by Jack Ketchum
Perfect.
He started the car and drove a few blocks to the all-night diner and ordered a large cup of coffee to go, black, from a sad-eyed girl with frizzy hair, overweight, a mouth-breather, clearly not one of those elect who’d be favored for Ray’s party. He drove back and found the same spot vacant so he parked again and smoked some more cigarettes and sipped the coffee. More cars pulled in. Nobody left. He waited until just after midnight and then drove back to the diner and got out of the car.
There was a pay phone just outside the diner and he used that. He dialed the department. He recognized Evanson as the dispatcher but didn’t let on, simply filed his noise complaint like any ordinary citizen and when Evanson asked his name, told him that his name was Robert Hall, which went completely over Evanson’s head, that he was staying at the motel on the ground floor in Room 2A and that he’d already called the desk but the desk wasn’t answering. He was a businessman trying to get some sleep but with all that racket, hell, he couldn’t.
When he got back to the motel his space was gone so he parked a half block down and waited. Fifteen minutes later he saw a green-and-white cruiser pull into the motel lot. It paused a moment in front of the office and he saw the uniforms inside take note of Harold Pye sitting at the desk and then move on toward the back. The moving on by was critical. If they chose to just register the complaint with Pye’s old man this wasn’t going to happen. But either it was a slow night for the department or the uniforms were eager beavers. He waited until they got out of the cruiser and then drove slowly in behind them.
Just happened to be passing by, guys. Saw you fellas pull in. Thought maybe I could lend a hand.
He was going to enjoy this completely.
Six girls, thought Ray, I’ve fucked six of the girls in this room and still they come around. Because I got the juice, that’s why, I got the animal magnetism, I got them all coming in their fucking pants to get fucked again one of these nights and they don’t even care about the others being there too. They keep coming back for more of old Ray. Can’t help it.
He watched Judy hand her beer to Roger, his sometime drummer in his sometime band Silver Web, they were sitting on the sofa and she was flirting with Roger, but that was fine. Roger knew enough not to fuck with any of the girls he’d fucked, knew that Judy was private territory whether Ray particularly wanted her or not that night or any other night. She was strictly off-limits. Cross him and no more pot, no more hash, no more speed, no more parties, no more getting into bars. They all knew it. Jennifer was his and Judy was his and Cheryl and Sylvia and Rachel and Linda.
The party was jamming. His parties were always jamming. He was doling out a sufficiency of dope and they had enough beer to float a cruiser. The place was wall-to-wall kids. Mostly high-school kids but his kids. Smoking his dope if they were lucky and he favored them with a hit and eating his cheese spread. They were there because he called them. He was toastmaster. He was the glue. Sally Richardson could go fuck herself with a plunger. He felt very happy. Very content. That may have had to do with the fact that his own dope was Panama Red and not the Jersey homegrown he was handing around to the others or that Ray was drinking Chivas, not Schlitz. But mostly it was just the party. The Magnavox was cranked. Tom Jones was belting out “Delilah.” Suds were flowing.
The only thing that slightly bummed him was Jennifer over by the window with Tim, standoffish from the others. What the fuck was it with those two? They were acting like the party was some sort of personal betrayal, as though he didn’t have the right to party, as though they owned him and not the other way around.
So what that he’d canceled on yet another dumb movie that night in favor of the party? He had them in his fucking pocket and always would, and they should be remembering that and doing what he wanted them to do, having fun, having a good time. Not sulking.
Especially fucking Jennifer. Jennifer was acting like her goddamn mother died. Which was pretty funny since Jennifer’s mother was already dead, she was a foster-home brat and as far as he could see the only family she did have aside from some sister somewhere was good old Ray. He was the only one looking out for her.
So she comes here and acts like this. Ungrateful little bitch.
You could always go to a movie for chrissake.
Well he was not going to let her spoil things. For sure not while Dee Dee was around. Dee Dee was definitely in love with him. When he asked her at the Sugar Bowl if she wanted to come to the party she’d damn near wet her panties. He could do without those zits on her chin and she could stand to lose a pound or two of baby fat around the waist but otherwise she was a looker. Big tits and not-too-big ass and a long pale neck that just begged you to give it a hickey. He had his hand on that nice firm ass right now, moving her through the noisy crowded living room toward the kitchen to get her another beer from the fridge and fill his glass of Chivas.
He thought maybe he’d send Jennifer back to the Griffiths’ place tonight and fuck Dee Dee instead, zits and all. Who cared if she was underage? Half the girls he fucked were underage and he liked it that way. Already she was a little drunk. Couple more brews and she’d fuck a three-toothed Georgia nigger.
He got the beer for her and popped it and handed it over to her and turned back to the crowd, to his crowd and that was when he saw Tim running to the Magnavox, a worried look on his face and suddenly the Magnavox went silent. Tim hissed Cops! at him and Ray thought Shit! but didn’t miss a beat, he went right into action. He grabbed the beer out of Dee Dee’s hand and set it on the counter. No goddamn underage kids with booze.
“Everybody! You got a roach, swallow it. Dump the beers. Timmy, handle the door. Ashtrays! Toilet! Now!”
