The Bell Tolls for No One

  “Oh God!” wailed the old woman. “I had no idea you’d look like this!”

  “Quiet, you gooney harridan,” the Thing spoke to her.

  After a moment the Thing spoke again.

  “Why is this craft headed for Havana? I intuit its original course as LAX. Hmmm . . . I see . . . ”

  The Thing turned toward Kikid and Nurmo.

  “Listen, man,” Kikid said, “maybe we can make a deal?”

  “I don’t deal,” the Thing answered.

  And with that, a beam shot out from one of the Thing’s 500-watt eyes.

  Kikid slowly began to melt and then he was gone, left a stink similar to that of burning rubber.

  The Thing turned toward Nurmo.

  “Listen, man,” said Nurmo, “anything you say! I’m on your side! I’ll be your slave for life! I’ll work for six cents an hour and give half my salary to charity! What do you say?”

  The answer came from the other 500-watt eye as Nurmo slowly melted down to the smell of burning rubber.

  “God, you’ve saved us!” exclaimed the old woman, “but there’s one more up front!”

  “Shut up, old woman. I know about up front. I’ll take care of that at my leisure.”

  “Thank you, God,” said the old woman.

  “Thank you, God,” said a man.

  “Yes, thank you, God,” somebody else said.

  The Thing turned to the stewardess who was still working on the dying man. She stood up. She had made a valiant effort and her uniform was blood-smeared. The passengers watched.

  “What work do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “You’re going to suck me off!” the Thing said.

  “No! Never!”

  “You have no choice. My will is stronger than yours. You will do it . . . ”

  And out of that globular head, down near the tiny legs, suddenly a long wiry thin pole-like antenna sprung out. It was silver yet skin-like. It quivered and glittered, hung out there. The stewardess moved toward it. She lifted the whole apparatus upwards, then stuck the end of it into her mouth. Her ears quivered and the saliva ran down her jaws. She went to it as the Thing grabbed her hair with its tiny hands. The jet passed through a rain cloud. There was momentary darkness, then light as the Thing said, “Get it all, you bitch! Get it all!”

  It was going to be another of those flights, another late arrival at LAX.

  The Lady with the Legs

  I first saw her in a bar on Alvarado Street. Lisa, that is. I was 24 years old, she about 35. She was sitting about bar center, and there was an empty stool on either side of her.

  Compared to the average woman who came to that bar, she was a beauty. Her face was a bit round, and her hair didn’t seem exceptional, but there was a quietness in the way she sat, and a sadness. I also sensed an eerie quality about her.

  I left my stool to go to the men’s room. I checked her twice, walking by, once from each side. She was small, a bit squat, but with shapely buttocks. But the most marvelous part of her was the legs: neat ankles, perfect calves, knees that ached to be squeezed, and also wondrous thighs.

  It was as if that part of her body had maintained as the remainder had begun to lose out.

  Her chin was too round, and her face was slightly puffy. She looked alcoholic.

  Her high-heeled shoes were black and shiny, and she had three fake-gold bracelets on her left arm; also a dark mole just above the wrist. She was smoking a long cigarette and staring down into her drinking glass. She appeared to be drinking scotch along with a bottle of beer for a chaser.

  I went back to my stool, finished my whiskey sour and nodded the bartender in for another. He trotted off. When he came back with my drink, I asked him about the lady with the legs.

  “Oh,” he said, “that’s Lisa.”

  “She looks pretty good,” I said. “How come none of the men sit near her?”

  “That’s easy,” he answered. “She’s crazy.”

  Then he walked off.

  I picked up my drink and walked down to Lisa. I took the stool to her left, lit a cigarette and had a hit of my drink. I was fairly intoxicated.

  I picked up my whiskey sour and drained it, nodded the bartender in. “A refill for me and the lady. Also, two Heinekens for chasers.”

  Hearing that, Lisa knocked off her drink.

  When the new ones arrived, she took a hit of hers, and I took a hit of mine.

  Then we both just sat there, looking straight ahead.

  Maybe a couple of minutes passed. Then she spoke: “I don’t like people, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You look like a mean son of a bitch. Are you?”

