Poisonous Kiss (15 page)

     The building he enters had seen better days, but it's just at the beginning of the process that leads to complete disintegration. A couple loose tiles here and there, and the copper ornaments don't shine like they used to. The building still has a doorman, sitting behind a desk in front of the elevator. He looks at Arany suspiciously, but who knows what makes him mistrustful? He's about twenty, has short hair and large muscles. He's wearing a white shirt and a tie, and he has thick, strong fingers and bloated biceps.

     "Are you looking for someone?"

     Arany pulls out his badge.

     "Does Patricia Simmons live here?"

     "Yes." The guard's other hand appeared from behind the desk. "But she's not home right now."

     "Does she live alone?"

     The guard shrugs. He sizes up Arany with a cold and self-confident stare.

     "Does she live alone?"

     "I'm sorry. They don't pay me to give information about the tenants."

     Arany nods. He's almost certain the woman wasn't renting an apartment here by herself. Maybe she was living here with a friend, or another model. The elevator door opens behind the guard and a heavily made-up woman in her thirties steps out. She glances at Arany and then they just hear her heels tip-tap quickly away.

     "Do men visit her occasionally?" Arany continued.

     "Why don't you ask her?"

     Arany still hesitates. Perhaps the guy will be fired if he gives out information about the people in the house. He was probably taught not to when they gave him the job, and now he's taking himself too seriously. Or perhaps he's just being an asshole. A split personality. Perhaps he should just go home and give up this investigation at least as long as it's not clear to him what's wrong with his own personality.

     The guard's cold stare doesn't flicker. Not a single muscle moves on his face. His eyelashes are immobile, he doesn't even blink. How can he do this?

     He stands up, and leans forward, resting his hands on the desk. His face seems enormous now. There's complete dead calm in his eyes.

     Arany is feels disgust, sympathy and hatred at the same time. The guard plays the tough guy from action movies, the same way Arany played cowboy when he was a child. The difference is, this guy is in his twenties, with a strong grown-up body and gun at his side.

     "Do you have a permit to search the house?"

     Arany feels like he is in an action movie. The wide muscular face fills the picture. He steps back and notices that the guard's strong fingers are resting on his holster. This is real life, this guy is not Terminator, screams a voice inside Arany's head, this little idiot sits behind this desk eight hours a day for peanuts. He'll be satisfied with the victory of seeing me walk away, he's not going to pull that gun. He's not going to try to chase me out of here.

     "All right, all right …just look at this picture." He slowly reaches into his pocket, and smiles hesitantly. The guard's stare is fixed on him. He's not looking at Arany's hand, he keeps an eye on the whole body, while his fingers stroke the holster with something like pleasure.

     The woman must have called him, Arany thinks. This thought makes him angry, but he's careful not to show it. He already knows what he's going to do. He takes out Frost's mug shot, and holds it in front of this imitation Terminator. But he doesn't look at the picture, his stare, which he must have practiced for years, is still fixed on Arany.

     "I don't know him," he says calmly.

     But Arany isn't afraid of this man, this pumped up punk. He's barely even angry.

     "OK," he nods, "and have you seen this guy?" He puts Frost's picture back into his pocket and pulls his hand out from underneath his linen jacket with a pistol in it.

     "Don't move!" he barks. "Hands on the desk! Faster!"

     He swears everything will be decided now. The Terminator won't let anyone catch him like this. His self-created myth would be gone, because he must have thought he would be faster than a little cop. He must have believed that he could hit the gun out of the cop's hand, like he's seen in hundreds of movies, and must have practiced the movement in some miserable gym over and over again.

     "I'm arresting you for being an accomplice in a murder," Arany babbles "You have the right to hire a lawyer, you have the right to remain silent—put your hands on the desk!"

     "What?" he says and blinking, stupidly.

     Arany already knows that he has won.

     "Palms down!" he barks. He's sure the guard won't shoot or start a fight anymore. But if he needs movie roles, Arany can play the tough cop.

     He waits for the guard's palms to reach the desktop, goes around the desk in the fraction of a second, steps behind him and kicks his legs apart. Terminator is standing with his feet wide apart, leaning onto the desk. Arany snatches the gun from the open holster.

     "If you don't have a lawyer, the court will appoint one. I'm telling you your rights, so you can't complain later. You better listen. Are you coming quietly, or do I have to cuff you?"

     "But …I haven't done anything!" He wants to turn around, but the edge of Arany's shoe goes deep into the back of his knee.

     "Another move like that and there won't be any trial!" Arany whispers. The scene fills him with disgust. He wants to be over with it. "The guy you didn't recognize is a murderer. He killed a police officer. He used to live in this building. But you, although you're sitting here all day and have to watch who's coming and going, you don't recognize him."

     "Can you show me the picture again?" he says in a soft, almost polite voice.

     Arany's steps aside, keeping the gun pointed at the guard as if he were still afraid of him. He's got to play the role. He tosses the picture in front of him. The guard looks at it and frowns.

     "Well, he's been here before."

     "When?"

     Now it's easy to get the answers, but someone's coming in. Arany puts the pistol down. They don't all have to see what's going on here. The heavily made-up woman is coming back. She sizes them up with a sharp glance: the guard leaning on the desk and the man with an innocent expression on his face standing next to him. As soon as she steps off the faded carpet, her heels start tip tapping annoyingly.

     "It's been a month or two," he hesitates. He looks in the direction of the woman and follows her with his eyes as far as he can. "I haven't seen him since."

     "Did he live here?"

     "Well …he slept here a couple times.

     Arany nods.

     "Did his friends come here too?"

     The guard is silent. His eyes are not expressionless any more, they reflect the sadness of a little boy who was beaten up. Arany is quiet, he doesn't feel like playing the tough cop anymore.

