The Jersey Bounce

By Marvin Rose

When you play The Gorilla and The Chambermaid with a savage lady, you raise the odds against landing right-side up. Joe Easter is manhandled by escaped fugitive Myra Manning, but the dogeared ex-cop rises from the languor of his casino security gig and vows to take her down. "You're as sick as your secrets," Joe's shrink tells him, but it is his secret that spurs the revenge he craves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marvin Rose
• Release date: Mar 1, 2009

Marvin Rose

USAAF (Eastern Training Command)light-heavyweight champion,PhD Psychology (Rutgers), Sinatra's showroom percussionist (Atlantic City, Las Vegas), authored 19 books

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The Jersey Bounce

By Marvin Rose

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 Marvin Rose

See other titles by Marvin Rose at Smashwords.com

This book available in print at Amazon.com

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

Using a phony name, Myra Manning placed a collect call to Atlantic City. When her party got on, she said, Hello, Mr. Financial Advisor. This is Eunice. I'm out.

Surprised, the man whispered, Don't say my name. Then, his voice filling with gladness, he said, Good. I got your letter. Where are you now?

Still in Indianapolis. I'm in the bus terminal. I should get in sometime in the morning.

You got where to go?

I got.

It's on Bacharach Boulevard. Just off the city library.

I know. I remember.

After six years, you remember this town?

I remember six years away from you.

We'll make up for that, I promise. It wasn't supposed to be six years—it was supposed to be till the heat was off. But you couldn't keep your hands in your pockets.

Don't scold. I've been over it in my head a thousand times.

Sorry. I missed you. I can't wait to do it again.

The Gorilla and The French Chambermaid?

I hope I remember how.

I'll teach you all over again. That was half the fun.

No secrets this time, Eunice.

Myra Manning laughed. You're as sick as your secrets.

You're as sick as your secrets. Myra struggled to get rid of the refrain, but it hung in her head, tangling her attention. She tried to listen to the woman on the neighboring chair.

No, Honey, you can't get unemployment payments unless you first had employment. Not in New Jersey, anyway. You can do Welfare, if you got the stomach for it. The woman yawned deeply and shifted her suitcase further under her seat where it would not cramp her legs. She set her pocketbook on the floor between her feet and shinnied herself into a more comfortable position.

Myra Manning nodded her thanks for the information to the sleepy woman who sat next to her in the crowded offices. Gold-leafed windows said N.J. Employment Service. People hustled all around her, most of them to run outside and take their places in the vast hall next door at the end of long lines designated by groupings of Social Security numbers. She hunched her shoulder forward, shielding her purse from the yawning woman, and counted her money again. Thirty-five dollars and change. The purse itself was discolored and peeling. She liked the purse. It had seen her through the bus ride from Indianapolis to Atlantic City while she refined her plans and thought about her future.

The N.J. Department of Labor offices vibrated with a deadening hum. Myra Manning allowed two men to circle around her to the counter where they got busy with paper forms supplied by the young clerks. She pulled her shopping bag closer to her chair. Indiana luggage, she thought, with all my basics. Underwear and toothbrush. She was satisfied. This was the place to be. Her friends had told her that bus terminals, airports and local unemployment offices were the best locations to start her work. Because people there were jammed up with their own hassles.

The woman next to her snored lightly. Myra considered boosting her suitcase. She could ease the bag from under the woman's chair, hit the street and be gone like air. But her friends had said, Cut your risk and go with the odds.

Myra decided against the suitcase. It was too far under her neighbor's chair, protected by a forest of chrome legs and the woman's own thick body. Instead, she bent to inspect the heel of her shoe and slid the woman's pocketbook along the floor to a place between her own two feet. She rummaged the bag expertly, found a wallet, rifled it, yanked a credit card and driver's license, replaced the wallet and slipped the pocketbook back to its original position.

