HCC 115 - Borderline (20 page)

The dark green skirt was tight, and it did things to the other half of her body.

He looked at her, and the ball of fire in his mind burned hotter and brighter every
second.

Twenty or twenty-one, he guessed. Young, and with that innocent look that would stay
with her no matter what she did or with whom or how often. He knew instinctively that
the innocence was an illusion, and he would have known this if he saw her kneeling
in a church instead of looking over the men in a logger’s bar. But he knew at the
same time that this was the only word for what she had: innocence. It was in the eyes,
the way she moved, the half-smile on her full lips.

That was what did it: the youth, the innocence, the shape, and the knowledge that
she was about as innocent as a Bowery fleabag. That did it every time, those four
things all together, and he thought once again that this was going to be one hell
of a night.

Another double followed the beer. It was beginning to take hold now, he noticed with
a short sigh of relief. He rubbed a calloused finger over his right cheek and noted
a sensation of numbness in his cheek, the first sign that the alcohol was reaching
him. With his constant drinking it took a little more alcohol every night, but he
was getting there now, getting to the point where the girl wouldn’t affect him at
all.

If only she’d give him time. Just a few more drinks and there would be nothing to
worry about, a few more drinks and the numbness would spread slowly from his cheeks
to the rest of his body and finally to his brain, quenching the yellow fire and letting
him rest.

If only…

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her eyes upon him, singling him out from the
crowd at the bar. She took a hesitant step toward him and he wanted to shout “Go away!”
at her. She kept on coming, and he wished that the stool on his right weren’t empty,
that with no place for her to sit she might leave him alone.

He finished the chaser and waved again for the bartender. Surely, inevitably, she
walked to the bar and took the stool beside him. The dark green skirt caught on the
stool and slithered up her leg as she sat, and the sight of firm white flesh heaped
fresh fuel upon the mental ball of fire.

He tossed off the shot without tasting it or feeling any effect whatsoever. The beer
followed the shot in one swallow, still bringing neither taste nor numbing peace.
He winced as she tapped a cigarette twice on the polished surface of the bar and placed
it between her lips.

The fumbling in her purse was, he knew, an act and nothing more. Christ, they were
all the same, every one of them. He could even time the pitch—it would come on the
count of three. One. Two. Thr—

“Do you have a match?”

Right on schedule. He ignored her, concentrating instead on the drink that had appeared
magically before him. He hardly remembered ordering it. He couldn’t remember anything
anymore, not since she took the seat beside him, not since every bit of his concentration
had been devoted to her.

“A match, please?”

He pulled a box of wooden matches from his shirt pocket without thinking, scratched
one on the underside of the bar and held it to her cigarette. She leaned toward him
to take the light, moving her leg slightly against his, touching him briefly before
withdrawing.

Right on schedule.

He closed the matchbox and stuffed it back into his shirt pocket, trying to force
his attention back to the drink in front of him. His fingers closed around the shot
glass. But he couldn’t even seem to lift it from the bar, couldn’t raise the drink
that might save him for that night at least.

He wanted to turn to her and snarl:
Look, I’m not interested. I don’t care if it’s for sale or free for the taking, I’m
not interested. Take your hot little body and get the hell out.

But he didn’t even turn around. He sat still, his heavy frame motionless on the stool;
waiting for what had to come next.

“You’re lonesome aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Christ, even her voice had that sugary innocence, that mixture of
sex and baby powder. It was funny he hadn’t noticed it before, and he wished he hadn’t
noticed it now. It just made everything so much worse.

“You’re lonesome.” It was a statement now, almost a command.

“No, I’m not.” Instantly he hated himself for answering at all. The words came from
his lips almost by themselves, without him wishing it at all.

“Of course you are. I can tell.” She spoke as if she were completely sure of herself,
and as she talked her body moved imperceptibly closer to him, her leg inching toward
his and pressing against it firmly, not withdrawing this time but remaining there,
inflaming him.

His fingers squeezed the shot glass but it stayed on the bar, the rye out of his reach
when he needed it so badly.

“Go away.” He meant to snap the words at her like axe-blows, but instead, they dribbled
almost inaudibly from his lips.

“You’re lonesome and unhappy. I know.”

“Look, I’m fine. Why don’t you go bother somebody else?”

She smiled. “You don’t mean that,” she said. “You don’t mean that at all. Besides,
I don’t want to bother anybody else, can’t you see? I want to be with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re big. I like big men.”

Sure, he thought. It was like this all the time. “There’s other big guys around.”

“Not like you. You got that sad lonesome look, like I can see it a mile away how lonesome
you are. And unhappy, you know. It sticks out.”

It did; that much was true enough.

“Look,” she was saying, “what are you fighting for, huh? You’re lonesome and I’m here.
You’re unhappy and I can make you happy.”

When he hesitated, she explained: “I’m good at making guys happy. You’d be surprised.”

“I’ll bet you are.” Christ, why couldn’t he just shut up and let her talk herself
dry? No, he had to go on making small talk and feeling that hot little leg digging
into his and listening to that syrupy voice dripping into his ear like maple syrup
into a tin cup. He had to glance at her every second out of the corner of his eye,
drinking in the softness of her. His nostrils were filled with the smell of her, a
smell that was a mixture of cheap perfume and warm woman-smell, an odor that got into
his bloodstream and just made everything worse than ever.

“I can make you happy.”

He didn’t answer, thinking how happy she would make him if she would just leave now,
right away, if the earth would only open up and swallow her or him or both of them,
just so long as she would leave him alone. There wasn’t much time left.

“Look.”

He turned his head involuntarily and watched her wiggle slightly in place, her body
moving and rubbing against the sweater and skirt.

“It’s all me,” she explained. “Under the clothes, I mean.”

He clenched his teeth and said nothing.

