Body Rides

  Under the bed? It didn’t seem likely, but she went for it anyway. She slipped into the dark space between the box springs and the floor, scooted through, came out the other side and sped on through the glass door to the pool.

  No sign of Vince out here.

  But the pull felt stronger than ever.

  She knew why; she was too far away from her body. And maybe she’d been away too long without landing in someone.

  Better find him quick, or yer gonna get jerked back.

  Fighting against the pull, she swerved toward the den door. She slipped through.

  Nobody here.

  Not even any good places to hide, except behind the bar.

  She didn’t expect to find Vince there, but figured she might as well check. Besides, she could just continue on through the cupboards and wall – a short cut into the living room.

  Going in low, she rushed through the legs of a bar stool. Then she entered the wooden front of the bar counter, slid through as if it were air, and collided with someone.

  She yelped with fright.

  But it only took a moment to figure out that she was inside Vince Conrad.

  He was frightened, trembling.

  He hadn’t taken time to change his clothes after returning from Video City. He still wore the warmup suit. He was sweating inside it. Sweating and shaking.

  He held a revolver in one hand.

  He was sitting on the floor, knees up, inside the nook behind his bar. Such an obvious hiding place that it seemed a little pathetic to Sue.

  This the best ya could do?

  But she realized that he was too scared to think straight.

  You never know, he was thinking. Maybe they’ve got phone trouble. Damn cell phones. Maybe the stupid assholes didn’t have it turned on.

  Yeah, maybe that’s it. I shouldn’t have tried. Should’ve just waited for them to call me, like we planned.

  Vince glanced at the luminous face of his wristwatch.

  1:16

  What am I scared of? Leslie isn’t even supposed to show up till two.

  But he won’t wait for two. Not my Leslie.

  Bet he watched me drop the bag in. Maybe waited a minute or two just to be safe, then came right along to pick it up. At which point my pals performed their little ‘drive-by’ number.

  Should’ve happened ten, fifteen minutes ago.

  Sue figured that ten or fifteen minutes ago was probably when Vince had started to panic. He would’ve been in his car, hurrying home. So he must’ve been expecting the call on his own cell phone.

  For all I know, Leslie hasn’t even shown up yet.

  Sure wouldn’t be his style, but . . .

  Delays happen. I shouldn’t panic. Maybe he decided to play by the rules for the first time in his life . . .

  Sure.

  They didn’t get him, that’s the thing. Stupid assholes missed him. ‘Oh, yeah, man, no sweat, we blow his fuckin head off.’ Yeah, right, sure.

  Who the hell knows if they even tried? Took my money and went home and laughed. ‘Yeah, man, we sure pulled one on that dumb-ass ofay.’

  Shit.

  I’ll kill their asses, that’s what I’ll do. Think they can fuck with me.

  In a mind-film, he saw himself facing the four men at night in an alley. He’s pointing his revolver at them. They’re shaking their heads, waving their hands and pleading, ‘Hey, it’s cool. Chill, man. Please! Hey, now. It’s cool.’

  ‘Not cool,’ Vince tells them.

  On a different level, one that seemed somewhat vague to Sue, Vince considered ‘Not cool’ to have been a very cool thing to say to these guys.

  Pleased with himself, he opens fire on them.

  The revolver jumps in his hand and spits out fire. His bullets smack the four men, throwing them backward. Slammed against the brick wall, they jerk and prance as each new slug punches in.

  He pumps more and more rounds into them.

  Fifteen, twenty.

  The magic revolver keeps on firing.

  ‘Nobody fucks with me!’ he yells.

  When all four men are sprawled on the alley pavement, he walks over to them, bends down and gives each guy a slug in the head.

  That’s what I’ll do to them, he thinks.

  But Sue knew he had no intention of doing any such thing. He had never fired a real gun at anyone in his entire life. He would like to blow them all away, but he’s too frightened. He hopes that he will never see them again.