The sleeping woman didn't stir. Busy people tramped past, and no one gave a second glance. Don't look around first, it attracts attention, her friends had instructed. Do it like it's something you're supposed to be doing. Her business advisor had given her the same counsel. Ten seconds, maybe less, and Myra Manning had herself a credit card and ID. She waited for her heart to thump in her chest. The fear reaction, her friends had warned, Let it pass. But it never came. There was no fear, no reaction of any kind. Myra Manning lifted her hand, covered her mouth and yawned softly. In her palm she held a plastic blaze of color with a name stamped and blocklettered: Katherine McColl. She scratched her chest and studied the sleeping woman. Katherine McColl, waiting to apply for unemployment benefits with a credit card in her wallet. So this is the way they do it in the real world.

Time to get up, lady.

Huh? What? Myra Manning swallowed. Her throat was dry.

She realized that she had fallen asleep. All the chairs around her were empty.

A city police officer stood over her. He was young and his voice was kind, but he seemed tired and bored. It's 3:30—this place closes at 4 o'clock. They're locking the outside doors now. If you're putting in a new claim, you'll have to come back tomorrow.

No, no, I was waiting here with a friend. Keeping her company. Myra stood up and scanned the carrels and glass-enclosed offices. Did you see her? She was sitting right next to me here, a heavyset woman. She had a suitcase.

No one's here, ma'am. You can see for yourself. What's left is next door in the payment lines. Maybe your friend didn't want to disturb you. Maybe she forgot about you. He smiled at his gentle joke.

Myra made an impatient, distressed sound. It sure looks that way. Is there a public phone in this place?

The young cop pointed, Sure, over there by the toilet, see?

Thanks. Myra picked up her shopping bag and slung her purse strap over one shoulder.

Gonna call her up and chew her out, huh? the policeman chuckled.

But Myra was on her way to the telephone and didn't answer. She pulled the phone directory from its shelf and made an irritated show of checking numbers. When she saw the cop wander away, she flipped the book and rifled through the yellow pages.

The cabbie, a sullen scruffy man, double-parked in front of a store on Atlantic Avenue. A weathered sign read South Jersey Uniform Co. He blew his nose in a soiled handkerchief and waited for his passenger to check the meter and pay her fare. When he saw that she was just sitting, staring at the storefront, he said, This is it, lady.

They sell all kind of uniforms?

Lady, all I do is drive a hack. I ain't in the theater.

Pull up and let me off at the curb.

Huh? What for? There's a space between them cars. You can skip right on through there.

When the cabbie counted out her change, Myra gave him a ten-cent tip.

Jeez, what's that for? he mocked a tone of impressed gratitude.

Your personality.

In the store, Myra asked a pretty saleslady if the Grand Mariner casino was still southernmost in the city.

Southernmost? The saleslady wore a nametag that said Beth.

South, southernmost. It used to be the Grand Mariner last time I was in this town.

I'm afraid I don't know my directions very well. Wait, I'll get someone to help you.

How about the closet to Ocean City?

What?

Which casino is closest to Ocean City?

"Ocean City? You must be new in town—all the casinos are in Atlantic City. It's the law in New Jersey."

Thank you, Beth, I know that. What I mean is, which casino in Atlantic City is closest to Ocean City?

I'm sorry, I don't—

If you were going to Ocean City, point in the direction you'd take.

The saleslady smiled and pointed.

Good, that's South. Now which casino is the last of those in that direction?

Oh, I get it, Beth tapped her forehead. "How stupid. That is the Grand Mariner. Actually, it's the last casino on the whole boardwalk. But you said that yourself, didn't you?"

Myra was satisfied. She pulled a list from her purse and read it, ticking off items of apparel. I need a chocolate-brown maid's uniform, a white apron, brown tinted pantyhose, brown pumps—one-inch heel, a hair net, and latex gloves.

You need the whole outfit, right? Certainly, we're a one-stop shop. If you'll give me your sizes, I'll be glad to put everything together for you. You're a big strong person, aren't you? I bet you work out. I do aerobics, myself.

"You take credit cards, don't you?

