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  WIFE HATER

  I walked to the door and she followed me. She had all the buttons on the pajama top unfastened.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” she said. “Not without me, Bill.”

  I looked down at her. She was my wife, she was a bum — but she was beautiful too.

  “We’re married, Bill. Don’t forget that.”

  “How can I?”

  She came in close to me, offering herself.

  “I’ve been a lousy wife,” she said, trying to get closer. “I know that, probably even more than you know it. And I want to make it right with you. Can’t you see that?”

  “I see something,” I said. “And I don’t like it.”

  She started to cry.

  “Give me a chance, Bill,” she begged. She lifted herself on tiptoes and leaned against me. “Kiss me, Bill. Kiss me and I’ll show you how much I mean what I said …”

  WOMAN

  HUNT

  ORRIE HITT

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Wife Hater

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Sheba

  Also Available

  Copyright

  1

  I PUT my briefcase in the back of the car and started to drive crosstown. I didn’t drive in the direction of Forest Road, where my wife and I live in a twenty-five thousand dollar house, but toward River Street, where my mother and drunken brother live in a cold water flat. I call my brother “drunken,” and I could use the same adjective to describe my mother. She must have been born with a bottle in her hands. Nobody has ever got around to taking it away from her.

  It had been a good day for direct selling, one of those stormy late fall days, gloomy enough to make people feel lower than a skunk’s belly if they don’t ask you into their homes. A hundred dollar day.

  Wednesday is not the end of the work week for most people, but that marked the end of it for me. I wasn’t due at the cottage on Parish Lake until late Friday night, but I had decided to go earlier. I wanted to find out just what my wife was doing when I wasn’t around. Not that I didn’t know. Some of Gordon Lender’s relatives had a place up at the lake next door to our cottage, and he and Cynthia had left the city on the same day. It was pretty obvious they would be doing the same thing up at the lake that they did in our master bedroom on Forest Road whenever I was out selling encyclopedias. And that was most of the time.

  You can laugh about the encyclopedia-selling business if you want to, but there’s dough in it, plenty of dough. You get a good line of books, like the Century, work a little at it and you’ve got it made. In the first place, every kid from the seventh grade on up needs a set of encyclopedias. And in the second place, the Century sells for a hundred and sixty with easy payments of nine dollars down and five dollars a month. Anybody, no matter how broke, can come up with that kind of money. The salesman gets a cut of thirty-five bucks a set, payable the first week after the sale, with no charge-backs for bum accounts. You don’t have to be exceptionally smart to understand that you can, if you have to, throw in the down payment and still earn a nice dollar. If you work hard the way I do, and take a plunge when you have to, you can make a hundred a day and support a ten-year plaster on an eight-room split-level, and you can keep your old lady in wine and a lazy, no-good brother in pool hall fees. You can also provide for a wife who has the designs of a queen and the morals of a snake.

  “I want a mink,” your wife tells you.

  So you get her a mink. Not the best maybe, but it’s a mink and not one of those sheared rabbit things that so many women wear.

  “I want a Caddy,” she says.

  And you get the Caddy, not because the Ford isn’t any good but because you have to keep her happy. And keeping her happy is important. You no longer love her — if you ever did — but keeping her happy is worth a hundred grand to you.

  A hundred grand after she’s dead, that is.

  At the corner of Prince and John I turned the Ford right and headed toward River Street. A truck backed out of an alley and I almost slid into it. I sat still, cursing, and waited for the truck to move out of the way. Finally, and with greater caution, I continued down the hill behind the truck.

  I had to stop thinking about Cynthia.

  I knew what I was going to do.

  And I almost knew how I was going to do it.

  At the bottom of the hill I swung left and, still following the truck, continued along River Street. To the right was the river, dark and gray in the rain, and to the left were the houses, equally dark and gray.

  I flipped on the radio, caught the five o’clock news and the latest weather forecast. Rain and sleet throughout the night, clearing by Thursday afternoon. I smiled. No snow, thank heaven for that. I didn’t want snow. Snow would ruin everything.

  I parked in front of Thirty-three River Street and shut off the motor. A man came along the street, a dog leading him. I recognized him as the old guy who hung out in the theater district, standing half-frozen with a tin cup in his hand.

  “Here,” I said, getting out of the car. “Here’s a five.”

  I don’t know why I did that. I guess I was trying to bribe my conscience or something.

  But when you’re planning on murdering your wife, I guess you don’t have much of a conscience. All you have is hate — and fear. Hate because she’s such a slut and fear because something may go wrong.

  “Thanks,” the old man said.

  I crossed the sidewalk, walking slowly, and started up the steps. I had been born and raised in this apartment house, saw my father die there on the sidewalk from a heart attack, and I never came to it without feeling empty and, in a sense, hurt. I suppose Donna Forbes had something to do with the hurt. The emptiness came from what I expected to find inside.

