Live Girls

by Ray Garton

  His hands dropped in his lap limply for a moment, then he raised his left hand toward his face, frowning.

  His fingers were curled under, clawed, the joints were knotted. He could not straighten them out. Clenching his teeth, Davey used his right hand to try and pry the fingers back. They wouldn't budge.

  Their blood can hurt you...

  He let the hand drop again and leaned his head back, taking in a deep breath of the cold night air.

  There are things you have to look for...

  On top of the pain he'd gone through, the hunger was gnawing at his insides. He had to feed, he had to try again.

  He remembered the Rolodex card smeared with blood. In his mind's eye, he saw the address in bold type, the name in caps: SCHUMAN, STELLA

  Davey slid himself away from the tree and lay down on the damp grass, wanting to rest, if only for a little while.

  But he felt that if he did not feed soon, he would wither up like a leaf in autumn.

  He didn't have a little while.

  Merv Griffin had turned a bright lime green and was wobbling all over the screen. Stella Schuman stood in front of her television adjusting the fine tuning, but with no results. She adjusted the color, the vertical and horizontal holds, but nothing helped.

  “Damn,” she muttered, stepping away from the television and returning to her sofa where a large bowl of caramel corn awaited her. She wore a billowy red bathrobe with black trim and black and silver slippers that Chad had bought for her several months ago.

  She lowered her bulk to the sofa with a heavy sigh and put the bowl in her lap.

  "Look at that,” she said to herself, watching Merv Griffin undulate as he changed color. She swore under her breath again.

  Her cat, Tubbs, hopped onto the sofa beside her and meowed loudly.

  “What's matter, Tubbs?” she cooed through a mouthful of caramel corn.

  The big gray cat meowed again, pacing the length of the sofa.

  Stella Schuman stroked the cat's fur with a fleshy hand. Merv was interviewing a sex therapist whose explicit terminology was getting a lot of laughs from the studio audience.

  She turned to the cat and frowned. Tubbs was usually a lethargic, quiet cat. She'd never seen him act so nervous. He paced over the sofa cushions a few more times, then hopped off the sofa and padded across the living room, meowing again and again.

  “Are you hungry, Tubbs?” she asked placatingly, setting the bowl aside and standing. “Let's find something for Tubbs to eat, okay? Okay, kitty-kitty?"

  The cat's food bowl was in the corner of the kitchen; a lump of sticky brown catfood sat in the center of it.

  “You've got food!” she called. “And water. So what's your problem, cat?” She went back into the living room and found Tubbs at the window; he was standing upright with his front paws on the windowsill, meowing. "Shush!" she snapped, and Tubbs sprang away from the window and shot under the stereo stand.

  Stella Schuman returned to the sofa and began munching caramel corn. She decided she would have to have someone look at the television tomorrow. She couldn't tolerate a bad picture, but she left the television on, mostly for the familiar sound of Merv Griffin's voice. Stella Schuman did not like silence. The radio or the television was always on. She even slept with the radio playing quietly by her bed.

  Tubbs slinked back to the window and began meowing again.

  He's just lonesome, Stella Schuman thought.

  “Here kitty-kitty, here kitty-cat.” She patted a hand on her round thigh to summon Tubbs.

  He wouldn't come.

  “Tubbs,” she said firmly, growing impatient with the animal's yowling. “Come here, Tubbs."

  Something slammed against the windowpane and Stella Schuman nearly spilled caramel corn over her lap. With a little grunt, she stood quickly and turned toward the window.

  Tubbs was on all fours now, poised to attack, his ears flat against his head, his lips pulled back. He hissed at the window.

  Stella Schuman's heart was fluttering in her chest. Cradling the bowl of caramel corn in one arm, she walked around the sofa to Tubbs.

  “Tubbs, boy, what's matter?"

  Taking a cautious step toward the window, she squinted through the glass at the night outside.

  “Goddamned birds,” she muttered, bending down and swooping Tubbs up in her free arm.

  The cat jumped back to the floor and went to the window, putting its front paws on the sill again. A low, rumbly growl came from the animal's throat.

