Live Girls

by Ray Garton

  He turned the pages in the opposite direction, thumbing to the back of the book. The final clipping in the book was fresh, the paper was white and clean. It was from the Times and dated eight months before. A review of the Midnight Club, praise for Anya's dancing, and a picture...

  Davey began paging through the book frantically, something that would give reason for what could not be. All he found were more articles, more pictures.

  The oldest of all was on the first page. The edges of the clipping were tattered and creases cut through the type. It was dated August 9, 1920. In the grainy, blurred picture was the same Anya—just as beautiful, just as young—who had left the room minutes earlier.

  10

  ____________________________

  CASEY STOOD ON A CROWDED BUS WITH HER FINGERS wrapped securely around the sticky handrail. Standing beside her was a fat wheezing man with a cane. He smelled like a dog kennel; the odor made her wince.

  One annoying person after another, she thought. She'd spent the whole afternoon dodging Chad Wilkes after the incident in the elevator. Now she had to stand next to a walking sewer.

  Casey had decided to go straight to Davey's rather than to her apartment first. If he wasn't any better, she was going to insist he see a doctor. Sick people made her very nervous. Her father had died of cancer when she was twelve. After he'd died, she'd learned everyone had known he was dying but her. Now whenever someone close to her got sick, she feared there was something she wasn't being told, and it made her anxious. She couldn't imagine Davey keeping anything that serious from her and tried to tell herself that it was, indeed, just the flu. But she'd never seen the flu have such a drastic effect on someone's appearance.

  A hand came to rest on her ass and she stiffened. Turning to the fat, smelly man beside her, she saw him smirk. The fingers touching her squeezed ever so slightly.

  Casey's teeth clenched, and she said, “If you don't take your hand from my ass, I'm going to rip it off and stuff the fingers down your throat one at a time."

  The man's eyebrow, speckled with snowy bits of dried skin, rose slowly, and the hand relaxed but did not pull away.

  Casey swung her hand down and grabbed his crotch, squeezing hard. “How do you like it?"

  He pulled his hand away and moved as far from her as he could.

  “You shouldn't live in New York,” her mother often told her. “Your mouth is going to get you killed. You're the kind of person who would slap an armed mugger in the face and tell him he was out of his mind because you don't seem to realize that when you have a gun, it's okay to be out of your mind, it's okay to be anything you damn well please."

  When the bus came to her stop, Casey got off and hurried down the sidewalk with her umbrella at her side. The darkening sky was still filled with clouds, but at least the rain had stopped.

  Upstairs in Davey's building, she knocked on the door of his apartment; it swung gently open. She frowned; it was very unlike Davey to leave the door open.

  When she stepped inside, she heard the voice of Mister Rogers on the television.

  “...and Mr. Cogswell is an electrician. Can you say ‘electrician'? I knew you could."

  “Davey”—she laughed—“what the hell are you watching?"

  He was sitting on the sofa, his back to her, facing the television. His hair was mussed; spikes of it sat upright.

  “Davey?"

  He turned to her slowly. The white of his face stood out against his brown hair.

  “Case?” he said softly.

  She closed the door and stepped toward him. Davey stood, pulled the front of his robe together tightly, and took a step back.

  “Maybe you shouldn't come in,” he said. “This might be catching."

  She stared openmouthed at him. He actually looked like he'd lost more weight in the last day or so than she could lose with a week of serious dieting and he was so pale his skin seemed almost creamy.

  “How are you feeling, Davey?” There was something odd about the way he was standing.

  “Not bad. Really.” He rounded the sofa, but kept a distance from her. His movements were jerky; he seemed tense and nervous. “I'm going to see a doctor tomorrow."

  “Who?"

  “Remember the guy I was with today? Walter Benedek?"

  She nodded.

  “His wife's a doctor. I'm calling tomorrow."

  Davey didn't seem to be telling the truth. His tongue poked out between his tightly pressed lips and moved back and forth like a small, quick animal.

  “He left his home number,” Casey said. “You should call tonight."

