Live Girls

by Ray Garton

  “Nice to meet you, finally."

  “Yeah, yeah. Hey, you wanna little tour of the shop?"

  “Sure. But I can't stay long, I'm afraid."

  “Gotta get back to the old grind?"

  Davey paused, deciding how to go about what he wanted to say. “Well, I don't work at Penn anymore, Morris."

  “What? You quit?"

  “Yeah. I wasn't going anywhere there. I just...” He shrugged.

  Morris swatted him hard on the shoulder and said, “Good boy, good boy. Don't take any shit from nobody. So, what you doing now, kid?"

  “Well, nothing at the moment."

  “Yeah? Well, don't you worry about that. Jobs are tough to find these days, you know. But you'll be okay. I know, I've been there. When I was a young man, just home from the war—dubbayuh-dubbayuh two—I didn't know what the hell I was gonna do, you know? So I started looking into—"

  Davey hesitantly interrupted him. “Morris, excuse me, but like I said, I can't stay long."

  “Oh, yeah, sure. I run off at the mouth, you let me. So is there anything special you need, or you just being social?"

  Davey put his hand on the countertop and said quietly, “I'm in trouble, Morris."

  The old man's eyes narrowed and his lips parted as he leaned toward Davey. “Trouble? What kinda trouble, kid?"

  “I need a gun."

  Morris cocked a brow. “A gun, huh? Well, listen, kid. Guns are great things and I think everybody oughtta have one, but shopping for a gun when you're in some kinda trouble is a little like shopping for groceries when you got the screamin’ hungries, you know what I'm sayin', kid?"

  Davey nodded, closing his eyes. “I know, and if you don't want to help me, Morris, I'll understand. But I really need—"

  “No, wait a sec, here, kid, I wanna help you. I just wanna make sure you know what you're doin'."

  “That's why I came to you."

  Morris squeezed Davey's arm. “Good, kid. I'm glad you did. So. What kinda trouble you in?"

  “Sorry, Morris, but I can't go into it."

  “Tell me this much. Your life in danger?"

  A voice deep inside Davey chuckled. Not anymore.

  Davey nodded, licking his lips. “A lot of lives."

  Morris studied Davey's face for a long time, then pushed himself away from the counter. He reached beneath the register and pulled out two canes, took one in each hand, and, using them for support, hobbled along the counter and around the edge. When he walked, his legs made soft clicking sounds. He faced Davey and hit one of his own legs with a cane; it was wooden.

  “Lost ‘em in dubbayuh-dubbayuh two,” he said. “So I got these stilts. Better'n nothin', huh?” He crossed the store to the entrance. After locking the door, he reached over to the window and turned the OPEN sign around so that it read CLOSED. “C'mere, kid,” he said, leading Davey through a door beneath the moose head. “Step inside the inner sanctum."

  It was a cramped office with a rolltop desk that was cluttered with papers and folders, a few styrofoam cups, and Hostess fruit-pie wrappers. There were pictures on the wall of Morris getting married, Morris in uniform, Morris flanked by a little boy and girl, Morris holding up a fish and smiling proudly.

  “You in trouble with the cops?” he asked, leaning his canes against the wall.

  “No."

  “Not the cops, huh? Then it must be bad. Well, I ain't the nosy type. I won't press it.” He turned to an old wooden filing cabinet and pulled out the top drawer as far as it would go. Reaching into a space behind the file folders, he removed a metal box with a handle on top. He put it on the cabinet and pushed the drawer shut, turning to Davey. “Just let me tell you one thing, kid, and this is important, okay?” When Davey didn't reply, Morris repeated, "Okay?"

  “Yeah, okay."

  Morris pointed a finger at Davey. “You never came here, you understand me? You never even met me."

  Davey nodded.

  “Good. Long as we understand that, we're okay.” He took the metal box from the cabinet, then swept his hand over a corner of the desk, clearing a space in the mess, and set down the box. “A handgun okay?"

  “Yes, that's what I need. Something easy to carry."

  Morris opened a desk drawer, took out a key, and unlocked the box. Flipping up the lid, he took out a gun and hefted it in his hand. “This,” he said, “is a nine-millimeter Beretta, model ninety-two. Holds fifteen shots in a magazine, easy to carry, quick to load. Powerful little bugger, too. You shoot guns much?"