I'm sorry, no. Casino folks move around so much—in and out of town, I mean. We've been burned a few times. Do you know what some of them do? They actually trade cards and identification. Then they buy big-ticket stuff. Then they report the cards stolen, the main office invalidates the cards and we're left holding the bag. The saleslady clucked her tongue and shook her head.

That's terrible.

It is, isn't it?

I only have about thirty dollars cash in the whole world. I'm desperate. I really need this job, and I can't get the job without these things. Will it come to more than thirty dollars?

Beth winked, Give me your sizes. I'm sure we can work something out.

The bill came to $32.85. New Jersey's 6% sales tax made it $34.82. Myra Manning sighed sadly, I'll have to leave something out. The gloves maybe, how much are the gloves?

The saleslady shook her head, You can't do without the gloves. You can't work as a maid without the gloves. It's a policy in all the casinos. Housekeeping departments make their people wear gloves. It doesn't mean anything, but the customers think the casinos are protecting them against AIDS.

I can't pay for all this.

Beth glanced toward the back of the store. She lowered her voice, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll ring up the uniform and the apron, the shoes and the hairnet and the pantyhose. I won't ring up the gloves—they're $4.95—so that'll bring the charges below thirty dollars.

You said I need the gloves.

They'll be in the bag.

Thanks, Beth. I appreciate it.

I've been broke myself. I know what it's like.

Is there a drug store nearby?

On the corner, south, Beth grinned and pointed.

Myra Manning walked to the drug store and bought a roll of adhesive tape, two inches wide, an array of cheap toilet waters and a dozen combs. Then she made her way to the boardwalk a block distant. A damp wind blew in off the ocean, and she shivered. Two blocks North she saw the huge marquee of the Grand Mariner Casino, its name ablaze in running lights. She clutched the collar of her thin jacket to her throat and hurried up the splintered walkway into the great bright building.

People were everywhere, bustling about, standing in groups, sitting in the ice cream parlor and sandwich shop. The humming escalators were crowded and sprawling knots of people gathered in front of the elevators. Flashing arrows pointed the way to the casino, and large transparencies of entertainment stars lined the walls, glowing in chrome and glass cases. Myra recognized Kenny Rogers and Diana Ross.

She elbowed her way onto an escalator, clutching her bags tightly, and rode up to the mezzanine level. She saw that it was filled with boutiques and restaurants. The mobs were thick and didn't seem to be moving. She took another escalator to the next level above. Here there were more shops, but several of them were closed, and only a dozen people passed back and forth. She got off at this floor, stirred by the feel of thick carpeting that seemed to swallow her soles, very different from the concrete floors she had been walking on for the last six years.

Myra spotted the ladies' lounge and was relieved when she found it empty. She passed through the mirrored sitting room, first pausing to squeeze the crushed velvet overstuffed chairs. The carpeting was even thicker here, and the indirect lighting made everything appear deep and rich. She was pleased with the material pleasures that life offered in the real world.

Pushing through a wide double-hinged door, she heard the solid sound of her heels clicking on the tiled floor of the lavatory. It vaguely displeased her, too much like the concrete floors she remembered so well. She checked all the stalls to make sure they were empty. The last stall in the row was double-sized, with a wide door, taller commode and hand rails for the handicapped. It also contained a bidet. Myra entered a stall and changed into her new maid's uniform, folding her street clothes neatly and arranging them in the paper carrier. Only the hairnet gave her trouble because she was unfamiliar with it. She had never worn a hairnet. She left the stall and worked quickly in front of a large mirror, tucking ends into the frail elastic band and shaping her thick brown hair until she was satisfied with the look of it. Finally, she snapped the white latex gloves onto her large hands and studied her reflection. The person who stared back could have passed for a ladies' lounge attendant anywhere.

Feeling an urgency now, Myra dumped the contents of the drug store bag onto the broad formica panel that held six gleaming washbasins. In one corner, she spread four paper towels and lined up the tiny jars of toilet water. She spread the dozen combs side by side in a neat picket-row. As she was ripping lengths of adhesive tape and sealing the keepers on the stall locks, two women came in, chattering excitedly.

