Spawn of Hell (7 page)

He ordered a martini and sipped it slowly. Very slowly. He did not want to get so drank that he would have to go home to pass out. He did not want to go home. Even the thought of being there chilled him. He felt safe and secure now, surrounded by all these people.

It was going to be a long night.

He knew it was foolish of him to go out drinking when he had so little money and didn’t know when there’d be more coming in, but he couldn’t help it. He could always go home to Vermont for a week or two instead of starving, but even there his food and funds would be limited. His father would insist on giving him some money, but he didn’t have much to give, as he had admitted on the phone. Besides, Vermont was not the place to be when one was trying to find work in New York.

He sat back in his seat, sipped his drink—it was deliciously dry, cool and perfect, with a twist—and listened to the sounds all around him: the clink of glasses, idle conversation, spirited, boozy debates on life and love, the clatter of forks on plates, the rustle of menus, the rattle of ice cubes, the soft whine of the blender in the corner. The TV was off at this hour. It would have been gauche to leave it on. If the diners wanted to watch television they could have stayed at home hunched over a TV dinner, which, incidentally, had comprised hundred of David’s meals for the past few years. He hated to cook.

David had always been a private child, a quiet man. He had never been lonely—particularly in his youth, although he had not been very popular—because he had always been able to amuse himself, to create an elaborate fantasy land full of playthings which were preferable to whining children and breakable toys. He managed to find adventure in the most mundane places, the most undistinguished objects. He retained this gift as he grew older, this ability to create a whole world of entertainment inside his head, so that whereas most people in his situation would have been lonely, he simply shrugged it off—if he were aware of it at all—by concentrating on the solitary things that brought him pleasure.

Unfortunately, all that was changing. As he grew older, he realized how much he craved companionship, new friends, new surroundings. He would find them, and lose them, then find still more, then lose them again.

And then he had met Janice.

It would be simplistic to say that his life had been revitalized by love. For he did not love her. And maybe that’s what hurt the most about her death. He could not sit for hours staring at her picture, would not be haunted by what might have been, for there would have been nothing. He felt guilty that he did not care more. Although he had been shattered by her death, he had not been emotionally paralyzed, as he would have been had she been a lover.

He had, however, loved Janice Foster platonically—more than platonically—and when she died he had lost his only friend and he still grieved over that loss bitterly. But he hadn’t been
in
love with her, and for some strange reason it left him feeling empty and sorrowful that she would not be mourned the way someone as wonderful as she had been should have been mourned. Janice had deserved someone who would have felt passion and all-consuming grief and rage at her untimely passing for the rest of his life, for always.

They found her head ten feet away .
. .
He blinked his eyes rapidly, chasing away the bad thought.

He was working himself into a deep depression now, a whopper. He tried to snap himself out of it, hoping no one had been watching him do the sad-sack routine. He was surprised to realize that he had been thinking all this over for quite some time. The restaurant was practically empty, and even the bar had cleared out except for four or five hardcore cases.

He was feeling giddy enough to be daring. He waited until someone played the jukebox—the noise would cover up what he was about to say from those at the end of the bar—and signaled the bartender. It was the same fellow who’d been on the night before.

As the man placed the third drink on a napkin in front of him, David said, “You probably don’t remember, but I was in here last night around this time.”

The man shrugged. “I think I remember you. Just hanging out tonight?”

“Yeah. The reason I mentioned it is that there was this woman here last night, too. Maybe you know her. She does those Exclusiva makeup ads on television.” From the look on the barman’s face, David knew he wouldn’t have to nudge the man’s memory any further.

“You mean Anna Braddon?”

“What’s her name?”

“Anna Braddon, the model. Sure, she does those commercials. She comes in here all the time.”

“You know her? I mean, personally?”

“Well, I’ve never talked to her at length—”

“I mean you knew her name and all.”

“I read an article about her in
People
magazine. She’s making big bucks. Used to do fashion photography, then moved up in the world, went on to better things.”

“And she comes in here a lot?”

“Yep. She and her husband.”

