.  I want you to tell him that someone is fixing the races so that he's losing his money."</div> <div>      "What, are you nuts?"</div> <div>      "I assure you I'm not nuts."</div> <div>      "And who is it you're having me set up to get killed?"</div> <div>      "I don't intend for anybody to get killed.  There's a boss in New York--his name is Joe Masseria.  He's very much involved in the ponies, gambling, slots, and numbers.  Tell Al it's him."</div> <div>      "Jesus God, Frank, do you have any idea what you're asking me to do?  You know what kind of trouble this could cause?"</div> <div>      "I hope it causes enough to bring Bartelli here to 'fix' it. In fact, once the trouble starts, I want you to suggest it--if Al doesn't think of it first."</div> <div>      "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!  What in the hell do you want that guy here for?"</div> <div>      "Justice, Phil."</div> <div>      "What the fuck are you talking about?"</div> <div>      "Never mind--you may be a lawyer but I don't think you know what justice is.  Just do what I ask.  That's all.  I don't want him to know I'm involved at all, you understand?  And Bartelli doesn't have to know about you, either, Phil.  You can fix it with Al to keep it quiet.  Al is loyal to his friends, isn't he?"</div> <div>      "More than my family," Phil said bitterly.</div> <div>      "Well, the thing is, you can choose your friends.  You can't choose your family--although in your case, you did.  You chose to marry Nora."</div> <div>      "She wasn't a cold blooded bitch locking her legs together then."</div> <div>      "Look, you jerk, she's still my family.  I'd really hate to destroy her high opinion of you by showing her that picture, but I'll do it.  And I'll show it to the police and the commissioner and the newspaper, too."</div> <div>      "And I trusted you," Phil whined, filled with self-pity.  He looked at Quentin with burning hatred.</div> <div>      "Your mistake, SON," Quentin said.  "Listen, I want you to talk to Al tomorrow, understand?  And just to keep things on the level so no one's suspicious, I suggest you treat me like you've always done and I'll do the same--when we're around the family.  Otherwise, I don't give a flying fuck about you, and I know you'd kill me if you could. But don't do it, Phil.  Remember, I don't have the picture.  And soon, Peggy won't have it, either.  You won't know where it is.  You understand?"</div> <div>      "Yes, I do," Phil snarled.  "Okay, I'll talk to Al."</div> <div>      "Tomorrow?"</div> <div>      "Yeah, yeah, yeah."</div> <div>      "All right, Phil.  I have some business to attend to now.  I'll see you at your house sometime tomorrow."  Quentin backed up to the door.  He still didn't quite trust the big man.  He opened the door and shut it again.  Behind the door, he heard Phil scream "SHIT!" in a fit of rage.  It was followed by the sound of shattering glass.  Quentin left quickly--he had business to finish with Peggy.  He grinned in satisfaction and anticipation.</div> <bR> <div>      The next day, Quentin thought it would be prudent to make himself scarce.  He went into the kitchen and asked if Mrs. Cleary would mind making a picnic lunch for him and the two younger children.  Mrs. Cleary was, as ever, accommodating, and Quentin was soon on his way with Eddie and Mary Jane to Lincoln Park.  Mary Jane settled on the beach with the picnic basket, promising to wait for Quentin and Eddie.  They went to the bath house to put on their suits.  It was much too hot for baseball; August was just a few days away but the "dog days" had set in already.  The heat was as oppressive here as it had been in Dayton.</div> <div>      Quentin came out of the bathhouse and felt a hand grab him by the elbow, pulling him around the corner to the side.  He was out of Mary Jane's view and looking into the large, beautiful eyes of Angelique.  He caught his breath, surprised.  She smiled at him; her face took on a beautiful glow.  "Well done, Quentin," she said, her eyes seeming to glow and twinkle.  She put her arms around his neck and pulled him toward her.  She began to kiss him very passionately.  He felt himself responding, his face becoming even hotter than it had been.  She slid a hand inside his bathing suit.  "Angelique," he objected, trying to pull away.  Anyone coming around the corner would see them.</div> <div>      She laughed her lilting laugh.  "All right, then, darling. Come to me later.  Here.  At this park.  Come when it's dark.  I'll wait right here for you."</div> <div>      He started to answer but heard a noise behind him.  Whirling around, he saw Eddie standing there, staring at him curiously.  He looked back at Eddie, wondering how much the boy had seen.  The boy was studying him as if he was an odd specimen.  Then he said, "Uncle Frank, what are you doing there?"