Cuts

by Richard Laymon

  Janet heard laughter and snorts.

  “I still could’ve beaten him, but my gun was in the other room.”

  More laughter from Mosby, more snorts from Meg.

  Janet wasn’t smiling as she carried the mugs into the living room. “Where did it happen?” she asked.

  “In my face.”

  “At home, or…?”

  Nodding, he said, “In my apartment.”

  “Was it somebody you knew?”

  He nodded. As he took one of the beers, his eyes met Janet’s and quickly turned away.

  “Oh no,” she muttered.

  Meg frowned. “What?”

  “It was Dave,” Janet said. To Mosby, she said, “It was, wasn’t it? The truth. Dave beat you up, didn’t he.”

  Looking guilty, Mosby nodded. “I knew I shouldn’t have come over here.”

  Meg moved closer to Mosby on the couch and put her hand on hi s knee. “Tell us about it,” she said.

  “Well, he started with his right hand and worked his way to his left.”

  “Knock off the jokes, okay?” Janet asked.

  “Yeah, okay. Well…I answered my door on Sunday night and there he was. He pushed me and started punching.” Mosby’s voice cracked. He stopped. He drank more beer. He sniffed. Then he waited a few more seconds. “I didn’t fight back,” he finally said. “There wasn’t any point in that. I mean, why should I want to hurt him?” He glanced from Janet to Meg. “You know what I mean? I didn’t have any reason to hurt him.” Mosby laughed once. A nervous, embarrassed laugh. “Besides, if I’d fought back, it might’ve made him mad.”

  “Why did he do it?” Meg asked.

  “To pay me ba ck.”

  Janet groaned. “For taking me out.”

  “And to warn me not to do it again.”

  “That does it,” Janet said. She jumped to her feet, breathing heavily. “That really does it. See you guys later.”

  “Janet?”

  “I’m gonna pay a visit to that…” She searched her mind for a term foul enough, but gave up and rushed to the bedroom for her coat and purse. When she came out, Meg was blocking the hallway. Mosby stood behind her, looking confused.

  “Hey, hon, you can’t…”

  “Excuse me.”

  Meg offered no resistance, stepping aside when Janet reached her. Mosby also let her by.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have come here tonight,” he mumbled.

  Janet hurried outside, pulling her coat on as the foggy night air seeped like water through her blouse. The handle of the car door was cold and wet. When she had trouble climbing into her Maverick, she wished she’d changed out of her ankle-length skirt. She wiped her hands dry on her coat, then started the engine.

  As she began pulling away from the curb, dim headlights appeared in her side mirror. She hit her brakes. A municipal transit bus lunged by.

  “Holy…?”

  She rolled down her window, put out her head and looked down the street. The intersection was only a few car lengths behind her, but she couldn’t make out a trace of the traffic lights. The nearest street lamp was a high, eerie ball of pale fog.

  “Worth a gal’s life,” she muttered. “And yours,” she added, glancing down toward her belly.

  She stepped on the gas. Her car swung away from the curb and climbed to forty. No headlights in the mirror.

  The driving kept her nervous all the way and she thought very little about Dave. When she parked in front of his apartment house, the tension of driving went away and she realized with a sudden cramping chill that she was probably about to face him. She leaned forward against the steering wheel.

  Calm down, she told herself. There’s no need for this. He’s a rotten fucking bastard, and I was an idiot to ever love him.

  Which I don’t anymore.

  The Dave I loved is dead.

  Maybe the Dave she’d loved had never really existed at all.

  Maybe he’d been an illusion.

  Created in my own image, she thought. My own image of how a man should be. A figment of my imagination because I couldn’t find the real thing.

  “A cheap imitation,” she muttered.

  The sickening cramp had subsided. She got out of the car and headed for the fog-bound entrance of the apartment house. The foyer was warm. She opened her coat and climbed the stairs.

  The upstairs floor gave slightly under each footstep like thin ice on a lake and she wondered, as she had so often wondered when living here, whether one of her feet would break through.