  “I'm afraid not."

  “Here, give it a feel.” He tossed the gun to Davey.

  Instinctively, Davey pulled his left hand from his coat pocket and held both hands up to catch the gun. He almost dropped it, but clutched it to his chest.

  Davey saw Morris's eyes linger on his twisted hand and he quickly stuffed it back in the pocket. He couldn't meet Morris's eyes and kept his head bowed.

  “Hey, kid,” the man said softly. “Don't look so embarrassed.” He knocked his knuckles on one of his legs. “Remember? I ain't no perfect specimen either."

  Slowly, Davey pulled his hand out of his pocket and held it up.

  “They did this to me,” he whispered.

  “They? You mean the people you're in trouble with?"

  Davey nodded.

  “They did that to you?"

  “Yes."

  Morris looked at the hand with narrowed eyes and shook his head. “Jesus. You sure you don't wanna talk about it, Davey?"

  “Yeah."

  “Okay.” He patted Davey's shoulder encouragingly. “Tell you what. I gotta sixty-foot range downstairs. We'll go down there and fire a few rounds, huh?"

  Putting his hand in his pocket again, Davey tried to smile. “Thanks. I really appreciate all this, Morris. I don't ... I don't want to cause you any trouble."

  “Trouble?"

  “Well, I don't know much about gun laws, but can't this gun be traced back to you?"

  “Nope. I know everything about gun laws, have to in my business, and I always make sure I gotta few untraceable guns around. This is one of ‘em. And remember, kid. You didn't. Get it. From me."

  “I know. How much do I owe you?"

  The man pulled in his chin and spread his arms. “Kid. We're business associates, ‘member? I'm not gonna take your money for some help.” He tucked in his lower lip and thought a moment. “Just promise me somethin'. I understand you're in trouble and all, pissed off at the sonsabitches done this to you. You wanna protect yourself, maybe protect somebody close to you. But take it from me, kid, don't use that thing unless you absolutely have to. You kill somebody, and I don't care who it is, you gotta live with it. And that ain't so easy to do."

  Davey was touched by the man's concern.

  The people I'm going to shoot, he wanted to say, are already dead. But he knew that Morris would think he was crazy and probably wouldn't give him the gun. Davey opted for a half truth.

  “Don't worry, Morris,” he said reassuringly. “I don't plan to kill anybody."

  “Good boy. Now let's go downstairs and I'll show you how to play with this toy, huh?"

  Benedek entered his apartment cautiously, looking behind the door first, then quickly scanning the living room. The apartment reeked of garlic. He was glad. That meant they had probably not come in while he was gone.

  Nothing had been moved. There was no sign there had been visitors. He shut the door and locked it, then went into the bathroom.

  Jackie had always kept the syringes in the bottom drawer below the sink. She'd been bringing them home now and then since the first year they'd been together. He'd had a spur removed from his foot, and after he got home, Jackie gave him shots of Demerol to kill the pain. When she discovered that the syringes were handy for watering her houseplants, she'd begun bringing them home regularly.

  He found a couple in the drawer, along with hypodermic needles in plastic wrappers.

  Benedek still had no idea why the hell Davey wanted t
hem or the Ping-Pong balls and Drano. Sounded pretty weird to him. But then, everything that had happened in the last few days sounded weird.

  He'd dozed on Davey's sofa throughout the previous night, never falling into a deep sleep. He'd awakened once to what he'd thought was Jackie's voice. It had been a siren outside.

  Benedek wasn't sure when Davey had gone—while Benedek was nodding off, apparently. He'd found a note on the refrigerator telling him to help himself to breakfast and saying that Davey would be back by one. Benedek had eaten nothing; the burning in his stomach would not permit it.

  It was 11:48 by Benedek's watch. He would have to get back to Davey's soon.