  “No.”

  She knocked off her drink, took a good gulp of beer. I followed suit.

  “I’m crazy,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you crazy?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  I waved the bartender in.

  “I’ll buy the next,” Lisa said.

  She ordered the refills like one who had done that any number of times. When the drinks arrived, I said, “Thank you, Lisa.”

  “You’re welcome . . . .What’s your name?”

  “Hank.”

  “You’re welcome, Hank.”

  Lisa took a sip, then glanced at me. “Are you crazy enough to break a bar mirror?”

  “I think I already have.”

  “Where was it?”

  “The Orchid Room.”

  “The Orchid Room is a stupid place.”

  “I don’t go there anymore.”

  Lisa took a big drain of beer, set her bottle down, then sighed, “Well, I’m going to break this bar mirror.”

  “Go,” I told her, “ahead.”

  Lisa drained her scotch, then stood up and grabbed her beer bottle.

  I saw her raise it over her head. I leaped up to grab her arm, but I was a bit late: I only slowed her overhand toss just a fraction.

  The Heineken bottle looped in a slow, high arc toward the bar mirror as my mind quickly said, “No, no, no, NO!”

  There was a sheer blasting sound as shards of glass came leaping out like giant icicles, and for some strange reason the lights went out.

  It was frightening, glamorous and beautiful.

  I drained my drink.

  In the dark I saw much white rushing toward us. It was the bartender, most of him shirt and apron. He was moving fast.

  “YOU CRAZY BITCH!” he screamed. “I’LL KILL YOU!”

  I put Lisa behind me.

  I found my beer bottle. I tried to time it as he came in. I was lucky. I caught him above the left temple. But he didn’t fall. He just stood there in the dark in all his white. He was like a doorman waiting for a cab.

  I switched the bottle to my left hand and cracked him on the right temple. He fell toward the bar, caught himself by grabbing the edge with both hands. He held there a moment, then began to tilt toward Alvarado Street.

  When he hit the floor, the lights went on again.

  For a second it was as if everybody were frozen in the light: the patrons, me, Lisa, the barkeep.

  Then I yelled, “LET’S GO!”

  I grabbed Lisa by the arm and pulled her toward the rear exit.

  Then we were in the alley, and I yanked her along.

  “COME ON! COME ON! HURRY!”

  “I CAN’T RUN IN THESE GODDAMNED HIGH-HEELED SHOES!”

  “TAKE THEM OFF!”

  Lisa stopped and pulled them off, handed one to me. She took the other, and we ran down the alley.

  When we got to the end, I looked back. We weren’t being followed.

  “All right, put your shoes back on.”

  She worked at it, slipping the first one on. Then holding to my shoulder, she got the other one on. Then she just stood there, swaying.

  “Okay,” I said, “come on!”

  “Where we going?”

  “To my place.”

  We were at the end of the alley near the corner
. Then I saw a bus pull up to expel a fare. I waved at the bus and pulled Lisa toward it. The driver had closed the door, but he saw us. He was a nice sort and reopened the door. I pushed Lisa on and dropped in the fare. I tried to pull her to a seat, but she just grabbed onto the pole above the money meter and wobbled about there.

  She glared at me through mad green eyes. “SHIT! I WANT A CAB! I’M A LADY! I DON’T RIDE A FUCKING BUS! I DON’T RIDE A FUCKING BUS!”

  Lisa was like a beautiful drunken gazelle, her miraculous buttocks swaying to the rocking of the bus.

  “I WANT A CAB! I’M A LADY! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

  “Baby, it’s only four blocks.”

  “SHIT! she screamed. “SHIT!”

  The next stop was ours. I pulled the cord. The bus pulled up and stopped.

  I pried Lisa’s hands from the pole, got her about the waist and pulled her down the steps to the street.

  The bus driver looked at me through the open door.

  “Good luck, buddy. You’re going to need it.”

  “You’re jealous,” I said.

  He laughed, closed the door, and drove off into the night.

