Funland

  She danced on the sand, spinning and swinging the blanket overhead like a giant flag.

  Baxter pulled his drawstring tight and knotted it. He descended the stairs. Not rushing. Watching Kim cavort.

  He stepped off the last stair. The sand was soft and silent under his shoes. It pushed this way and that as he walked toward her. He wanted to run at her and grab her and carry her to safety. But if he made quick moves, she would flee, laughing.

  He stopped. “Come here,” he said.

  She smiled. She draped the blanket over her shoulders. “What’ll you give me?”

  “A kiss.”

  “What else?”

  “Kim, come on. I mean it. This place gives me the creeps.”

  “I think it’s neat.”

  He made a dash for her.

  Kim lurched aside. He grabbed a handful of the blanket, but she got away. Laughing, just as he’d guessed. She ran along the beach, kicking up plumes of sand, angling gradually closer to the dark shadow cast by the boardwalk. Baxter, in pursuit, couldn’t rush full speed because of the blanket. He gathered it in as he chased her. Once it was wadded and pinned under his left arm, he began to catch up. But Kim was already far ahead of him.

  She looked over her shoulder. In a singsong voice she called, “Slowpoke, slowpoke, you’re so slow it ain’t no joke.”

  Doesn’t she realize?

  Realize what? We’re alone out here. She’s having a good time. I’m the one with the problem.

  But Baxter didn’t like the way she was getting closer to the boardwalk, closer to its long shadow and the dark land of pilings below the fun zone.

  She glanced back at him again. “Catch!” she called, and pulled the sweatshirt over her head and tossed it high. The wind snagged the shirt and tossed it toward the shadow. Baxter almost caught a sleeve as it tumbled away. He dodged to the left and snatched it off the sand at the edge of the darkness. He ran a few more strides, then had an idea. He stopped.

  “So long, Kim. Have fun walking back to the motel.”

  She slowed. She halted. She turned around and put her hands on her hips. Her chest was heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her breasts rose and fell. The rest of her skin was dusky. Her breasts looked as if they’d been dipped in cream. And the cream had been licked off the nipples, leaving them dark.

  Baxter stared at her. She stared back.

  “I don’t think you’re going anywhere,” she said.

  The beach seemed no less forbidding than before, and Baxter felt as if eyes were watching from the black area under the boardwalk, but Kim was right. He no longer had the urge to escape from this place.

  Kim was bare to the waist, exposed and vulnerable.

  Baxter wanted her.

  He wanted her right here, right now.

  Hands still on her hips, Kim ambled toward him.

  He glanced into the dark forest of pilings, and shivered, and knew he wouldn’t run.

  His fear, moments ago crying out warnings to flee, now felt like icy fingers caressing him, tickling and stroking him, the fingers of a phantom whore sick with lust and aching for the party to start.

  Kim halted a few paces in front of him.

  “You must be freezing,” he said.

  “I’m not. Feels good.”

  He supposed the running had warmed her up. He no longer felt the cold himself. The shivers that still shook his body had little to do with the chilly wind.

  “Take off the rest,” he said.

  In the moonlight he saw her smile. “Does this mean you aren’t spooked anymore?” she asked.

  “Just makes it better.”

  Balancing on one foot, she pulled off a shoe and sock. “I feel so daring, don’t you?”

  Baxter nodded. He glanced into the darkness. The icy fingers of his fear probed him and squeezed.

  Kim hopped, her breasts jiggling as she removed the shoe and sock from her other foot. “You just gonna stand there?” she asked, untying the knot at her waist.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Her sweatpants fell. She stepped on them to free her feet from the elastic around the cuffs. Then she came to Baxter, but instead of embracing him, she took the blanket. She carried it into the boardwalk’s shadow. As the darkness closed over her, the fear squeezed Baxter hard, too hard suddenly, no longer a lusting slut but a cruel hag hurting him.

  Kim shook the blanket open.

  “Not over there,” he said. “Let’s put it here in the moonlight.”

  “What if somebody comes along?” Kim asked. “This is a lot more private.”

  “I want to be able to see you.”

