Hot Times by William R. Cox

Author:William R. Cox [Cox, William R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: 1930s New York, hard times, violence, corruption, dirty money, crooked businessmen
Publisher: Piccadilly
Published: 2022-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

Joan Willowe went into the apartment, picking up the morning Orbit, her face scrubbed clean and without makeup, her eyes clear and full of sorrow. Merced lay on the bed with a quilt slung across her. The two women looked at each other across the disorderly bedroom.

It was a bare room, with only a dresser and a straight chair and a big wooden bed, which Merced had inherited and rebuilt. The walls were a faded blue, there were two pictures, abstracts by Mary Sasse, raw and strong and bright with hard colors. Merced had stepped out of her clothing to fall into the sleep of exhaustion, the torn panties lay across her slippers.

Joan picked up the panties and examined them. She said, “We haven’t talked, you know. We just spat and hissed like two cats on a back fence.”

Merced’s face was streaked with sleep. She shrugged the quilt about her lean shoulders, swung her legs over the edge of the bed and went into the bathroom without answering. Joan stared at the headlines, LINDBERGH BABY STOLEN. The entire page was covered with stories about the tragedy at Hopewell, a town she knew vaguely, a tiny hamlet of no distinction, near where the flier had sought, through his own inner turmoil, to find peace and quiet.

When Merced came back, Joan showed her the paper and said, “We haven’t anything as bad as this to plague us.”

“Haven’t we?” Her voice was hoarse, cracked. “I’m going to take a drink. I never do, in the morning, but today I am going to take one.”

“It’s not morning. It’s two o’clock,” said Joan, realizing the banality of their speech, not yet able to force the issue, biding her time for the present. She went out and into the small kitchen and found some whiskey and eggs and milk. She beat up two punches and poured them into tall glasses full of ice and came back to the bedroom. Merced had put on a robe and was sitting up straight, pillows behind her, long legs stretched straight and taut beneath the patchwork quilt.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They sipped. Color returned to Merced’s cheeks. She said, “Booze. Always the booze.”

“Not entirely,” Joan said. “I wish it was entirely.”

“I didn’t get laid,” said the hoarse voice. “It wasn’t like that.”

“I did,” said Joan. “As you know.”

“I know.”

“It was more than booze. I did it. I could have easily not.”

“Don’t try to protect him. Christ, don’t do that. It’s out of character. For all of us.”

“I’m not. He … Let’s leave him out of it. He’s no different than he was yesterday morning.”

“No. He was always a rutting bastard.”

“Merced, that’s not fair to him or to you.”

Merced drank deeply, as though for courage, before she turned and stared at Joan. “You want to talk about fairness? This morning? You want to go through that?”

“No. Or … yes. I want to try to get things straight. I don’t want us to part without trying.”

Merced opened her eyes wide. “Part? Now you’re being

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