  Even though the shootout was nothing more than a fantasy, it seemed to make Vince feel better, for some reason. He wasn’t quite as frightened as before.

  Teach them to fuck with me, he thought.

  But his fear returned in a cold rush at the sudden image of Glitt floating like a black shadow into the den.

  Nah, nah, nah. He’ll have to break in, first. I’ll hear it. Then I’ll know where he’s coming from. He won’t stand a chance.

  Vince imagined himself standing up very suddenly behind the bar, surprising Glitt.

  Don’t say a word to him, just blow him away. That’s the mistake they make in all the movies – talking. You always gotta give a fucking speech, explain everything. Hey, you’re gonna kill the bastard anyway, why not spill your guts for five minutes, tell him everything you know? Meanwhile, you lose your chance and he nails you.

  This is all a movie to him, Sue thought. He’s playing the bad guy in a crummy film.

  Screw the chit-chat. Wait till he’s good and close, then pop up and blow him out of his fucking shorts. Boom boom boom, end of story. Call the cops. ‘This is the guy that butchered my wife. Know who he is? The Beast of Belvedere?’

  Shit, don’t say that. They’ll wonder how come I know.

  Another mind-film rolled. In this one, Vince saw himself at night, leaning over the stern of a power boat and pulling a man out of the water. A skinny, naked man with two bullet holes in him and a knife clamped in his teeth.

  Don’t tell the cops anything. Not about who he is, anyway. They’re gonna figure it out – probably run his fingerprints.

  What if they also find out I had a houseboat in Sausalito back in those days?

  Shit.

  Gotta make it so they can’t identify him. Wreck his face, smash his teeth. Maybe cut off his fingertips and put them down the garbage disposal.

  Long as they can’t i.d. him, they’ll never figure things out. All those years ago. It’s not exactly something they’re gonna guess – nobody goes off the Golden Gate and lives.

  Only reason he made it . . .

  Maybe he won’t kill me. Shit, you don’t kill the guy who pulled you out of the drink. I saved his fucking life, that’s what I did. Nursed him back to health. Hid him out for a whole month.

  Vince felt a surge of hope, but it didn’t last long.

  Only thing is, he said we’re even. Way back when he did Jackie for me.

  Vince saw Glitt standing in front of him, smirking, saying, ‘That makes us even, Vincent. Her life for mine. No more favors. From now on, you want me to take care of a problem, you pay.’

  Sue was astonished. She could hardly wait to tell Neal and Marta all the news. Then she remembered that she wouldn’t be able to tell Neal. Her eagerness suddenly crumbled. She felt like crying.

  ‘I hope Glitt DOES get ya!’ she shouted inside Vince’s mind. ‘Hope he nails yer ass!’

  . . . have sent those guys to hit him. Should’ve just told him the truth. He might’ve given me an extra day or two to come up with the money.

  While Vince was telling that to himself, Sue found something else going on in his mind. There seemed to be a distant observer who was thinking that the loss of the money had been nothing more than an excuse for hiring the gunmen. Vince had wanted, for a long time, to have Glitt killed. He’d been putting it off, but he’d wanted to get it done.

  Dead men tell no tales to the D.A. – tales that could put Vince on death row. And dead men don’t get pissed off and come after you.

  He m
ight’ve knocked me around some. Wouldn’t have killed me, though. I mean, shit, it wasn’t my fault those fucks came along and stole . . .

  Those fucks, Sue thought. He means us.

  You don’t kill the goose that lays the golden egg.

  But you sure as shit kill the goose that arranged to have you whacked.

  For that . . .

  I oughta call it off! Tell those assholes to keep the five grand and go home. Leslie’ll give me a break.

  He looked again at his wristwatch.

  1:19

  Still might be time! He’s not SUPPOSED to be there till two, damn it!

  Plenty of time to call it off . . .

  If their phone’s working, this time.

  Though part of Vince seemed eager to call off the hit, he remained in his hiding place behind the bar. Because another part of him figured he wouldn’t be able to get through, anyway. And another part was certain that his hired gunmen had already made their attempt, but failed. And still another part wanted very much for the gunmen to go ahead with the ambush – if they hadn’t already done so – if they could do it right.

