The Bell Tolls for No One (24 page)

Fly the Friendly Skies

I
t was 12:35 p.m, lunch had been served, drinks had been served, and the jetliner steadied through midair and the movie came on:
The Dream of the Dancer
, a nice slight plot of a film featuring a junket of third-rate actors. It was a Miami to L.A. flight, #654 on a Thursday in March, almost clear skies, not much doing. The biggest problem was a backup at the restrooms, small lines forming, but that was standard after lunch and drinks. The passengers were an admixture of male and female, none of them exceptional, unusual or desperate except for three: Kikid, Nurmo, and Dak. They had three seats, right, side, middle. They had been observing the others and speaking quietly. Then as a stewardess walked by, Kikid nodded and Dak jumped up with the length of wrapping twine which was formed into a noose. He trailed behind her, then dropped the twine over her head and tightened it, held her there.

“Quiet, bitch, or you die!”

Most of the passengers were aware of the proceedings but they just stared like cows or they acted as if they were watching a movie which had nothing to do with them.

Nurmo and Kikid jumped up. They were all small young men, dark, thin, nervous.

“Take her up to the captain and begin proceedings,” Kikid said to Dak.

The passengers watched as Dak pushed the stewardess toward the pilot's compartment. A heavy-set young man further up the aisle from Kikid and Nurmo turned on his seat and said to them, “Listen, you'd better change your minds about this thing; this is a very serious thing.”

“Listen, man,” Kikid said, “you stay out of this!”

“Yeah, man,” said Nurmo, “you stay the fuck out of this!”

The heavy-set young man, who might have been a football player, continued: “I'm just warning you for your own good.”

“Listen, man, I'll give the warnings around here!” Kikid responded.

“I just want to repeat,” continued the young man, “that . . . .”

“Goddamn you! What did I tell you? What the goddamn hell did I tell you?”

Kikid ran up to where the young man was sitting. The young man saw him coming and started to rise but he had to undo his seatbelt first. It cost him. Kikid grabbed him by the collar, then something flashed in his hand—it was a metal can opener. He gouged the pointed end into one of the young man's eyes and twisted. The scream of pain almost shook the aircraft. The young man held both of his hands to his head where the eye had been. The eye was on the floor. Kikid looked down, saw it, stepped on it with his shoe, crushing it like a snail.

“Now,” he said, “you want to keep your other eye, you keep your fucking face shut!”

Just then the captain's voice came on over the intercom: “THIS IS CAPTAIN EVANS. I'M SORRY TO INFORM YOU BUT THIS PLANE HAS BEEN HIJACKED. WE HAVE NOW CHANGED COURSE TO HAVANA, CUBA. PLEASE COOPERATE WITH THE HIJACKERS. DO NOTHING TO CAUSE HARM TO YOURSELF OR ANY OF THE OTHER PASSENGERS. THANK YOU.”

“All right,” said Kikid, “now I want everybody to stay in your seats.”

“Yeah,” said Nurmo, “stay in your seats.”

A stewardess rushed up from the rear of the jet. She had a first-aid kit and she began administering aid to the bloodied young man who had lost his eye.

“Well, well,” said Kikid, “we've got these neat little dolls all over the place! Nothin' like lots of gash!”

He watched her bending over the young man. She had a beautiful behind, so full and young, a truly maddening rump. He reached out and grabbed her ass, hard, then let go. The stewardess straightened up and faced Kikid. She had a little girl's face, freckles, heavy lips, long red-brown hair.

“Keep your hands off me, you pig!”

“Attend your patient and feel lucky that's all I might do!” Kikid told her.

“You just hijack your plane. Let me try to save this man's life!”

She turned back to her job.

Nurmo who was standing behind Kikid said, “We're not hijackers! We're FREEDOM FIGHTERS!”

“All the way,” said Kikid.

He kept looking at the stewardess' ass. He had never seen an ass quite that marvelous and he'd seen and studied many, many asses. It just kept making those movements at him. He reached over again and grabbed a cheek of that ass, hard.

The stewardess whirled and faced Kikid again.

“I am trying to stop the flow of blood here! Otherwise, this man will die!”

“Is that right?” Kikid asked.

He pulled the wrapping twine from his pocket. Just like Dak's. It was formed into a noose. Then in a swift motion it was about the stewardess' throat. He tightened it and drew that little girl's face with all that ass toward him. He pulled it in close, then, kissed her viciously. Then he let her go, looked at her.

“Oh my,” he said, “I do believe I'm getting hard!”