  The door to 230 stood open. From inside came the windy whine of a vacuum cleaner. She walked in.

  The living room was bare.

  Tim Harris, the landlord, smiled at her and turned off the vacuum.

  “How you doin’, Janet?” He wiped his hands on the front of his T-shirt as if to spruce himself up for her.

  “I’m okay. Where’s Dave?”

  “Moved out. Three, four days back. Left a note for you, though. I got it right…” He grimaced as he shoved a hand into a tight rear pocket of his jeans. “Here y’go.” He pulled out a folded, wrinkled envelope and handed it to her.

  She ripped open the envelope. The note inside was scribbled in red ink.

  Dear Janet,

  I knew you would have a change of heart and come back to me. My new place makes this look primitive. It does, however, require a woman’s touch. So do I. Phone 5209862.With eager anticipation, I am

  Yours,

  Dave

  “Does the phone work?” Janet asked.

  “Disconnected.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  She hurried down to her car and drove four blocks to the Safeway market. There were pay phones beside the entrance. She parked, jumped out of her car and hurried to the nearest phone. She snatched up its handset. The plastic was cold in her hand. She dropped coins down the slot. Careful not to let the earpiece touch her, she listened for a dial tone. It came. She dialed the number from Dave’s note and heard the phone ring twice.

  “Hello?” Dave asked.

  “It’s me.”

  “Ah! You got the message I left with Harris.”

  “Yeah. I also got the message you left with Mosby, you miserable bastard.”

  “Such language!”

  “What do you mean, hurting Mosby that way?”

  “Doing what?”

  “You heard me. I don’t know why the hell he didn’t have you arrested, but if you ever touch him again, I’ll go to the police so fast your head’ll spin.”

  “You are out of sorts tonight. Here I thought you’d phoned to patch things up.”

  “Things are beyond patching.”

  “They could get worse, you know.”

  “Could they really?”

  “Let’s get together,” he said. “How about Friday night?”

  “How about never?”

  “If you don’t see me Friday, maybe Meg will. Think she might? We had such a good ol’ time together last Friday. She’s not quite my type, being ugly as shit, but she does have all the right equipment.”

  “You filthy pig.”

  “Got a pencil? Here’s my new address. Ready?”

  “I’m not coming over.”

  “Up to you, sweety. But I’d better give you the address just in case. You never know when you might get the urge for some sweet lovin’.”

  In her purse, she found a ballpoint pen and a business card from Val’s Beauty Salon. “Okay, give it to me.” She copied the address on the back of the card. Then the phone number.

  “If you’re not here by seven o’clock Friday night,” Dave said, “I’ll have to pay a visit to Meg.”

  She hung up and stared down at the walkway. The concrete was wet from the fog. A passing shopper stepped on a white wrapper from a Three Musketeers bar, flattening it. When the foot went away, the wrapper opened again nearly to the same shape as before, but wet and dirty. Janet picked it up. She dropped it into a trash can near the door. And wanted to kick the
metal can.

  No, that’s Dave’s way. Kicking things.

  To win, she thought, I’ve gotta be better than him.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE SHOOT

  Driving to a doughnut shop in Denver that night, Albert hit the brakes.

  What the hell’s going on?

  He wondered if he should turn around and go the other way. In spite of all the activity, however, the street looked clear. He could probably drive right on by the commotion without any trouble.

  His stomach lurched as he saw a cop.

  The cop was looking at him, waving him ahead.

  Okay.

  Slowly, Albert drove toward the parked trucks, the crowd, the brightly lighted apartment house, the cop. He wished he were still in women’s clothes, but the cop only seemed interested in keeping the street clear.

  For what? This looked like the scene of a fire or accident or crime, but where were the fire trucks, the ambulances?

  And what were those big trucks for? Those motor homes?

  Albert had never seen a scene quite like this before. It was strange and vaguely frightening.