  But if they don’t try to kill him, he might take it easy on me.

  But if they try and succeed, he’ll be out of . . .

  Bells and shrill beeps erupted throughout the house.

  Vince jumped as if kicked by the sudden noise. Even as the shock blasted through him, however, he realized that the chaos of alarms came from his various telephones.

  Relief surged through him.

  It’s them! They nailed the son-of-a-bitch!

  He looked again at his wristwatch.

  1:20

  Still early. It worked! Just like I planned! Took a few minutes longer, that’s all.

  Relief changing to elation, Vince scooted out of the nook and stood up. As he hurried around the end of the bar, Sue felt a strange, tight, giggly sensation inside his throat and chest.

  He crossed the den at an angle, heading for the nearest telephone. He couldn’t see the phone in the darkness, but he knew exactly where it should be: on top of the lamp table just past the end of the sofa.

  A stride or two away from the phone, he squealed, ‘Yes! They gotcha! Ha!’

  He switched the revolver to his left hand, wiped his sweaty right hand on the leg of his warmup trousers, turned his back to the den and picked up the telephone.

  ‘Hello?’

  No answer.

  All he heard was an empty hiss.

  It’s their car phone, all right!

  ‘Hello?’ he asked again. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ Glitt said.

  The voice entered Vince’s right ear from the telephone. It entered both ears from behind him.

  He suddenly felt as if the floor had dropped out from under his feet.

  He whirled around.

  There stood Glitt, close enough to touch, blacker than the darkness of the room, a cellular phone pressed to the side of his shaggy black beard.

  7.

  By the time Marta had finished shoving five more cartridges into the magazine, her hands were shaking from the struggle, the livid tip of her thumb looked as if it were dented in to the bone and her body was pouring sweat. The sweat made her eyes sting. Everywhere else, it tickled. A hundred dribbles seemed to be sliding down her skin, and every one of them made her itch like crazy.

  She couldn’t ignore them, but she refused to deal with them.

  If only she hadn’t taken the shower . . . that’s what had made her so hot in the first place.

  What was I supposed to do, drive around in the Jeep for all the world to see looking like I caught a blood-bomb in the face?

  It didn’t help matters that Neal’s room was so hot.

  Get it done and I can go outside where it’s cool.

  Get back to Sue.

  Left her alone way too long.

  And God only knows what’s going on wherever she went with that bracelet.

  At last, Marta shoved the magazine up the handle of the pistol. It stopped without clicking into place, so she pounded it home with the heel of her hand.

  ‘There!’

  She smacked the pistol down on top of the dresser. Hands free, she wrenched the towel from between her thighs. She furiously wiped the sweat off her body.

  This is all taking way too long!

  She flung the towel aside, shut the dresser drawer, sank to a crouch and opened the bottom drawer. She’d seen Neal go there for swimming trunks, for different kinds of shorts.

  She wanted pockets.

  She found a pair of gray hiking shorts and shook them open. They had very large pockets in front.

  She put them on. They were so large that, even with the zipper up and the waist button fastened, they barely touched her anywhere.

  Holding them up, she hurried over to Neal’s closet. She found some belts on a hook. Spreading her legs to keep the shorts from dropping, she slipped a black leather belt through the loops. Then she jerked the belt tight and fastened its buckle.

  She pulled a plaid shirt off a hanger.

  On her way back to the dresser, she shoved her arms into the short sleeves. In the mirror, the shirt was wide open, trailing behind her. Her breasts gleamed and bounced.

  Neal’d love to see me like . . .

  Dead. He’s dead.

  He’ll never . . .

  Don’t think about him!

  She slapped her hand down on the pistol, snatched it off the dresser and shoved it into her right front pocket. A few rows of cartridges still remained in the plastic rack from the ammo box. She upended the rack into her hand, then dumped the cartridges into her left front pocket.