  “Tubbs! Get away from there!"

  She reached down to pull the stubborn cat from the window.

  Tubbs hissed and took a swipe at the pane.

  “What in the...” She moved closer to the window and tried to focus her eyes beyond her own reflection.

  The glass exploded inward and showered over her, knocking her backward. The bowl of caramel corn fell to the floor as she stumbled, tried to keep her balance, then fell on her back as glass and cold air rushed inward and as something flapped rapidly above her. Stella could hear Tubbs growling and spitting and hissing and she tried to stand up but realized her face had been cut; it was stinging and she could feel a warm trickle down her cheek. She rolled over and pushed herself up on her knees, she felt pieces of glass cutting into her puffy flesh and cursed between gasps as she scanned the living room to find whatever had broken through the window. She nearly screamed when she saw the naked man standing in a shadowy corner of the room.

  “Wh-what do you ... wh-who are you, whattayou-want?” she sputtered as she struggled to her feet. She touched her cheek gingerly and winced. She felt vaguely dizzy and nauseated. “I have a gun!” she snapped.

  The man moved slightly, but she still couldn't see his face. She could see him only from the belly down. Stella Schuman found her eyes lingering on the man's genitals.

  He stepped forward.

  “Owen!"

  The studio audience on the television laughed raucously.

  Stella took a step forward and nearly tripped.

  “Owen, what are you doing here?"

  Half his mouth turned up in a smile. “You said we should spend more time together."

  “But, but...” She looked him up and down. “You're naked. And your hand ... How did you...” She pointed over her shoulder at the broken window. “Something flew in the ... in the...” She closed her eyes and bowed her head a moment. Perhaps something had hit her in the head when the window broke and none of this was happening.

  “Stella."

  She opened her eyes and looked up. He'd moved closer.

  Davey Owen's lips began to twitch and they pulled back, as if in a smile. But it wasn't a smile, and as he opened his mouth wider...

  “Oh God...” Stella Schuman breathed.

  Davey Owen put an arm around her shoulders and pressed his mouth to her flabby throat.

  Blood spattered on the smiling green face of Merv Griffin and the studio audience applauded.

  16

  ____________________________

  Thursday

  BENEDEK SAT IN DAVEY'S APARTMENT CRAVING A CIGAR.

  He'd arrived forty-five minutes ago to find Davey gone. After letting himself in with his lock picks, he'd pulled a ladder-back chair to the window behind the television set and seated himself quietly to stare out at the night. The only light came from the kitchen; he preferred the darkness.

  He craved a cigar because the last time he'd had one was three years earlier. With Jackie. One of her patients, the wife of a sports writer at the Times, had had her first baby. Her husband, Francis, had come into Benedek's office with two long, fat Havanas and handed them to Benedek with a grin.

  “This is the corniest thing I've ever done, but hey” — Francis had laughed—“it's my first kid! Give one of these to Jackie, willya?"

  So he had. She'd laughed, unwrapped the cigar, cocked a brow, and said, “Gotta light, buddy?"

  They'd smoked the cigars in bed, laughing like kids sneaking a smoke after schoo
l. The smell had lingered in their bedroom for the next two nights.

  He wanted one now, even though he didn't particularly care for them.

  Benedek took in a deep breath through his nose, telling himself he did not know what they had done with Jackie, that maybe she was alive, just being held to punish him, to bring him to them. There was no reason to panic yet.

  Yet.

  Benedek heard a scream. It began as a high-pitched screech from outside the building but lowered and thickened as it neared, until it was inside the apartment, the cry of a grown man.

  The bedsprings squeaked under sudden weight.

  The scream became sobs.

  Benedek slowly went to the open bedroom door and looked inside to find Davey lying facedown, naked, trembling, on the bed. He stood there silently for several moments, waiting for Davey to calm down.

  “Davey?” he said finally, his voice soft.

  At first, it seemed Davey had not heard him. Then he slowly rolled onto his side and looked up at Benedek; his mouth was smeared with blood.