He was the first one in there, fishing the bulk of a dime bag of prime Panama Red and over half a lid of homegrown out of his jeans and emptying them into the bowl, glad he’d thought to sift off the twigs and seeds because twigs and seeds floated and were fucking hard to flush and at the same time pissed that he was flushing good dope in the first place especially the Red. He heard the doorbell ring and whispering and feet moving across the floor and the windows in back thrown open and then the music was up again a little—somebody, probably Tim, had the sense to make things seem nice and normal out there and then there were kids behind him dumping ashtrays into the water swirling down the toilet, watching with scared excited fascination.
“Out! Outa here!” he said and pushed them back out of the doorway and slammed the door in their faces.
Some of the shit was still floating. He had to wait for the water to rise again so he could flush again. It seemed like a fucking eternity.
The cops were in his face again.
Shit! Dammit!
The uniforms were Shack and Hallan, two good kids only a few years out of high school themselves and they readily accepted that his being there was nothing more than happy coincidence. He let them do the work initially. Tim Bess opened the door. Shack and Hallan stood on the threshold peering in.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Hallan. Hallan had been taught to be polite, giving Bess a sir though Bess was just a kid. “We’ve had a noise complaint. This your place?”
“Unh-unh. Belongs to a friend.”
“May I speak to your friend, then, please?”
“I think he’s in the john.”
“He’s in the john?”
“Yes.”
“Would you get him for me, please?”
“Sure.” He turned to go.
“Do you mind if we come in?”
“I think . . . I think you’d better wait and ask Ray. Ray Pye. I mean, it’s his apartment.”
“Then would you get him for me, please?”
“Sure.”
Except for the music the room had gone dead silent. Tom Jones was warbling some love song in a baritone so forced and labored it sounded like he was giving birth to twins. The kids were all either watching the cops or making an elaborate show of not watching. Schilling saw some familiar faces. Also sa
w that about half the kids were under the legal drinking age just as he’d suspected they’d be. None of them had a bottle in hand though. He guessed that was too much to ask.
Pye came to the door elaborately adjusting his jeans. He wondered how much dope had just gone down the crapper. He hoped it was plenty.
“Officers? Is there some problem?”
Schilling figured it was time he stepped in.
“Hi, Ray. Mind if we all come in and talk a moment?”
“I don’t guess you have a warrant.”
“Why would we need a warrant on a simple noise complaint? Nah, just a little chat like we had yesterday. Remember yesterday? You know, the guy killed those two young girls. The guy who looked kinda like you?”
He sent that out to the entire room.
Ray flushed and then turned to the uniforms as though to say, this guy is nuts but from regular fellas like they were he expected some sanity.
“Listen officers, we’re having a party here. We’ll turn down the volume, okay? We’re sorry if we disturbed anybody.”
Shack and Hallan just looked at him. Giving him nothing.
Good boys.
“You smell anything funny, guys?”
“I kinda do,” said Shack. “Now that you mention it.”
“You smoking a little weed, Ray?”
“Nope. I guess what you smell is just cigarettes. Oh, and we burnt a pan on the stove. Making popcorn.”
“Making popcorn.”
“Yeah.”
“And you burnt a pan.”
“That’s right.”
He nodded. “Uh-huh.”
And then he just stared at him. Ray stared back awhile and then looked away, glanced over at Tim.
So Schilling had won that pissing contest, anyhow.
“Okay,” he said, “party’s over.”
There were groans from the crowd.
“You can’t do that.”
“Sure I can, Ray. I think I see some minors here. I can definitely see beer cans and bottles from right where I’m standing. You want us to start IDing everybody? Have them walk the line? It’d take a little while but we don’t mind, do we fellas?”
“IDing everybody’d be fine,” said Shack. “Recite the alphabet. Stretch out your hands, touch the tip of your nose. All of that, sure. We got plenty of time.”
“Jesus,” Ray muttered and shook his head.
He was very pissed off.
Excellent.
“What’s that, Ray?”
“Nothing.”
“I thought you said Jesus. Which some people could definitely construe as a curse word. Used in the presence of officers of the law. You cursing in the presence of officers of the law, Ray?”
“No. All right.” He turned abruptly. “You heard the man. The party’s over.”
More groans, a lot of muttering. But they collected their sweaters and jackets anyway and filed out the door. Schilling and the uniforms stepped back to let them through. Tim Bess was the last one out, looking back at Ray, and he read the clear silent message between them that Bess was wanting to stay. Ray shook his head no.
Finally there was only Ray and a girl Schilling remembered as Jennifer something.
“You too, miss.”
“I’m . . . I’m staying here,” she said.
“Permanently?”
“Tonight.”
“Your parents know about that?”
The girl sighed, impatient with him but nervous.
“I’m twenty years old,” she said.
“May I see some ID, please?”
She sighed again and went to get her purse off the kitchen counter. Ray just stood there with his arms folded staring at the shelf filled with records, not looking at the records but just glaring in their general direction, his lips pressed together in a thin tight line. Schilling thought that at the very least he’d gotten beyond Ray’s cute little bland facade tonight.
Hey, it was a start.