</div> <div>      "Well--" Quentin began.  He looked back at Angelique, wondering how he would explain her.  She was gone; he was stunned.  He looked back at Eddie.</div> <div>      "Why are you just standing there?"  Eddie asked.</div> <div>      Quentin shook himself and swallowed.  "Well, I uh, just had to--"</div> <div>      Eddie laughed and interrupted.  "Why didn't you just use the john?"  He turned to go join Mary Jane on the beach.  Quentin shook his head, wonderingly, and then started to laugh.  He joined the two children on the beach.</div> <bR> <div>      He took the children back to the house at five and explained to Mrs. Cleary that he was going out for the evening.  He wandered around restlessly for an hour before going to Dave's place.  "What you doing here in the light?" Dave demanded, pulling him in and shutting the door.</div> <div>      "I just needed to tell you that I won't be at the club tonight.  Phil's agreed to talk to Al but I need you to keep an eye on him and let me know what happens."</div> <div>      "Mmm.  And where you going to be?"</div> <div>      "I saw Angelique.  She wants me to meet her."</div> <div>      Dave laughed.  "I'm really beginning to envy you, Franky. I don't know why it ain't fell off yet.  You go have a good time with that witch lady.  I'll be thinkin about you."  He jabbed Quentin in the ribs playfully.</div> <div>      Quentin laughed, too.  "I won't see her until it's dark.  You eat yet?  Want to go get some supper?"</div> <div>      "Yeah, let's go, kid.  You better have something in you, give you energy for all the action you gonna be involved in later."  After eating, Quentin wanted to hang around with Dave at the club.  There were many hours to wait until ten, and he was feeling particularly lonely.  He hadn't felt so alone at Cuddeback in spite of the isolation; he had Dave and then Angelique as well to keep him company.  In Harlem and in New Orleans, he'd always managed to be around his friends.  Here, in Chicago, though, he felt isolated from everyone.  Even when he came to the club, Dave was busy most of the time and could only give him a few minutes here and there. </div> <div>      Because he had more time today, Dave took Quentin down the hall near the dressing rooms.  Dave brouht out two guitars and taught Quentin a few more chords and strumming techniques.  Quentin was able to play the chords the way Dave had originally shown him in Cuddeback, holding all the strings down with his foreginer.  "Now when you slide up and down from fret to fre, you movin up and down an octave-same as a piano, Frank," Dave explain.  "Now, `stead of strummin all the strings at one time with yur right hand, you can pluck `em like this and play notes."  He showed Quentin different ways to pluck at the strings.  When CaraLinda came out to join them, Quentin stopped, flushing.</div> <div>      "Keep playing," she encouraged.  "I like to listen to you two play, you know that?  Maybe I sing with you.  Play, play, pretty one."</div> <div>      "Lemme show you how to put this here all together," Dave suggested, realizing that Quentin was too uncomfortable to fumble with the guitar in front of CaraLinda.  He looked at her.  "Sing with me baby," he said, and began playing.  CaraLinda listened at first, then she began humming for a few minutes, and then began to sing.  Quentin realized they were both making up the song as they went.  "It's easy," Dave assured him.  "There's just a certain pattern you follow," he explained as he played and CaraLinda hummed.  "As long as you followin this pattern, you can pretty much do what you want with the chords, mix em around and stuff.  Make up you own words."</div> <div>      Tom approached them.  "Ready to go?  C'mon, you two, quit playin around.  It's time for us to get started."</div> <div>      At ten, Quentin was back at the bath house at Lincoln Park.  It was fully dark now.  He didn't wait long--she seemed to materialize out of the darkness.  She put her arms around his neck again, and pulled his face down for another long, passionate kiss.  "I've missed you, darling," she whispered.  </div> <div>      "I missed you, too, Angelique."  He realized just how much he'd missed having someone to talk to--someone who would really listen to him.  The whores at the club weren't interested in listening to him. Phillip was a jerk; Nora said she hated him; Dave was unwillingly to leave the colored neighborhood.  "Where do you want to go?"  he asked huskily.</div> <div>      "There's no one at the beach now.  It's dark."</div> <div>      He took her by the hand and they walked to the beach.  He pulled his shirt off so she could sit on it and settled himself on the sand next to her.  He looked up and noticed that the moon was  almost full--and he didn't have to dread it.  "Look, isn't the water pretty with the light shining on it--?" he began.  