  Before leaving the bathroom, Benedek glanced down at the bathtub. There was a crusty ring around the inside left behind by the bubbles he and Jackie had bathed in the night before. The brandy snifter from which Jackie had drunk was on the edge of the tub, a drop of brandy still in the bottom. He picked it up and sniffed at its stale aroma. Staring at the empty bathtub, Benedek remembered how Jackie had looked: her relaxed smile, the heaviness of her eyes, the way her nipples peeked through the clinging bubbles, the drops of moisture that mingled with the freckles on her chest.

  He sat heavily on the toilet seat, wondering suddenly what he would ever do without her. He propped his elbow on the edge of the sink, put his head in his hand, and sobbed.

  “Okay, Davey,” Benedek said firmly when Davey came in. “I got your hypos and your Ping-Pong balls and your Goddamned liquid Drano. Now are you gonna fill me in or am I supposed to guess what you've got in mind?"

  “I'm sorry, Walter,” Davey said, taking off his coat and tossing it onto the sofa. “I guess I was afraid you'd think my idea was stupid and insist we do something else."

  “Hey, you're the expert here,” Benedek replied. “Just don't keep me in the dark, okay?"

  “Where's the stuff?"

  “In here.” Benedek led him into the kitchen. The things he'd purchased were on the table.

  Davey pulled out a chair and sat down. Taking the rectangular box containing two Ping-Pong balls in his right hand, he lifted it to his mouth and tore off the cellophane wrapping with his teeth.

  “When I worked at Penn,” he began, “I had to read through all kinds of stories for men's action magazines, mercenary magazines, shit like that. Most of them were just guys shooting at each other, or articles about new kinds of guns, but once in a while, I came across some unusual and creative methods of blowing things up. This”—he gestured to the things before him—“is one of them."

  Interested, Benedek sat across from him.

  “According to this article I read,” Davey continued, “if you inject one of these”—he held up a Ping-Pong ball—“with some of this”—he tapped the ball on the bottle of liquid Drano—“put a little Scotch tape over the hole, and drop it into any petroleum distillate, like gas or oil, the tape will dissolve and the reaction of the Drano mixing with the gas causes an explosion."

  It sounded farfetched, but Benedek decided to go along with it for the moment.

  “So how does that help us?” he asked.

  “In an alley beside Live Girls, I found a window that leads beneath the building. There's a furnace down there; I'm willing to bet it's an oil furnace. I'm going to go down there tonight. If I'm right and I drop these in, it'll blow the place sky high."

  “And you with it, if it works."

  “It'll take a while for the tape to come off. I'm hoping I'll have enough time to go up and get Casey, then get out."

  “I can go in while you're down in the—"

  “No, Walter. You'll wait for me outside in a cab."

  “Wanna be a hero, huh?"

  “It's not that. I have a much better chance of getting out of there. I'm one of them. I'm not as vulnerable as you."

  “Look, Davey, I can't just—"

  “You don't know what they're capable of doing, Walter. If you go in there ... they want you, remember?"

  “They might have Jackie in there."

  “It's not an option, Walter. Either you wait for me outside or don't come at all.” Davey's voice cracked and he turned his eyes away from Benedek. When he spoke again, it was hardly more than a whisper. “I can't let you go in there; I'm responsible for too much already. If I find Jackie, I swear I'll do my very best to get her out."

  Davey suddenly seemed to age before Benedek's eyes. He seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his back.

  “Davey, you can't blame yourself for that,” Benedek said quietly. “You had nothing to do with what happened to Jackie."

  “If I'd never gone into Live Girls, you never would have met me. You might've let the cops take care of your brother-in-law. You might not have gotten involved in this at all. And you might still have Jackie."

  “Might, might. Might-haves aren't worth shit, Davey."

  Davey picked up one of the hypodermic needles and tore off the plastic wrapper with his teeth. “You want to help me do this?” he asked.

  “No, wait a second. If I go in there, I can look for Jackie and Casey while you're in the furnace room. It would be much safer."

  “No, it wouldn't. You'd never get out alive."

  “And what about you? You think they're going to sit back and let you blow the place up just because you're one of them?"

  “I've got a gun."

  “And what good is that going to do?"

  “A few slugs will hold them off."

  Benedek nodded. Davey was determined, he realized, to do it himself, and he was probably right. If Benedek went in there, they would never let him see the light of day again.