One of them, a short stout person dressed in gaudy mismatched prints, hurried to Myra and spoke confidentially. I have a problem, Hon. I got so crazy at the slots downstairs, I peed myself. D'you have a bidet in this place?

Yes ma'am, in the end stall over there. The big one.

You wouldn't have any spare panties, would you?

No ma'am, I'm sorry. Myra made a mental note to buy an assortment of underpants.

Thanks, Hon. You're a doll. The woman dashed into the stall as her friend went into another.

What's wrong with this lock? the first woman called. It don't work.

Neither does mine. It's got tape or something on it, her friend said.

Myra answered, I'm sorry, the locks are broken. Vandals, we think. When you close them, they won't open. We had two ladies locked in there for an hour this morning. The maintenance crew will be here soon to fix them. They told me to tape them in the meantime, so nobody else gets locked in. I'll watch out here and see that no one bothers you— She was interrupted by the sound of water gushing forcefully.

The women paid no more attention to the lavatory attendant. When they left the stalls and washed their hands, Myra handed each of them two paper towels. They left her fifty cents apiece.

During the following half hour, several more women used the lounge, all of them in pairs or groups of three. Myra tended to them silently, courteously. She collected another three dollars in tips.

At last a woman came in alone. She was middle-aged—late forties, Myra guessed—stylishly, expensively underdressed in a wine-colored velour warmup suit. She carried a spacious handbag with Givenchy imprints all over it. Myra's friends had once told her that these handbags were priced at $300 and more. The woman also wore a gold snake necklace. Two fingers on each hand had flashy rings, not counting a wide wedding band on the third finger of the left hand.

The woman entered a stall, taking care to avoid looking into the eyes of the attendant in the brown uniform. Myra knew intuitively that this was a sign of someone who would not leave a tip. She had done it herself sometimes in the old days. These people also declined to wash their hands to evade any sense of obligation forced on them by an attendant with a handful of paper towels. The idea made Myra feel better, considering what she was about to do.

The woman uttered a soft oath when she discovered the taped lock. Soon, Myra heard the familiar sounds of bladder relief. She stepped to the door, pulled it open and punched the surprised woman sharply in the eye. Crying out as she began to topple, the woman extended her arms to support herself on the stall sides. Myra hit her again, swinging from the waist as her hips pivoted to transfer leverage from her legs to her upper body. The power-ful blow caught the woman at the temple, and she collapsed insensibly between the commode and the wall. Myra ripped the tape from the keeper, twisted the knob and locked the door shut. In cramped quarters, she dislodged the woman, pulling her free by her feet. Then she taped the woman's mouth shut, adding a second strip for insurance, which also covered the nose. She turned the unconscious body, taped the hands together behind the back, and the legs together at the knees and ankles. Then she dumped the woman's handbag, snatched a wallet as soon as it hit the floor. A handgun tumbled out. Myra picked it up and collected all the loose cash. She saw that there were several hundreds among the bills. She shinnied the wedding ring from the woman's finger, but left the other rings. She thought twice about the necklace, deciding finally to leave it.

First opening the door a crack and peering around to be certain the lavatory was still empty, Myra ran out, grabbed the paper carrier that held her belongings and hurried back into the stall. She tore the hairnet off, untied her apron, slipped out of the uniform and changed back into her street clothes. Finally, she pulled the latex gloves from her sweating hands. She dumped the wallet, gun and cash into the bag, then shoved the maid's apparel on top of them. She forced the wedding ring onto the third finger of her left hand.

Outside, the upper lobby was beginning to fill, and as Myra started for the down escalator, she had to step aside for a woman who was hustling toward the ladies' lounge. On the boardwalk again, she saw that dusk was falling. The evening was balmy and warmth filled her. She strolled unhurriedly down the long ramp to Pacific Avenue where she hailed a cab.

Ocean City, she told the driver.

I can't go to Ocean City—it's another county. My license—

You're an independent. Shut your meter off and go off-duty.

It's Cape May County—

"I know where it is. Do it anyway.