  Benedek wondered who he had killed.

  “Walter,” Davey said groggily. He sat up wearily and swung his legs over the bed, stood, and went to the closet. Putting on his robe, he said, “What are you doing here?” Davey slipped his left hand into the pocket of the robe.

  “Waiting for you."

  Davey scrubbed his free hand over his bloody mouth, grimacing. He pushed by Benedek and went into the bathroom.

  Benedek followed him, standing just outside the door. “They took Jackie,” he said as Davey washed his face over the sink.

  Davey stood and turned to Benedek, his face dripping wet. “Your wife,” he said flatly.

  Benedek nodded.

  Davey grabbed a towel, dried his face quickly, and turned off the water. They went into the living room and Davey sat on the armrest of the sofa, stuffing his left hand into the pocket again.

  “They took Casey, too,” he said. “I don't know when, but she's in Live Girls. She's working one of the”—he swallowed and took a breath—“one of the booths. Jesus Christ."

  Benedek took his cigarettes from his coat pocket, tapped one out, and lit it. “The reason I'm here,” he said, puffing smoke and walking around the sofa, “is to ask if you want to help me."

  “Help you what?"

  “I'm not sure yet. Stop them. Hurt them. Uncover them. I don't know where to start. But I'm going to do something. I can't just sit on my hands."

  Davey shook his head slowly, looking up at Benedek. His brows were bunched together above the bridge of his nose and his eyes were filled with pain and apology.

  “I'm sorry, Walter,” he said. “This is all my fault."

  “No, it's not, Davey. You couldn't—"

  “It is. If I hadn't gone into that damned place, if I hadn't allowed myself to get involved with Anya...” He stood and went to the window, holding out his right arm and propping himself against the wall. “What is with me? I walk into these no-win situations like I've got a blindfold on. Patty ... Beth..."

  Benedek didn't know what Davey was talking about, but he let him continue, knowing he probably just needed to talk.

  “It's almost as if I want to get hurt,” he went on. “Maybe I'm trying to prove that my mother was right. And instead of doing anything to change it, to make things better, I just wallow in it.” His voice was soft, but it smacked of bitter self-disgust. “Then I drag others down with me instead of pulling myself up. Like Casey. Jesus, poor Casey. And your wife...” He pulled his left hand from his pocket and looked at it.

  The hand was gnarled, twisted, the fingers were curled under. The skin had turned a purplish-gray and the knuckles were great round knots.

  Benedek almost asked him what had happened, but Davey seemed unaware of his presence; he seemed lost in thought and more than a little bit of anger.

  Davey slowly lifted his eyes from his hand and looked at Benedek. “I'll help you, Walter,” he whispered. “I want to hurt them, too."

  “What happened to your hand?"

  Davey slipped it back in the pocket and simply shook his head.

  Benedek decided not to pursue it; if Davey wanted to talk about it, he would.

  “Well,” Benedek said, “if we're going to do something, we should do it soon.” He went to the ashtray on an end table and put out his cigarette.

  Davey nodded, turning to the window. As he stared through the glass, his face grew tight with concentration. After a few moments of thought, his face relaxed.

  “I think I have an idea,” he said to Benedek. “Can you get your hands on a syringe?"

  Benedek nodded. “Yeah, I think Jackie's got a couple at home."

  “Okay.” Davey looked away for a moment, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “We should probably get some sleep tonight. It's after one now. In the morning, I'm going to pay a visit to a friend of mine in New Jersey who owns a gun shop. While I'm doing that, you round up a syringe, a couple Ping Pong balls, and some liquid Drano."

  Benedek frowned. “Huh?"

  “Liquid Drano, you heard right. Tomorrow night, just after sunset, we'll go to Live Girls."

  “I don't understand. What are we going to do with Ping Pong balls and Drano and a syringe?"

  “What do you say I explain it in the morning? You can sleep here if you want."

  Benedek thought that might not be such a bad idea. He wasn't too crazy about the idea of being outside while they were after him.