David tried not to look too surprised. “You mean that guy who looks like a model himself?”

“Yeah. Derek Bishop. He
is
a model. Big bucks, too. There was a big spread on them a few weeks ago. I read in some gossip column a few days ago that they’re separating. They still seem to get along fine when I see them.”

“People must bother them all the time when they come in here.”

“Not really. They always come in pretty late, and most people here are pretty together. They smile, say hello, but otherwise leave ‘em alone. That’s the way it should be.” Was that a hint?

“Well,” David said, “I was just curious. I thought she looked familiar. I figured you would know if she was who I thought she was.”

“Well, she is.”

“Thanks.” The bartender went off to see to some other customers.

David felt pretty stupid now. Surely the bartender would figure out why he was going to sit here for the rest of the night. His motives were strictly see-through. What did he hope to gain anyway? She’d come in again with her husband, and maybe she’d give David another smile, and that was that.

Still, he had no intention of going back to his apartment until it was as close to dawn as possible. He decided he would finish this drink—very slowly—then go to another bar that stayed open later. What he would do from four a.m. until approximately six was another story altogether. He would have to sit in an all-night coffee shop, reading the paper and nursing a cup of coffee. He felt, once more, like an idiot. What he really wanted to do was go home and sleep.

At least he didn’t feel depressed any longer. The liquor had taken care of that. He sat back in his chair with a feeling of deceptive tranquility and contentment. Brain cells being destroyed, he supposed. In the blood-steam. Through the circulatory system. Instant nirvana.

And then she walked in. Sans husband.

Hmmm. Liza or Suzanne or whoever the gossip-monger was had been right. Splitsville. Of course, in the back of his mind David knew that just because Ms. Braddon came into the bar by herself one evening did not necessarily mean that there was any truth to the rumor of her impending divorce from her husband. But he took solace in the fact of her solitude anyway. What did he care if she was married or separated or whatnot? He wasn’t in love. He just wanted an affair. A one-night affair, if need be. Hell, one hour would do. Or would it? His feelings towards her seemed to go beyond lust.

She was wearing a jumpsuit, a blue jumpsuit, and her hair was in a ponytail. She didn’t look younger; perhaps because she still wore makeup, perhaps because she’d look too sophisticated in
any
outfit,
any
hairstyle, to ever be girlish. And hadn’t that been the main problem?

Her head was found ten feet away. . . .

He shook himself, making the bad thought go away again.

Anna Braddon sat down two seats away from him, and he could smell her, a lovely scent, and he didn’t care if it was too powerful or if she wore too much of it. He looked over at her—discreetly, he hoped, although after three martinis there was no telling what he might consider discreet—and studied her, the cool way she sat awaiting her drink, her composure. That was it! A cool composure coupled with sex appeal. Devastating sex appeal. What on earth made him think she could ever see anything in him? Next to her husband, he was a schmoe. God, she knew how to carry herself. It was hopeless, hopeless.

So he sat there and wondered how he could start up a conversation with her.

It had not been a good evening for Anna Braddon Bishop.

She knew it was going to be a disaster when Derek called at six o’clock and said that he’d be late getting home. They were due at the party at seven sharp and there’d be no way they could get there on time if they didn’t leave within forty minutes. She knew how long it would take Derek to get home—at least twenty minutes from the midtown office of the Longton Agency—and then another half hour for him to shower, shave and change into formal clothes. Ten minutes late wouldn’t matter for most occasions, but Miriam Hunter meant it when she said, “Be on time.” To walk in ten minutes after everyone else would be embarrassing, to say the least. Miriam allowed time for one drink before dinner, along with the de rigueur hors d’oeuvres, but few people managed to finish their cocktails before they were ushered into the dining room. Mrs. Hunter did not approve much of drinking, social or otherwise. And Anna loved a drink before dinner, especially this kind of dinner, sitting right next to two film stars, three producers and a director, along with other society types. She’d need something to calm her nerves, and she didn’t want to take another Valium. But if they were late—too late to be offered a drink—she’d
have
to. Damn Derek.

