HCC 115 - Borderline

by Lawrence Block

  “Not now.”

  “Please, baby?”

  Lily gritted her teeth. This was a real pain in the rear, she thought. The redheaded flat-chested little dyke never let her alone. At least with a man you got a little rest. A man could only keep it up so long and then he let you have a moment’s peace. But Cassie couldn’t stop itching. A gay nympho, Lily thought. She’s got to be getting it every other minute or she shivers and starts to fold.

  “No,” she said.

  “Just a little taste, Lily. Just let me rub up against you a little bit, or something. God, I’m flipping!”

  “So flip, then.”

  “Lily—”

  “I think I know why Didi left you, Cass. You never let the poor chick alone. Get off my back, huh?”

  “Aw, Lily—”

  It was too much to take. She had to get the hell away from Cassie before she went nuts. The work was a drag, but the work was only a few hours a day, and Cassie looked as though she was going to become a full-time proposition. She had to get out of Juarez, had to go back to the States and set herself up the right way.

  But it came back to the same thing every time. To do that, she needed money. A thou, say. And how in hell was she going to get her hands on a thousand dollars?

  “Please, Lily. Like I want it so bad I can taste it.”

  “So taste it. But don’t taste me.”

  “I’ll go nuts, Lily. I’ll go out of my head!”

  She stood up and walked to the door. She yanked it open, then turned for a parting look at Cassie. The redhead was on the bed, her scrawny hips rolling involuntarily.

  “Use a damn candle,” she said. “I’ll see you at Delia’s. At ten. Then we’ll do whatever you want.”

  * * *

  “Gin,” Marty said.

  “Again?”

  “Again.”

  “Nuts,” Simon said.

  * * *

  The Mexican had a lot of money. Unlike Marty, he didn’t live in a house. He had an apartment in the better section of Juarez, in a building with a doorman and a self-service elevator. His apartment was tastefully furnished and his bed had smooth sheets.

  In the bedroom, they did not talk. Meg got out of her dress, brushed her long dark hair over her shoulders. The Mexican removed all his clothes and came over to her. He took her into his arms and his mouth found hers. He had a thin mustache, and it tickled her when he kissed her. She almost laughed, but then his arms were tight around her like steel bands and she did not want to laugh at all. She felt her breasts being crushed against his chest and passion leaped to life within her body.

  He removed her bra and took her breasts in his hands. He stroked them and pinched her nipples and her breath came quicker and harder. He lifted her in strong arms, carried her to the bed.

  She lay on her back and he began to touch her. His hands were surprisingly gentle for such a strong man. He fondled her breasts, rubbed her stomach, stroked the softness of her thighs. She felt the heat spread from the places where his fingers touched her until her whole body was a sheet of liquid flame. She moaned softly and his mouth came down upon hers, his tongue stabbing into her mouth and finding her tongue. She wrapped her arms about his body, holding him close, feeling the heat of him matching her own heat. Her legs drew him in close.

  Until then her mind had been working frenetically. She had thought of Borden Rector, of Marty, of the blonde. But now all thoughts gave way to reality. She was with this man, this Mexican, and nothing else was at all relevant for the time being. She was on his bed in his bedroom, and he was upon her, ready to take her. Nothing else mattered at all except what he and she were about to do.

  His hard-muscled chest against her breasts—that was real, that had meaning. Her nipples were suffused with desire and the pressure of his body against them was making her wild with lust. His body against her body—that, too, was real and meaningful. She wriggled her hips and her body shivered at the electric charge that seared through her.

  He kissed her again, then moved away from her to kiss first one breast and then the other. And then his lips darted away to plant a kiss high on her thigh. A tingling kiss, a chilling feverish kiss. This was real.

  And it was still more real when he threw himself once more upon her. His firmness searched for her, stabbed for her, found her. She groaned with pain and pleasure as he forced his way into her, and then all the pain was nothing compared with the pleasure as their bodies moved together, strained together—

  She gripped his buttocks with her hands and clawed him with her fingernails. She raked his back with her nails, drawing blood. He thrust himself into her, again and again and again, until she was screaming out her raw lust at the top of her lungs.