  “...time to go to the Land of Make Believe,” Mister Rogers was saying.

  Davey always kept loose phone numbers by the phone on his nightstand. Casey hurried into the bedroom, found the slip of paper, and began to dial the number. Davey came in behind her. He put a hand on her arm and pulled the receiver from her ear, using the other hand to push down the button on the cradle.

  “Please, Casey, I'm going to call her in the morning. Early. I'll call her at home before she leaves. Would that make you feel better?"

  She turned to see him smile. It was forced and stiff.

  His nostrils flared and he leaned toward her. Hanging up the phone, he asked softly, “What's that smell?"

  “What smell?"

  “I don't know. I smelled it when you were here earlier. Kind of, I don't know, maybe musky?"

  “Well, it's not my perfume."

  He put a hand on her shoulder and said, “It's you. It's on you.” His grip tightened and he moved closer to her, sniffing. “Take off your coat,” he said, unbuttoning it for her.

  “Davey, what's—"

  “It's on you. I know it is."

  He pulled her coat down over her shoulders; it slipped to the floor. His smile slowly grew, wide and genuine.

  “It smells good,” he breathed. He leaned forward and kissed her, long and deep.

  “Davey,” she murmured, pulling her mouth away, but he kissed her again. He slid his hands over her breasts and began to unbutton her top. His touch left a brief tingle just beneath her skin, but it scared her, too. Something was wrong. She pushed him away hard. “What's the matter with you?” she said with an unintentional laugh.

  “You smell so good,” he whispered.

  “Well, you've certainly had a change of heart, haven't you?” She started to rebutton her top.

  He stopped her. “Please don't.” He leaned forward and kissed her neck, clumsily got her top open and reached beneath it, passed his hand over her skin.

  “Davey..."

  He moved her to the bed and began to undo her skirt, but then gave up. He pushed her back on the bed and slipped a hand beneath her skirt, moving it over her thigh.

  “Davey, I can't,” she said.

  He didn't seem to hear her. His hand moved above her thigh, above the top of her stockings, to her panties.

  “Davey, I said I can't. I'm on my period."

  He exhaled suddenly; there was a moan behind his breath as he pressed his mouth hard onto hers. He slipped his fingers beneath her panties and pulled them down. She trembled at the feel of him touching her there.

  “Davey,” she gasped weakly, “please..."

  He kissed her neck and her chest, her belly, her thighs. He lifted her skirt, pressed her legs apart, and nuzzled her. His fingers explored for a moment, found the string, and pulled it out smoothly. His tongue moved over her folds, her body stiffened with pleasure, and she moaned.

  Casey heard the sounds of his mouth on her, smacking sounds, slow and wet, and she felt the movements of his lips and tongue, nicking, sucking. Heat rose from between her legs and spread throughout her body.

  Mister Rogers's voice droned placatingly in the next room.

  “...can't always be happy, can we, boys and girls? We must remember that it's okay to be sad sometimes. It's natural. Can you say natural? I knew you could."

  As Davey lapped at her like a dog, she heard him mumble between he
r thighs.

  “...what I needed ... so good..."

  He reached up and covered her breast with his hand, pushed aside the material of her bra. The combination of his fingers on her nipple and his lips and teeth and tongue flicking over her clitoris made her cry out.

  Why is he doing this? There's something wrong ... something wrong...

  “ ... tastes so good..."

  “Davey..."

  She felt his mouth pull away from her as he lifted himself up. Casey raised her head and looked at him. She sucked in a breath to scream, but the sound lodged in her throat.

  Davey was propped up on stiff arms. Clotted, viscous blood was smeared around his mouth, on his nose and cheeks, even in his hair. His eyes were sparkling in the dim light and his smile was broad and rigid.

  It was that smile, that smile she'd never seen before, and the look in his eyes, a lusty, exhilarated look that was so unlike Davey it made his whole face seem unfamiliar.

  In a low, guttural voice, he said: “Can you say men-stru-ation? I knew you could..."