Angelique's mouth was on his, her tongue probing him. He tried to pull back.  She always seemed to move so fast.  He started to speak, but Angelique's mouth was on his again.  She was leaning against him, pressing against him so that he would fall back on the sand.  "Angelique--" he protested.</div> <div>      "Darling, I've missed you so!  I just want to feel you inside me," Angelique said insistently.  Her mouth was on his again, her hands moving all over his body. He felt rushed and didn't like it.  He remembered times he'd been urgent with desire and had moved on Beth and other women like this. Had they felt as uncomfortable and irritable as he did now? Angelique was usually the aggressor with him, and most of the time he didn't mind following her lead and doing what she wanted.  This time, though, he didn't want it this way.  He started to pull away.   </div> <div>      She moved with him, trying to get at his zipper. He grabbed her hands to stop her.  "Can't we talk first?"  This reunion wasn't going as he'd hoped.  He'd wanted to sit and just hold her for awhile and tell her about what had been happening.  He was confused about so many things--like Jamison, and Nora and her children--and just hadn't been able to confide in anyone.  </div> <div>      She missed the longing tone in his voice.  "Of course, I have much to tell you, Quentin.  Later.  First, I want you to make love to me."</div> <div>      "This isn't making love, Angelique," he protested again as she nuzzled and nipped at his neck.</div> <div>      "Then it's good sex," she answered, moving to his ear.</div> <div>      "Everything isn't sex," he complained.  He remembered telling her that once before, and she hadn't listened to him then, either.  She was at his pants again, unzipping them, opening them.  "Don't!" he snapped, suddenly angry.  When she didn't respond, he pushed her  and rolled away from her.  That finally got her attention.  "You're like him," Quentin complained. He got up onto his knees, facing her, zipping his pants back up. "You don't care what I want.  Don't you have any feelings at all?"</div> <div>      She'd moved closer to him. It was too dark to see her clearly, but he could hear her breathing heavily.  "What on earth are you talking about, Quentin?  What is the matter with you?"</div> <div>      "You're treating me like he did--that's what it feels like, like you're just going to take what you want from me.  I just wanted to talk--" Quentin began.  She hit him so hard, his head rocked back and he was thrown off balance.</div> <div>      "You're comparing me to Count Petofi, Quentin?  How dare you!"  she hissed.</div> <div>      Quentin sat up, bringing his knees up to this chest.  He crossed his arms on his knees and hid his burning face in them.  He didn't dare say it at this point, but he remembered Bartelli had slapped him, too, when he wouldn't do what the count wanted. He couldn't help himself.  Tears began flowing silently. "You said you wouldn't make me do anything I didn't want to do.  Don't you have any feelings, Angelique?  I just wanted to talk for awhile.  I missed you."</div> <div>      "I don't want you to miss me," she said coldly.  He was hoping she would come and comfort him as she had once before, but she didn't move.  He could feel her eyes boring into him.  When he realized she wasn't going to put her arms around him, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve, trying to control himself.  "What is the matter with you, Quentin?  You were the one who said we happened to be here together and that we should just enjoy each other.  Why are you trying to change that?"</div> <div>      "Because I'm lonely," He answered miserably, feeling like he would weep again.  "I just wanted someone to talk to.  I missed you a lot."</div> <div>      "You didn't miss me, Quentin.  You missed something else, something you thought you could get from me.  Well, you can't--do you hear me?"</div> <div>      "Yes, I hear you," he answered dully.  He felt very depressed, looking up at the moon again.  Beth had waited through the nights with him, listening to his fears, comforting him, putting up with his drunkenness as he waited for the night to come when he'd change again.  She was so loyal then.  Even before--before that horrible curse, she'd always loved him.  She'd always listened to him as no one else had--except for poor mad Jenny.  Now both of them were dead.  He cried silently, grieving.  "What about what you said before?  That we would meet again, after Amanda Harris was gone.  You wanted me then.  You wanted me to love you."</div> <div>      "Quentin, why are you doing this?  Why do you always have to cause these complications?"  Angelique sounded angry.  He didn't answer, so she moved close to him again and reached out to touch his face.  