  Their fulfillments were simultaneous, and complete. He lay in her arms for several minutes, inert and half-dead. Then he rolled free of her embrace and instantly fell asleep.

  But she did not sleep. Instead she got up from his bed, put on her clothing, left his apartment and walked on the streets outside. She had had a man, a man who had loved her magnificently. She had had him, and her body still was warm and glowing from his lovemaking, still tingling from his embrace.

  And she still wanted the blonde at Delia’s Place.

  * * *

  Marty shuffled the cards. He was ahead now, nicely ahead. He was into Simon for over a thousand dollars and it looked as though he had the Miami Beach gin player on the run. Simon knew his game but he was rocky now. And he was getting too much of a glow from the Chivas. The Scotch was getting to him. He was starting to do dumb things, picking up the wrong cards on speculation, throwing Marty his card because his memory was slipping, generally easing up on his game.

  Like fish in a barrel, Marty thought. He put the pack on the table and Simon cut the cards. He took up the pack again and began dealing. There might be easier ways to make a quick killing, he thought. But it would be hard to name three.

  Or even one.

  He watched Simon pick up his cards and spread them. Simon’s lips curled downward.

  “Lousy hand,” he said. “All I get is lousy hands.”

  “Cards’ll do that.”

  “They’ve been running bad, Granger. Ready for a drink now?”

  He couldn’t turn the man down forever. “Sure,” he said. “But make it a short one, huh?”

  Simon filled two water tumblers with Chivas Regal, added an ice cube to each. Some of the Scotch spilled on the table top. Marty took a small sip. It was good Scotch.

  It was a fine way to pass an evening, he thought. Good Scotch and good cards, and he’d leave the room with more money than he’d had in his pocket walking in. It was enough to chase away any thoughts he might otherwise have had about the woman he’d thrown out of his bed this morning. The one who at this very moment was probably on a plane heading north—if she’d followed his instructions. Or who, if she hadn’t, might still be in her room in this very hotel, perhaps even on this floor. Maybe lying naked in bed or lounging in a warm bath. For sure as beautiful and exciting and electric as he remembered. Not that he’d spent the day thinking about her. She hadn’t come to mind more than eight or nine times. At most ten. He’d suspected she might, and it was part of the reason he’d finally agreed to this session, even though gin wasn’t his game—so he wouldn’t spend the night sitting alone and thinking and maybe regretting his decision. There was no place for regret in a gambler’s mind. You played your hand or you folded it and you moved on, and you didn’t look back to see what cards you might have drawn.

  Marty took another sip of the Scotch.

  Simon picked up a card, fitted it into his hand, discarded. Marty picked up his discard and filled a run with it. He discarded.

  Five minutes later Marty dropped a card face down.

  “Knocking?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How many?”

  “Two.”

  “Nuts,” Simon said.

  * * *

  When the spotlight died, Lily got the
hell off the stage. Ringo patted her gingerly on the rump as she scurried past him. “Good show, kid,” he told her. “They loved you.”

  She hurried to her room, soaked a towel under the water faucet and began sponging off her body. Cassie had been impossible, and she didn’t care whether their little act had been good or bad. It was an everloving pain in the neck, a drag from start to finish.

  She felt filthy all over now. Cassie hadn’t been acting on the stage, not in the least. The redhead had been hotter than a Franklin stove and the fact that Lily wasn’t at all interested didn’t have much to do with it one way or the other. When they were on the stage, Lily had to play Cassie’s game. Whether she wanted to or not.

  Well, it wouldn’t last much longer. She couldn’t stay in a dead-end town like this or she would go off her nut. She had to get out.

  She went to work, cleaning herself off. It was waste of time, though; as soon as she got halfway clean there would be a man at the door, and from that point on she wouldn’t get a hell of a lot of rest. Then, when she was done for the night, Cassie would expect her to go to bed with her. Well, Cassie had another guess coming, dammit. She’d find another hotel and take a room of her own. She’d rather pay a buck or two a day than have to fight off a redhead lezzie twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  There was a knock on the door.

