The House That Jack Built (22 page)

    She paused, and then she added, breathlessly, 'No matter how grand or special that house may be.'

    Pepper lifted her glass, and said, 'Here's dry rot in your eye.'

    

    

    The doorbell rang again and again and in the end Steven turned over and said, 'Khryssa- can't you answer it?'

    'It's nothing,' Khryssa murmured, and snuggled down even further into the sheets. 'Just somebody forgot their keys, and wants the front door open.'

    But the doorbell kept on ringing, and in the end Steven climbed out of bed and went to the intercom. 'What?' he demanded, standing naked and pot-bellied in the crisscross sunlight.

    Khryssa said, 'Don't be so aggressive, Steven. It doesn't suit you.' Her long brunette hair flowed over the pillow like a lazy sea-swell filled with weed. She was very tall and long-limbed and oddly pretty, with a snub nose and full lips and slightly-squinting eyes. She was wearing a three-stranded pearl necklace and a gold watch and a gold chain bracelet from Tiffany's.

    Beside the bed stood a half-empty bottle of tequila and two glasses. It was Mezcal tequila, with the saguara worm in it. Steven had already eaten the worm, although it hadn't appreciably improved his performance. Since returning to Khryssa's loft, they had spent two hours wrestling and sweating and Khryssa still hadn't climaxed once. Mind you, she suspected that Steven hadn't, either. Most of his grunting and 'oh-Godding' had been 60 per cent alcohol and 40 per cent simulated.

    Steven said, 'Who?' and then he covered the intercom receiver with his hand.

    'Khryssa… it's Craig, for Christ's sake.'

    She turned over and propped herself up on one elbow. 'Craig? Craig who?'

    'Craig Bellman for Christ's sake, who do you think?'

    'I don't believe you! Craig went to Cold Spring, to convalesce.'

    'I know he did,' said Steven, his round face looking boiled and red. 'But he's here now, and he wants me to let him in.'

    'Tell him I'm not here. Tell him you're my cousin, and you're taking care of my apartment while I'm away.'

    Miserably, Steven hesitated, and then he said, 'She's not here. That's right. I'm her cous-'

    He took the receiver away from his ear and stared at it as if it had personally affronted him.

    'Well?' said Khryssa.

    'He hung up. That's all.'

    'That's okay, then, isn't it?'

    'You don't think he recognised my voice?'

    'He went away, didn't he?'

    'Sure, but we've been partners for how long? Jesus, that was a shock!'

    Khryssa said, 'Stop worrying and come back to bed. He doesn't own me. I haven't seen him since he was mugged. He called, sure, but calling isn't the same as making love, is it? Come on, Steven, get back into bed. The sheets are getting cold and your tequila's getting warm.'

    Steven paced uneasily up and down, the sunlight shining in his wild, sparse hair; his penis bobbing. 'I don't know, Khryssa… maybe I ought to leave.'

    'You promised me the whole afternoon. You promised to take me to Lola's.'

    'I don't know… this whole thing seems to have got out of hand.'

    Khryssa sat up, and tossed back her hair. 'Well, if you're going, Steven, go! At least Craig always knew what he wanted!'

    Steven came back and sat on the edge of the bed. He took Khryssa's hand between both of his hands, and patted it, and kept on patting it. His upper lip was decorated with tiny little glass beads of perspiration.

    'Maybe this isn't working out, I don't know.'

    'You feel guilty?'

    'I feel like I'm trespassing, if you want to know the truth. Craig and me, we go back to law school.'

    'Not forgetting your wife, of course.'

    'Margo? Jesus. Who could forget Margo?'

    'You could, if you put your mind to it. You could forget Craig, too. I have.'

    Steven looked disconsolate. 'I just don't think that I'm cut out for this kind of thing. I have to think of the kids, too.'

    ' "Both of whom look like Margo? And both of whom are goddamned intolerable brats"? Excuse my quoting you.' Steven managed to look directly into her eyes; a disappointed 34-year-old lawyer with thinning hair and a Rolls-Royce and a summer house at East Quogue. He owned a minor Andrew Wyeth, a water-colour of piercing-blue pieberries in a pail, and when he looked at it he didn't even understand what he was looking at; just as he didn't understand Khryssa, or the half-melted marmalade light that filled her loft, with all its Mexican tapestries and hangings and its strange salt-glaze pottery. He understood only that he had succeeded in life way beyond his wildest expectations, and yet he had totally failed. Khryssa had asked him, 'What is a Rolls-Royce for?' and he hadn't been able to answer her.

