After Midnight

by Richard Laymon

  “Hey, no problem.”

  “I’d better sit down,” I said, and sank to the floor.

  Murphy squatted in front of me, looking appalled. “What’s the matter? Do you need an ambulance, or…?”

  “No. No. I’m…I get this way. It’s my…condition kicking up.”

  “Condition?”

  “MDS.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  As far as I knew, neither did anyone else. I’d just then made it up. “Morning Dehydration Syndrome,” I explained.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s because I missed breakfast, and…” I trailed off and hung my head.

  “Dehydration?” he asked.

  “Water. I need…water.”

  “Okay. Hang on.” Murphy sprang up, dodged past me, and went rushing for the kitchen.

  The answering machine was next to my shoulder and slightly behind me. I stood up quickly and turned around. As I listened to cupboards squeak and water run, I picked up the telephone’s handset, wiped it all over with my skirt and returned it to its cradle. Then I gave the phone’s keypad a quick rub. When the kitchen faucet shut off, I sank to one knee. I was struggling to rise as Murphy trotted in with a glass of water.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  Wobbling, I made it to my feet. But as I reached for the glass, I lost my balance accidentally on purpose and fell toward Murphy, bumping the glass. The whole load of water caught me in the chest. It drenched the top of my blouse, doused my exposed cleavage, soaked through my bra, and poured down between my breasts.

  As I sagged and grabbed Murphy by the shoulders, some of the water underneath my blouse even raced down my belly and soaked the top of my skirt.

  He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me against him.

  “My God,” he gasped. “Are you okay?”

  “I…yeah. Just…a little dizzy. Just…I’ll be…fine…In a minute.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You won’t let me fall, will you?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, and I felt his arms tighten against my back. He still seemed to be clutching the glass in one hand. His other hand was open and pressing firmly against me.

  “I’m not too heavy, am I?” I asked.

  “No. No, not at all.”

  “I’m starting to feel better.”

  He didn’t say anything, but his open hand began to move up and down a little, caressing my back.

  “Good thing you’re so strong,” I told him. “I would’ve fallen flat on my face.”

  “Sure glad that didn’t happen.”

  “I’m really sorry about all this.”

  “No need to be sorry about anything.”

  “It’s so embarrassing.”

  “Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “Stumbling around like a drunk.”

  “These things happen. But we’d better get some water into you.”

  “Instead of ‘onto’ me?”

  He laughed quietly, his chest shaking against my breasts.

  “What I really need is a towel,” I said.

  He laughed again. Then he said, “I think you are feeling better.”

  “You don’t feel so bad yourself.”

  He didn’t laugh at that one. He just made a sound like, “Mm?” and seemed to tighten up slightly. “I’d better get you that water,” he said. “If I let go of you…?”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  He loosened his hold. Easing backward, he stared at my face. He looked worried. “Okay?”

  “So far, so good.”

  He backed away from me. The front of his pale blue T-shirt looked wet from where he’d been pressed against me. “You steady?” he asked, looking from my face to my blouse and up to my face again.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “I’ll just be gone a second.”

  “Why don’t you see if Tony has some beer?”

  “Beer?”

  “Yeah. A good, cold beer. That’d be a lot better than water.”

  He grinned. He glanced at my blouse again, and said, “Beer’s always better than water.”

  “Especially on a hot day like this.”

  “I don’t know about borrowing Tony’s beer, though—if he has any. I hardly know him, and…”

  “Yeah, you’re right. And maybe he wouldn’t want me drinking it. Maybe he wouldn’t even want me to be here.” I shrugged. “I mean, the way he stood me up this morning, no telling what’s going on. Maybe he’s decided to hate me, or something.”

  “I can’t imagine that.”

  “I can. Guys are such…Maybe we’d better get out of here before he shows up and starts trouble.”

  Murphy frowned and nodded, then said, “If you’d like a beer, I’ve got plenty of cold ones over at my place.”

  BINGO! His place. Exactly where I wanted to go. I planned to seduce him, then act as if I hadn’t really wanted him to do that. Afraid I might charge him with sexual assault, he would make damn sure he never told the cops about me. Brilliant, huh?

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want to…you know, make a nuisance out of myself.”

  “Be glad to have you.”

  “That’d be great.”

  “Let me put this away,” he said, and headed for the kitchen with the glass.

  When Murphy was out of sight, I looked down to check my blouse. The water had drenched me in the middle, but more on the left side than the right. The pink of my skin showed through the yellow fabric. On the left, I could also see the outline and pattern and red color of my bra. And my nipple. Not the color of my nipple, but the way it was sticking out as if it wanted to poke a hole through the thin, wet layers of my bra and blouse.

  No wonder Murphy’d had such trouble keeping his eyes away.

  As water started running in the kitchen, I bent over and looked at Tony’s floor. There were just a few damp places on the carpet. Most of the water had ended up on me.