  His mouth opened to its limit and his lips pulled back over his teeth, until they were all exposed, shining white and red, and he leaned his head far back and she knew without a doubt that Davey was going to plunge that soft, kind, gentle face downward and sink his teeth into the lips of her vagina until they broke through the tender skin. Casey screamed and began frantically pulling herself away from him.

  “Davey Davey my God Davey what're you doing?” she shrieked.

  Davey's face suddenly relaxed; he blinked several times as if waking from a deep sleep. “I'm...” he began. He ran his tongue around his bloody lips twice. “I'm ... sorry.” He moved from the bed quickly and stepped away from her, turning his back. “I'm sorry, Casey, you should, you should get out of here and stay away from me, there's”—he sobbed—“there's something wrong with me. Something very wrong.” His shoulders hitched and he gasped for breath through his tears.

  Casey stood, and pulled herself together. When she moved toward Davey, he dashed into the bathroom. She heard him retching into the toilet. Casey took a tissue from the box by the bed, wrapped the tampon in it, and tossed it in the trash can in the corner.

  “Davey, let me call her now,” she said, approaching the doorway.

  Davey was kneeling at the toilet, his robe crumpled around his legs. He stood slowly and leaned on the sink. Washing his face, he said, “I'll be okay. Why don't you go now?"

  As Davey was drying his face, Casey stepped into the bathroom and stood at his side. Davey pulled away as if struck.

  “Just go, Casey, okay?"

  She saw that his hands were trembling and his fingers were worrying the edges of the towel.

  “Davey, you're keeping something from me,” she said firmly. “If you'll tell me what's really wrong, I'll try to help you, but I don't want to be lied to!"

  Casey immediately regretted her angry tone when she saw Davey's face screw up. Tears sparkled in his eyes and he stumbled backward, sitting heavily on the edge of the tub. Through his tears, he began to tell her about Anya....

  Benedek was led to a table by a man named Cedric. Something about the man—was it the scar on his neck?—made Benedek think he should know him. The man's dark, angular face was very familiar, but Benedek couldn't pin it down.

  The gaunt, balding man at the door had grudgingly let him in, giving Benedek the once-over with his beady eyes. Benedek was certain that, had Ethan Collier not called ahead the thin, hollow-cheeked man behind the pedestal would have smilingly turned Benedek away.

  Once Benedek was seated at his table, Cedric told him a waitress would be with him in a moment, and walked away. Benedek took in his surroundings carefully but casually.

  It was dark and sleek with a sparse crowd, which was not surprising at that hour—it was just past seven. A smiling blond waitress took Benedek's order: a rum and Coke on the rocks. When she left, he lit a cigarette and looked around at the other patrons.

  Two women huddled close over their table talking. One of them, perhaps in her early fifties and strikingly attractive with high cheekbones and thick, sandy-colored hair, waved at Cedric after Benedek settled himself at his table. Cedric escorted her to a door on the other side of the room and let her through.

  Rest rooms, Benedek thought absently, until he noticed that there were no signs.

  “Are you going out?” Jackie had asked when she'd come home to find Benedek getting dressed.

  “Just for a while."

  “That's too bad. I was looking forward to an evening in bed with the television. Ninotchka's on tonight."

  “Not this evening, sweety."

  “Where are you going?"

  Benedek had considered lying to her so she wouldn't worry, but as good a liar as he was, she always seemed to see through it. “I'm going to a place called the Midnight Club."

  “A nightclub this early?"

  “Business, not pleasure.” He'd finished tying his tie and given her a hug and kiss. Still holding her, he'd said, “There's some connection between the club and live Girls."

  She'd pulled back gently. “Walter, don't you think you should leave this alone? They'll find him."

  “They'll find him, maybe. But I don't think they'll find what I'm looking for."

  “And what's that?"

  After a pause: “I'm not sure yet."

  “Walter.” She placed her hand on his neck and squeezed. “Your sister and niece have been killed. They're dead. You're suffering a loss. Shouldn't you be..."

  “Mourning?"