  Lisa appeared to be getting drunker, and I wasn’t too well off myself. I walked her along, one of my arms about her waist, the other pulling her right arm about my neck. She was rocking and staggering. Her beautiful legs were giving up.

  “Doncha have a fucking car?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a bum!”

  “Yes.”

  We were slowly and laboriously nearing my apartment.

  “You got anything to drink up there? If you don’t have anything to drink up there, I’m not coming!”

  “Lots of bottles of wine . . . .The best . . . .”

  “I’m sick,” she said.

  Lisa lurched to the left. I was too drunk to right her. We fell. Luckily, there was a large hedge on that side. We pummeled down into it.

  I hit the greenery, rolled backward, and was upon my back on the sidewalk. I got myself up. Then I looked down.

  And there in the moonlight was Lisa, half spread in the hedge and half upon the sidewalk. She was hanging from one side, dangling. Her skirt was pulled back, exposing the most beautiful legs on Earth. I stared in disbelief.

  But I gathered myself, knowing that a possible prowl car was always any given moment away.

  “Lisa,” I said, “LISA! PLEASE WAKE UP!”

  “Uh . . . .”

  “THE COPS ARE COMING!”

  It did something to her. As I yanked her out of the hedge, she made her legs behave. It was the act of a terrorized will . . .

  I got her to the front doorway of the apartment, got her into the lobby, and moved her toward the elevator. I hit the button, the lift was there, and I worked her in. I hit the floor button and held Lisa upright, waiting.

  “I miss my son,” she said. “I want my baby.”

  “Sure you do,” I said.

  I got her out of there and down to my door. As I opened it, she leaned forward against me and we both fell forward into there . . . .

  Lisa got up, straightened her nylons, picked up her purse, walked to a chair across the room, sat down, and fumbled in her purse for cigarettes. Outside in the night the mostly red neon of L.A. poured in.

  I opened a bottle of wine for Lisa and poured her a water-glassful. To the slight sound of nylon rubbing, she crossed her magic legs.

  On the couch across from her I had my own bottle, had poured my own glassful. I drained it, poured another.

  Lisa looked at me. Her eyes got large and larger. She looked as if she were going nuts. Then she spoke: “You think you’re hot shit! You think you’re Mr. Van Bilderasss!”

  I was down to my shorts and undershirt. They were soiled and ripped.

  I got up.

  I pranced.

  I slapped my legs.

  “Hey, baby, you think you got good legs? Look at these!”

  Then I pushed my chest out and made a bicep out of my right arm. ”Look at that, baby! I’ve decked many a slimy bastard with one punch!”

  I walked back to the couch, sat down, drained half my glass. Lisa just continued to look at me. Her eyes still got larger and larger and larger.

  “You think you’re Mr. Van Bilderass!”

  “RIGHT!”

  She reached down and got her wine bottle, which she had corked. While looking at me, wild and wide-eyed she was, Lisa slowly lifted the bottle over her head, got her arm into the throw position as I yelled, HOLD IT!”

  And she did.

  I said, “NOW YOU CAN THROW THAT SON OF A BITCH, BUT IF YOU DO, BE SURE YOU KNOCK ME OUT! BECAUSE IF YOU DON’T, IT’S COMING RIGHT BACK AT YOU, AND I’M GOING TO KNOCK YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!”

  While still looking wild-eyed, she slowly lowered the bottle to the floor.

  I walked over, uncorked it, and filled her glass. Then I walked back to the couch and sat down. I was in a great positive state of mind.

  “Now, whore,” I said, “I want you to pull your skirt back a little more . . . .”

  Positive or not, I was still a bit surprised when Lisa did.

  The edge of her skirt was about two inches above her knees. I could see an inch of flesh above the edge of the nylons.

  “Now,” I said, “give me one more inch! No more than that!”

  Lisa tugged her skirt up another inch.

  I walked up and stood in front of her. Each valley and curve of her flesh was amazing. Her black high-heeled shoes glittered.

  “TWIST YOUR ANKLE! KICK YOUR UPPER LEG A BIT!”

  Lisa conceded.

  “NOW STOP!”

  She stopped.