  Soon after the kitchen faucet shut off, a cupboard squeaked open and I heard the quiet thump of the glass being set on a shelf. Then the cupboard bumped shut.

  I took another look at my left breast. My blouse still clung to it, and my nipple still jutted out. My right one was erect, too. I could feel it that way, but it didn’t show so much because that side was fairly dry.

  “Still on your feet,” Murphy said. He looked both happy and nervous as he came toward me.

  “I’ll be fine now.”

  “You still want the beer, don’t you?”

  “You bet.”

  I walked out ahead of him, going slowly and trying to look a little shaky on my feet. Then I waited in the sunlight while he locked Tony’s main door and eased the screen door shut. Coming over to where I stood, he took hold of my arm and led me carefully across the courtyard.

  “My place is sort of a mess,” he warned.

  “Is your wife out of town, or something?”

  “Who’s married?”

  “You’re not?” I tried to sound surprised, but I wasn’t. After all, he didn’t wear a wedding ring.

  “Not me,” he said.

  “That’s a surprise. I thought all the good guys were taken.”

  He shook his head and laughed softly. “I’m not taken. And what makes you think I’m a ‘good guy?’”

  “I can tell.”

  He held the screen door open for me. His main door wasn’t completely shut, so I pushed it out of my way and stepped into his apartment.

  As Murphy came in, he asked, “Want the air conditioning on?”

  “It’s up to you.”

  “I usually like to leave it off in the mornings. You know, keep the place wide open so the air can get in.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “But if you’re hot…”

  “This is nice.”

  “Okay.” Leaving the main door wide open, he stepped around me and spread his arms. “Home, sweet home. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get us a couple of cold ones.�
�

  “Great.”

  Over his shoulder, he said, “I don’t usually drink in the morning.”

  “What do you usually do?”

  “Read and write.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  Murphy disappeared into the kitchen.

  Unlike Tony’s living room, this one had bookshelves standing against every available wall. They were loaded with hardbounds and paperbacks in a fabulous disarray.

  The whole room was in disarray.

  Cluttered with books, mostly.

  But a lot of other stuff, too.

  You couldn’t even see the top of the coffee table. Along with all sorts of mail and magazines and a few pens and pencils, it was cluttered with three Pepsi cans, a couple of wadded napkins, and a paper plate littered with an empty Brie wrapper, a used knife smeared with white cheese, and cracker crumbs.

  I moved a couple of pillows aside. As I sat down, I slipped the strap of my purse off my shoulder. I put the purse down between my hip and the end of the couch, where it wouldn’t be in the way.

  “What do you write?” I called.

  “Crap that nobody wants to publish.”

  “That sounds lucrative.”

  I heard him laugh.

  Then he came walking in with two beer bottles in one hand, two large glass mugs in the other, and a plastic bag of pretzels hanging from his teeth.

  He set it all down on the coffee table without moving anything out of the way.

  “There we go,” he said. After tossing the pillows aside, he sat on the couch.

  Not far away from me, but not very close, either.

  He poured beer into the mugs, and handed one of them to me. Then he opened the pretzels and placed the bag on the couch between us.

  Turning toward me, he hoisted his mug and said, “Down the hatch.”

  We bumped our mugs together.

  I took a drink. The beer tasted great.

  Murphy drank, too. When he came up for air, he said, “There goes my writing for the day.”

  “Not much of a loss, if it’s crap.”

  He laughed. “You’re right.”

  “Have you had stuff published?”

  “Oh, sure. I do all right. Not as well as I’d like, but not too badly.”

  “What do you write?”

  “Crime novels.”

  “Murder mysteries?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Cool.”

  “TRIBUNE!”

  The sudden shout made me jump. Beer slopped out of my mug and splashed the middle of my chest—like the water, but not as much. And colder!

  A moment later, I heard the slap of a newspaper smacking concrete outside.

  Turning my head, I looked out the screen door and across the courtyard. A rolled Tribune lay on the stoop in front of Tony’s door.

  Murphy, frowning, leaned forward to see past me. “Well,” he said. “That’s odd.”

  31

  THE OFFER

  “Kind of,” I said, and shrugged and changed the subject. “I’m sure klutzy this morning.” I reached out and took a wadded napkin off the coffee table.

  Murphy watched me blot the beer off my chest, but he said, “Tony already had a paper. Why would they bring him another one?”

  “Some sort of mix-up?” I suggested, and slid the damp ball of paper down between my breasts. “They usually just do that if you call.”

  “But he got his. And he’s not even home.”

  I grinned and pulled out the napkin. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it? You’re a mystery writer. What do you think?”

  He made a face, narrowing one eye and turning down a corner of his mouth. “Well, let me think. Obviously, someone called the Tribune and asked for a new paper to be delivered. Since Tony is gone, it’d be stretching things to assume that he made the call.”

  “Wouldn’t make any sense at all,” I agreed.

  “So somebody else must’ve asked for the paper.”

  “But why would anyone want another paper delivered to Tony’s place?” I asked.

