Flesh (5 page)

Alison leaned against the door frame and watched him descend the stairs. The planking creaked under his weight. At the bottom, he didn’t turn to follow the flagstones, but headed straight across the lawn toward the sidewalk.

Alison yelled, “You snot!”

Then he was gone.

She unlocked the door. As she entered, Helen peeked out of her bedroom. “It’s okay,” Alison told her. “The coast is clear.”

“What happened?” Obviously, she had heard the parting shout.

“A little disagreement.”

“Little?” With a glass of cola in her hand and a bag of potato chips tucked between her arm and side, Helen went over to the recliner and sat down. She was wearing her bathrobe and sagging purple socks. “I heard you come up the stairs, so I made myself scarce. I thought you might bring him in.”

“Nope.” Alison set her flight bag on the coffee table. She sat on the sofa, kicked her shoes off, and swung her legs onto the cushions. Sitting down felt great. She sighed.

“Want a soda or something?”

“No thanks.”

“Chips?” Helen lifted the bag. “They’re sour cream and onion.”

“I’m too upset to eat.”

“That’s when food is best. Fills up that empty feeling.”

“If I ate every time I got upset…”

“You’d be a tub like me,” Helen said, and poked a potato chip into her mouth.

Alison shook her head. “You’re not so fat.”

“I ain’t skin and bones.”

Helen might have been described as “pleasingly plump,” Alison thought, if she’d had a cute face, but she didn’t even have that going for her. She had a pasty complexion, a broad forehead, buggy eyes behind her huge round glasses, an upturned nose that presented a straight-on view into her nostrils, heavy lips, and a neck so thick that it enveloped whatever sunken chin she might have.

“So, you want to tell me about it?” Helen asked as she chewed.

“Evan’s ticked at me because I wouldn’t put out.”

“Figures. He’s a man. A man’s an ambulating cock looking for a tight hole.”

“Real nice, Helen.”

“Real true. Take it from me.”

“You’ve had some bad experiences.”

“So you think I’m wrong?”

“I’d be hard-pressed to argue it,” Alison said, “the way I’m feeling right now.”

“I’ve never in my life been out with a guy who cared about anything but getting into my pants. Never. And that’s saying something. I mean, take a look at me. You’d think they wouldn’t want to touch me with a ten-foot pole. A six-inch pole, that’s another story.” She gasped a short laugh, blowing out a few crumbs of potato chips.

Alison had heard all this, and more, on numerous occasions during the time when she had been rooming with Helen. The young woman was bitter, and with good reason. She had been sexually used and abused by many men, including her stepfather.

Before meeting Helen, Alison had assumed that men would tend to stay clear of someone with Helen’s looks. Not so.

If Helen understood why she was frequently targeted by men, she never let on. But she rarely dated anymore, so maybe she had reached the same conclusion as Alison; that the men saw her as easy prey—that anybody with a face and
body like Helen’s had to be hard up—that she would gladly spread her legs and be grateful for the attention.

“I take it back,” Helen said after washing down a mouthful of potato chips with cola. “I did go out with a guy once who didn’t try to make me. He turned out to be a homo.”

“I want a man who will be my friend,” Alison told her.

“Gotta find yourself a homo, then.”

“But I like sex, too.”

“Then what’s your beef with Evan?”

“It’s turned into too big a deal. I don’t want sex to be the only thing. Maybe not even the
main
thing.”

“Yeah, you and me both. I used to think, if I could just find some guy who looked like he got beat over the head with an ugly stick. But that hasn’t worked out, either. The ugly ones are just as messed up as the handsome ones—maybe even worse.”

“The pits,” Alison muttered.

“So did you and Evan break up, or what?”

“Not exactly. I just told him we need to abstain for a while and see how it goes.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Oh, boy?”

“I bet he wasn’t too crazy about that idea.”

“He didn’t take it very well.”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“If he dumps me over something like this, I’m better off without him.”

“Don’t worry, he won’t dump you.”

“I don’t know. He was acting…pretty spiteful.”

“Sure. He was looking forward to some whoopy. Major disappointment, sob, sob. By tomorrow, though, he’ll be telling himself you just had a bad night, and he’ll be expecting you to come to your senses by the next time he sees you. He’ll probably treat you extra nice, just to be on the safe side.”

“He’ll be in for another disappointment.”

“How long are you planning to hold out?”

“Just long enough to see what happens.”

