Night of Violence

by Louis Charbonneau

  But Lefty waited. When he was sure that Pete had had time to get into position, he went out the door and walked briskly toward the office. Just before he reached it, he moved in quickly close to the wall and walked along it to the door of Unit 1. That way he was out of sight of Cutter’s front window. If it was Cutter, which Lefty seriously doubted now.

  He stood to the side of the door and knocked. There was no response. After a few seconds he knocked again. Still no answer. Lefty hesitated, then tried the handle of the door. It was locked.

  Turning abruptly, Lefty trotted past the next unit. He followed the driveway cutting through to the back. Near the end of the driveway he came to an abrupt stop. A black car was parked behind the end unit. Lefty squinted. When he saw the New Mexico plates he shrugged and continued on around the building. He found Pete crouched behind a thickly tangled, leafless bush.

  “I don’t think he’s there,” Lefty whispered.

  “The back window’s open,” Pete said. “Let’s have a look.”

  They moved in close to the building and crept up to the rear window of the room. Lefty edged close, stood on tiptoe and peered through the screen. Up until that moment he hadn’t been worrying, but as he brought his eyes close to the screen he felt a tug of fear. He had a flashing vision of a slug slapping through the screen and tearing off the top of his head. The image brought a chill to the back of his neck, as if somebody had held a cube of ice at the base of his goddamned skull.

  Nothing happened. The room inside was dark, and it was a moment before Lefty was sure that it was empty. He slipped his knife out of his pocket and clicked the blade open. Inserting the blade under the edge of the screen frame, he prodded at the hook. After a few seconds it slipped loose. Lefty glanced over his shoulder at Pete.

  “Gimme a boost,” Lefty said.

  19

  In the Western Bar and Grill, Phil Nelson slapped the fat man, whose name was George, on his meaty shoulder.

  “Lemme buy you ‘nother,” Phil said. “Next one’s on me.”

  “No, no, no!” George said, pulling himself erect on his stool with resolution. “Gotta go. Little woman’s waiting for me.” He giggled. “Probably break my fat head for me as ’tis.”

  “Time for one more,” Phil insisted. He didn’t want George to leave. He didn’t want to go back to the empty motel room.

  George slipped off his stool and steadied himself with one hand against the edge of the bar.

  “Gotta go,” George said resolutely. “Phil, old man, I gotta go.” He put his hand on Phil’s arm and leaned on him heavily. “Phil, old man, ‘sbeen a lotta fun. Don’t you forget me now, gonna look me up when you come through here again. Don’t forget old George now.”

  “How could I forget old George?” Phil asked sadly, suddenly remembering all the men he had met and drunk with in bars, men whose names and faces he had forgotten.

  “Don’t forget to see Lester Bowen,” George said. “Tell him old George sent you. Old Les will go for that service of yours.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Phil said. “Thanks for the tip, George. Sure you won’t have another?”

  George was still leaning on him, and Phil’s shoulder was beginning to ache.

  “Nope,” George said. He giggled. “I’m drivin’.” He pulled himself erect and stuck out his hand. “Best o’ luck, Phil,” he said. “Don’t forget to look me up.”

  “Sure,” Phil said. “Give my regards to the little woman. Have to meet her sometime.”

  “Sure thing,” George said, his eyes shifting a little. “Great idea. You’d like Marsha.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything else to say then, so George slapped Phil on the shoulder once more, grinned, and turned away, walking very carefully. Phil sadly watched him go. He looked around the barroom at the couples in the booths and at the men down at the other end of the bar, but they weren’t aware of him. He felt the isolation of the man who sits eternally among strangers. Turning his head, he caught another glimpse of his face in the mirror, the face of yet another stranger. The glow brought by liquor and brief companionship began to dim.

  The darkness of the bar, the heavy smells of beer and whiskey, and the meaningless murmur of conversation struck his senses forcibly, and he felt an overpowering desire to breathe fresh air. He pushed himself off the stool and stumbled toward the door.