  She nodded hesitantly.

  “Sweetheart, I am. In my way, I am. And part of it is doing something about it."

  “And what are you doing, Walter? What aren't you telling me?"

  He pulled his eyes from hers for a moment. “You're right. There's something I'm not telling you. When I know more..."

  She touched his face. “All right,” she whispered, nodding. “I trust you. Do what you have to. But be careful."

  “Don't worry, honey, I just want to have a look around."

  “Christ.” She chuckled, stepping into his arms again. “What you call looking around most people call breaking and entering. You and your lock-picking..."

  “Don't lose any sleep over it,” he said, smiling. “Go to bed. Let the machine answer the phone. Relax. I'll be back in a while."

  “Famous last words."

  A few tables away, two couples—yuppies, Benedek decided immediately—laughed over glasses of white wine.

  Only one person other than Benedek sat alone: a jowly Asian man in a blue business suit. He fidgeted and shifted in his seat, looking over both shoulders every few seconds, as if expecting someone. After watching him a few moments, Benedek realized the man was waiting for a waitress. Each time one passed, even if not nearby, the man timidly waved a pudgy hand toward her. He wasn't obvious enough. He became more and more agitated, tugged at his collar and wiped his brow, glanced at the door and...

  That's why he kept looking over his shoulder. He was watching the door.

  The waitress came with Benedek's drink and he paid her. As she walked away from his table, the Asian man waved at her; she didn't notice.

  What the hell's he need, permission? Benedek thought.

  Finally, the man stood and walked to the door alone. He tried the knob, apparently found it locked. He knocked hard with one knuckle, then took a few nervous steps this way and that before the door.

  It opened.

  Someone peered out.

  A round, fleshy face. Salt-and-pepper hair. Thin lips and a wrinkled brow. There and gone.

  The Asian man stepped through and the door closed.

  Benedek's cigarette dropped from his fingers to the floor. Without even thinking, he stamped it out with his foot, burning a black spot into the carpet. He had a simultaneous feeling of triumph and fear.

  The face in the doorway had been that of Vernon Macy.

  “For Christ's sake, Davey!” Casey snap
ped. “What the hell possessed you to go into a place like that?” She lit a cigarette as she paced before him in the little bathroom. Her voice was sarcastic and accusatory, even though she knew he needed a friend. Well, she was being a friend by not giving in and showing him undeserved pity. What he needed more than anything, she decided, was a good kick in the ass. “If all you wanted was a blow job, you could've come to me. You know I'm clean. Jesus, who knows what you picked up in there. And you went back to her! Jeee-zus!"

  “She bit me,” Davey whispered, staring at his lap.

  "Bit! She bit you? Holy God.” She stopped pacing and faced him. “Have you talked to her? I mean, did you at least ask her what she has?"

  “I tried to, but—"

  “You tried," she spat. “Davey, I am so fucking sick of your attitude. You keep digging these holes and jumping in, then asking me to pull you out. Or at least expecting me to. And I keep doing it. Well, you handle this one. I can only be so understanding and so helpful, then I have to draw the line. You apparently like being miserable or else you'd start thinking for a change. You'd grow up and take charge of your own life and stop acting like a fucking whiny child! You'd—oh, fuck it.” She started to walk out. “Christ, I hope you didn't give me anything."

  “Casey, wait. It's not what you think. There's something wrong...” He pressed a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. "Inside me. I'm having ... nightmares and ... thinking awful things. I can't ... stay ... away from her. Maybe if I'd stayed away the first time. But she's doing something to me that ... I need now. I don't know what or why, but there's something I need; it's a craving. That smell ... your smell...” He met her eyes for the first time in several minutes. “It's driving me crazy,” he said huskily.

  Casey took an involuntary step away from him. She realized then what was different about Davey. It was the hungry stare, the stare of a child peering into a pastry display case.

  A sick child.

  His whole body quaked as he stood, licking his lips. “I'm hungry, Casey,” he whispered. “But I can't eat."

  She backed into the bedroom and he followed her.