Kikid kept holding the stewardess close to him by the twine. She looked good to him, all flushed and fearful. The other passengers watched, terrified.

“Hey, man,” Nurmo objected, “we're trying to hijack a plane here! What's all this bullshit with the broad?”

Kikid turned to Nurmo, still holding the stewardess with the twine. “Listen, man, I'm running this show! Now, you go up front and check on Dak, see that everything's okay up there!”

Then he looked back at the girl. “I like you baby. I like you very much! Now you're going to kiss me off! Right in front of all these nice people here!”

“No,” said the girl, “I'll die first!”

“Well, baby,” Kikid smiled, “that's up to you.”

Tightening the twine just a bit about the girl's throat, Kikid reached down and unzipped his fly. He pulled his penis out. It hung there, limp and ugly. Meanwhile, the wounded man had slumped in his seat, his lifeblood dripping into the aisle. Kikid pulled the girl's face closer to his, smiled at her: “Baby, you're going to kiss me off, NOW!”

“I'll die first!” she screamed.

Kikid smiled again, tightened the twine. The girl stood there, her face darkening. Kikid tightened the twine again. The girl's head began to move down.

“That's it, baby! Just a little lower! There, there . . . you're gonna like this and I'm gonna like this and maybe all the people watching are gonna like this!”

The girl's head was down there.

“NOW GET IT, WHORE, OR SO HELP ME, I'LL KILL YOU!”

“My God, can't somebody do something?” an old woman in a rear seat croaked out.

“Somebody is doing something, grandma,” said Kikid, “and she's doing real well, just like a pro. Just like a goddamned pro! Oh oooooh, shit, I can't stand it! I love you, you cunt! Oh, get it, get it ALL! Swallow it, you bitch, get it all!”

Then Kikid pulled away, shoved the stewardess to the floor, said “That's the quickest head-job I've ever had. You lick and suck at the same time and this FREEDOM FIGHTER wishes to thank you.”

Then he pointed to the dying man: “Okay, see if you can patch this asshole up! He's messing up the floor with his blood!”

The movie,
The Dream of the Dancer
, ended just then, though it was doubtful that any had watched it. Kikid zipped up just as Nurmo returned from the captain's cabin.

“How's it going up there?” Kikid asked him.

“It's okay, Dak still has the girl hostage and we're on course to Havana.”

“Fine,” Kikid stated, “as FREEDOM FIGHTERS our mission is about accomplished.”

“What'll we do now?” asked Nurmo.

“Just wait,” Kikid answered.

It was 1:43 p.m., approaching the Gulf of Florida, the stewardess showing great courage in attempting to stop the flow of blood from the dying man. It all seemed a matter of waiting, one way or the other. Kikid and Nurmo just stood there watching over the passengers.

“All right, you people, you know what your captain advised you. Don't cause any trouble. We have the girl as hostage up front. You try anything funny back here, the girl dies,” Kikid told them.

Suddenly a flash of silver light leaped into the cabin.

“What the hell was that?” Kikid asked.

“Geez, I dunno . . . ” Nurmo said.

Kikid ran to the window, leaning across some passengers. “Look! That's where the flash came from! See that thing out there?”

Nurmo leaned across and looked out of the window.

“I see it! Look, it's silver and round and glittering!”

“It's a fucking flying saucer!” yelled Kikid.

“Hey, it's gone!”

“Where'd it go?”

They ran to the opposite windows. There was nothing in sight. They stood back in the center aisle.

“It's weird,” said Kikid, “a flying saucer.”

“I can feel it right over us!” said Nurmo. “And I can feel that something strange is going to happen!”

“I know what it is!” said the old woman who had spoken before, “it's God! God has come to save us from being hijacked to Havana!”

Kikid whirled on the old lady and said, “Grandma, you're full of shit!”

“The Lord has come to save us!” she screamed.

Then there was a flash of purple light, a purple light as never seen upon the earth before, and then before them appeared a creature quite globular, almost all head with eyes as bright as 500-watt electric bulbs. Everything about the Thing was tiny except for the head: tiny ears, legs, mouth. It must have weighed 300 pounds and its skin had a metallic texture. How it managed to stand on its tiny legs was unbelievable. But the total effect the thing gave off was one of awesome power and an uninhibited and splendid intelligence. It stood, consuming the scene.

“Oh God!” wailed the old woman. “I had no idea you'd look like this!”

“Quiet, you gooney harridan,” the Thing spoke to her.

After a moment the Thing spoke again.

“Why is this craft headed for Havana? I intuit its original course as LAX. Hmmm . . . I see . . . ”

The Thing turned toward Kikid and Nurmo.