The girl handed him her driver’s license. As he’d figured she was telling the truth. She was twenty. A shame though because moving her out of there would have managed to annoy Ray further.
“Okay. Sorry to have troubled you, miss. See you around, Ray.”
He figured it had to be taking all Ray’s willpower not to slam the door behind him.
He would not have wanted any daughter of his to be in that little girl’s shoes tonight. Unless he missed his guess she was going to catch a lot of flak, a lot of anger. He thought she was nuts to stick around.
“What was that business about some guy killed a couple of girls? Somebody who looks like this asshole?” Shack asked him.
“Ray’s got an interest in police detection. We had a little talk, that’s all. What do you think? Would you want to have him in the department?”
“God forbid. I’d just as soon not have the little dick-head in the same town as me, let alone the department.”
Schilling patted him on the back and smiled. “I like the way you think, Officer Shack. You’ll make detective one of these days. You just wait and see.”
Chapter Eighteen
Jennifer
She didn’t know why she was staying but something told her she should, something instinctive saying that Ray was very vulnerable now so it was a perfect opportunity to wean him back away from this Katherine person he was so interested in, away from that stupid Dee Dee and the rest of them including this new girl Sally. She suspected a storm from him but also suspected she could weather one.
She was an old hand at weathering them by now.
She hadn’t expected him to trash the place.
She sat rigid on the bed with her back pressed to the headboard and her hands balled into fists while he toppled the kitchen table, beer and pretzels flying all over the kitchen and the table slamming against the wall, kicked over the kitchen chairs and stomped them, cracked their ribs, broke records over his knee and threw them spinning against the living-room wall, ripped the wires out of the turntable and heaved it all the way across the room, tore his Stones poster down and ripped it in half, smashed glasses and half-empty beer bottles in the sink, against the cupboard, against the wall, all the time cursing the cops and Schilling and whoever the fucker was who’d called and turned him in and his fucking mother and his fucking father neither of whom had done a thing as far as she could see, his hair streaming down his face, screaming and jabbing his finger at her like it was her fault though of course it wasn’t, she knew it wasn’t, she was just there in the room and human and that was plenty.
She remembered the jagged edge of the beer bottle against her skin.
She stayed put.
She watched it all with a kind of awe, like watching a hurricane from what might or might not be a safe distance. Scared of him and scared for him, scared that the police would come back because if the party had been loud the party was nothing, absolutely nothing compared to this. It was as though he was actually daring them to come back. And if they did she was afraid he might go after them. It almost seemed he’d have to he was so mad.
You could get yourself killed that way.
She’d seen him mad before but not this mad, never, so that when finally he exhausted himself and fell back across the bed she was afraid to go near him, afraid he’d go off again for some reason so she stayed huddled right where she was, knees hugged up to her chin, back tight against the bedboard, fingernails digging deep into the palms of her hands as though the reality of pain might make everything she’d just seen and heard bearable, might bury it like a nasty dream.
She was barefoot and glass was everywhere.
He was breathing like a long-distance runner. Staring up at the ceiling, face contorted as though from some massive migraine headache.
“Ray?”
She had to try. It was what she was here for. To reach out to him.
To be there.
What did the actors say? That was her motivation.
“Ray?”
It was as
though she weren’t there. She knew the feeling. He’d done it to her before, cut her off like this and it hurt worse than anything.
“Come on, Ray. Talk to me,” she said gently. “I know how you feel, I really do. It was a great party too, before they came along. They really screwed you. I don’t blame you one bit for being mad. Hell, I’d be mad. Anybody would. Just talk to me and maybe in a while we’ll clean up the place and forget all about the goddamn stupid cops. Plan another party, maybe for the weekend. Throw an even bigger party. That’d show them, wouldn’t it?”
“You thought it was a really great party?”
He said it so low she almost didn’t hear him.
“Sure I did. Everybody did.”
“Then what were you doing the entire time standing by the fucking window sulking with Timmy?”
And that she did hear. His voice like a razor sometimes. Cutting deep, scraping bone.
“I was just a little tired, Ray. I wasn’t sulking. Honest.”
He reached over and grabbed her by the front of the blouse and pulled her across the bed, not even moving off his back, until she was face-to-face with him and sometimes his strength simply amazed her, you wouldn’t think he was that strong because he wasn’t that big and she was scared of him again.
“You’re a lying little bitch, Jennifer. You don’t he to me. You don’t lie to Ray. You tell Ray the fucking truth. I saw you. You were fucking sulking. Why the hell was that? At my party?”
Her blouse had pulled up out of her jeans. She could feel cool air from the open windows across her stomach. He had the collar balled up in his fist. There was something thrilling and sexy about it huddled inside the scariness.
“I . . . I guess I got a little depressed, Ray. I mean, I saw all those other girls there. You know. And that Dee Dee. I’m sorry. But you know how I feel about us, Ray. I couldn’t help it. I got a little depressed, that’s all. It was dumb I guess because I love you and I know you love me back but . . . I’m sorry.”
He looked her in the eye a moment and the eyes were hard and mean and then suddenly he let her go.
“Take off your blouse. I want to see your tits.”