     "So, I guess they did."

     "There were a couple parties here." Only the first words are hard to utter, the rest is following easily. "The girls, and their friends, and guys …"

     "Frost?"

     "Yes."

     "What did Frost's friend look like? And don't be wishy-washy, little guy, because you'll end up rotting away in prison."

     "I don't know, believe me, there were a lot of them, and …"

     "What kind of girls?"

     You could see a sign of relief on his stupid face.

     "Well, Pat and her girlfriends."

     "Give me names!"

     The checkered notebook fills up. Simone, who lived with Patricia at the time; Cass, a sexy little chick, who used to dance at the Star; Louise, who is also some kind of a model; and then some tease, but he can't recall the name; and so on. Names, nicknames or brief descriptions as he recalls the people. The one with the big tits, and the other one who got so shit-faced that she threw a hysterical fit …

     Arany begins to get suspicious. This guard knows a lot for someone who didn't participate in these parties.

     "Where does this Simone live?"

     "I don't know."

     "All right, I'll take you with me." He reaches out towards the guy, but he doesn't want to move. He holds onto the edges of the desk, his immense muscles are tense. Arany feels like he's trying to move a cement block.

     "I'm not going!" the guard mumbles. "I didn't do anything! You can't arrest me! I want a lawyer! Stop tugging at me, you asshole!"

     Arany suddenly pushes against the struggling body with all of his strength. The guard's chest hits the edge of the desk. His head is only inches away from the desktop. As soon as he tries to straighten up, Arany grabs his hair and pushes his head against the desk. He sticks the gun to the back of the guy's head.

     "Where does that woman live?"

     "I don't know," he moans desperately. "I really don't know, believe me. I would tell you, I wouldn't care what you do with that slut. I have no idea where she moved. Pat might know, but I'm not sure because they had a fight when Simone moved out. Simone seduced Pat's guy, and Pat didn't appreciate that. I would tell you, but believe me …"

     "Which dance club does Pat go to?"

     "To the Star, and the Emir and sometimes to the Triple Zero. But mostly to the Star.

     Arany loosens his grip. The guy's thorny blond hair is shining with sweat. There is fear now in his previously indifferent eyes.

     "You're scared of them, right?" Arany whispers. "You wouldn't give me their names. You act like a tough guy here with your little gun, but you're scared to tell me names, because you're afraid they might cut your throat."

     "You don't have to worry." His voice trembles. "They're not going to look for you. They won't even know where to find you. But I'm here everyday."

     Arany's hands let go. He steps back, puts his pistol back into the holster, and throws the guard's gun onto desk. He felt that he would only have to keep threatening the guy a little longer and he would get the name he wanted. The kid didn't need much more hassle to become more scared of Arany than of the others. But Arany couldn't go on.

     "A split personality …" he mumbles.

     "What?" The guard doesn't reach out for his weapon, but he looks at Arany suspiciously.

     "Nothing," he shakes his head. He turns away and heads toward the door. He's thinking of Celia. What would the woman say if she saw him now? Would she be satisfied? Would she say his old ego was slowly oppressing the new one?

     The guard's voice stops him.

     "Hey cop!"

     He freezes with a jerk. I left the gun loaded, he thinks sadly. I didn't make the right judgment. He'll shoot, and I'll die here in a doorway, but at least on a faded carpet. My old ego…

     He turns around. The guard stands by the desk, playing with his gun. The weapon seems small in his shovel-like hands.

     Arany just stands there, staring. He expects the guard to attack. He feels like he'll be helpless to fight back. Not now.

     "Be careful with these guys," the man says in a soft voice. "They're tough, very tough!"

     "Thanks." There's a vague smile on his face. He turns toward the entrance door again and bends his head down as he's leaving. He thinks of the dizzy spells, the fits of violence when he's capable of anything. He thinks of how he hates himself for the aggressiveness. But he also hates himself now for the helplessness, for the fear that paralyzed him.

     "Are they tough?" he mumbles, "Or are they also the victims of these feelings? Are they sick? Are they sick like I am?"

     As he walks out the door, he looks up. Someone is coming in. Arany only sees the person's shadow first, and steps aside instinctively. And then he sees the girl. She's still beautiful, perhaps even more so than in that office room, or perhaps she's just more odious. She's taken aback when she sees Arany, her thick lips twitch, and she stops for a second, as if she wants to flee back to the street, into her agent's office, or to a dance club where she would feel at home. And then a scornful smile sweeps across her face and she hurries inside.

It was my fifth try at starting to read that damn book. Something always stopped me during previous attempts. Baruch's difficult presentation, for one—that exhaustingly condescending scientific style that he used to express himself. "The genius …" I'd mumbled last night when I tossed the book down a second time before turning off the bedside lamp. I never liked geniuses like him, the kind who don't even bother to learn to express themselves clearly for my sake. Every time I read theories supported by hordes of quotes from people I've never heard of I experience envy mingled with suspicion. It makes me feel small and uneducated. But it also makes me wonder whether the author is really so brilliant, or is just jazzing up his weak ideas with some library note cards.

     But for some reason I picked up the book again and again. I thought of Celia, whom I love. I wanted to read her husband's words, to understand those genius thoughts of his. And there was another motive: My dizzy spells, and the waves of violent anger. I had changed, and all my detective instincts prompted me to look for the answers in this book.

     So I went at for it for the fifth time. It was night, the city's volume was turned down. There were only a couple of lights on here and there—in the rooms of other night owls like myself. Next to me, on the bedside table, right on the edge of the circle of light, there was a beer, and some snacks and chocolate waiting for me. Just like in my old student days.