He felt her fingers on his cheek, finding the tears.  "Oh," she said, sounding surprised.  She sighed, partly with exasperation.  "You are still so much like a little child, Quentin, needing love and attention."</div> <div>      "Well, excuse me for needing someone like you," he said sarcastically, feeling bitter.  "I have a lot of nerve expecting a witch to have any human feelings."</div> <div>      She drew her breath in sharply.  "I'll let that pass because you're so upset," she said as if she was trying to control her anger.  He felt a little pleased that he'd hurt her.  Now she did put her arm around him, but he no longer wanted her to comfort him so he tried to shake her off.  She sat next to him, quietly for a minute, and then said, "You know, Quentin, I know many more things than you do.  While it's true I did say we'd meet again and that maybe we could find each other then, I also knew it wouldn't be now.  I came to you because--well, because of what Petofi had done.  I thought I could help you get over that and get rid of him once and for all at the same time.  But we have no future together right now."</div> <div>      "Well, thanks," he said, still bitter and hurt.  "You've been a real help, Angelique."</div> <div>      "I'm almost tempted to tell you now--" she said very softly.  He heard her, but refused to ask her what she was talking about.  "Don't despair, Quentin.  I know you are lonely, but that will end soon."</div> <div>      "When?  You don't know how it feels.   I don't have anyone.  My closest friend is afraid to be seen in public with me.  Everyone I ever loved is dead or getting old or they hate me or something else is wrong and I can't help. It won't be long before they're all dead, but I won't be.  And I'll have to start all over again, trying to make friends with people who are strangers to me.  I have nobody to talk to, Angelique! God, I hate Chicago!"</div> <div>      Angelique took his hand.  This time he allowed it.  "It will all be over soon, and I do have good news for you, Quentin.  I would tell you about it now, but I'm afraid it would distract you from what we need to do."</div> <div>      This time he asked.  "What is it?"</div> <div>      "I'll tell you when the time is right.  You'll have to trust me a little longer.  I came to you because I wanted to be with you before I go to New York.  Mr. Capone is having a full-blown fit of temper.  I think the expression is 'all hell is breaking loose'."  Angelique laughed, trying to distract Quentin.  "Whoever though of that expression just has no idea how organized hell really is."  Quentin didn't laugh but indicated that he was listening, so she went on.  "I am sure that Bartelli--Petofi--will be here within a few days.  I will go to New York and you, Quentin, must get out of town."</div> <div>      "Where would I go?  With you?"</div> <div>      "No, darling, I'm afraid you'd just get in my way.  New York isn't safe for you, and neither is Collinwood."  She stroked his arm.  "Did you find your talks with Dr. Buston and Dr. Blake useful?  And the other doctors you've talked to--are you getting a better understanding of those two young men?"</div> <div>      "I guess so," he replied sulkily.  He still didn't want to talk to her and didn't want to let her cheer him up, either.</div> <div>      "I have my own theory about those two, but I don't suppose you'd be interested?" She paused, as if waiting for him to answer but he'd already resolved not to talk to her if he didn't have to.  "Well, I have a suggestion for you, then.  Why don't you visit Washington, D.C.?"</div> <div>      In spite of himself, Quentin snorted.  "That swamp!  In August?  What do I want to do that for?"</div> <div>      "There is a mental hospital there called Saint Elizabeth's.  Before you go scoffing at me, let me tell you that it's much better than any sanitorium in Maine.  They have the finest doctors there--and they practice different methods of mind witchcraft, Quentin--what they like to call psychoanalysis.  You could learn a lot there.  Go and look up Dr. Harry Stack Sullivan.  He teaches at one or two of the universities there.  Georgetown University.  Or perhaps at the University of Maryland.  I think he would be especially enlightening in terms of why he thinks those young men killed a little boy."</div> <div>      "Harry Stack Sullivan," Quentin repeated.  "You continue to amaze me, Angelique.  All right--I'll go there.  It'll give me something interesting to do."</div> <div>      "Are you feeling less angry with me, now?"  she asked.  She'd gone from stroking his arm to the back of his neck.  He shifted on the sand and moved closer to her.  It was a warm evening, but she seemed to be radiating an even more intense heat from within--almost like Laura did.  "Quentin, we really do have wonderful sex together, don't you agree?  