“Know what I think?” Helen asked, brushing some crumbs off the front of her robe.

“What?”

“I think you’ve just had a bad night, and tomorrow you’ll come to your senses and put out for the guy.”

“You on his side?”

“I know you. You’re angry at him right now, but anger has a way of softening pretty fast and you’re an easy mark. First thing you know, you’ll be feeling sorry for him—and feeling guilty because you’re the reason he’s so miserable. Then you’ll do what’s necessary to cheer him up. This time tomorrow night, you’ll be in the sack with him.”

“No way.”

“You’ll see.”

Alison heard the faint, scuffing sound of footsteps. Someone was climbing the outside stairway. Very slowly. Helen stopped chewing and raised her thick eyebrows.

Alison’s heart pounded hard. “Maybe it’s Celia,” she whispered.

Helen shook her head. “Try again. Wally’s doesn’t close till two.”

“Oh, God. I don’t need this.”

“Want me to tell him you’re in the shower, or something?”

The footsteps came to a stop on the landing just outside the door. “No, I’d better…”

A key snicked into the lock. Alison’s stiff body relaxed, sinking back into the sofa. Mixed with her relief was a hint of disappointment.

Then Celia came in, and Alison jerked upright.

Celia’s right arm was held across her chest by a sling. A bandage covered the right side of her forehead from her eyebrow to her hairline.

“Whoa,” said Helen.

“What
happened?”
Alison asked.

“I got creamed, that’s what.” With her left hand, Celia
swept the jacket off her shoulders. She dropped it, along with her purse, onto the floor beside the door. “Some bastard tried to turn me into a road pizza.”

She limped toward the sofa, wobbling a bit, apparently not only injured but somewhat drunk. After easing herself down beside Alison, she carefully raised her legs onto the coffee table, stretched them out, and moaned.

“You and that stupid bike,” Helen said. “I
told
you you’d get nailed.”

“Take a leap.”

“You were on your bike and a car hit you. Tell me that I’m wrong.”

“How about getting me a drink?”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

“It helps the pain.”

“I’ll get you something,” Alison offered. “What do you want?”

“Anything but beer. I couldn’t look another beer in the face. Bring me some whiskey, okay?”

Alison hurried into the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of Irish whiskey from the cupboard, got a glass, and returned to the living room. She filled the glass halfway and handed it to Celia. “You’re a bud,” Celia said.

“How’d it happen?” Alison asked, sitting down again.

“Some bastard tried to run me down. I was over on Latham Road, you know? On my way back from Four Corners. And this van came down on me. The guy had all kinds of room to go around, but he steered right
at
me. He
intended
to hit me. Some kind of a nut. Anyhow, I tried to get out of his way and the bike flipped. That’s how I got busted up.” She sat up slightly, wincing, and took a drink. Then she settled back. She rested the glass on the lap of her sweatpants.

“He
intended
to hit you?” Helen sounded skeptical.

“You bet your buns.”

“Why would someone—?” Alison began.

“Cause he was a fuckhead, that’s why. And no, I didn’t flip him off. I didn’t do
anything.”

“I’ll just bet,” Helen said.

Celia glared at her. “What’s your problem, your vibrator go on the fritz?”

“Matter of fact—”

“Come on, Helen,” Alison said. “Lay off. She’s hurt, for godsake.”

“I’m pulverized.” Celia took another drink.

“Anything broken?” Alison asked.

“No bones. I’ve got sprains, strains, contusions, abrasions, and general fucking mayhem from head to foot. I was in the emergency room about two hours. On the bright side, my doctor was a hunk. A guy that really enjoyed his job. He checked me out where I wasn’t even hurt.”

“Every cloud has its silver lining,” Helen said.

“Yeah. I’ll probably be hearing from him.” She lifted her glass, held it in front of her eyes, and stared at the amber liquid. “You wanta hear the good part?” she asked. From the tone of her voice, she didn’t sound overjoyed by “the good part.” Helen frowned. Celia kept her eyes on the whiskey. Her jaw moved slightly from side to side, rubbing her lower lip across the edges of her teeth. “The guy that did this to me…he bought the farm.”

“What?” Alison asked. “You mean he—?”

“Crumped, croaked, bit the big one. His van went onto the shoulder of the road after he tried to hit me, and plowed into the guard wall of a bridge. Killed him dead. Then he got his ass cooked.”

“Holy Jesus,” Helen muttered.