  “Ah-hah.” She came out, and Baxter’s fear eased its clutch. Kim turned her back to the ocean wind. She unfurled the blanket. Squatting, she lowered it to the sand. As she pinned down two of the corners with her shoes, Baxter caught the other end and held it down. He took his shoes off and used them as weights.

  Kim crawled onto the blanket. She lay down. She rolled onto her back and folded her hands beneath her head. “This is really great,” she said.

  “Is it too cold for the oil?” Baxter asked, his voice shaking.

  “I want it,” Kim said.

  He found the plastic bottle in his pocket. He tossed it onto the blanket at her feet, then took off his socks and sweatsuit. He knelt in front of her.

  She lay straight, legs tight together, and where her skin was tanned it was almost the same shade as the sand alongside the dark blanket, but bright compared to the shadow just beyond her head. Her hands were still pressed beneath her head, her elbows out to the sides. She squirmed slightly, as if relishing the feel of the blanket or impatient for the touch of his hands.

  Baxter popped open the bottle’s squirt top. He squeezed a line of oil up Kim’s right leg. She flinched and arched her back when the stream crossed her groin, and seemed to relax again as it drew a silver trail down her left leg. Baxter closed the bottle and dropped it. He slid his hands up her skin, spreading the slick film. Its sweet coconut aroma reminded him of cotton candy, smelled good enough to eat, made him want to lick it off her.

  Kim’s shaved shins were a little bristly, but her thighs felt like silk.

  She opened her legs. She moaned and writhed as he rubbed her.

  Baxter, leaning forward, roamed her with slippery hands. The look and feel of her were almost too much to bear, and so was the wind. It stroked the backs of his legs, swept between his legs and licked his groin, stole the heat from the cleft of his buttocks, scurried up his back, ruffled his hair.

  Hoping to calm himself before it was too late, he rested his hands on Kim’s hips and lowered his head and shut his eyes.

  She had said it would be neat.

  What an understatement.

  They’d already made love twice in the motel room before going to sleep. And countless times during the previous months. But it had never been like this.

  And they were only beginning. She hadn’t even touched him yet.

  Should’ve started with her back, he thought.

  He felt Kim’s hands. They covered his hands and slid them down between her legs.

  He lifted his head. “Eager beaver,” he said.

  She smiled and squirmed and stretched her arms out straight overhead.

  He stroked her with his thumbs.

  She gasped.

  That couldn’t have hurt her, he thought, and then she scooted away, thighs sliding under his hands, and he thought: How’s she doing that?

  “Bax!” she shrieked.

  He looked up.

  The shadow of the boardwalk was eating her, sucking her in.

  No, not the shadow.

  Two vague, hunched shapes dragged Kim by her wrists.

  “No!” he yelled.

  She was already gone to the waist. Her moonlit lap bucked and tossed. Her legs kicked.

  Baxter caught one flailing ankle. He clutched it with both hands. In spite of the oil, he held on to it. But he didn’t stop her. He was dragged alo
ng with her, his knees rucking up the blanket and pushing ruts in the sand.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “What’re you…?”

  His voice froze in his throat.

  Beyond the two attackers, in the darkness under the boardwalk, were others. They scurried out from behind the pilings—bent, ragged shapes. Eight of them? Ten?

  Baxter released Kim’s foot.

  The moonlight lost her.

  “Don’t leave me!” she squealed.

  Baxter staggered to his feet.

  He stood motionless, knowing he had time to flee. Then, with a growl of fierce despair he rushed into the dark. He hurled himself at the pair dragging Kim. He tore them down. On top of them, he yelled for Kim to run. Bony arms hooked around him. Fingers clawed his skin. Teeth clamped on his arm and thigh. He cried out with pain and punched and tried to push himself up, but the savage things clutched him, bit him. He gagged on their stench.

  “Get up! Bax! Quick!”

  “Run!” he yelled. Damn her, why hadn’t she run? Didn’t she see all those others?

  Where are the others? he wondered. They should’ve been on him by now.

  He pounded a fist into one of the foul shapes beneath him. This time, he did some damage. The guy wheezed and jerked and released him. He drove an elbow down into the midsection of the other.