And I will concede that it's not making love, but as you pointed out--we are good together, are we not?"</div> <div>      "Yes," he agreed.  "But you need to understand, Angelique, that I don't always want just sex.  I'm getting plenty of that from the whores in Capone's stable."  He felt her stiffen beside him and drew back.  "Don't hit me again!"</div> <div>      "You certainly didn't mean to compare me to a whore did you?"  Angelique demanded, outraged.  She wasn't caressing him anymore.</div> <div>      "No, of course not.  I just meant--"  He stopped, trying to think.  "It's just that something is missing from it. I don't know how to explain it another way, Angelique."</div> <div>      "I think I understand," Angelique replied, a little mollified.  "It is what I want from Barnabas."</div> <div>      "I guess so."  Her hand stole back, caressing his cheek.  She drew an outline of his ear with her finger. He sighed and asked, "Do you think you could let me do it my way this time?"  The hand went away again.</div> <div>      He heard her light laughter in the darkness beside him.  "But, of course, my darling.  You do it any way you like, as long as you do it.  I want you, Quentin."  He turned and reached for her.  Now that he'd gotten a chance to talk, he found that he really did want her, after all.</div> <bR> <div>      There was a flurry of activity at the house and at the club.  Al was agitated; he visited every single day.  Quentin could hear raised voices from the library before he stealthily made his way out of the house.  Sometimes he took refuge with the children on some excursion to the park or the zoo.  Other times he went on walks by himself, brooding.  Capone wasn't at the club in the evenings at all.  In spite of his absence, there was a sense of agitation in the air.  Toward the end of the week, Dave snagged Quentin during a break and said softly, "CaraLinda say git out of town. Something done happened in New York, and that devil-man is coming here.  You better go on, Franky."</div> <div>      In spite of the danger, Quentin was reluctant to leave.  He knew Dave had to stay behind, and he was unhappy about having to go alone.  He told the family he was going to Washington to talk to Dr. Sullivan and other eminent psychiatrists.  He wasn't surprised at their lack of response.  Only Eddie and Mary Jane wondered when he would return.  Phil did stop by his room later as he was packing.  Quentin stiffened; CaraLinda had the pictures safely hidden away, but he couldn't be sure if Phil was still tractable.  "Running away, you fucking coward?" Phil growled at him.  "Anything happens, you can blame yourself you know that?"</div> <div>      Quentin didn't appreciate being called a coward but elected not to reply.  "Just do your part and you won't get hurt.  Now, get out of here and let me finish packing."  Phil sneered and moved on.</div> <div>      The next morning, he was on the train to Washington D.C.  He assumed that Bartelli was on his way out from New York and felt glad not to be in the same vicinity as that monster.  The timing was still lousy, he thought.  No one goes to Washington in August.  Still, there was the bay beaches and the Eastern Shore.  He thought he might go there after talking to Dr. Sullivan, who was expecting to be interviewed the next morning.  He arrived at Washington's Union Station at the muggiest time in the afternoon.  He got a cab to the hotel, feeling sweaty and miserable.</div> <div>      It was too humid to go walking around, so he decided to stay at the hotel and try to get cool somehow.  He thought about calling Edward, but decided against it.  He'd called a couple of days ago, and the news from home depressed him.  Jamison had no interest in trying to exercise his hip; he continued to depend on the crutches.  Whenever he tried to walk without them, he had a pronounced, jerky limp.  He was drinking as heavily as Quentin had at Collinwood, acknowledging only his father and daughter.  He barely spoke to anyone else, including his own son.  </div> <div>      Quentin had gotten a bottle of brandy from one of the bellhops and had tipped the boy well to keep him supplied.  He filled the tub with cool water and took the bottle in with him, continuing to brood about Jamison.  There had to be a way to help him.  Edward didn't believe in psychiatrists, so he probably wasn't encouraging his son to see a doctor.  Quentin could almost hear Edward's voice:  "You've got to just buck up, son, and pull yourself together."  It wasn't really Edward's fault, though--he just didn't know any better.  When he'd coolled, Quentin got out of the tub and walked around restlessly, naked. There was no one around to see him as he air-dried, so what the hell?  He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.  The brandy was almost gone.</div> <div>      A thought came to him, and he began to laugh drunkenly.  