“Served the bastard right,” Celia said, and drank her glass empty. “I didn’t even know the guy. So what’s he doing, trying to kill me? Huh? Can’t even go riding my bike without some nut trying to murder me. Served him right. What’d he wanta do that for? He didn’t even know me. But he sure paid. He paid. Wish I coulda seen the look on his face when
he hit the wall. Boy, I bet he was surprised.” She smiled and her chin trembled and she began to weep. She lowered the glass to her lap. It fell over. A few drops of whiskey trickled onto her sweatpants. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed her head back against the sofa cushion and sobbed.

Alison put a hand on Celia’s thigh. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”

“Christ.” Celia sniffed. “The guy got cooked.”

The buzz of the alarm clock startled Jake out of sleep. He killed the noise and pushed himself up on one elbow. Ten o’clock. He’d slept for seven hours. So how come he felt like death warmed over?

Because of yesterday.

Groaning, he swung his legs off the bed, sat up, and rubbed his face.

Yesterday. One charbroiled man hanging out the windshield. One woman with pieces of her brain and skull clinging to the wall and spread around in clumps on the kitchen counter. One man munching on her flesh.

Jake felt sick, remembering.

Then his sickness changed to fear as his mind did a slowmotion replay of Smeltzer going for the shotgun. The patch of skin in Smeltzer’s teeth flapped lazily, sprinkling blood, as he turned and reached. Jake thought,
He’s going for it!
He thought,
This is it!
He fired, feeling the revolver jump, feeling the blasts slap his ears, smelling the pungent smoke, watching Smeltzer jerk each time a bullet kicked into him, saw again how one slug opened his throat and how he drifted
backward, hosing Jake with blood, the skin still clamped in his teeth, his body twitching after he hit the floor, the blood raining down on him.

Jake took a deep, shaky breath, and got to his feet.

I had to do it, he told himself. I’d be dead if I hadn’t dropped him.

It wasn’t an excuse; it was the truth. And he had reminded himself of that truth so many times since last night that he was tired of it.

He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Last night, the water going down the drain had been pink from Smeltzer’s blood. He’d showered until the hot water ran out. Then he had waited half an hour, and taken a second shower. This would be number three.

He stepped under the hot spray and began to soap himself and saw Smeltzer look up at him, ripping a patch of flesh from the woman’s belly. The flesh tore away and he started to turn.
He’s going for it!

“Turn it off!” he snapped. “We’ve seen it, we’ve seen it a hundred times, thank you very much. What is this, the goddamn network?”

Just what it’s like, he thought. How many times had they shown the footage of Hinkley blasting away at Reagan, or the
Challenger
rising beautifully into the sky and blowing up? And each time they show it, you hope it’ll be different this time, you hope they rewrote the script and Hinkley waves instead of shoots, and the
Challenger
makes it into orbit, and you go charging into the kitchen and Smeltzer and his wife are busy mopping the floor and they look at you as if you’re nuts. But the script never changes. Each replay is identical to the last one, no matter how hard you wish it different.

They aren’t mopping. She’s on the floor with just her chin on the end of her neck, and Smeltzer is down on her.
My God what is he doing!

Oh, I do not need this not one little bit. It’s my day off, how about my memory taking the day off, too? Pick up
Kimmy in about an hour. That should help. A lot. Call Applegate first, though, find out when he’ll be winding up the autopsy on Smeltzer—guy must’ve been drugged out, probably angel dust, which is about the only logical explanation for what he did. Eating her, Jesus! Had to be angel dust.

But how does angel dust connect with the van? The two incidents had to be related, somehow. Didn’t they?

When he finished showering, Jake got dressed and made a cup of instant coffee. Then he dialed the morgue. “Betty? It’s Jake.”

“How you doing, fella?”

“Hanging in.”

“I heard about last night. Pretty rough, I guess.”

“I’ve had better times.”

“I’m free tonight, just in case you could use a little loving.”

“Thanks for the offer,” he said. Betty’s idea of a little loving was a lot of hard work. She was a twenty-two-year-old blonde beauty. She had been a champion gymnast in high school, and now her performances were confined to the bedroom. She was truly awesome. Jake’s several encounters with her had been real adventures, but exhausting, and afterward he had always somehow regretted the time spent with her.

He was glad, now, that he had an honest excuse for avoiding Betty. “Afraid I can’t, tonight. This is my weekend with Kimmy.”