“I’ll make you happy,” she said again. When he didn’t reply she placed her hand gently
on his and repeated the four words in a half-whisper. Her hand was so small, so small
and soft.

“C’mon,” she said.

He stood up and followed her out the door, the glass of rye still untouched.

She said her place wasn’t far and they walked in the direction she led him, away from
the center of town. He didn’t say anything all the way, and she only repeated her
promise to make him happy. She said it over and over as if it were a magic phrase,
a charm of some sort.

His arm went around her automatically and his hand squeezed the firm flesh of her
waist. There was no holding back anymore—he knew that, and he didn’t try to stop his
fingers from gently kneading the flesh or the other hand from reaching for hers and
enveloping it possessively. This act served to bring her body right up next to his
so that they bumped together with every step. After a block or so her head nestled
against his shoulder and remained there for the rest of the walk. The fluffy blonde
hair brushed against his cheek.

The cheek wasn’t numb anymore.

It was cold out but he didn’t notice the cold. It was windy, but he didn’t feel the
wind cut through the tight blue jeans and the flannel shirt. She had lied slightly:
it was a long walk to her place, but he didn’t even notice the distance.

She lived by herself in a little shack, a tossed-together affair of unpainted planks
with nails knocked in crudely. Somebody had tried to get a garden growing in front
but the few plants were all dead now and the weeds overran the small patch. He knew,
seeing the shack, why she had fixed on the idea of him being lonely. She was so obviously
alone, living off by herself and away from the rest of the world.

Inside, she closed and bolted the door and turned to him, her eyes expectant and her
mouth waiting to be kissed. He closed his eyes briefly. Maybe he could open them and
discover that she wasn’t there at all, that he was back at the bar by himself or maybe
out cold in his own cabin.

But she was still there when he opened his eyes. She was still standing close to him,
her mouth puckered and her eyes vaguely puzzled.

“I’ll make you happy.” She said those four words as if they were the answer to every
question in the universe, and by this time he thought that perhaps they were.

There was no other answer.

He clenched his teeth again, just as he had done when she squirmed before him on the
barstool. Then he drove one fist into her stomach and watched her double up in pain,
the physical pain of the blow more than matched by the hurt and confusion in her eyes.

He struck her again, a harsh slap on the side of her face that sent her reeling. She
started to fall and he brought his knee up, catching her on the jaw and breaking several
of her teeth. He hauled her to her feet and the sweater ripped away like tissue paper.

She was right. It was all her underneath.

The next slap started her crying. The one after that knocked the wind out of her and
stopped her tears for the time being. His fingers ripped at the skirt and one of his
nails dug at her skin, drawing blood. She crumpled to the floor, her whole body shaking
with terror and pain, and he fell upon her greedily.

The bitch, he thought. The stupid little bitch.

Couldn’t she guess there was only one way to make him happy?

A FIRE AT NIGHT

Originally published in the
June, 1958 issue of MANHUNT

He gazed silently into the flame. The old tenement was burning, and the smoke was
rising upward to merge against the blackness of the sky. There were neither stars
nor moon in the sky, and the street lights in the neighborhood were dim and spaced
far apart. Nothing detracted from the brilliance of the fire. It stood out against
the night like a diamond in a pot of bubbling tar. It was a beautiful fire.

He looked around and smiled. The crowd was growing larger, as everyone in the area
thronged together to watch the building burn. They like it, he thought. Everyone likes
a fire. They receive pleasure from staring into the flames, watching them dance on
the tenement roof. But their pleasure could never match his, for it was his fire.
It was the most beautiful fire he had ever set.

His mind filled with the memory of it. It had been planned to perfection. When the
sun dropped behind the tall buildings and the sky grew dark, he had placed the can
of kerosene in his car with the rags—plain, non-descript rags that could never be
traced to him. And then he had driven to the old tenement. The lock on the cellar
door was no problem, and there was no one around to get in the way. The rags were
placed, the kerosene was spread, the match was struck, and he was on his way. In seconds
the flames were licking at the ancient walls and racing up the staircases.

The fire had come a long way now. It looked as though the building had a good chance
of caving in before the blaze was extinguished. He hoped vaguely that the building
would fall. He wanted his fire to win.

He glanced around again, and was amazed at the size of the crowd. All of them pressed
close, watching his fire. He wanted to call to them. He wanted to scream out that
it was his fire, that he and he alone had created it. With effort he held himself
back. If he cried out it would be the end of it. They would take him away and he would
never set another fire.

Two of the firemen scurried to the tenement with a ladder. He squinted at them, and
recognized them—Joe Dakin and Roger Haig. He wanted to call hello to them, but they
were too far away to hear him. He didn’t know them well, but he felt as though he
did. He saw them quite often.

He watched Joe and Roger set the ladder against the side of the building. Perhaps
there was someone trapped inside. He remembered the other time when a small boy had
failed to leave the building in time. He could still hear the screams—loud at first,
then softer until they died out to silence. But this time he thought the building
had been empty.

The fire was beautiful! It was warm and soft as a woman. It sang with life and roared
with joy. It seemed almost a person, with a mind and a will of its own.

Joe Dakin started up the ladder. Then there must be someone in the building. Someone
had not left in time and was trapped with the fire. That was a shame. If only there
were a way for him to warn them! Perhaps next time he could give them a telephone
call as soon as the blaze was set.

Of course, there was even a beauty in trapping someone in the building. A human sacrifice
to the fire, an offering to the goddess of Beauty. The pain, the loss of life was
unfortunate, but the beauty was compensation. He wondered who might be caught inside.

Joe Dakin was almost to the top of the ladder. He stopped at a window on the fifth
floor and looked inside. The he climbed through.

Joe is brave, he thought. I hope he isn’t hurt. I hope he saves the person in the
building.