  Grabbing the keys, she rushed out of the room. She fastened a few shirt buttons on her way to the front door. Moments later, she was outside. The night felt cool and wonderful.

  She rushed down the stairs, then ran as fast as she could for the rear gate. Her pockets swung with the weights of the pistol and ammo. They bumped against her thighs.

  Switching the key case to her left hand, she used her right to open the gate.

  She raced into the alley.

  As she ran toward the rear of her Jeep, she glanced into the gloom of the car port. And saw something against the passenger door. A clump of blackness. That moved as if it were alive, swaying and squirming.

  She lurched to a halt.

  She stared.

  What is it?

  The black clump had a shine to it – satin?

  Ah, it’s only Count Dracula having a late-night snack.

  The idea started to make Marta smile.

  Then she thought, Shit!

  She yelled, ‘Hey! What’re you doing!’

  The blackness swirled and broke away from Sue.

  No longer black, it rushed Marta. A man, pale and skinny, a black cape flowing behind him. Hairless. Naked in front all the way down to the tops of his black boots.

  I don’t believe this, Marta thought. We’ve got enough troubles without . . .

  ‘I am the Creeper!’ he announced.

  ‘Stop!’

  He didn’t stop. He charged toward her, teeth bared, hands high and reaching out, penis erect, boots clumping on the pavement.

  ‘The night belongs to me!’

  Marta jerked the pistol out of her pocket. Before she could bring it up, the Creeper clutched her shoulders and drove her backward. She jammed the muzzle into his belly and pulled the trigger.

  She heard the hammer clank down.

  But no gunshot.

  Her back hit the alley. The Creeper slammed down on top of her. As his penis poked hard against the crotch of her shorts, his belly struck the upthrust barrel of her pistol.

  His eyes bulged. He grunted, his sour breath gushing against Marta’s face.

  She rolled and flung him off. He landed on his back. Sprawled there, he clutched his belly and writhed.

  Marta got to her feet. She jacked a cartridge into the chamber and took aim at his face.

/>   ‘No!’ he gasped. He flung up his arms and crossed them in front of his face as if he thought they might keep bullets out. ‘Don’t shoot!’

  ‘What did you do to her?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  ‘Get up!’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘Now!’

  He rolled over, got to his hands and knees, then stood up and pulled the cape around his body as if he’d suddenly turned modest.

  ‘Over to the Jeep,’ Marta told him.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘See what you did to my friend.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything!’ He turned around and started walking toward the car port. ‘She was already like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Like she’s passed out.’ He glanced over his shoulder at Marta. ‘Is she drunk, or . . .?’

  ‘None of your business. What were you doing back here?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, and entered the shadows beside the Jeep.

  ‘My ass,’ Marta said.

  As if suddenly discovering enthusiasm, he proclaimed, ‘I was trying to help her. I could see that something wasn’t right. I thought she might need help.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Now once again a black shape in the gloom, he stopped beside Sue’s door. Marta poked his back with the pistol.

  ‘Keep moving,’ she said.

  He took a few more steps. Marta halted at the door and told him, ‘That’s far enough.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She hunched over the door. Sue was still seated. She was breathing hard, as if exhausted or frightened or excited. In the near darkness, nothing looked wrong.

  Marta switched the pistol to her left hand. With her right, she felt for Sue.

  ‘I just wanted to help her,’ the Creeper repeated.

  Marta’s hand found a roll of fabric bunched a few inches below Sue’s chin. Beneath the roll, she found bare skin. She touched one of Sue’s breasts. It was wet and slippery.

  Not saying a word, she opened the glove compartment and took out a flashlight the size of a marking pen. She thumbed the switch. A tube of white light leaped out.

  Sue no longer wore her seat belt. Her knit shirt was rucked up above her breasts.

  ‘I was . . . checking her heartbeat.’

  Marta didn’t say a word.

  Sue’s breasts had goosebumps. Her nipples were erect – and shiny.