  He wanted to get past it all, get to a store for doughnuts and return to the safety of the house.

  Until he saw the cameras.

  They’re shooting a movie here?

  That must be it, he realized, feeling a mixture of relief and curiosity.

  It’s gotta be a movie or a TV show. Unless it’s just some lousy commercial.

  He wondered how safe it would be to stop and watch for a while. There were at least a couple of cops. But even if the cops did pay attention to him, his hair was now cut so short that he barely resembled the police drawing or the photos his father must’ve provided to the authorities. The chances of being recognized were slim—and he really wanted to watch the filming.

  Maybe I’ll get to see a star.

  At the intersection, he turned right. He parked at the first empty stretch of curb and climbed out.

  The clothes ofWillard P. Andricci, Management Consultant, were much too large for Albert. But he rather liked the loose, comfortable way they felt.

  As he walked toward the crowd, he began to worry about someone noticing their poor fit.

  Well, the coat should hide most of it.

  Tomorrow, maybe he would go shopping. Buy some boots, some jeans, a shirt or two. And maybe something to disguise himself: a hat, hair dye, glasses if he could get some that wouldn’t give him a headache the way Willard’s did. He’d only been able to wear Willard’s glasses for a few minutes before they’d started to make his head pound.

  I really oughta get myself some good ones, he thought. Nobody’d recognize me if I had glasses on.

  But nobody seemed to be looking at him, anyway, as he entered the crowd of spectators. Moving slowly, pressing between bodies, he worked his way closer to the front.

  Closer to where he might glimpse the familiar face of a star.

  “Quiet on the set,” someone said. A firm voice. “Everybody, quiet on the set.”

  Sudden silence. Albert could hear the wind shaking leaves in the nearby trees. A man held a slate board in front of a camera, but Albert was too far away to read the writing on it.

  “Action.”

  Suddenly, a man was running, pistol in hand, toward the apartment-house door. He wore black clothing and a ski mask. The apartment door opened. A camera moved toward it on a dolly. A sound boom swung above it. Two men walked out, both in business suits. Albert recognized the one on the left: someone from Mannix. He tried to remember the man’s name as he watched the mouths move. He couldn’t hear what the actors were saying, but he heard someone say, “Cut, cut.” One of the actors at the door shook his head. The other began to laugh. The man in the ski mask shifted the pistol to his left hand where he held it by the barrel.

  “Do you know what they’re shooting?” a man asked Albert.

  “I don’t know.”

  A girl turned around. “It’s Some Call it Sleep from the Evan Collier book.”

  Albert stared at the girl. She was beautiful, slender and only a bit older than him. Maybe twenty? She wore a plaid jacket like a lumberjack. The wind blew strands of hair across her face and whipped steam off the surface of her coffee. She pursed her lips, sipped the coffee and turned away.

  “Are you an Evan Collier fan?” Albert asked.

  She smiled over her shoulder. “Me? I think he’s terrific. I’ve read most of his books.”

  “Me, too,” Albert said. He’d never heard of Evan Collier, much less read any of the man’s books.

  “Some Call it Sleep is probably his best, and it’s a good script. Pretty faithful to the novel. Collier didn’t write the screenplay, though. Max Radow did that.”

  “You’ve read the screenplay?” Albert asked.

  Smiling, she nodded. Wind blew wisps of red hair across her face. “I have a part in the movie.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Oh, I’m not the lead. Nothing like that. But it’s a speaking part. I’ve got two scenes.”

  “That’s fantastic!”

  “Well, it’s a start. Nothing spectacular, but…”

  “Can I have your autograph?”

  She laughed. “You don’t really want it, do you?”

  “I sure do! I’m a big movie fan.” Albert searched his coat pockets. In the left pocket, he touched paper. He pulled it out and held it up to the light. A Master Charge receipt.

  “That’ll do fine,” she said.

  “I don’t seem to have a pen.”