  Outside, the street was quiet. There was a drugstore still open at the corner, and some kids standing out front, and some of the other stores had lights burning inside. The marquee of the movie was still blazing but the box-office was dark. Phil walked up the street to his car.

  He drove slowly, concentrating on the road. He was not drunk, he thought. Not drunk enough. He wished that he had thought to buy a bottle. He drove on, carefully, toward the lonely, empty room.

  20

  Lucy’s feverish kiss overpowered Art’s half-hearted attempt to push her away. He tried to hold back against the irresistible attraction, the enveloping nearness of her, but he could feel her ams tightening around his neck, her heavy breasts pressing hard against his chest. And she aroused in him, as she had always done, every image of woman locked in the secret vault of his memory, all of the remembered sensations of sex, from the first guilty glimpse of a woman’s body to the heart-hammering moment when his fingers first sought the utterly feminine shape and softness of an offered breast, all of the bewildering excitement of discovery, and with it the latent guilt and the pounding fear and the exhilarating moment of exploding realization.

  She was Woman, more completely, more shamelessly, more openly than anyone he had ever known, and he could no more tear himself away from her than the moth can flit back after that first searing contact with the hot, brilliant bulb of light.

  She broke the kiss. Under their heavy, lowering lids, her eyes glittered. Her hands dropped to the belt at her waist and pulled. As the robe fell open, Art’s fingers found the sleek hollow of her waist, and he knew again shame and pulsing excitement. Her lips responded to the pressure of his hands. Then she was clinging to him again.

  “Art, honey….”

  Her lips kissed the lobe of his ear, and he felt the nibbling of her teeth.

  “Art, baby….” she moaned. “No one’s ever been as good as you. No one.”

  The words slapped him with the chilling force of a cold, wet towel, cooling the heat of passion, weakening its fever grip, leaving him, like a man after the fever, empty and shaken. He was able to push Lucy away. For a moment he stared at her, breathing hard, seeing the bewilderment begin in her eyes.

  Abruptly he turned his back on her. To cover the confusion of his feelings, the churning mixture of desire and guilt and anger, he fished a cigarette out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. Fumbling fingers dug out his lighter. He looked at his hands, willing them to be steady. Inhaling deeply, he let the smoke fill his lungs, released it in a long, shuddering breath.

  “Art!” Lucy’s hands pulled at him, trying to turn him around. “Art, what’s wrong? What did I do?”

  “You did everything just right,” he said flatly. “You’re an expert.”

  “What does that mean? Art, for God’s sake—”

  He whirled on her. “If I’m so damned good,” he said harshly, “why did you run out on me?”

  She fell back as if he had slapped her. She was still breathing quickly, and Art saw the quivering of her breasts as her chest rose and fell. He looked away. Lucy, recovering quickly from the shock of his angry question, saw the hunger in his eyes before he jerked his gaze away from her. A smile touched her lips.

  “I didn’t run away because of you,” she said. “I just couldn’t stand this place any longer.”

  “You said you liked it when we first came here, when we bought the place.”

  “I did—for the first month. I thought it would make us independent. I thought we’d make money. But you know how it was—watching your pennies all the time, and sweating in this damned heat.”

  “You knew what i
t would be like in the beginning. We talked that all over.”

  “No, I didn’t know!” Her voice was sharper now, remembering. “How could I know? How could I know what a stupid, dull little town Daro was? How could I know there wouldn’t be anything to do but work, work, work? And no place to go, nothing exciting to do? How could I know all that?”

  “You could have told me how you felt.”

  “You wouldn’t listen!” She moved closer to him. Her fingers touched his arm lightly. “Oh, Art, honey, I wanted to stay. I didn’t want to run out on you. But I couldn’t stand it any longer! I wanted to live, not just to shrivel up and wither away in a drab little town in the middle of the desert. And then, Jimmy stopped here that night….”

  “So that was his name. I bet he was good, too, eh?”

  She flinched, but this time she didn’t step back. Her fingers toyed with his arm, and she leaned closer.

