Body Rides

by Richard Laymon

  Marta sat down again, rather hard. Her mouth drooped open for a moment. Then she said, ‘Why not?’

  ‘I used my gun. I shot the guy.’

  ‘Shot who?’

  ‘The killer.’

  ‘You shot the killer? Holy shit!’

  ‘Don’t get too excited, I didn’t kill him. He’s still out there, as far as I know. But if the cops find out what I did, I can be arrested for carrying a loaded firearm, discharging it . . . And they might even think I’m the one who murdered Elise. I was in her house. Right there at the scene of the crime, and I must’ve left fingerprints, at the very least.’

  Scowling, Marta was silent for a while. Then she said, ‘Okay. It’s your call. If you think it’s best to stay away from the cops . . . But I definitely think we should tape your story. I’ll do the taping, and you tell me everything, every little detail. It’ll be great evidence in case you do end up getting busted.’

  ‘I don’t have a camcorder,’ Neal reminded her.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So let’s go over to my place,’ Marta said.

  ‘I was about to suggest that, anyway. I don’t like you being here. The guy’s probably gonna pay me a visit. When he does, I sure don’t want him to get his hands on you.’

  Fourteen

  Marta waited in the kitchen while Neal went into his bedroom to get dressed. He wanted to look fairly respectable for the video tape, so he put on his best short-sleeved shirt and gray Dockers.

  He thought about dropping the bracelet into his pocket, taking it with him, showing it to Marta and explaining its magic.

  Don’t, he warned himself. Are you nuts? Whatever you tell her, keep the bracelet out of it.

  He left the bracelet hidden under the socks, and shut the drawer.

  He slipped the spare ammo magazine into a front pocket of his trousers.

  ‘All set,’ he announced, returning to the kitchen.

  Marta, tilted backward on the chair, tossed her empty beer can at the recycling bin beside the doorway. It flew past Neal and dropped in. ‘Bingo,’ she said.

  ‘Good shot.’

  ‘I’m a whizz.’

  Neal polished off the beer in his mug, tossed his can into the bin, and gave the mug a quick rinse under the faucet. Marta led the way into the living room.

  As she headed for the door, Neal stepped over to the sofa. He pulled the pistol out from under the pillow, and showed it to her. ‘Okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Just don’t shoot me with it.’

  He eased it down into the right front pocket of his Dockers.

  Hand on the door knob, Marta frowned over her shoulder at him. ‘You know, I was thinking. Do you want to bring something for overnight? Your toothbrush? Pajamas?’

  ‘I thought that wasn’t allowed. No overnights. Isn’t that one of your rules?’

  ‘This can be an exception. You shouldn’t be staying here. Besides, I work tonight so I won’t be there, anyway. You can use my bed.’

  ‘Well . . . I guess I can grab a few things. If you’re sure about this.’

  ‘I sure don’t want you staying here if the killer might show up.’

  ‘Okay. Hang on.’ He hurried to the bathroom and dug his toilet kit out of a cupboard. He checked inside to make sure it still contained his travel gear: spare toothbrush, paste, shampoo, razor and shaving cream, soap and deodorant, along with an assortment of pills and bandages. Everything seemed to be in place, so he closed the zipper.

  In his bedroom closet, he found a nylon overnight bag. He carried it over to the dresser, unzipped it, stuffed the toilet kit inside, then opened his drawer again. He tossed in a pair of clean socks and underwear for tomorrow.

  He tossed in the bracelet, too.

  If I’m staying all night, he thought, I might want to use it.

  He had no pajamas or nightshirt, so he tossed his gym shorts into the bag. He could wear them to bed, if necessary.

  After zipping the bag shut, he carried it into the living room.

  Marta was leaning backward, her rump against the door.

  ‘Anything else I might need?’ he asked.

  She gave her head a quick shake, then shoved off from the door. Neal opened it for her. He stepped out after her, shut the door and made sure it was locked.

  Walking with her along the balcony, he looked around.

  No sign of Rasputin.

