Live Girls

by Ray Garton

  “Yes,” he said when he finally heard a voice, “I'm, uh, my name is Walter, uh, Benedek, I'm a friend of Kenneth Riley, and I need to speak to him right now, it's an emergency."

  The woman on the line hesitated for a long moment. “Who did you say you are?"

  “Walter Benedek. I'm a reporter for the Times.” He made an effort to speak coherently, steadily. “Is he in?"

  “No, no, he isn't in. How well do you know Detective Riley?"

  “What do you mean, how well do I...” Benedek suddenly had to lean against the wall so he wouldn't collapse, because he knew she was holding something back. “What's happened?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

  “Detective Riley is dead."

  Benedek slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor.

  “He and”—the officious-sounding woman cleared her throat—“his family were found murdered a little over an hour ago."

  The receiver clattered to the floor. Benedek felt as if everything were ready to shut down: his body, his mind, his control. He could almost hear the seams splitting in the fabric of his life.

  “Hello?” the woman said. “Hello? Are you all right? Are you there?"

  Benedek didn't hear her. He heard nothing but the slowly building rumble of fear in his skull.

  He should have told Riley what he knew when he had the chance. Too late now: they'd gotten to him first. And Benedek was certain they wouldn't rest until he was dead, too.

  That left Davey Owen as his only remaining source of help, and if Davey was unwilling to work with him, he would have to go public with the story sooner than he'd planned.

  Benedek lifted the receiver to his ear.

  “I'm ... I'm sorry to hear that,” he said tremulously.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?"

  “No. Thank you. I just wanted to talk to ... him.” Benedek slowly lifted himself to his feet and hung up the phone.

  He would call Davey. But not yet. He needed just a little time to pull himself together. Just a little time.

  Davey sat on the bus staring out the window, trying to focus his attention on the passing lights outside. His mind kept returning, however, to Beth.

  Why did she have to come over that night? Why couldn't she have just left the Goddamned shoes and mirror at his place?

  He kept thinking about the cut on her lip.

  He closed his eyes at the memory of how desperately he'd wanted to kiss her, to put his mouth over that cut.

  Two young girls sat in the seat ahead of him, laughing and whispering to one another. The girl directly before him had platinum hair and exquisitely smooth flesh.

  Davey couldn't stop thinking about what was beneath that flesh. He couldn't ignore the burning emptiness in his gut, the trembling of his hands. The bus was not moving fast enough; he wondered if he would get to the club in time.

  The bus stopped and several more people boarded. There were no more seats, so they stood, swaying with the bus's movement, hanging on to the rails.

  At the next stop, a few more got on.

  The girl ahead of him lit a cigarette and turned toward the window to exhale the smoke, laughing at something her friend had said. Davey looked at her throat. The cords in her neck tightened when she turned, and he could see the pulsing of her jugular vein just beneath her skin.

  Davey jerked his head away, looked out the window.

  But he could smell them all, crowded into the bus, their hearts pounding...

  When the bus stopped again, Davey stood quickly, pushed down the aisle, and went through the rear exit.

  The cold air made him feel better. He began walking fast, head bowed, trying to ignore the few people he passed on the sidewalk. He wasn't far from the Midnight Club, only a few blocks.

  When he pushed through the door of the club, Malcolm smiled broadly at him.

  “Mr. Owen,” he said quietly, “how are you this evening?"

  He nodded distractedly. “Fine, thanks. I'm here to see Shideh."

  Malcolm cocked a brow. “I don't know if she's here, Mr. Owen. Why don't you go in and ask for her.” He pushed the button on the pedestal and the double doors swung silently open. A flood of sound poured through: loud music, laughter, glasses clinking together in toasts.

  Davey stepped through the doors and was greeted by a tall blond woman. She smiled. She had round, doelike blue eyes and a slightly crooked smile that looked warm and trusting.

  “Hello, Mr. Owen,” she said in a low, smoky voice. “We were hoping you'd come in tonight. My name's Robbie. Can I get you a table?"

  She had olive skin, straight white teeth, so friendly and warm. She spoke as if she knew him, had expected him.

  Of course, he thought. I'm a member now.

  Davey wondered what she'd given up for this life. A man who loved her? A family? How long had she been dead?

  “Mr. Owen?"

  Davey looked into her warm, heartbreaking eyes and suddenly conjured a vision of Robbie biting out a man's tongue in the middle of a long, deep kiss.

  “Would you like a table?” she asked again.

  “No. No, I'm looking for Shideh."

  “Oh, she's not here yet. She won't be in until eleven-thirty."

  “Is she at Live Girls?"

  “Yes, I think so."

  Davey nodded and started to turn, but felt Robbie's hand fall gently on his shoulder.

  “Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink, Mr. Owen?” she asked.

  The concern in her voice made Davey angry, made him want to jerk away from her hand and hurry out.

  But his stomach was gurgling, his head ached, there was a burning beneath his skin that he knew would only get worse if he did not...

  Robbie leaned toward him and looked at him with a sly smile, as if she knew a secret he had not told her. “You look like you could use a house special,” she said.