  “NOW GIVE ME ANOTHER HALF INCH!”

  Lisa slipped her skirt up a bit more.

  “YES! THERE!”

  I was ape. I dropped to my knees, peering up her legs.

  Lisa leered at me. “You’re a fucking jerk; you’re nuts!”

  I reached out and grabbed a foot. I kissed that black high-heeled shoe on the side, just near the edge where the nylon was. Then I kissed her ankle.

  “You’re not a killer, are you?” she asked. “One of my friends, she went to this guy’s room, and he tied her to his bed and took out this knife and carved his initials on her . . . . She screamed so loud, the police came and saved her . . . .You’re not—”

  “SHUT UP!”

  I stood up and took it out.

  I spit into my palm and started massaging myself.

  “You fuckin’ whore,” I said.

  I began rubbing with abandon.

  “ANOTHER INCH! SHOW ME ANOTHER INCH!”

  I flailed away.

  “SHOW ME MORE! SHOW ME MORE!”

  It was the secret and the trick and the entirety!

  “THERE! OH, MY GOD!”

  I came.

  The greasy white substance spurted out, a buildup, a release of years of frustration and loneliness. As it gushed out, I ran up to Lisa and spilled the white glue of myself all over her nylons and upper legs. Still spurting, I held it there.

  She screamed and leaped up. “YOU PIG! YOU FUCKING IDIOTIC PIG!”

  I reached up, grabbed the end of my undershirt, and wiped off. Then I walked back to the couch, poured myself a glassful, and lit a cigarette.

  Lisa came out, sat down in her chair and poured herself one. Then she lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, exhaled. And as she exhaled, her voice came out over the top of the smoke: “You poor miserable fuck.”

  “I love you, Lisa,” I said.

  She just looked away to her left.

  Little did I know that that would be the beginning of two of the most miserable and invigorating years of my life.

  When she looked back, she said, “Is this all you have to drink? This cheap fucking wine?”

  “It’s not so bad, Lisa. When I drink it, what I do is think of something pleasant as it runs down my throat—like waterfalls or a bank account of $500. Or sometimes I imagine myself in a castle with a
moat. Or I imagine myself as the owner of a liquor store.

  “You’re crazy,” she said.

  And she was absolutely right.

  Won’t You Be My Valentine?

  Norman clocked them doing 85 going north on the 405, a late model ivory Caddy, he switched on the red, they saw him and slowed. He waved them to the turn-off. They took it and he followed them down. It was 11:55 p.m. on a Wednesday night. But instead of stopping on the main boulevard the Caddy took a quick left and stopped at a residential street, flicked the lights off and sat there. Norman parked behind them, called in a check on the license. Then he got off the cycle and walked toward the driver’s side with his ticket book.

  The driver was a woman, about 32, with dyed red hair. She was smoking a cigarillo. Her only attire was a pair of brown, scratched boots and dirty pink panties. Her breasts were immense. On one of them were tattooed the words LOVE IS SHIT. That must have hurt.

  Two fat men in their mid-forties were in the back seat. The back seat also contained a bar, a TV, and a telephone. The fat men looked very prosperous and relaxed.

  “Your license, please, ma’am . . . ”

  “My license is up my ass,” said the woman.

  “That’s Blanche, officer,” said one of the men. “Now, Blanche, show the officer your license.”

  “It’s up my ass,” said Blanche.

  “I’m going to have to cite you, ma’am, for indecent exposure, speeding, resisting arrest . . . ”

  Blanche turned her face full toward Norman. She spit out the cigarillo. Her large lipstick mouth snarled, showing broken yellow teeth.

  “Shit, man, whattya mean? Under arrest? For fuckin’ WHAT?”

  “Your license, please.”

  “My license? Here’s my fuckin’ license! Take a good look at it!”

  Blanche took two hands and lifted her huge left breast, which she plopped out over the edge of the window.

  “Blanche,” said the same fat man who had spoken before, “show the officer your license.”

  “Officer,” said the other fat man, “we’re sorry for all this. Blanche is very upset. Her sister died in Cleveland last night.”