  No sign of anyone except for the woman he had dubbed Miss Universe. She could often be seen sunbathing by the pool in the skimpiest of bikinis, her body brown and oily. But now the sun was too low, the courtyard and pool in shadow. Wearing a white T-shirt and carrying a basket of clothes, she was striding alongside the pool in the direction of the laundry room.

  Marta bumped against Neal. ‘I could look like that,’ she told him.

  ‘Ah,’ Neal said.

  ‘You believe in reincarnation?’

  He laughed. ‘How would I recognize you?’

  ‘Oh, thanks a heap.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

  ‘Oh, sure.’

  They started down the stairs. ‘Anyway,’ Neal said, ‘how could you possibly be improved upon?’

  ‘You’re right, you know. How right you are!’

  Neal, laughing softly, stroked her back.

  How strange, he thought, to feel so fine at a time like this.

  The thought sent his good feelings crashing down.

  ‘Where’d you park?’ he asked at the bottom of the stairs. ‘In front?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I might as well take my own car,’ he said.

  ‘Okay. Meet you at my place.’

  They split up. As they headed for opposite ends of the courtyard, Neal looked over his shoulder at her. She walked quickly, her sandals smacking the concrete. The back of her T-shirt hung crooked across the seat of her shorts. Her blonde hair, long and loose, blew slightly away from the sides of her head.

  What if the bastard gets her, does what he did to Elise?

  Neal turned away quickly and walked fast.

  Not gonna happen, he told himself.

  Might.

  No! I won’t let it!

  On his way to the rear gate, he passed the open door to the laundry room. He heard Miss Universe drop a coin into a washing machine, but he hurried on by without looking in.

  Outside the gate, he checked the alley.

  No Rasputin.

  He’s probably in bed somewhere, Neal told himself. Maybe even in a morgue.

  No dark van, either.

  Why even look for the van? he thought. Not a chance in hell that it could be up and running by now. The thing’s probably in police custody.

  Neal climbed into his car, swung his bag onto the passenger seat, then backed out of the parking space and headed for Marta’s apartment.

  It was less than a mile away, an easy walk. He wanted to have his car available tonight, however, just in case. Nice that Marta hadn’t made a fuss about it.

  One of her better traits: she didn’t try to run his life.

  He turned on the car radio, hoping to find some news about the killing. As he drove, he changed to several different stations. But he found only traffic reports, music, and call-in talk shows. He liked John and Ken’s show, so he listened for a while.

  Soon, he reached Marta’s street. As he turned onto it, he saw her green Jeep Wrangler pull into her reserved space at the front of the building. He parked at the curb, grabbed his bag and climbed out.

  They met at the walkway.

  Neal scanned the area, checking the nearby buildings, driveways and sidewalks as they headed for the front gate.

  No Rasputin.

  Don’t even bother looking for the van, he told himself.

  But he looked, anyway.

  Just because I shot the thing doesn’t mean it’s dead.

  No sign of it, though.

  He spotted a black-and-white police car halfway down the block, however, and felt a su
dden sickening rush of fear.

  They don’t know anything, he told himself. Calm down.

  Marta unlocked the gate. They entered the courtyard. It was very similar to the courtyard of Neal’s building, but larger. The pool was larger, and so was the concrete apron surrounding it. More apartments faced it, too.

  Her building had a hot spa near one end of the pool.

  And better apartments. Neal had only been inside Marta’s, but it was much larger and newer than his.

  It also cost nearly twice as much per month.

  He was looking forward to spending a night in it – even if Marta wouldn’t be there after 11:15 or so.

  He followed her up the outside stairs. Her leather purse swung by her side. The backs of her legs looked slender and lightly tanned. The seat of her denim shorts pulled taut against her buttocks as she climbed.

  At the top, she moved out of the way and waited for him. Then they walked together along the balcony to her door. She unlocked it, and they stepped inside.

  The apartment seemed very dark.