  Davey's fists clenched at his sides. He didn't want to stay, he didn't want to be with them. But if he didn't have the drink, he would get what he needed elsewhere. From someone. He nodded with resignation.

  “Yeah. I'll have a drink."

  “Let me take your coat."

  She stood behind him and slipped his coat off, folding it over her arm. “This way,” she said with a toss of her head.

  He followed her into the swirling smoke and laughing crowd.

  Robbie seated him at a table near the front, said she would be back in a moment, and went to get his drink.

  Davey looked around him. The club looked different than it had the first time he'd come. The people looked different. He somehow knew which of them were members and which were not. Something about the way they moved, the way they smiled. Something in their eyes.

  “Here you are,” Robbie said, returning with a tall glass of reddish-brown liquid. “I'll be back in a bit to check up on you.” She smiled again, gave him a wink, and walked away.

  Davey touched the glass. It was chilled. He lifted it, touched it to his lips, and began to drink.

  Casey opened her eyes and watched the dark room spin around her. She didn't know how long she'd been sleeping.

  Something beneath her moved and she started to get up.

  “No, no, it's okay,” Shideh whispered. “Lie back."

  She was lying in Shideh's arms. Her head rested against the woman's breast.

  Shideh stroked Casey's hair, leaned forward, and looked into her eyes. She smiled.

  “How do you feel, love?” she asked softly.

  Casey wasn't quite sure how she felt. The last thing she remembered was having her mouth on Shideh's throat, feeling Shideh's fingers inside her, getting horribly ill and being unable to breathe then fading away until ... nothing.

  “Casey?” Shideh prompted gently. “It's all finished now. How do you feel?"

  Casey gave it a few moments of careful thought, then looked up into those red eyes.

  “I'm hungry,” she said.

  Davey felt heavy as he stepped off the bus in Times Square. The drin
k had left a sour taste in his mouth. His hunger had calmed, but it had not gone away.

  He swept the black curtain aside with his hand and stepped into Live Girls.

  “Tokens,” he said at the cage, shoving his bill under the bars.

  The hand reached out of the darkness. The fingers uncurled like a spider's legs and the coins dropped into Davey's palm.

  Without hesitation, he went down the corridor, around the corner, and straight to the booth in which he always met Anya. He pulled the door open, stepped inside and locked it, then dropped all four tokens into the coin box.

  The panel began to creep upward over the glass.

  He saw her legs.

  But they weren't her legs. They were different, shorter, the hips were rounder...

  Davey began to feel sick.

  He staggered backward a step and bumped the door. Reaching out his arms, he touched the glass as the panel rose further.

  “Casey!” The name twisted itself out of his throat.

  She was naked and touching herself; she looked stiff and uncomfortable. She lowered her eyes to Davey and her lips silently mouthed his name, as if she weren't sure it was he.

  Davey's mind raced with questions: How long had she been here? What had they done to her?

  Casey leaned toward him slowly and put her hands over his on the other side of the glass. She looked frightened and confused. Something about her eyes—a subtle, familiar coldness—told him exactly what had been done to her. And he knew it was his fault. He wanted to hold her, ask her to forgive him.

  “I'm sorry,” he rasped, pressing his hands to the glass, “I'm so sorry."

  “Davey, I'm scared,” she said, her voice muffled. “Take me out of here, Davey, please."

  He began nodding his head quickly. “I will, Casey, I promise."

  She leaned even closer.

  “I'm so hungry, Davey."

  “Oh God,” he breathed, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against the dirty glass. He'd done it again, he'd gotten her involved in his problem. But this time was going to be different, this time he was going to act. He was going to make the best of his situation, just as Walter Benedek had said.

  This time, he was going to grab the short and curlies.

  Davey lifted his head. It seemed there were two people looking at him through Casey's eyes: someone who was willing to kill to satisfy her hunger, and someone else who was desperately afraid.

  “Casey, I'm going to get you out of here,” he said. “I don't know how, but I'm going to, I swear."

  She nodded, sucking in her lower lip.

  “Is there an exit in the back?” he asked. “Another way in or out?"

  She frowned and shook her head. “I don't know. There's a window..."

  “Where?"

  “It's beneath the building, I think. A basement."

  "Where?"

  “I'm not sure, I don't know."

  The panel started to close again.

  “But Davey, you have to be careful because there are—"

  “Which side of the building is it on?"

  “I don't know, I don't know!"

  The panel closed.

  Casey peered through the opening below. “She's going to come back soon, Davey, to see if I've fed."

  “I'll go. But I'm going to get you out,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word, as if to convince himself as much as Casey. “I promise."

  “Be careful."

  Davey reached through the opening and touched her face for just a moment. Her skin was cool.

  Davey burst from the booth and rounded the corner on his way out.

  “Davey!"

  Anya was hurrying toward him in a gray robe. “Davey,” she said quietly, “I heard you were here. I'm supposed to be working but I—"

  He backed her against the wall and whispered, “Listen to me. There's a friend of mine back there working a booth. A good friend of mine. I want to know who the fuck—"

  She smiled. “What does it matter?"

  “What do you mean, what does it matter?"

  “Davey, we have to talk. There are things you need to know before you start feeding."