  “Blankets are in the hall closet by the bathroom,” Davey said. “Hope you don't mind the sofa. I'm going to bed. See you in the morning."

  After Davey went into his bedroom and closed the door, Benedek stood at the window and smoked another cigarette. His body ached for sleep, but he didn't bother lying down. He knew he would never be able to close his eyes long enough to drop off.

  He suspected Davey wouldn't, either.

  Many hours after her first feeding, Casey lay in the dark, trying to keep her mind clear of unsettling thoughts —

  When will I have to do it again?

  — and wishing she could sleep. Earlier, she'd felt content and relaxed, but she was becoming afraid again.

  Shideh had not returned to check on her. Casey wondered when Davey would come, if he would come.

  The door opened and someone came in, someone tall, and carrying something in its arms. The door closed again.

  “Who's there?” she asked, sitting up.

  “Cedric.” He stepped into the yellow glow of the candle and Casey saw that he was carrying a woman. She wore a nightgown and her white hair hung down over the man's arm and swayed back and forth with each of his steps.

  “Where's Shideh?” Casey asked.

  “She's working at the club right now."

  Club? Casey thought.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Little after two.” The man moved to the trapdoor. “Stay back,” he said to her as he put the woman on the floor. He pulled the bolts on the door and lifted it. The woman at his feet stirred and sighed.

  The man was wearing a tuxedo.

  “Who is that?” she asked, nodding toward the woman who was now trying to sit up.

  Cedric gave her a disapproving glance, as if to say she was asking too many questions. With one fluid movement, he lifted the door and shoved the woman through with his foot, letting the door fall shut.

  The sound of the woman's body tumbling beneath the door was immediately followed by a chorus of grunting and smacking, and, briefly, the woman's screams.

  Cedric smiled down at Casey. “They don't get to feed off live ones very often,” he said happily. He used his foot to bolt the door again, then turned and left the room, chuckling.

  When the sun came up, it was more visible than it had been in the past few days, shining infrequently through breaks in the clouds that darkened most of the sky.

  Walking from the bus stop, he saw the Target Guns sign a few yards up the block. He kept his left hand in his coat po
cket. It had gotten a bit worse during the night. Now the fingers were thin bony sticks with fat, arthritic-looking knuckles. The skin had lightened to a grayish, dead tone. Davey could not stand to look at it for more than a few seconds. It was not his hand; when he held it up, it seemed he was looking at something from a novelty store. He couldn't move the fingers or thumb; three of the fingers had no feeling at all. Touching the fingers was like touching beef jerky.

  Davey wondered if his hand would continue to shrivel up until it just dangled by the wrist, a wrinkled, wasted piece of meat and decayed bone.

  He kept it in his pocket at all times, ashamed of it, even a little afraid of it. It was a visible reminder of what he'd become and of the weakness within him that had gotten him there.

  It was 10:35 when Davey walked into Target Guns.

  A moose head was mounted on the far wall facing the door. Below it were several pictures of hunters with their kills.

  There were guns everywhere. Guns on the walls, in glass display cases, handguns in velvet-lined oak boxes.

  There were shelves of ammunition of all kinds, gun cases and sheaths, and gun-cleaning paraphernalia.

  Standing behind the register was a barrel-chested man talking on the phone. Curls of his thick gray hair fell on his creased forehead. His cheeks were rosy and his jaw square and firm. His arms were big, mostly fat now, but Davey could tell that, at one time, they had been rock-hard muscle. The hand that held the telephone receiver was big and square-shaped and his forearm was hairy. The man was a bear, but there was a smiling twinkle in his gray eyes that took the edge off his size.

  “Look, I gotta customer just walked in,” he said into the phone. “I'll have to call you back. But don't decide until I talk to you again, okay? Later.” He hung up the phone and cracked a broad smile at Davey. “Hello, there,” he boomed. “What can I do ya for?"

  “Morris?"

  “You got him."

  “Davey Owen.” He held out his hand, smiling.

  "Wellll." Morris laughed, pumping Davey's hand enthusiastically. “That's my boy, finally decided to pay a visit, huh?"