    'I'll, unh, see you next week maybe,' he told Khryssa. 'You don't mind taking a raincheck on Lola's, do you? I mean I like Lola's, but you have to be feeling exuberant for Lola's.'

    'What about Mortimer's?' she suggested. She leaned forward so that her small bare breast touched his arm. 'Mortimer's is quiet, and I can wear that black dress you bought me.'

    He kissed her. 'Khryssa… I'm really sorry. I've kind of lost the mood.'

    She stared at him for one intense moment. Then she flounced back onto her pillow and said, 'Screw you, Steven. At least Craig had the balls to take me plates.' Steven stood up, his cheeks flaring. 'Pity he doesn't have the balls now, hunh?'

    And it was then that they heard a hard, insistent knock at the door.

    They looked at each other in alarm. 'Are you expecting someone?' Steven hissed.

    'Of course not. It's Craig.'

    Steven ducked down and found his blue-striped boxer shorts. Jesus, Khryssa, this is insane.'

    The knock was repeated: louder, more insistent.

    'Give me time to dress, give me time to dress. For Christ's sake, Khryssa!'

    'Khryssa!' called Craig, through the reinforced steel door. 'Khryssa, it's Craig! I know you are in there! You left your bike in the hall!'

    'Oh, shit,' said Steven, scrabbling into his trousers. He lost his balance and fell over sideways onto the bed. Khryssa angrily pushed him off, and he ended up situng on the floor.

    'Khryssa, are you going to open this door, or what?' Steven's head appeared over the end of the bed. His finger was pressed to his lips. 'Say nothing, for Christ's sake, say nothing!'

    They waited and waited. A minute went by. There was no more knocking. They waited even longer - three minutes, four. Khryssa looked at Steven and Steven looked at Khryssa, and Steven whispered, 'He's gone. I'll bet my ass.'

    'You don't know Craig,' said Khryssa, nervously.

    'What do you mean, I don't know Craig? He and me, we graduated together. We were brothers. He was the bright one and I was the dogged one. Craig did the fancy summings-up. I did the spadework. That was what made us so goddamned good. We had balance. We had yin and yang or whatever.'

    He prodded his finger towards the door. 'He's out of here, believe me. He never had the staying power. Sparkling one minute and bored the next. No patience, that was always Craig's problem. Why do you think he got attacked? All he had to do was sit in the goddamned cab for ten minutes more, and make some excuse to old Hakayawa about his wife getting pregnant or something like that, and who would have cared? But not Craig, oh no! He had to run through the night and rescue a damsel in distress who didn't even exist, and end up with crushed cojones.'

    Khryssa sat up in bed, piling her hair up in her hands, bare-breasted. She was 19 years of age and she looked like every man's dream. 'Do you know something, Steven,' she told him. 'That was what made Craig a man.'

    Steven stood up. 'Fine, okay, fine. As I said, I'm trespassing. I'll go.'

    But at that moment the lock clicked, very quietly. Then it clicked again, and again, and Khryssa remembered with rising panic that she had given Craig a key. He had returned it, by mail, after his 'accident,' with a confused letter about 'manhood' and 'betrayal'. But, of course, he would have had a duplicate cut. He may not have been as dogged as Steven, but he had always been deeply methodical. The two of them stared frozen as the last lock-lever clicked, and the door swung open.

    'Craig,' said Steven, 'this isn't what it looks like.'

    Craig stepped into the loft and closed the door quietly behind him. He was wearing a dark, discreet suit and a charcoal-grey poloneck. He looked like Craig - and yet, in a peculiar way, he looked like somebody else, too, somebody they didn't know. He seemed shorter and stockier and coarser, and he walked with a strange slow-motion glide that reminded them of ballroom dancers, Begin The Beguine.

    But his voice was unmistakably Craig's voice when he said, 'What does it look like, Steven? You tell me.'