She knew that he’d been in a meeting with the head of the Longton Modeling Agency since two p.m., discussing new projects, tossing around the idea of Derek doing the Sexton Men’s Jeans campaign, which would take him to Europe at just the time he needed to be in New York to record his first album. Derek hadn’t much of a voice, but record producer Lydia Allstedder had taken quite a fancy to him. Anna was no fool. She knew exactly what Derek’s audition for the old battle-axe had entailed. She wondered idly while she dressed if the meeting with Sam Longton had actually run overtime, or if Derek had been calling from Mrs. Allstedder’s—or some other woman’s—apartment. Did it really matter?

And then to make matters worse, Tallulah, her Irish setter, came running in, anxious to frolic with her mistress.

“I’m in a hurry, Tallulah,” Anna said, “and I don’t have time to play with you this evening.” She looked through her jewelry case for her earrings. Damn—she’d seen them only a minute ago. “Why don’t you go downstairs and see if Clara had made your dinner yet?”

But Tallulah could not be gotten rid of so easily. The setter grabbed hold of one of Anna’s brand new shoes and began to chomp on it delightedly.

“No, Tallulah!” Anna screamed. “Give me my shoe!” She managed to pull the shoe out of the dog’s mouth before too much damage had been done, but it wasn’t exactly in great condition, either.

Looking for new amusement, the setter jumped up on Anna’s lap and started lovingly licking her freshly made-up face.

“No, no! Get away! Tallulah! Get away from me!”

The dog fell to all fours dejectedly. “I’ve had enough,” Anna scolded. “I have to do my face all over again, pick out a new pair of shoes, and brush the red hair off my dress. Now get out of here!”

Bored and annoyed, Tallulah turned on her heels and went downstairs to terrorize the maid.

Surveying the damage in the mirror, Anna could only think that things would get worse.

They did.

Anna and Derek arrived at the Hunter dinner party at exactly 7:15. Not only did they not get a cocktail, but they were told to wait in the living room until dinner was over and dessert was served. Derek helped himself to a drink, ignoring the dirty look from the butler, while Anna fumed. She held her tongue, though; she didn’t want that ugly, dour-eyed manservant to overhear their quarrel. And it would be quite a quarrel. Finally, the man left to attend to some other business.

“Aren’t you humiliated?” Anna hissed.

“No.” He smiled, sipping his martini. “I had a bite to eat just before the meeting broke up. Sam had sandwiches sent up from the deli.”

“Wonderful. Well, I’m starving.”

“You’ll get dessert.”

“That’s not what I had in mind. Mrs. Hunter has her own chef. I wanted some of his French cuisine. He’s famous for it.”

“Pour some wine over your chocolate cake and you’ll have French food, all right?”

“Derek, sometimes you make me want to scream.”

“I can’t put up with all this ‘society’ jazz. The only reason we ever get invited to these silly functions is because half the people want your body and the other half want mine. They don’t invite us for our brains, darling.”

“Maybe in your case they know better than to expect something ‘upstairs.’ Couldn’t you have tried a little harder to get home on time? You knew I was counting on you.”

“I feel real sorry for you, Anna.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re trying too hard to be accepted. You won’t face the fact that these people aren’t interested in you, in Anna Braddon, the person. They’re interested in the voluptuous model in the TV ads, the personality, the celebrity—to put it bluntly—the tits, baby, the tits.”

“Do you have to be so crude?”

“ ‘Do you have to be so crude,’ “ he mimicked. “You don’t even talk like the lady I married. You’re letting the current American obsession with your looks go straight to your head.”

“Oh! And what about you?—God’s gift to women. Are you supposed to be a shrinking violet? You’ve used your looks to get into every bedroom in town, not to mention a record contract.”

“That’s because I’m smart enough to know what people want of me. Nobody cares if either of us know how to use the finger bowl, or if we know the difference between the salad fork and the one you use for the main course. We’re here tonight strictly as window dressing, and frankly, I’m getting bored with it. At least I know where to go when I feel like being useful.”