  She sighed, got into a wrapper and went to the door. Pancho was standing there, an American tourist at his side. Pancho stepped out of the way and the American walked into the room. He had already paid the money, of course. They paid in advance, giving their money to Ringo, and then Pancho took them around. She never saw the money. According to Pancho, some of them tipped the girls. But she hadn’t gotten any tips the night before and she was beginning to think it was a load of crap.

  “Saw you on stage,” the American said. “You looked like you were havin’ one old hell of a time.”

  Lily said. “No speak English.”

  “Huh? You kiddin’ me?”

  “No speak English.”

  “You ain’t a Mex, sister.”

  “Portuguese,” she said, faking what she hoped was a Portuguese accent. It was bad enough having to sleep with the bastards, she thought, but she wasn’t going to talk to them, too. Balling was one thing. Companionship was another, and she wasn’t getting paid for it.

  The American was in a hurry, anyway. She got out of her wrapper, then helped him undress. He pawed her body with his sweaty hands while she tried to pretend she was getting excited. He called her dirty names, evidently thinking she couldn’t understand him, and she struggled not to get annoyed by the things he said to her.

  At least he only wanted to make love in a conventional manner. He had a slight variation, in that he wanted her to do all the work. He lay on his back, she straddling him. They made love in that position, the man smiling up at her and speaking to her in American gutter-slang. When it was over he dressed and left. She did not even bother to wash herself off. Then she put on the wrapper and waited for the next one.

  A pair of kids came next, New York college boys having a summer sleighride in Mexico. They took turns with her, one watching while the other made love to her. They were young, and their experience had evidently been limited to the back seats of cars, so they weren’t much of a problem. They had no staying power and little imagination. In a very short time they were on their way and she was once again waiting for another trick to make the scene.

  No sooner had she re-wrapped herself in her wrapper than there was another knock at the door. She went to it and threw it open. Pancho was standing there, a fantastic expression on his usually expressionless face.

  She saw why.

  At Pancho’s side, instead of the usual man, was a woman.

  The woman had long black hair, and her face was beautiful. Now she pressed a coin into Pancho’s palm and pushed past him into Lily’s room. Her eyes were shining. She turned to close the door, then moved toward Lily.

  “Hello,” she said. “My name is Meg Rector. You’re very lovely, dear.”

  Oh, Christ! Lily thought.

  * * *

  She’s lovely! Meg thought.

  Meg’s knees were turning to water. She could feel the dizzy wave sweep over her body, dissolving the bones of her hips. She seemed to be unable to keep her balance except by parting her knees.

  She had to do it in a quick spasm of motion, or she would have fallen.

  The blonde was staring at her.

  “My God, you got it bad, don’t you?”

  “Oh!—Oh, I—I can’t…” It was like trying to move underwater, caught in a terrible tide. She reached for the blonde girl; if she didn’t reach the blonde girl, she would give way instantly and be swept down and away, writhing and jerking helplessly in the lonely dark.

  “I—I can’t wait!” Meg gasped out.

  The blonde girl shrugged her shoulders. The wrapper slithered down her golden body, revealing her breasts, then her belly, and then the full, round thighs that met breathtakingly at her hips.

  “Oh!” Meg cried. “I—I want my clothes off, too! I want—”

  “Sure, honey,” the blonde said, moving forward. “I know what you want. The bed’s over here.” She began unfastening Meg’s dress.

  * * *

  I’ve got to figure some way of getting out of this place, Lily thought tiredly as she stripped the quivering brunette and led her—shoved her, was more like it—over onto the bed. The brunette’s hands were all over her. I can’t take much more of this!

  But Lily was a pro, and all the time she did these things, she kept smiling.

  CHAPTER NINE

  He looked into the cracked mirror and smiled at the image of his own ugliness. There had been a girl in Tulsa, and the cops found her in an alley with her flesh chewed and her head beaten to pulp. There had been a woman in El Paso, and the cops found her in her own room with her toes and fingers chopped off and her body cut to ribbons. Now there was a girl in Juarez, a prostitute, and the cops would find her nude and dead, with her throat neatly slashed.