“Listen, man,” Kikid said, “maybe we can make a deal?”

“I don't deal,” the Thing answered.

And with that, a beam shot out from one of the Thing's 500-watt eyes.

Kikid slowly began to melt and then he was gone, left a stink similar to that of burning rubber.

The Thing turned toward Nurmo.

“Listen, man,” said Nurmo, “anything you say! I'm on your side! I'll be your slave for life! I'll work for six cents an hour and give half my salary to charity! What do you say?”

The answer came from the other 500-watt eye as Nurmo slowly melted down to the smell of burning rubber.

“God, you've saved us!” exclaimed the old woman, “but there's one more up front!”

“Shut up, old woman. I know about up front. I'll take care of that at my leisure.”

“Thank you, God,” said the old woman.

“Thank you, God,” said a man.

“Yes, thank you, God,” somebody else said.

The Thing turned to the stewardess who was still working on the dying man. She stood up. She had made a valiant effort and her uniform was blood-smeared. The passengers watched.

“What work do you want me to do?” she asked.

“You're going to suck me off!” the Thing said.

“No! Never!”

“You have no choice. My will is stronger than yours. You will do it . . . ”

And out of that globular head, down near the tiny legs, suddenly a long wiry thin pole-like antenna sprung out. It was silver yet skin-like. It quivered and glittered, hung out there. The stewardess moved toward it. She lifted the whole apparatus upwards, then stuck the end of it into her mouth. Her ears quivered and the saliva ran down her jaws. She went to it as the Thing grabbed her hair with its tiny hands. The jet passed through a rain cloud. There was momentary darkness, then light as the Thing said, “Get it all, you bitch! Get it all!”

It was going to be another of those flights, another late arrival at LAX.

The Lady with the Legs

I
first saw her in a bar on Alvarado Street. Lisa, that is. I was 24 years old, she about 35. She was sitting about bar center, and there was an empty stool on either side of her.

Compared to the average woman who came to that bar, she was a beauty. Her face was a bit round, and her hair didn't seem exceptional, but there was a quietness in the way she sat, and a sadness. I also sensed an eerie quality about her.

I left my stool to go to the men's room. I checked her twice, walking by, once from each side. She was small, a bit squat, but with shapely buttocks. But the most marvelous part of her was the legs: neat ankles, perfect calves, knees that ached to be squeezed, and also wondrous thighs.

It was as if
that
part of her body had maintained as the remainder had begun to lose out.

Her chin was too round, and her face was slightly puffy. She looked alcoholic.

Her high-heeled shoes were black and shiny, and she had three fake-gold bracelets on her left arm; also a dark mole just above the wrist. She was smoking a long cigarette and staring down into her drinking glass. She appeared to be drinking scotch along with a bottle of beer for a chaser.

I went back to my stool, finished my whiskey sour and nodded the bartender in for another. He trotted off. When he came back with my drink, I asked him about the lady with the legs.

“Oh,” he said, “that's Lisa.”

“She looks pretty good,” I said. “How come none of the men sit near her?”

“That's easy,” he answered. “She's crazy.”

Then he walked off.

I picked up my drink and walked down to Lisa. I took the stool to her left, lit a cigarette and had a hit of my drink. I was fairly intoxicated.

I picked up my whiskey sour and drained it, nodded the bartender in. “A refill for me and the lady. Also, two Heinekens for chasers.”

Hearing that, Lisa knocked off her drink.

When the new ones arrived, she took a hit of hers, and I took a hit of mine.

Then we both just sat there, looking straight ahead.

Maybe a couple of minutes passed. Then she spoke: “I don't like people, do you?”

“No.”

“You look like a mean son of a bitch. Are you?”

“No.”

She knocked off her drink, took a good gulp of beer. I followed suit.

“I'm crazy,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Are you crazy?” she asked.

“Yes.”

I waved the bartender in.

“I'll buy the next,” Lisa said.

She ordered the refills like one who had done that any number of times. When the drinks arrived, I said, “Thank you, Lisa.”

“You're welcome . . . .What's your name?”

“Hank.”

“You're welcome, Hank.”

Lisa took a sip, then glanced at me. “Are you crazy enough to break a bar mirror?”

“I think I already have.”

“Where was it?”

“The Orchid Room.”

“The Orchid Room is a stupid place.”

“I don't go there anymore.”

Lisa took a big drain of beer, set her bottle down, then sighed, “Well, I'm going to break
this
bar mirror.”

“Go,” I told her, “ahead.”

Lisa drained her scotch, then stood up and grabbed her beer bottle.