  My mother was in a red, loosely-belted bathrobe, her flabby breasts partly exposed, and her gray hair looked as though she hadn’t combed it for the past five years.

  “Short week,” she said.

  I usually came by on Friday.

  “Damn good thing,” my brother yawned. “The old pump needed some priming.” He looked up from where he lay on the ragged davenport and turned his pockets inside out. “Busted.”

  I threw seventy-five dollars down on top of a littered end table and my mother picked it up. She counted it and dropped a ten on Lee’s chest.

  “The rent’s due this week,” she said.

  The rent was twenty-five a month.

  Lee sat up and scratched at the back of his neck.

  “Hell,” he said.

  Lee was twenty-eight, five years younger than I, and he was more able to work than most men. Of course, there wasn’t much in the downtown section, just the docks and a few factories, but he could have gotten a job for fifty or sixty a week without any trouble at all.

  “You ought to get a job,” I told him.

  “I’m looking,” he said.

&nbs
p; “You’ve been looking since you quit school.” I held up the fingers and thumbs of both hands. “That many years.”

  “Well, you know how it is.”

  “I know how it is,” I agreed. “I support Mom and you just ride along.”

  “Don’t fight,” my mother said, turning to me. “Lee has been trying, Bill. He was up to Sharpers twice this week already.”

  Sharpers was a big store on Fifth. About the only thing Lee could get to do around there would be sweeping the floors.

  “Okay,” I said.

  The apartment smelled of fish and I hated that. It always smelled of fish, had smelled that way ever since I could remember. That was because fish was cheap, easy to fix and it didn’t make my mother sick when she was on a wine kick.

  “You’re looking good,” my mother said.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Business good?”

  “Fine.”

  “He married into it,” Lee said, getting up. “He could fall into a sewer and come up with a diamond bracelet.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said.

  He put the ten in his pocket and yawned again.

  “Beautiful wife,” he said.

  “Agreed.”

  “Lots of money.”

  “A little.”

  “A little? You call six grand a year from her old man’s insurance a little? I’d like to have that, man. I could have a ball.”

  There was no use arguing with him. Cynthia did get six thousand a year from a trust fund but I never saw a cent of it. And I wouldn’t — until she was dead. As soon as she was dead the trust fund would be wiped out and I would get the loot in a tidy bundle. As soon as she was dead …

  “You want some coffee?” my mother asked.

  She bought the worst coffee in the city, the cheapest, and you had to have a cast iron stomach to drink the stuff.

  “No, thanks.”

  She walked across the living room, pushed aside a dirty curtain and disappeared into the kitchen. There were four rooms in the apartment — the living room, a tiny kitchen and two eight-by-ten bedrooms. The bathroom was at the end of the hall and it was shared by four families. Even in an emergency you practically needed a written excuse from a doctor to get into the bathroom and once you were inside there was always somebody banging on the door and swearing at you.

  “With six grand a year I could have a time,” my brother said. “With six grand a year I could have me some of that Donna Forbes.”

  “Cut it out.” I meant it.

  “So what’s the harm?” my brother wanted to know.

  “Cut it out.”

  There really had been nothing for Donna and me then and there never would be again; but I didn’t like to hear him talk about her as though she were a cheap piece of flesh from one of the local bars. Once things had been good for us, real good. That had been before I had gone into the army, when we both had been just kids. We had laughed and kissed and made love on the roof and it had all been very fine and honest. But I went into the army and we drifted apart. Some guy had been careless with her and given her a kid, a blonde, blue-eyed boy who looked like her. Sometimes I saw her when I came down to River Street, but I tried not to. There were old wounds inside me and every time she smiled the wounds opened up again, wider and more painful than ever before.

  “She works in the coat factory,” Lee said.

  “I know.”

  “They got a union in there. I heard her telling Ma that she makes about sixty a week.”

  “That’s good.”

  The people on River Street needed a union or somebody to fight for them, especially girls like Donna. She had an apartment down the hall, at the top of the stairs, and she had to support her boy and pay all of the household expenses herself. Her father and mother had moved to Tampa a few years back and she hadn’t been welcome to go with them.

  “She’s ripe again,” Lee was saying. “I hear that’s the way it is with women — they get one kid and, after a while, married or not, they get so they want another one.” He grinned and slapped his right hand against his thigh. “I’d like to help her out. I sure as hell would.”

  “Leave her alone,” I said.

  He shook his head. “You’ve got yours, Bill. You’ve got yours, all pretty and nice.”

  He didn’t know what he was talking about. Cynthia was a tramp.

  “Donna’s nothing to you,” he said. “Not any more.”