  Maybe he wanted to get caught. Or maybe, knowing that capture was inevitable, he wanted to fit all sensations into the time that remained to him. But now he could not sleep. He was alone and at peace, but he could not sleep and he could not remain in his hotel room. He couldn’t even stay in Juarez. There was a voice now, a shrill voice screaming inside his skull, urging him to go to El Paso. The voice did not merely urge. It commanded. He had to cross the border once again. He had to take the chance of capture so that he could strike again in El Paso, his razor finding another victim.

  It would be simple to cross the border, he told himself. It had been simple enough the first time, coming into Juarez from Texas. Of course, they had not had his picture then, had not been on the lookout for a man answering his description. But the picture was a poor one. Besides, he had killed in El Paso. The border patrol would hardly expect him to sneak into El Paso, from Mexico.

  All he had to do was be calm and nonchalant about it. He remembered a picture, an old movie set somewhere in Eastern Europe, where the entire area was up in arms because a werewolf was on the loose. He remembered how the werewolf, in human form, had gone so far as to join in the hunt parties, biding his time in the fields and forests until the hunt party had broken apart and he was alone with a girl.

  Weaver smiled, remembering. The man had turned into a wolf then, his teeth growing into fangs, his fingernails turning to claws. And then he sprang upon the girl, his jaws going for her throat, his claws raking her breasts. The girl would scream, and the girl would die.

  In the end, he remembered, they pierced the werewolf ’s heart with a huge wooden stake. He would never forget the sound the werewolf made. A long, tremulous shriek. Horrible.

  He pushed the memories from his mind, combed his black hair once more over his low forehead, and left his room. He walked easily, calmly, in the street outside. He mingled with crowds, thick as flies in the late summer
night. He headed, slowly but very surely, toward the border.

  It would be easy, he thought. Very easy. And it would strike terror into their hearts. One day a victim in El Paso, the next day a pair of victims, one on each side of the border.

  Still, though, he could not entirely rid his mind of the death-scream of the werewolf. Horrible, very horrible.

  * * *

  Meg lay on her back on the bed. Lily was kissing her now, kissing her lips, penetrating her mouth with her warm smooth tongue. Meg opened her eyes and looked at the blonde’s perfect body. This isn’t wrong, she thought. Wanting someone like this cannot be wrong. This is normal, and beautiful.

  Her hands moved now, settling on Lily’s shoulders and caressing them. She pulled slightly and Lily’s body lowered itself so that the girl’s firm breasts rubbed Meg’s own. Meg’s nipples were taut with desire. She sighed and her arms tightened around Lily.

  Lily slipped away, her lips flicking out to catch Meg’s breast. Meg tightened the muscles in her legs, stretched out her arms, letting her passion whirl her around and wrap her up. Now the girl was kissing one nipple and rolling the other between the fingers of her left hand, while petting Meg further down with her right hand.

  It was maddening, electrifying. It was enough to drive a person wild. It was time and space on fire, exploding.

  “Honey—”

  “What?”

  “You want me to do it now?”

  Her heart stopped. “B…b-b-both of us,” she managed finally.

  “Huh?”

  “I mean both.”

  The blonde was laughing. Don’t laugh, Meg thought fiercely. Don’t laugh, my Lily, my baby, my darling. I don’t want this to be funny and I don’t want it to be cheap. I want it to be perfect.

  “You’re the boss,” Lily was saying. “You’re calling the shots, sister. I won’t argue with you.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “Sure, I like it.”

  “Then—”

  She was not called upon to finish the sentence. Lily started to work on her once again, teaching her things she had never known about before, bringing life to areas of her body which bad never previously tingled with desire. She remembered Marty, and the nameless Mexican, and just as quickly she forgot them both. They were nothing. They had never mattered at all. This was the real thing, the only thing she had ever really wanted from the beginning. This was Life.