  Marta took the overnight bag from Neal, set it aside, and stepped into his arms. Her skin and clothes felt hot against him, as if she’d brought the heat of the afternoon sunlight into the room with her.

  They kissed.

  ‘Do I get the whole treatment again?’ he asked, still holding her.

  She grinned. ‘Wouldn’t want to spoil you. Let’s go in the kitchen, I’ll make us something to drink.’ On their way to the kitchen, she asked, ‘How does vodka and tonic sound?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. But there must’ve been something wrong with the way he said it.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  He shrugged.

  He already felt guilty about his plan to keep the bracelet a secret. He didn’t want to start lying outright, so he decided on the truth. ‘It’s what we drank last night. Elise and I. Vodka and tonics.’

  Marta lifted her eyebrows. She looked curious, maybe a little disappointed. ‘Have a party with her?’

  ‘We were . . . sort of trying to recover, I think. After we got away from the guy.’ He met her eyes, and knew she could probably see the misery in his. ‘We thought we’d made it,’ he said, ‘that I’d saved her and everything would be all right.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marta murmured.

  ‘Anyway.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s what we had. Vodka and tonics.’

  ‘Would you rather have something different?’ Marta asked.

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘How about margaritas?’

  ‘Okay. Good idea.’

  Before starting to make the drinks, she took out a package of tortilla chips. She opened the bag and handed it to Neal. ‘Help yourself. This may take a while.’

  She crouched down, opened a cupboard, and lifted out an electric blender.

  ‘So,’ Neal said. ‘What have you heard? I was asleep all day. I didn’t get a chance to watch the news, and you showed up just at five . . .’

  ‘Well, if they’re after you, they haven’t announced it.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Neal said. He popped a tortilla chip into his mouth. It was crisp and salty, and tasted good, so he ate a few more.

  Marta set the blender onto the counter and plugged it in. Then she took out a couple of drinking glasses. ‘Last I heard,’ she said, ‘they don’t have any suspects at all. They haven’t really said very much.’ She crossed the kitchen, opened another cupboard, and took out bottles of tequila and triple sec. ‘Just that the victim was a woman named Elise Waters, and she used to be a diving champion. Won a silver medal in the Olympics.’

  He was surprised. Elise had told him about being a diver, but he’d never suspected she might’ve been that good. He usually followed the Olympic Games on TV.

  Had he actually watched Elise dive, admired her beauty, studied how the swimsuit revealed her body, cheered her on, seen her on the podium when they awarded her the silver medal?

  Probably.

  If so, however, he had no memory of it.

  ‘What year?’ he asked.

  Marta shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. I think they might’ve said, but I don’t remember.’ She brought the bottles over to the blender.

  ‘What else did they say on the news?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, that she’s married to some guy who was out of the country when it happened. And how it was very brutal, the way she was killed. She was . . .’

  ‘That’s her ex-husband?’ Neal interrupted.

  ‘They didn’t say ex.’ Marta set down the bottles.

  ‘She told me that she was divorced from him. A guy named Vince?’

  ‘I think so. Vince something. He’s supposed to be an actor, but I didn’t catch his last name. I don’t think it’s Waters, though.’

  ‘But they’re not divorced?’ Neal asked.

  ‘Not on the news I heard. You know how they get it wrong, though.’ She took out a measuring cup. ‘Elise told you she was divorced from the guy?’

  ‘Yeah, she sure did.’ So much for the will, he thought. Not that he’d wanted anything . . . Funny for her to make such a grand offer, though, if she still had a husband.

  ‘Maybe the divorce wasn’t final yet,’ Marta suggested. ‘Isn’t there a six-month waiting period, or something?’

  ‘I think so.’

  She stepped past Neal, opened the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, and took out a plastic bin full of ice cubes. ‘Well, maybe it’s just that the waiting period hadn’t ended. Some people might consider themselves divorced even if they’ve still got a few months to go.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Back at the counter, Marta tossed a dozen ice cubes into the blender.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Neal said.