  “Okay,” Benedek said with resignation. “I'll wait in a cab outside, but I won't wait forever. If you don't come out in fifteen minutes, I'm coming in."

  Davey thought about it a moment. “If you go in,” he said, “and don't come out, there won't be anyone left to blow the whistle on them."

  “What,” Benedek snapped, “you think I'm gonna be some kinda savior? You think I'm just gonna walk into my editor's office and tell him there are vampires running around New York and he'll say, ‘My God, Walter, we've gotta put this on the front page'?” He shook his head. “As much as I'd like to rip the lid off this, I don't know how I'm gonna do it. So what difference does it make?"

  “I want them to burn,” Davey breathed. “Anya, Shideh, the women who work those booths, I want them all to burn. If I have to burn with them, fine. But I'm going in there alone."

  “A lot of innocent people will be killed and hurt."

  “Not if I can help it. I'm going to clear the customers out of the booths."

  “You're taking a lot on yourself."

  “And it's about time."

  “All right, Davey,” Benedek said, nodding. “All right.” He picked up one of the syringes and clicked a needle onto the end of it. “We'll do it your way."

  17

  ____________________________

  RAIN POUNDED ON THE ROOF OF THE CAB AND CASCADED down its windows, making the city outside look like dirty melting ice cream. Everything outside seemed to be moving more slowly than usual: the cars, the pedestrians, even the wipers that swept the cab's windshield.

  The cabdriver was a stocky woman with frizzy black hair who whistled softly through her teeth, keeping rhythm with the beat of the wipers.

  Davey sat in the backseat with Benedek; both of them stared silently out the windows.

  Davey felt a chilly sheen of perspiration on his face. He felt as if his fear had taken form and was squatting behind him on the back of the seat, its face grinning with malicious delight, breathing icy breaths down his neck.

  It occurred to Davey that he'd never seen Jackie before. Turning to Benedek, he asked, “What does your wife look like?"

  Without turning to him, Benedek said, “She has white hair, green eyes. She was wearing a blue nightgown when he took her.” He stared out the watery window for a moment, then continued quietly: “She wasn't really my wife. I mean, we live
d together eleven years but never got married. I kind of wish we had.” He smiled gently. “She would have been quite a sight in a wedding gown, with her white hair..."

  The cab came to a sudden halt and a large black man wearing tattered rags walked before it, pounding a big fist on the hood. His lips moved silently and he gestured toward them, like a witch doctor casting a spell.

  “'At nut's probably gonna be president someday,” the cabdriver muttered, shaking her head.

  When Davey saw the flashing lights of Times Square shining through the blurry glass, he reached into his coat pocket and wrapped the fingers of his right hand around his gun. It was loaded and Morris had given him some extra magazines. Reloading would not be easy with just one hand, but Davey had practiced several times that day so he knew it was possible.

  The cab stopped at the curb; Davey and Benedek turned to one another. Davey thought the man looked older than when he'd first met him just two days before.

  “Davey,” Benedek said, leaning toward him with determination, “are you sure you don't want me to—"

  “Positive.” Davey checked his coat pockets to make sure he had everything: extra magazines for the gun and the two Ping-Pong balls he and Benedek had prepared in the left pocket, the gun, a penlight, and a sturdy, newly sharpened kitchen knife in the right.

  “You guys gettin’ out?” the driver asked, looking at them over her shoulder.

  “He's getting out,” Benedek replied. “We're waiting."

  “Waiting? You never said nothin’ about waiting. How long..."

  Benedek reached into his pocket and pulled out a wadded twenty and slid it under the partition.

  The woman nodded, taking the bill. “So we'll wait."

  As Davey opened the door to get out, Benedek put a hand on his arm and said, “I'm giving you fifteen minutes, then I'm coming in."

  Davey shook his head. “Please don't, Walter."

  “Like it or not, I am. So just do what you can and get your ass out of there in fifteen minutes."

  Davey nodded and got out of the cab. The raindrops hit his face like cold little bullets. Up ahead, the red letters on the Live Girls sign flickered through the downpour. Live Girls looked like a blot of darkness within darkness. Davey closed the door of the cab and hurried down the sidewalk through the rain.