  Suddenly he was free. On hands and knees, he scurried off their twisting bodies. He looked up and saw Kim.

  She had found a club of driftwood. She stood tall in the dark of the shadow, between Baxter and the hideous pack, swinging the wood as if she were Davy Crockett defending a wall of the Alamo with an empty musket. None in the pack seemed brave enough to attack and risk a blow.

  Baxter stared at Kim—astonished and proud and afraid.

  He struggled to his feet.

  And glimpsed a smudge of motion high to his left. He turned his head in time to see a crone leap from the top of the boardwalk’s railing. She sailed down, arms out like the wings of a giant bat, black rags flapping. Kim saw her. Tried to leap back. But the hag folded over her, smashed her to the sand.

  The silent pack rushed in.

  Baxter rushed the pack.

  Eleven

  Mag and Charlie shambled out from beneath the boardwalk and made their way toward the stairs.

  “No fair,” Charlie said. “No fair no fair.”

  “Clam up,” said Mag.

  “Gonna miss out!” he whined.

  Mag cuffed his arm.

  He grabbed the hurt and stumbled out of reach. “Gonna miss out!”

  “We was picked,” Mag said. “’Sides, we’re gonna have us some fun.” She waved the motel key at him and grinned.

  “I wanna be in on it.”

  “Well, you ain’t.”

  “No fair.”

  They climbed the stairs. As they scuffed across the boardwalk, Charlie heard a faint, muffled scream. He knew it came from the Funhouse. Without him. Moaning, he punched the side of his head.

  “Hey.”

  He scowled at Mag. She dug into a pocket of her coat, pulled out a pint bottle, and offered it to him. He snatched it from her hand. A couple of hits, and he felt a little better.

  Still wasn’t fair, though.

  He took another tug at the bottle, then reached it back toward Mag.

  She waved it away. “G’on, keep it,” she said. “I got more.”

  Whenever he saw Mag around, she seemed to be equipped with a fresh bottle. And it was usually good Scotch, not cheap wine. He didn’t know what her story was, but figured maybe she got disability pay. She didn’t seem crippled up, but she might’ve pulled a cheat on the state. That would explain her riches. Disability was a lot more than general relief, maybe three times as much. On the other hand, maybe she had some money put away. Or she might just be better at begging. He’d seen her at it, now and again, and she never outright asked for money. All she did was look her marks in the eye and say, “God bless you,” and more often than not they’d fork over some change.

  Charlie kept the bottle and worked on it, and it was good stuff. It heated him up. It gave him a buzz. By the time he finished the bottle, he was following Mag up the stairway to the motel’s balcony.

  She unlocked the door of room 210, and they stepped inside. Charlie shut the door. Mag flicked a wall switch, and a lamp came on beside the bed.

  “Land,” she said, “ain’t this the berries, though?”

  Charlie stood by the door and watched while she wandered the room. She seemed awfully chipper about being here. She found a wine bottle in the wastebasket and upended it, dribbling the last few drops into her mouth. On the dresser was a pack of Salems. She shook a cigarette out, stuck it between her lips, and fired it with a match. She ran her hands over the bed. Plucking the cigarette from her mouth, she picked up a pillow and rubbed her face with it. She stopped at each of the open suitcases and inspected what was inside. Then she went into the bathroom.

  From where he stood, Charlie couldn’t see what she was doing in there. Maybe she’d found something good. He hobbled forward and stopped when he spied her through the doorway.

  Mag’s coat was a heap on the floor. She stood behind it, unbuttoning the front of her sweater. The cigarette hung from a corner of her lips, its ribbon of smoke curling into one eye and making her squint. She got the sweater off, dropped it onto her coat, and started fumbling with the buttons of her old plaid shirt.

  “What’re y’doing?” Charlie asked.

  “Mind yer own beezwax.”

  “I wanta go.”

  “Tough toenails.”

  “I’m gonna miss out.”

  “You already missed out. Stop your bellyaching.”

  He guessed she was right. Even if they left right now, it would all be over by the time they got back. “No fair,” he muttered.

  “This here’s your first clean-up,” Mag said. “You oughta be happy you ducked it this long.”

  “Poop,” Charlie said.