He imagined he'd asked Dr. Sullivan how he might apply his psychoanalytic theory to witches.  He was sure Dr. Sullivan would call for a straight jacket, and that image was hilarious.  Part of the reason was that Quentin actually felt like he was strait-jacketed.  That was an amazing piece of self-realization.  He felt constrained by the curse, by the portrait, by what Petofi had done to him, and by his loneliness.  He fell asleep.</div> <div>      Not surprisingly, he dreamed he was in a strait-jacket, very similar to the one Harry Houdini had used.  He felt helpless and unable to move; he didn't know how Houdini managed to free himself.  He knew there had to be a trick to it, but he just couldn't seem to grasp it.  He lay on his stomach, struggling, feeling helpless and vulnerable.  He began to panic, and then he thought he heard a sweet, familiar voice saying, "I'll help free you, Quentin. Please don't struggle so--just relax."  He felt someone tugging at the straps and tried to see who it was.  His vision was blurry--it was someone slender and tall and fair; he thought he caught a glimpse of blonde hair.  The straps were loosening; he was able to move his arms at last.  He reached for the one who had helped him, and woke up, looking around in bewilderment and disappointment.  No one was there.</div> <div>      "Come back," he said out loud.  It had seemed like more than just a dream.  He was sticky and slick with sweat again, the sheet of the bed draped around him.  Maybe he'd just gotten caught in the sheet and dreamed he was trapped--but it had just seemed so real. He tried to remember the person who'd helped him.  Not Angelique--she wasn't that tall or slender.  Not Amanda--she didn't have blonde hair.  "Beth," he whispered.  "It was you, Beth, wasn't it?"</div> <div>      He got up and got dressed, looking out the open window.  Clouds were gathering for a late afternoon thunderstorm.  He decided to walk down toward  the tidal basin.  If it rained, he could take refuge in the newly dedicated Lincoln Memorial. He just had to get out of this room.  He crossed in front of the Washington Monument as the first rumbles of thunder began.  There was a flash of lightning and then another thunderclap almost directly overhead. He'd passed the grove of Japanese cherry trees and was almost to the memorial when the skies opened up and it began to pour.  He ran up the steps of the monument but was soaked through anyway by the time he got inside.  He wasn't afraid of the thunder or lightning, or being out in the storm.  He liked the odor of the damp earth rising around him as the rain turned the hard packed dirt to mud.  He gave the statue of Abraham Lincoln a mock salute and then turned to watch the storm.</div> <div>      He remembered taking refuge with Beth from a thunderstorm.  It was one of those rare occasions she'd persuaded him to come on a walk with her to the beach.  The storm had come upon them suddenly, and they'd ducked into the shelter of a cave.  There were lots of little caves down there on that rocky beach under Widow's Hill.  Some of the caves actually were secret routes back to the Old House.  He and Jenny used to like exploring the caves.  She didn't mind the dark and the damp of the caves; she seemed to revel in it and became wildly sexual in those caves.  He wondered what Dr. Sullivan would think of THAT.  He laughed again, imagining the expression on the man's face.</div> <div>      After the storm passed, he walked back to the hotel.  The rain had done nothing to dissipate the heat and humidity.  By the time he'd walked back, he was soaked through again--with perspiration this time, not rain.  He was gratified to see that the bellboy had discreetly left another bottle of brandy in his room.  He'd have to remember to tip that kid well.</div> <div>      He spent almost one week in muggy, miserable Washington, talking to psychology teachers and psychiatrists practicing at St. Elizabeth's.  Dr. Sullivan talked to him for several hours about his belief that social circumstances caused people to behave in certain ways, according to the pressures exerted on them.  The two young men who had murdered the Bobby Franks in Chicago had plenty of money.  They weren't expected to work or to produce anything with their hands.  They really weren't expected to do very much with their lives.  They were drifting, purposeless.  Quentin listened and took notes, but he couldn't understand such an attitude.</div> <div>      "What about you?" Dr. Sullivan asked.  </div> <div>      "I feel like my life has purpose," Quentin said, a little defensively, looking up from his notes.</div> <div>      "I didn't mean that, Mr. Healey.  What is your goal here?  To publish a book?  What will you do after that?"  Before Quentin could answer, the doctor leaned forward. "You're a bright young man.  