“Just let me know.”

“I’ll be sure to. Is Steve around?”

“He’s out for the day.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wouldn’t kid you, fella. He got a call first thing this morning from Dr. Willis—the coroner over in Marlowe? Willis wanted him to take a look at some stiff they turned up.”

“We’ve got stiffs of our own.”

“Willis and Steve are old pals. And Willis has a country club in his backyard. I think there was more to it than just a professional consultation. Steve took his golf clubs.”

“Great. And tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“He told me you’d be calling. He said to tell you he’ll be in tomorrow, for sure, and do his number on your guy first thing.”

“Okay.”

“You sure about tonight? What time does your kid hit the sack?”

“I wouldn’t be much fun, anyway.”

“Sure you would. But hey, it’s up to you.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Take it easy now.”

“You, too, Jake.”

He hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, he swung his car onto the circular driveway and stopped if behind a red Porsche with the cutesy license plate, BB’S TOY.

BB’s toy would look best, Jake thought, wrapped around a tree. Then he felt guilty. After all, she was Kimmy’s mother. Kimmy loved her. Poor taste on the kid’s part, but you love the mother you get, even if she is a slut.

His chest felt tight, his mouth dry, as he stepped onto the front stoop and pressed the doorbell. From inside came the faint sound of chimes playing the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth.

Harold Standish opened the door, stepped back, raised his hands high and said, “Don’t shoot.”

Jake stared at him. The man’s routine hadn’t been amusing the first time he pulled it, over a year ago. It had become less amusing with each repetition. This morning, it gave Jake an urge to tear off Harold’s trim little mustache.

“Just pulling your leg, Jako. Come on in. The little woman’s getting the Kimmer ready for her big day.”

Jake stepped onto the marble foyer.

Harold headed for the living room, walking sideways and smiling, keeping his eyes on Jake—apparently afraid to turn his back. Jake had never spoken a sharp word to the man, had certainly never threatened or assaulted him. But Harold
knew what he had done. And, quite obviously, he knew what he deserved.

What Harold did not know was that Jake had never blamed him for the situation. It might have been different if he’d seduced Barbara with good looks and charm, but Harold was a skinny guy with a receding hairline, a nose like a turkey’s beak, and all the charm of a field mouse. He was a wimp. A wimp who made big bucks filling teeth. And Barbara, not Harold, had been the seducer.

She hadn’t dumped Jake for a man. She’d dumped him for a handsome bank balance and plastic cards with dreamy credit lines. Harold was a piece of excess baggage that came along with the good stuff.

If it hadn’t been Harold, it would’ve been someone else.

Barbara was the one who deserved…

“Could I get you some coffee, a sweet roll?” Harold asked.

“No thanks.”

Harold sat on a recliner, but didn’t settle back. He stayed on the edge of the seat as if ready to rush off, and cupped his hands over his knees. “So,” he said.

Jake sat on the sofa.

“So, how are things in law enforcement business? Keeping the criminals in line?”

“We try.” Apparently, Harold hadn’t heard about last night. That was fine with Jake.

Harold nodded as if pondering the response. He gazed at the floor. He seemed nervous about the silence. Afraid Jake might take the opportunity to bring up an unpleasant topic, such as adultery? Ah, he must’ve thought of something. His eyebrows lifted and he looked at Jake. “How do you feel about the handgun initiative?”

“I’m against it.”

“One would think that a man in your line of work, who sees the tragedies caused by private ownership of guns—”

“We had a seventy-two-year-old widow, last month, who woke up to find a stranger in her bedroom with a knife in
one hand and a hard-on in the other. She shot him four times with a pistol she kept on her nightstand. Me, I’m glad she had the gun.”

“But statistics show—”

“Save it, Harold. You want the bad guys to win, that’s
your
business.”

Harold dared a condescending smile. With a shake of his head, he stood up. “I’ll see what’s keeping the ladies,” he said, and backed out of the living room.

He was no sooner gone than Barbara came in.

“Tag team?” Jake asked. He felt sick. He always felt sick when he saw her, but this morning was worse than usual because of what she wore.

“Kimmy’s almost ready,” she said.

“Fine,” he muttered, staring at Barbara and wondering what the hell she was trying to do.