  He was right. She was nothing. Just a memory — of something that might have been.

  “I got a yen for that, brother boy. I see her walking down the hall or up the steps, looking like a panther in a cage, and I’d be willing to hang myself if only she’d let me — ”

  I’m not sure just why I hit him. Maybe it was for Donna and maybe it was because of his laziness and the rotten things that went on in his mind. I hit him hard on the side of the jaw, spinning him around and driving him down to the davenport. Lee is a big man, six feet, but I’m bigger, a hundred and ninety, and I can crush a beer can with one hand.

  “Shut up,” I said, standing over him. “She’s no tart.”

  He rubbed the side of his jaw. “That’s what you think.”

  I was ready to hit him again, but my mother came in from the kitchen. She had a coffee cup in one hand and her robe was almost all the way open. I couldn’t look at her. There’s nothing worse than seeing your own mother when she’s half naked.

  “You didn’t have to hit Lee,” she said to me. “You had no call to do that.”

  “Forget it,” I said.

  Lee got to his feet and for a second I thought he was going to come for me.

  “I could use some extra this week,” he said.

  I got out my wallet and gave him twenty-five. All they wanted from me was money. For that matter, what else did I have to give them?

  “Have fun,” I said, and walked to the door.

  They said nothing. They had some money and now they could get drunk. It was enough.

  I was going down the stairs when I heard Donna call to me.

  “Bill!”

  I stopped and turned around.

  “Hi,” I said.

  She looked out of place in the apartment house. Her blonde hair was neat and long, curled softly in the right places, and her sheath dress was red and filled with the fire of her body. She had a nice face, a gentle face, and when she smiled her teeth were even and white.

  “Could I talk to you, Bill?”

  The memories of her stirred inside of me and I tried to relax.

  “You know you can,” I said.

  “Inside the apartment?”

  “No reason why not.”

  I walked up the stairs and past her, smelling her perfume, and entered the apartment. The apartment, unlike my mother’s, didn’t smell of fish. It was clean inside, and the furniture was inexpensive but good looking. A boy sat in the middle of the floor, his legs crossed, playing with a cheap train.

  “Hello,” he said, looking up.

  Donna closed the door.

  “This is Mr. Masters, Johnny.”

  “Hello,” the boy said again.

  “Hi, Johnny.”

  “Know anything about trains?”

  “Not much.”

  Donna laughed and bent over him, running the fingers of one hand through his hair.

  “You skip into the bedroom,” she said. “I have to talk to Mr. Masters.”

  “About me?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “Well, you talked to the doctor about me. You talked to him a long time, an awful long time. I got cold waiting in there.”

  The apartment was heated by an oil heater in the living room.

  “You do as I say,” Donna told him. “I won’t be long.”

  “All right,” Johnny said, getting up. He carried his train in both arms and I noticed that he walked with a pronounced limp. “And I promise not to listen.”

  Tears glistened in Donna’s eyes.

&
nbsp; “You’re a good boy,” she said softly. “A very good boy.”

  He turned in the doorway. “Goodbye, Mr. Masters.”

  “Goodbye, Johnny.”

  The bedroom door closed and we stood there, uncomfortably silent, looking at each other.

  “He is a good boy,” Donna said.

  “Seems like it.”

  Her eyes, still wet, lingered on my face.

  “He could have been yours, Bill,” she said.

  The old wound was deeper and wider now.

  “Knock it off,” I said.

  She was up close, right where I could touch her, and I wanted to touch her. I always wanted to touch her. Nights when I was with my wife, when she was mine, I sometimes closed my eyes and remembered Donna Forbes.

  “He has to have an operation,” she said.

  “Johnny?”

  “Yes. On his spine. A disc. That’s why he walks funny. The doctor tells me I ought to have it done right away.”

  “No problem in that. Have it done.”

  “With what?”

  It was a good question.

  “You got any insurance?”

  “No.”

  “How much will it cost?”

  “About twelve hundred, doctor and everything.”

  I whistled and lit a cigarette. I knew now what she wanted, what everybody wanted when they came to Bill Masters. Dough.

  “Maybe you could borrow it,” I said. “You work steady, don’t you?”

  “Every day.” She made an unpleasant face. “You know what they say when you go to the banks and the finance companies and they find out you have a kid but you aren’t married? You’re a bad moral risk, they say. They wouldn’t give you a dime if it were glued fast to the floor.”

  I watched her through the smoke of my cigarette.

  “I guess you want me to come across,” I said.

  She looked away from me.

  “There’s nobody else I can ask.”

  “What about your folks?”

  “You know how they are. And they haven’t got that much money.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  This time she was looking at me, straight up into my eyes.

  “There’s only one other way,” she said quietly. “And I will — if I have to.”