  “No. Not like you.” Her voice hardened. “He was a phony! He made out like he had all kinds of money, and he could buy me things, take me places. I wanted the things he talked about, damn it! I wanted them so bad it made me sick to think of them.” She paused. “Then it turned out he was just a big talker. One week he was rolling in dough and the next week he was flat broke. And it got so he was broke more often than not.”

  “Tough.”

  “Don’t say it like that, honey.” Her arms slid around his waist, and he felt the warmth of her body again. He was angered by the quickening response that came unasked to his body. Suddenly he pushed her hands away and turned to confront her, keeping his eyes on her face.

  “Things panned out a little better with Stockwell, didn’t they? He’s got money.” Art’s voice was bitter.

  “Yes,” Lucy said quietly. “He can give me everything I want … a big house overlooking the bay, two servants, big cars, nice clothes … the best, Art. Nothing’s too good for me.”

  “Then why bother with me? Why stop here and start throwing your hips around? Just for kicks?”

  “I’ve got everything I want, Art … everything except you.”

  For a long moment Art stared at her in silence, suddenly aware that she was close to telling the truth, as close as she could get.

  “You don’t think I could ever forget you, do you, honey?” Lucy asked huskily. “You’re a real man, Art, the only one I could never push around. That’s why I knew I could never make you give up the motel. That’s why I left.” She paused, looking at him steadily. “And that’s why I’ve always wanted to come back. That’s why I’m here.”

  Art didn’t feel the anger any more. He felt tired.

  “Stockwell doesn’t look like a man who’s easy to push around,” he said.

  Lucy smiled, a slow, confident smile, and Art saw the contempt behind it. “He’ll do anything I ask him.” Lucy said, “He’ll give me anything my little heart desires. You see … he wants me. He wants me real bad.” Her smile altered subtly and her eyes smoldered. “I thought you did too … a little.”

  Her body melted against his, rhythmically active, becoming almost one with his, and Art’s need of a woman rose with a harsh, demanding response. Then her fingers were fumbling with the buttons on his shirt and she was pulling him toward the bed, while her mouth burned against his face and neck and lips with quick, urgent kisses.

  Art tore free. The violence of his movement sent Lucy tumbling backwards onto the bed. He stared down at her, at the half-closed eyes and the arms reaching up toward him, and the woman’s smell of her was strong in his nostrils, like cheap wine. His labored breathing began to steady.

  “I’m sorry, Lucy,” he said. “Yes, I did want you. I’ve wanted you for two years. But you’re not mine to take any more.”

  “Art! Honey, you can’t—”

  “It’s no good,” he said heavily. “I thought I was still in love with you. I was trying to feed something that didn’t exist. It’s all over, Lucy. It was over a long time ago, but I didn’t know it.”

  He finished buttoning his shirt and started to walk around the bed. Lucy tumbled off the bed and ran in front of him.

  “Art! you can’t leave me like this!”

  Art stared at her and gave a short, hard laugh. “You picked the wrong words, Lucy. You left me … remember?”

  “You picked a fine time to develop a conscience,” she said bitingly. “What’s the matter? That girl in the office? Is that it?”

  The words angered him, but he didn’t want to argue with her. He just wanted to get out.

  “I hope you’ve got what you want, Lucy,” he said quietly. “I nope you’ll be happy.”

  It seemed a silly remark to make. Art walked to the door and glanced back once. Lucy glared at him, her full mouth flattened into an angry line. Art turned away and opened the door.

  He stopped abruptly, staring directly into the cold, hard, pig eyes of Horace Stockwell.

  21

  For several minutes after Art left, Marina pretended to busy herself at the desk, refusing to think about Art and Lucy. Then she gave up. She stood by the counter, staring through the still open door at the shuttered window of Lucy’s room across the way.

  All right, she thought. All right, now where do you stand? Even if you could get him now, do you still want him? How much pride can you swallow?