I saw her raise it over her head. I leaped up to grab her arm, but I was a bit late: I only slowed her overhand toss just a fraction.

The Heineken bottle looped in a slow, high arc toward the bar mirror as my mind quickly said, “No, no, no, NO!”

There was a sheer blasting sound as shards of glass came leaping out like giant icicles, and for some strange reason the lights went out.

It was frightening, glamorous and beautiful.

I drained my drink.

In the dark I saw much white rushing toward us. It was the bartender, most of him shirt and apron. He was moving fast.

“YOU CRAZY BITCH!” he screamed. “I'LL KILL YOU!”

I put Lisa behind me.

I found my beer bottle. I tried to time it as he came in. I was lucky. I caught him above the left temple. But he didn't fall. He just stood there in the dark in all his white. He was like a doorman waiting for a cab.

I switched the bottle to my left hand and cracked him on the right temple. He fell toward the bar, caught himself by grabbing the edge with both hands. He held there a moment, then began to tilt toward Alvarado Street.

When he hit the floor, the lights went on again.

For a second it was as if everybody were frozen in the light: the patrons, me, Lisa, the barkeep.

Then I yelled, “LET'S GO!”

I grabbed Lisa by the arm and pulled her toward the rear exit.

Then we were in the alley, and I yanked her along.

“COME ON! COME ON! HURRY!”

“I CAN'T RUN IN THESE GODDAMNED HIGH-HEELED SHOES!”

“TAKE THEM OFF!”

Lisa stopped and pulled them off, handed one to me. She took the other, and we ran down the alley.

When we got to the end, I looked back. We weren't being followed.

“All right, put your shoes back on.”

She worked at it, slipping the first one on. Then holding to my shoulder, she got the other one on. Then she just stood there, swaying.

“Okay,” I said, “come on!”

“Where we going?”

“To my place.”

We were at the end of the alley near the corner. Then I saw a bus pull up to expel a fare. I waved at the bus and pulled Lisa toward it. The driver had closed the door, but he saw us. He was a nice sort and reopened the door. I pushed Lisa on and dropped in the fare. I tried to pull her to a seat, but she just grabbed onto the pole above the money meter and wobbled about there.

She glared at me through mad green eyes. “SHIT! I WANT A CAB! I'M A LADY! I DON'T RIDE A FUCKING BUS! I DON'T RIDE A FUCKING BUS!”

Lisa was like a beautiful drunken gazelle, her miraculous buttocks swaying to the rocking of the bus.

“I WANT A CAB! I'M A LADY! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

“Baby, it's only four blocks.”

“SHIT! she screamed. “SHIT!”

The next stop was ours. I pulled the cord. The bus pulled up and stopped.

I pried Lisa's hands from the pole, got her about the waist and pulled her down the steps to the street.

The bus driver looked at me through the open door.

“Good luck, buddy. You're going to need it.”

“You're jealous,” I said.

He laughed, closed the door, and drove off into the night.

Lisa appeared to be getting drunker, and I wasn't too well off myself. I walked her along, one of my arms about her waist, the other pulling her right arm about my neck. She was rocking and staggering. Her beautiful legs were giving up.

“Doncha have a fucking car?”

“No.”

“You're a bum!”

“Yes.”

We were slowly and laboriously nearing my apartment.

“You got anything to drink up there? If you don't have anything to drink up there, I'm not coming!”

“Lots of bottles of wine . . . .The best . . . .”

“I'm sick,” she said.

Lisa lurched to the left. I was too drunk to right her. We fell. Luckily, there was a large hedge on that side. We pummeled down into it.

I hit the greenery, rolled backward, and was upon my back on the sidewalk. I got myself up. Then I looked down.

And there in the moonlight was Lisa, half spread in the hedge and half upon the sidewalk. She was hanging from one side, dangling. Her skirt was pulled back, exposing the most beautiful legs on Earth. I stared in disbelief.

But I gathered myself, knowing that a possible prowl car was always any given moment away.

“Lisa,” I said, “LISA! PLEASE WAKE UP!”

“Uh . . . .”

“THE COPS ARE COMING!”

It did something to her. As I yanked her out of the hedge, she made her legs behave. It was the act of a terrorized will . . .

I got her to the front doorway of the apartment, got her into the lobby, and moved her toward the elevator. I hit the button, the lift was there, and I worked her in. I hit the floor button and held Lisa upright, waiting.

“I miss my son,” she said. “I want my baby.”

“Sure you do,” I said.

I got her out of there and down to my door. As I opened it, she leaned forward against me and we both fell forward into there . . . .