Did you ever think about furthering your studies?"</div> <div>      Quentin looked at him blankly.  "Do you mean a master's?  I have a college degree."</div> <div>      "Yes, but that's no reason a bright fellow like you shouldn't continue.  Have you thought about studying psychology more in depth?"  Quentin was too surprised to laugh, which was fortunate because Dr. Sullivan continued to think aloud. "Look at what's happening to the talented youth in America," he mused.  "They are abandoning this country and running wild over in Europe.  One person went, maybe it was Hemingway, and it started a trend. Too many of our  other young writers, artists, and thinkers decided that abandoning this country was the answer to their restlessness and sense of futility.  Tragedy."  He recommended other people to Quentin, colleagues who could talk to him about their perspectives.  "There is a core of even greater thinkers and innovators in Vienna."</div> <div>      Vienna.  Quentin thought of the dream and of Beth.  She'd always wanted to go there.</div> <div>      Dr. Sullivan noticed Quentin had drifted away, and he was done talking anyway.  He shook Quentin's hand and said, "If you decide you'd like to go on with your education, would you let me know?"</div> <div>      This time, Quentin didn't laugh because he was thinking of Vienna and Beth.  "Of course," he said automatically, allowing Dr. Sullivan to show him out.  He went to northeast Washington for a very brief visit to St. Elizabeth's Hospital and the doctors there.  The place looked like a fortress; it frightened and oppressed him.  He wanted very much to ask the doctors what they thought about the problems bothering Jamison and Nora, but the fortress like atmosphere made him want to escape as quickly as possible.</div> <div>      After four days, he decided he'd had enough.  There was a small item in the paper that disturbed him.  A body had been found on the east side of New York.  The man had been shot several times in the back of the head.  Quentin felt uneasy, wondering if it had anything to do with what he'd set into motion.  He decided to go to the eastern shore and escape from everything before returning to Chicago.  He'd go to Ocean City--that was the closest resort to Washington--and spend the weekend.  Then he would go back.</div> <div>      August and September were the best months to visit the Atlantic Bay beaches.  The ocean was just the right temperature--not  cold like in Maine, but not tropically warm either.  When it got hot during the day, plunging into the surf brought relief.  There was a family owned inn he was familiar with; he'd stayed there many times over the years.  It was located on the boardwalk so that in the cool evenings, he could walk a few blocks to the downtown arcades and funhouses.  There was always somewhere to find a drink or to pick up a woman if he wanted to, but this time, he just visited the attractions.  </div> <div>      He was having trouble sleeping again, so he'd go down in the early morning hours and sit on the beach to watch the sun come up over the Atlantic.  He did some beachcombing and dug up sand crabs.  He held the little creatures in his hand, watching them digging frantically in the palms of his hands.  Eventually, a wave would wash over him and he would release them, and they would burrow their way back into the wet sand almost instantaneously. When the sun got high in the sky and unbearably hot, he'd plunge into the surf.  Sometimes he would swim parallel to the shore, pretending to be Johnny Weissmuller sprinting in the Olympic freestyle relay.  Most of the time he enjoyed body surfing--allowing the waves to carry him back to the shore.  When the surf was rough, the waves would tumble him over and throw him onto the sand.  He felt like a little kid again and was sorry when the weekend came to an end.  He really didn't want to go back, but he knew he had to.</div> <bR> <div>      Mary Jane was overjoyed with the salt water taffy he brought back for her and the little geegaws he'd picked up at the arcades.  He'd come back to Chicago with little gifts for the family--salt water taffy for the everyone.  He also brought back a tea set emblazoned with the words "Ocean City, Maryland"  for Mrs. Cleary.  She looked as if she would burst into tears, and gave him a very motherly hug.  For Nora, he'd brought back a large intact conch shell he'd found beachcombing early Saturday morning.</div> <div>      She looked at him with disbelief.  "You brought me this?  And what am I supposed to do with it?"</div> <div>      "Put it to your ear--you can hear the ocean.  I found it one morning and saved it for you.  See how pretty it is?  It's all pink on the inside--you still like pink don't you?"  He was dismayed when she didn't answer.  She only looked at him, holding the shell in her lap. "Nora, please just try.  