  They were rational questions, and there should have been clear answers, but they didn’t come to her. All she could see was a dream evaporating, a love that had been built up slowly, with a thousand moments of shared laughter and warm friendliness subtly creating a close intimacy of thought and feeling, all this so carefully built into a solid structure of love, suddenly being shattered by a single blow. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put a shattered heart together again.

  She smiled bitterly. You’re not being modern, she thought. You’re supposed to forgive a man an occasional fling, as long as he comes back to you. Even more than that, until he’s married to you there’s not supposed to be anything to forgive. Before then a man has to satisfy his sexual drive one way or another. Otherwise he might have a neurosis. That’s not what the priests said on Sunday, but it was what the psychiatrists said on Monday through Saturday, and people were paying more attention during the week than they did on Sunday.

  With her it was different. As long as she admitted that she was in love with Art, Marina couldn’t conceive of wanting another man. Oh, it wasn’t easy, sometimes. But she knew that with her, as with a lot of women, sex had to be tied up with love. It wasn’t an irresistible hunger that had to be satisfied on the nearest male. Even with Art, she hadn’t begun to want him physically, she hadn’t begun to dream of the hard strength of his body, until after she had fallen in love with him. The desire came second, not first.

  Now it was too late, she thought, blinking back tears. In her mind and heart she had given herself to him before he had asked, and she couldn’t take back what she had given just by thinking about it or saying it. That’s what made it so horrible. Art had held back. He hadn’t given himself to her. He was free.

  Even if she went away, Marina knew that she wouldn’t be free. Not for a long time, if ever. Damn you! she whispered, staring through blurred eyes at the lighted window across tre courtyard. Damn you, Art Durbin! I love you so much!

  The headlights of a car slashed across the courtyard. Marina’s eyes caught a blur of motion and the bulky shadow of a big car pulling in. She recognized the black tail fins. Stockwell!

  Panic gripped her. She reached for the phone and caught herself. No! No! There wasn’t time! Frantically she looked around the office, trying to find something that might explain why Art was in that room across the way. She heard the Cadillac stop. Oh, Art, Art, why did you do it?

  And what do you care, she demanded of herself, close to tears again. What do you care? It serves him right! Whatever happens, he asked for it!

  Her eyes fell on the group of special keys at the bottom of the key rack. Without pausing to analyze what she was doing
she grabbed the keys and looked through them until she found the one labeled No. 3. There wasn’t time to slip the key off the ring.

  She bolted through the counter toward the door. Stockwell was just coming around his car, approaching his unit. Don’t run, Marina thought, as she went down the steps. It would look wrong. She started across the courtyard, her long legs reaching out in rapid strides. Stockwell, close to his door, heard her. He glanced back over his shoulder. Marina smiled brightly, holding up the keys.

  Suddenly the door opened in front of Stockwell and Art started out, stopping when he saw Stockwell. The two men confronted each other.

  “Oh, Art!” Marina called, her voice surprisingly clear and steady. “I found it!”

  Both men turned at the sound of her voice. Marina trotted the last few steps.

  “I knew I’d find it,” she said as she reached the men. She smiled at Stockwell, and she saw the flush of suspicion in his face change subtly. He looked puzzled now, unsure of himself, unable to see how the girl would fit into his suspicions.

  “Your wife wanted the key to the desk,” Marina said, a little louder than necessary. “I guess she wants to lock some things in the drawer for the night.”

  She pushed past Stockwell and Art into the room. Lucy watched her with a trace of contempt in her smile. Marina stared at her coldly, then walked to the small desk in front of the window and inserted the key in the lock, pretending to turn it. The drawer was already unlocked. She slipped the key off the ring and held it out to Lucy.

  “Here you are,” she said, smiling. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “No, thank you,” Lucy said. “You’ve earned your reward for tonight.”

  Marina looked at her sharply. Lucy’s tone had been unexpectedly nasty, and Marina couldn’t see the reason for it. Maybe, she thought, the absurdity of it striking her so abruptly that she had to restrain a wild impulse to laugh, maybe they didn’t have time! Maybe he even changed his mind!