Lisa got up, straightened her nylons, picked up her purse, walked to a chair across the room, sat down, and fumbled in her purse for cigarettes. Outside in the night the mostly red neon of L.A. poured in.

I opened a bottle of wine for Lisa and poured her a water-glassful. To the slight sound of nylon rubbing, she crossed her magic legs.

On the couch across from her I had my own bottle, had poured my own glassful. I drained it, poured another.

Lisa looked at me. Her eyes got large and larger. She looked as if she were going nuts. Then she spoke: “You think you're
hot shit
! You think you're Mr.
Van Bilderasss
!”

I was down to my shorts and undershirt. They were soiled and ripped.

I got up.

I pranced.

I slapped my legs.

“Hey, baby, you think you got good legs? Look at
these
!”

Then I pushed my chest out and made a bicep out of my right arm. ”Look at
that
, baby! I've decked many a slimy bastard with one punch!”

I walked back to the couch, sat down, drained half my glass. Lisa just continued to look at me. Her eyes still got larger and larger and larger.

“You think you're Mr.
Van Bilderass
!”

“RIGHT!”

She reached down and got her wine bottle, which she had corked. While looking at me, wild and wide-eyed she was, Lisa slowly lifted the bottle over her head, got her arm into the throw position as I yelled, HOLD IT!”

And she did.

I said, “NOW YOU CAN THROW THAT SON OF A BITCH, BUT IF YOU DO, BE SURE YOU KNOCK ME OUT! BECAUSE IF YOU DON'T, IT'S COMING RIGHT BACK AT YOU, AND I'M GOING TO KNOCK YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!”

While still looking wild-eyed, she slowly lowered the bottle to the floor.

I walked over, uncorked it, and filled her glass. Then I walked back to the couch and sat down. I was in a great positive state of mind.

“Now, whore,” I said, “I want you to pull your skirt back a little more . . . .”

Positive or not, I was still a bit surprised when Lisa did.

The edge of her skirt was about two inches above her knees. I could see an inch of flesh above the edge of the nylons.

“Now,” I said, “give me one more inch! No
more
than that!”

Lisa tugged her skirt up another inch.

I walked up and stood in front of her. Each valley and curve of her flesh was amazing. Her black high-heeled shoes glittered.

“TWIST YOUR ANKLE! KICK YOUR UPPER LEG A BIT!”

Lisa conceded.

“NOW STOP!”

She stopped.

“NOW GIVE ME ANOTHER HALF INCH!”

Lisa slipped her skirt up a bit more.

“YES! THERE!”

I was ape. I dropped to my knees, peering up her legs.

Lisa leered at me. “You're a fucking jerk; you're nuts!”

I reached out and grabbed a foot. I kissed that black high-heeled shoe on the side, just near the edge where the nylon was. Then I kissed her ankle.

“You're not a killer, are you?” she asked. “One of my friends, she went to this guy's room, and he tied her to his bed and took out this knife and carved his initials on her . . . . She screamed so loud, the police came and saved her . . . .You're not—”

“SHUT UP!”

I stood up and took it out.

I spit into my palm and started massaging myself.

“You fuckin' whore,” I said.

I began rubbing with abandon.

“ANOTHER INCH! SHOW ME ANOTHER INCH!”

I flailed away.

“SHOW ME MORE! SHOW ME MORE!”

It was the secret and the trick and the entirety!

“THERE! OH, MY GOD!”

I came.

The greasy white substance spurted out, a buildup, a release of years of frustration and loneliness. As it gushed out, I ran up to Lisa and spilled the white glue of myself all over her nylons and upper legs. Still spurting, I held it there.

She screamed and leaped up. “YOU PIG! YOU FUCKING IDIOTIC PIG!”

I reached up, grabbed the end of my undershirt, and wiped off. Then I walked back to the couch, poured myself a glassful, and lit a cigarette.

Lisa came out, sat down in her chair and poured herself one. Then she lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, exhaled. And as she exhaled, her voice came out over the top of the smoke: “You poor miserable fuck.”

“I love you, Lisa,” I said.

She just looked away to her left.

Little did I know that that would be the beginning of two of the most miserable and invigorating years of my life.

When she looked back, she said, “Is this all you have to drink? This cheap fucking wine?”

“It's not so bad, Lisa. When I drink it, what I do is think of something pleasant as it runs down my throat—like waterfalls or a bank account of $500. Or sometimes I imagine myself in a castle with a moat. Or I imagine myself as the owner of a liquor store.

“You're crazy,” she said.

And she was absolutely right.