She wore a blue silk kimono. Its front was open, showing a long V of bare skin all the way down to the sash at her waist. The glossy fabric shimmered from the motion of her breasts. Turning away from Jake, she crossed the living room. The kimono was very short. At the far side of the draperies, she reached high to pull the draw cord and the garment lifted above the pale curves of her buttocks. The draperies skidded open. She lowered her arms, and the fabric drifted down.

“Real cute,” Jake said.

Whirling around, she glared at him.

Jake smiled. His mouth felt rigid. His chest ached.

“Problem?” she said.

His smile died. “You’re some piece of work, woman.”

“You better believe it.”

“What’re you trying to pull?”

“I’m not trying to pull a thing, darling. Do I take it that you don’t approve of my attire? It’s an early birthday present from Harold. Isn’t it heavenly? And it
feels
so scrumptious.” Staring at Jake, she smiled lazily and half shut her eyes. Her hands started high and glided downward, caressing the ki
mono, rubbing the fabric against her breasts. “Scrumptious,” she whispered.

“If only Harold could see you now.”

“So what if he did.” She squirmed slightly as she rubbed her breasts. Her motions had loosened the front of her kimono, widening the opening. It was open all the way down.

“For godsake!” Jake snapped in a hushed voice.

She smirked. “Turning you on?”

“I get turned on better scraping dog shit off my boot.”

Barbara’s eyes went wide. Her face colored. Her back went stiff. She tugged the kimono shut. “You bastard.” Her voice trembled when she said it. Her chin started to shake.

Astonished, Jake realized she was about to cry.

She pivoted away from him. “Kimmy!” she shouted. “Get your ass down here!”

“Barbara!” Jake snapped.

“Fuck you.” She hurried from the room.

Jake stayed on the sofa, stunned and angry and confused. What the hell had just happened?

Normally, when he came to pick up Kimmy, Barbara acted as if he were a visiting peasant: haughty, sarcastic, delighted by the opportunity to rub his nose in the lifestyle she had achieved by dumping him for Harold.

What was this, today?

Acting like that with Kimmy and Harold in the house.

Harold had to know she was dressed that way.

What was she trying to prove?

That’s pretty obvious, he thought. She was trying to prove she could turn me on.

Look how she flew apart when I put her down.

The gal’s got a major-league problem.

Off the deep end, or she wouldn’t be pulling that kind of stunt.

Troubles with Harold?

Oh, wouldn’t that be a shame.

Golly, I’m so sorry. It breaks my heart, you slut.

The harsh thoughts made Jake feel a little guilty. He told himself that he had loved her once, that it was wrong to wish misery on her.

What about Kimmy? If Barbara and Harold were having problems, she could certainly be affected. He didn’t want that. If Kimmy had to live with her mother—and there was no real alternative as long as Jake remained unmarried—then he wanted her to be in a home where there was love and happiness.

The situation was only tolerable as long as he could be sure that Barbara was taking good care of her. If this morning was any indication, however, Barbara was losing her grip.

Maybe it’s nothing, he told himself. Just a fleeting aberration. Tomorrow’s Barbara’s birthday. She would only be twenty-seven, but he remembered her saying, when she hit twenty-one, that it was all downhill from there. She apparently believed it, too. Each year, after that, she had fallen into a pit of depression around birthday time.

That must be it, he decided.

Flaunts her stuff in front of her ex-husband to prove to herself that she’s still got something to flaunt.

And he smashes her down.

Shit.

At least it was good to know that her bizarre behavior was nothing more serious than the birthday blues.

If that’s what it was.

“Hi, Daddy!”

He stood up, suddenly feeling good as Kimmy came toward him, smiling. As always, after going days without seeing her, he was amazed by her beauty. A gorgeous four-year-old kid with big blue eyes and a great smile, she couldn’t go anywhere without people taking a second look.

Harold stood in the entryway, holding her overnight bag. Kimmy had Clew, her tiny stuffed kitten, clutched in one hand. She raised her arms, and Jake picked her up and kissed her. “How’s my baby?” he asked.

“I’m not a baby, I’m a little girl.”

“Oh, well excuuuuuse me.”

Leaning back and grinning, she poked a finger against a button of Jake’s shirt. “You have a spill, Daddy.”

“I do?” He looked down.

Kimmy darted her finger up and poked his nose.

“Oow! Y’got me!”

Laughing, she sucked on her forefinger. Her eyes were eager with mischief. A Wet Willy was on its way.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Jake said, forcing her away before she could twist the wet finger in his ear. She giggled and tried to hold on, but he freed himself and put her down.