  Mag scowled at him, and pulled her shirt off. She wore a gray sweatshirt. She started lifting that, and Charlie caught a glimpse of gray skin blotchy with sores and scabs. He turned away fast.

  Mag giggled. “Oooo, Charlie’s shy.”

  “Ain’t neither,” he said. But he didn’t look again. He crawled onto the bed and flopped. The sheet felt smooth and good against his face. It smelled nice too. He supposed it smelled from the woman they got. Oh, she was sure something, and he was missing all the fun.

  He heard water start to splash, heard the skidding clink of a shower curtain.

  He closed his eyes.

  “Hey! Looky here.”

  He woke up, rolled over, and saw Mag in front of the dresser, facing him. She wore a low-cut white nightie that he could see right through and wished he couldn’t. A string of pearls hung against her bony, mottled chest. There were rings on her fingers, bracelets on her wrists, and a pearl earring on each ear. The lobes of her ears dripped blood onto her shoulders. Her lips were red and glossy. She was grinning at Charlie with brown stubs of teeth as she drew a brush through her long black hair.

  “Ain’t I the purty one?” she asked.

  “Like a whore that’s three weeks dead,” he told her.

  Her eyes bugged out. She hurled the brush. It clopped Charlie over the left eye. As he dropped onto the bed, she rushed at him, squealing. He rolled away and curled up, hugging his head. The mattress rocked him as she leapt onto it.

  “No-count cockless bag of shit!” she cried out.

  Charlie yelped and whimpered as she pranced on the mattress, kicking and stomping him, as she sat on him and yanked his hair and rapped his head with sharp knuckles. Finally she left him alone. But he didn’t move.

  When he heard her weeping, he sat up.

  Mag was sprawled on the carpet, hands tight against her face.

  He got up and went to her.

  He kicked her in the ribs.

  “Even-Steven,” he muttered.

  She just stayed the
re sobbing while Charlie gathered up the man’s clothes and toiletries and took them to the suitcase.

  In a pants pocket, he found a wallet with almost three hundred dollars tucked inside the bill compartment. He didn’t dare take any of the twenties. He’d be in trouble, sure, if he tried that. A few months back, Edgar’d been on clean-up and the next day Nasty Nancy spied him paying for a quart of bourbon with a ten-dollar bill. When you went on clean-up, it was okay to keep clothes. But nothing else.

  Edgar claimed he found his ten on the beach. Nobody bought the story, though, and they’d made him “walk the house.”

  Charlie fingered through the money again. Along with the twenties and a few tens in the man’s wallet, there were eight one-dollar bills. Charlie thought he might take a chance on some of those. Who was to say he didn’t get them from some generous marks?

  He glanced over his shoulder at Mag. She had rolled onto her side, and her head was turned away from him.

  Nobody’d ever know.

  But suddenly his last sight of Edgar filled his head and Charlie shuddered, legs going weak and shaky, scrotum shrinking tight, ice in his stomach, gooseflesh crawling up his spine.

  With trembling hands he closed the wallet and slipped it into the pocket of the man’s pants. In a front pocket he found a key case. He kept that, and put the pants inside the suitcase.

  As he shut the suitcase, Mag came up beside him. He cringed and raised his arms to protect himself, but she didn’t strike.

  “Let me in there,” she said. Charlie stepped back. She brushed past him and stepped to the corner near the wall. There, she opened the woman’s suitcase. She peeled the nightie off. Charlie squeezed his eyes shut. “Damn fool,” she muttered. When he opened them again, she had on shiny pink panties and was stepping into a pair of green slacks. She fastened the slacks. Grinning at Charlie, she lifted a black bra out of the suitcase and draped it over his face. Then she lifted out a green pullover sweater. She put it on. Sighing, she rubbed it against her belly and hanging breasts. “Nice,” she said. “You get yourself some nice duds, Charlie.”

  “I like what I got,” he told her.

  “Damn fool.” She unclasped the pearl necklace and dropped it into the suitcase. She tossed in the rings. She took the earrings from her bloody lobes. Charlie saw that the earrings were for pierced ears, and hers weren’t pierced. At least they hadn’t been.