    'Hey... I had a heavy lunch with Chon International. I needed a couple of hours' rest before I went back to work.' Craig came close up to him, and even though he appeared shorter than he had before, he was still a good three inches taller than Steven. 'Breathe on me,' he demanded.

    'What? What are you talking about?'

    'You heard. Breathe on me.'

    'For Christ's sake, Craig, nothing happened here, believe me. I drank too much, I ate too much, I needed a rest… I remembered that Khryssa lived here in the neighbourhood.'

    Craig half turned away, as if he were no longer interested. But then his right arm swung around so fast and hard that Steven didn't even see it coming, and he slapped Steven across the face so hard that he fell back onto the bed as if he had been struck by lightning.

    'Craig!' screamed Khryssa, but Craig fixed her with such a nail-eyed look that she grabbed the blanket and pulled it up around her and stared at him and said nothing else at all.

    Craig stood over Steven and said, 'I trusted you.'

    Steven struggled to sit up. 'For Christ's sake, you can trust me. Nothing happened.'

    'You lied. You perjured yourself. You never ate Korean.'

    'Who says I ate Korean?'

    'Tell me one executive from Chon International who doesn't? Your breath should smell of kirn chee. But what does it smell of? Tequila, my friend, that's all. Tequila, and Khryssa, and lies.'

    Steven half-fell off the bed, but managed to get up on his feet. 'You listen to me, Craig. You were hurt, you were badly hurt, and everybody at Fisher & Bellman was sorry about that. I miss you. I need you. You're my partner, and I love your work. What did I say to you? Watching you reel in those juries is better than watching A River Runs Through It. But you've been gone, Craig… and life carries on. You can't expect Fisher & Bellman to wait for you, in suspended animation, any more than you can expect Khryssa to wait for you, in suspended animation. She's a young girl. She's got a life; and life goes on.'

    Craig listened to all of this, and then said, 'You finished? He turned to Khryssa, and his voice was oily with menace Dark, but swirled with captivating rainbows.

    'You didn't do this on purpose, did you, sweetheart? This was all a mistake.'

    Khryssa nodded
yes
.

    'You knew I was coming back to you, didn't you? I wrote you how much I cared for you.'

    
Yes, yes, you did.

    'I was injured; you knew that. But you didn't doubt me, did you? Or did you? You knew that when I was well again, you knew that I'd come back.'

    No nod. No nothing. Only a terrified stare.

    Steven said, 'Come on, Craig, for Christ's sake. You're scaring the girl. You're scaring me.'

    'Good,' said Craig. He turned around, and walked through to the kitchen area, and pulled open the cutlery drawer.

    'What the hell are you doing?' Steven shouted at him.

    'What the hell do you think I'm doing? You bet your ass that I wasn't there. I heard you. Well, you made a bet and you lost it. I was there. And now I want your ass.'

    'Oh, come on, what is this? The Merchant of Venice?'

    Craig reappeared and he was carrying upright in his right hand the largest-sized Sabatier carving knife. French tempered steel, a bright triangular shard of razor-sharp metal that could cut open a fillet steak like opening an envelope.

    Steven backed away, his hands slowly rising to protect himself. 'Fuck, Craig. You don't know what you're doing.'

    'I don't? I always thought I did. I always heard you praise my intellect; my acumen; the way I could cut right through to the heart of a problem, just like that. How about I cut through to the heart of this little problem, Steven?'

    He raised the knife and Steven stumbled backwards but Khryssa screamed, 'No!'

    Craig immediately lowered the knife, and touched his forehead with his fingertips, as if he had a headache, or had just woken up from a daydream. Steven stayed where he was, tense, biting his lips, his eyes darting at Khryssa now and again. Khryssa cautiously began to move across the bed towards the telephone.

    'The trouble is, you can't trust anybody these days,' Craig said, and his voice seemed quite different. 'You can't trust your girlfriend to wait for you. You can't trust your business partner to keep his hands off your girlfriend. You can't trust your wife to support you. You can't trust your friends. You can't even trust your enemies.'

    'Put down the knife, Craig,' Steven said, trying to be soothing.

    Craig looked up. 'Time was, people gave you their word, and you could rely on it. Not any more, though. Not any more.'

    'Put down the knife, Craig,' Steven repeated.