  She handed the bin to him, and he returned it to the freezer. ‘Would you grab me a couple of limes while you’re over there?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure.’ He opened the refrigerator, spotted a plastic bag of limes, and took out two.

  ‘Anyway,’ Marta said, ‘it looks like hubby didn’t do it. From what I heard, he was in Hawaii at the time of the killing. He’d been there for about a week. In Honolulu, I think they said.’

  ‘I know he didn’t do it. But who did, that’s what I want to know?’

  ‘They don’t know. Or if they do, they aren’t saying.’

  Neal watched her fill the measuring cup with tequila and empty it into the blender. As she filled it again, he said, ‘The bastard is all shot up. How hard can he be to find?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Marta dumped in another cupful of tequila, then a third. Then she picked up the bottle of triple sec.

  ‘Not to mention,’ Neal said, ‘I shot up his van.’

  ‘It was a stolen van, I do know that.’

  ‘So they found it?’

  ‘In the driveway of the house. You shot it up, huh?’

  ‘Sure did.’

  Marta looked over her shoulder at him. ‘You killed an innocent van.’

  ‘Didn’t want the bastard to get away in it.’

  She added a cupful of triple sec to the tequila and ice inside the blender. ‘A car was stolen from a house down the street sometime during the night. They think that’s how he got away.’

  ‘I bet they’re wondering who disabled his van. I mean, I only put about six bullets into it.’

  Marta took out a knife. As she split the limes in half, she shook her head and said, ‘There was no mention of any bullet holes. Not that I heard, and I caught the whole story on the four o’clock news.’

  Neal supposed the police must’ve decided to keep quiet about someone shooting up the van. There were often details that the investigators kept from the press – or tried to: so there would be secrets known only by themselves and the suspects.

  ‘Did anybody hear my gunshots?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. You can go in and turn on the news, if you’d like.’

  The suggestion alarmed him. He shrugged and shook his head. ‘Maybe later. I want
to find out what’s going on, but . . . It can wait.’

  She looked at him.

  Can’t I hide anything from her?

  ‘Might be easier to take,’ he explained, ‘after a margarita or two.’

  ‘Most things are,’ Marta said. She held one of the lime halves over the blender, and squeezed. Its juice spilled out of her fist. ‘I forgot the margarita salt. Do you want to grab it for me?’ She nodded toward the liquor cupboard. ‘It’s in a little white plastic tub.’

  ‘Sure.’ He crossed the kitchen, crouched, and opened the cupboard door. The tub was in front. ‘Got it.’

  As he returned, Marta said, ‘We should probably go ahead and tape your statement before we sit down to watch the news. And before you get too polluted.’

  ‘I won’t get polluted,’ he told her.

  ‘And I can’t. Not on a work night.’

  As Neal opened the salt container and set it on the counter, Marta finished squeezing the last section of lime. Instead of tossing that one into the sink, she used it to rub the rims of the glasses. Then she set it aside, turned one of the glasses upside down and pressed it into the tub of salt. When she lifted it, the sticky rim was thick with white, clinging salt.

  ‘Go easy on that for mine,’ Neal said.

  ‘Health nut.’

  ‘I’m just not a salt nut.’

  ‘Would you rather have none?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  Without dipping his rim in the salt, she placed the two glasses side by side. Then she put the lid on the blender. ‘Here we go.’ She thumbed the switch.

  Neal cringed at the sudden noise.

  The clear, greenish mixture seemed to lurch. The ice cubes leaped and whirled. An instant later, the blender was full of froth. White froth with a hint of green hue.

  The machine went silent.

  Marta peeled off the rubber lid, lifted the container off its base, and poured the concoction into the glasses. It plopped into them almost as thick as a milkshake. After the pouring was done, Neal heard the quiet fizzy sound of the bubbles breaking up. Murky green fluid, clear of froth, rose from the bottom of each glass until only a head of white foam remained.

  Before drinking, they clinked their glasses together. A few crumbs of salt fell off Marta’s rim.

  ‘Here’s to the future,’ she said.

  ‘For those of us who have one,’ Neal added.