  “Elementary, my dear Fran.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sure. It was some sort of a mix-up.”

  I laughed and drank some more beer.

  “It was delivered to Tony’s by mistake!” he pronounced.

  “Sent to the wrong address?”

  “Exactly!”

  “You’re a genius!”

  “You bet,” he said, and laughed. “Somewhere along the way, somebody misunderstood the address, or wrote it down wrong, or hit a wrong computer key…something like that.”

  “You’re a regular Travis McGee,” I told him.

  He beamed. “You know McGee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, now. I’d give you a beer, but you’ve already got one.”

  “Well, I’ll take another when this one’s done. Maybe I’ve read some of your stuff. What name do you write under?”

  “My own.”

  “Murphy Scott?”

  Looking pleased that I’d remembered, he said, “That’s it.”

  “What are some of your books?”

  “There’ve only been two so far. That have gotten published, anyway. Deep Dead Eyes and The Dark Pit.”

  “Neat titles,” I said.

  “Thanks.”

  “How are the books?”

  “Brilliant.”

  “I thought you said they’re crap.”

  “That was before I found out you’re a reader.”

  “That makes a difference?”

  “Sure. To someone who isn’t a reader, I might as well be writing crap.”

  I laughed. “You’re weird, you know that?”

  “Maybe a little. How about you?” he asked. “Are you weird?”

  “What do you think?” Reaching out, I grabbed a few pretzels out of the bag between us. “You’re the mystery writer. What do you make of me?” I chomped a pretzel and grinned at him.

  Taking a long drink, he gazed at me over the upper rim of his mug. Then he set down the mug, turned sideways on the couch so he faced me, and said, “I’ll say this about you. You’re not what you seem.”

  It made me feel a little sick to hear him say that.

  And it probably showed on my face.

  Suddenly, the pretzel in my mouth went so dry I had a hard time swallowing it. I had to wash it down with some beer. Then I asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” he said, “you’re not really a redhead. That’s either a dye job or a very good wig, I’m not sure which.”

  “What makes you think it isn’t natural?”

  “A couple of things. Redheads usually have light skin and freckles, whereas you’ve got a nice dark tan. Also, you have brown eyes and eyebrows.”

  “Ah. Okay. You’re right. It’s a wig. Anything else?”

  “I guess that’s about it,” he said.

  Alarms went off inside me.

  I could tell by the look in his eyes that there was something else.

  Something a lot bigger than my hair color.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “This and that. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Who you really are.”

  “I’m just me.”

  “And what’s really going on.”

  “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Hang on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

  “Okay.”

  I sat there with my beer while he got up and walked over to a corner of the living room. There, he crouched over a cardboard box and opened its lid.

  I thought about bolting.

  I also thought about attacking him.

  But I had no idea what he knew—or what he thought he knew.

  Besides, I sort of liked him.

  He took a book out of the box, then came back to the couch and handed it to me. A hardbound copy of Deep Dead Eyes by Murphy Scott.

  The front picture showed a dead woman under
water. You seemed to be looking down at her from the surface of a lake or river as if you were in a rowboat or something. She was a few feet below the surface, and sort of blurry. She seemed to be naked, but you couldn’t make out the details very well. What you could really make out was the way her eyes were gazing up at you.

  “That’s for you,” Murphy said.

  “Really? Thanks. Will you autograph it for me?”

  “Sure thing. But first, take a look at the back cover.”

  I flipped the book over. On the back of the dust jacket was a black-and-white photograph of Murphy standing in front of a tree. In jeans and a plaid shirt, he looked like a hunter or fisherman. The picture, taken at an odd upward angle, looked as if the photographer had been more interested in the tree than in Murphy. The tree sure looked a lot more menacing than the author.

  “Do you recognize me?” he asked.

  “Sure. Nice picture.”

  “Thanks. And it shows that I am who I say I am, right?”

  “A writer, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s either you, or you’ve got a twin.”

  “It’s me,” he said.

  “I believe you.”

  “Want the autograph now?”

  “Sure.” I handed the book to him.

  Holding it, he bent over and searched the cluttered table until he found a pen. Then he stepped around the table, sat on the couch and opened the book on his lap. He turned to the title page. At the top right corner, he scribbled the date. Then he smiled at me and asked, “Do you want it personally inscribed?”

  “Sure.”

  “To…?”

  “Me.”

  “Fran?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you sure? Is Fran the name you want on here? Is Fran your real name?”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  He made a little shrug, then lowered his head and wrote a brief message in the book. Below the message, he scratched his autograph. Then he passed the book to me.

  The inscription said:

  To Fran,

  My mysterious and beautiful guest—

  Tell me your story.

  Who knows? Maybe my next book will be about you.

  Warmest Regards,

  Murphy Scott

  I lifted my eyes to his. “Thanks,” I said, and shut the book.

  “How about it?”

  “Tell you my story? What makes you think I have a story?”