You can always use it as a paper weight--if nothing else."  She shrugged indifferently and set the shell on the desk.  Well, he thought, at least she didn't throw it in the trash.</div> <div>      Phillip stood in the door way.  He looked upset but managed to stay composed.  "Well, welcome back, young Frank.  Why don't you come into the library with me and tell me about your trip?" Quentin was reluctant but really didn't see any way around it, so he excused himself and followed Phillip into the library.  Phillip shut the door behind them and indicated a chair, still manfully controlling his temper.  As soon as Quentin was seated, however, he moved so that they were nose-to-nose.  "All right, you crazy son of a bitch, you want to hear about the damage you caused?"</div> <div>      "What happened?"</div> <div>      "I told Al what you said to tell him.  He went berserk--like you figured, you smart-ass punk, right?"</div> <div>      "Would you tell me without the name calling, please?" Quentin said mildly but with a condescending tone in his voice.  Phillip moved back suddenly, and Quentin was sure the big man was going to hit him.  "The picture, Phil," he added swiftly, and Phil stopped in his tracks.  He began pacing instead, his face turning a bright shade of scarlet.  "All right, so now Al is very upset and he's reacting without thinking.  Bodies turn up on the east side in New York--did you know about that while you were running around getting a suntan?"</div> <div>      "No,"  Quentin answered.  He'd suspected, but now he knew.  He felt guilty because he really hadn't wanted anyone to get hurt.  He tried to tell himself that these were just gangsters but that argument wasn't successful.  He didn't feel any better.</div> <div>      "Masseria is mad, now.  He don't know what's going on.  A couple bodies turn up here.  So I did as you said, I suggested to Al that he bring in Bartelli.  Al's become image conscious--his friend the Professor and I have been advising him to talk to the reporters and make friends with them.  He goes for the idea of bringing in Bartelli--it'll look good.  He even calls a press conference for Chrissake."  Phil grimaced with distate.  "That sadistic son of a bitch Bartelli comes out here and conferences with Al.  Talked for hours, days on end. At first, Bartelli says he thinks he knows the guy who fixed the pony races.  There really was a guy who liked to do that, you know that, Frank?  He was the first one to go.  Later, Bartelli tells Al he figures it's a set-up. I don't know what it was made him so sure about that."  Quentin felt a chill come over him.  "Now Al is really mad.  Bartelli left for New York again yesterday.  He's got Al convinced he's gonna get to the bottom of it all and figure out what the hell's going on."  He stopped and glared at Quentin.  "What are you going to do to protect me, you punk?  After Bartelli gets done checking all his facts, it's all going to come back to me.  What then--SON?"</div> <div>      "Don't worry, I'll tell you what to do before it gets that far,"  Quentin lied, stalling.</div> <div>      "Yeah?  You better.  Because as soon as they come to me, I'm giving you up, picture or no picture--you understand me?"</div> <div>      "I understand.  When do you figure Bartelli will be back?"</div> <div>      "Soon.  A week.  Not more than two.  He's got to smooth Masseria's feathers, too, now.  He's gotta fix it all up and then he'll be back.  And both those guys are gonna want to know what's going on."</div> <div>      Quentin shuddered inwardly.  Outwardly, he gave Phil a self-confident grin.  "Don't worry, Phil.  Nothing's going to happen.  You don't think I'd pull something like this without a plan, do you?"</div> <div>      "I hope not--I'm counting on it.  Because if you did, you are a certifiable lunatic and you've killed us both."  With that, Phil stalked out of the library.</div> <div>      Quentin took in a deep breath, thinking.  He'd have to talk to CaraLinda--fast.  He went into the hall way, planning to take the children to the beach as promised.  He could see into the sitting room.  He stopped, surprised.  He could see Nora at the desk, conch shell to her ear, staring off into space.  She seemed to be listening to something.</div> <bR> <DIV ALIGN="LEFT"></DIV> <div> <A HREF="id68.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="14: The Gypsy"><U>14:  The Gypsy</U></A>    <A HREF="id70.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="16: The Gift"><U>16:  The Gift</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="id51.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Taking Wooden Nickels"><U>Taking Wooden Nickels</U></A>    <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Cassies Writing"><U>Cassie's Writing</U></A></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>