  “Here, I’ve got one.” She took a pen from her purse. Then she glanced at both sides of the receipt. “You aren’t Willard, are you?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Something’s wrong, he thought, his stomach going tight.

  “I’ve never heard of a guy your age with a Master Charge.”

  “Oh, that. I’m Willard junior. It’s really my father’s account.” She nodded and said, “Ahhh.” Using her purse for backing, she scribbled on the receipt. “There you are, Willard.”

  Albert lifted the paper into the light and read aloud, “To Willard, my very first autograph as a film actress. All my best wishes forever, May Beth Bonner.”

  “That’s nice,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “You ought to put it someplace safe,” she told him, smiling oddly so that he couldn’t be sure how serious she was. “One of these days when I’m famous, it’ll be worth some big bucks.”

  “Oh, I’d never sell it.”

  “You’re sweet, you know that?”

  “Quiet on the set.”

  May Beth turned her back to Albert. He stepped forward and stood beside her to watch the action.

  After the scream of a siren interrupted the take, Albert asked, “How long does all this go on?”

  “Until they get it right,” May Beth said. “This is the last scene for tonight, but they need to get it perfect before they call it quits.”

  The final scene.

  Albert’s pulse quickened and his stomach began to feel sick with excitement.

  “Quiet on the set.”

  Albert wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers.

  The last scene!

  He had to think of something fast. He couldn’t let this babe get away, he just couldn’t. She was far more beautiful than any of the others.

  “Well, that’s that,” she said, turning to him.

  Over already. So fast.

  “Do you want to go somewhere?” Albert blurted.

  “What?”

  “Let’s go somewhere. Together. I’ll buy you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

  “Not especially.”

  “How about a drink?”

  “A drink drink? I could go for that, but…no way are you going to pass for twenty-one.”

  “We’ve got all sorts of stuff at home,” he explained. “My parents are gone, so we’d have the place to ourselves.”

  “This is starting to sound serious.” Though
she smiled, her eyes seemed to be sizing him up. “Let’s go over here,” she said and led him out of the crowd. When nobody was nearby, she asked, “What do you have in mind?”

  “A drink. I thought we might have a drink together, that’s all. I’ve never known a movie star.”

  “Sure, but I bet you want to do a little more than have a drink with me.”

  “We could like talk, get to know each other.”

  “Fuck,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  What did she say? Albert wondered. She didn’t really say fuck, did she?

  Sure sounded like it.

  “That’s what you really want to do, isn’t it, Willard?” Smiling, she reached out and squeezed his arm through the sleeve of his coat. “Come on, admit it.”

  “Admit what?”

  “You want to fuck me.”

  It is what she said.

  For a moment, Albert suspected he might be asleep and dreaming. He’d sometimes had dreams similar to this, in which he encounters an amazingly beautiful girl and against all laws of human nature she wants him, she comes to him naked and he is just about to take her into his arms when he wakes up.

  This seemed very much like the start of a dream like that.

  But Albert felt as if he were awake.

  This is happening, man!

  “You do want to fuck me, don’t you?” May Beth asked.

  “Well…Sure, I guess so.”

  “Of course you do. That’s all any guy wants to do. The nature of the beast.”

  Albert shrugged.

  This is real!

  “How much money have you got?” she asked.

  His heart sank.

  Money?

  He suddenly remembered Betty, half-naked in his car, her breasts smooth against his face.

  Such a long time ago.

  What if I’d had the twenty bucks to pay Betty that night? he thought. No trip to the Broxtons. None of this.

  “You want money?” Albert asked.

  “Guys like to fuck. I like to buy stuff. How much will you pay me?”

  “You a hooker?”

  “No, of course not. A hooker? Give me a break. I’m an actress.”

  “But you want money.”

  “Hey, a guy takes a gal out on a date, buys her an expensive dinner, maybe takes her to a show. He spends all that money on her, then she’s supposed to fuck him. That’s how it usually works. I’m just taking the payment in cash instead of food and entertainment. You see? No big difference.”