  “You mean before I start killing people?” he snapped, leaning closer to her. “I've already done that once."

  “But you have to be careful. This city is full of very sick people. Their blood can hurt you. There are things you have to look for."

  “Like?"

  “Junkies—there are chemicals that can be very damaging. People who are frail, sick; it takes time to know the signs, that's why you need my help."

  “I don't want your help."

  Davey pivoted away from her to leave, but she took his arm and pulled him back.

  “I know what you're thinking, Davey. You think you can avoid hurting anyone by going to the club and drinking the specials.” She smiled. “Right?"

  He said nothing.

  “It won't work,” she whispered. “It will hold you for a while, but not long. You need the blood while it's still warm, Davey. You need to feel it pumping into your mouth."

  His lips twitched and he took his eyes from hers.

  “You don't have to kill, Davey. I know it's hard not to, at first. The hunger is always strongest when it's new. But you don't have to kill. You can take what you need without even being noticed. But it takes time to become disciplined. Time and help, help that I can give you. If you like, you could work at the club. Like Cedric. You can feed and make money and no one will be the wiser. That's why we have the club. And Live Girls. And if you work at the club”—she smiled and affectionately squeezed his arm—“we can be together more."

  He jerked his arm from her and took a step back. “I may be like you,” he whispered, “but I'm not one of you.” He backed a few steps down the corridor, then spun around and went through the black curtain.

  As he hurried out, he heard her say quietly, “You still have to feed, Davey."

  Outside he became dizzy and weak. He ducked into the alley that ran along the side of Live Girls, leaned against the wall, and tried to steady himself. His stomach was beginning to clench; it felt as if it had been scraped clean. Tiny pincered insects seemed to skitter just beneath his skin.

  He pressed his head back against the wall and groaned, realizing that Anya was right.

  “Hey, buddy, you okay?"

  Davey turned to his left and looked down at a raggedly dressed old man with a pencil-thin neck and pointy chin. He was squatting in the alley facing the wall, his hands hovering over a cracked-open window just above the ground. He wore a floppy-billed cap that looked like it had been dipped in mud. He smiled at Davey; the few teeth he had left were blackened with rot.

  “You don't look tho good,” he said.

  Davey stared at him, puzzled. The man rubbed his hands together as if over a fire.

  “Oh.” The man laughed. He nodded his head toward the rectangular window and said, “There'th a furnathe down there. Keepth me warm."

  Davey stared at the window. His hands were trembling and it was getting harder and harder to focus his thoughts, but the window was important. It was directly below Live Girls.

  There's a window...

  “You ever go down there?” Davey said.

  He shook his head slowly. “There'th thingth down there."

  Davey tried hard to think. If he could get in unnoticed ... then what? He didn't just want to get Casey out, although that was most important. He wanted to hurt them. Stop them, if possible. But how?

  His face twisted as he slid down the wall to the ground, weakening under the ache that passed through his body in waves.

  You need the blood while it's still warm, Davey...

  He had to feed.

  You need to feel it pumping into your mouth...

  Soon.

  “Hey, what'tha matter, bud?"

  The old man was standing over Davey, holding out a knobby hand.

  “Get away,” Davey said.

  “Should I get thome
help?"

  “Just get away!” Davey rolled away from him and stumbled to his feet. He staggered down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians. The rhythmic sound of feet landing on cement became louder and began to sound like a chorus of heartbeats. The lights around him seemed too bright, and the smells ... he could smell them as they passed by, as they walked beside him...

  He leaned beside a window lined with tiny flashing Christmas lights and saw his reflection in the pane. His face had filled out some; he looked stronger. He was still pale; his skin flashed red as the lights went on and off. Then something in the window, something beneath his own reflected face, caught his eye.

  Two Ping Pong balls with I LOVE NY on them in black and red.

  Ping Pong balls.

  A furnace.

  There was something significant about the two objects, something that hovered just out of his reach, a blurred thought that would not come into focus.

  His eyes burned.

  His mouth was paper dry.

  Fire licked the underside of his flesh.

  It wouldn't wait any longer.

  15

  ____________________________

  BETH SLOWLY CLIMBED THE STAIRS TO VINCE'S APARTMENT. Her feet were lead and the bag in her arms seemed to get heavier with each step.

  Her eyes were still puffy and red from the tears she'd shed on the bus. She wiped a thumb across each one, hoping to clear them up so Vince wouldn't know she'd been crying, then tucked her hand under the bag, deciding not to bother. It was only a quarter of ten; Vince would know something was wrong because she was off work so early.

  About an hour and a half after she'd started work at the Union Theater that evening, her boss, Stevie, had opened the box-office door and poked his round head inside. Stevie was a little guy, maybe five-two, with a potbelly and a black hairpiece. He always wore fat, cheap-looking rings on his sausage fingers. He'd told her with a smile that he was having to let some of his employees go and double up the work for those remaining.

  “Sorry, sweetie,” he'd said, “but you ain't been here as long as summa the others."

  Beth had stood in the box office, stiff and expressionless, for a long time before the tears started. She was almost thirty and, possessing a minimum of education and skills, had been able to do no better than get a job selling tickets for bad horror movies and martial-arts flicks.