Out Are the Lights

by Richard Laymon

  'Your what?'

  'Ticket. My private investigator's license.'

  'My God, Pete.'

  'Oh, I'm not too worried. From what I've seen of Dal, he's basically a sneak and a coward. If he wants revenge, he won't go through the legal system. He's more the type to burn down my house or poison my dog-if I had one-or maybe bribe a couple of punks to rough me up.'

  Connie saw the waitress approach with fresh drinks. She finished her first margarita, tipping the glass high and sucking up the remaining froth. Pete laughed. She licked the foamy mustache off her upper lip. The waitress took her glass, and set down a full one.

  When she left, Pete said, 'I'm a little worried, though, that he might try something with you.'

  'I can handle him.'

  'Can you?'

  'My hands are deadly weapons.'

  They both laughed. Then she remembered breaking the arm of the guy who attacked her, kicking the other one in the face, burning their car. Her face turned hot.

  'What's the matter?' Pete asked, 'I wasn't exactly joking about my hands.'

  His eyes narrowed. He looked intrigued.

  'I got attacked a couple of weeks ago. Two guys jumped me, and I had to bust them up pretty badly. I sort of-I don't want to say I enjoyed it, but-at the time it was kind of exciting. I felt so powerful. Like I could take on the world. But later on, I just felt sick about the whole incident. I still do when I think about it.'

  'You feel dirty inside.'

  'Exactly.'

  'You should try killing someone.'

  'Thanks, I'll pass on that.'

  Pete lifted his bell-shaped glass, and drank, and back-handed the foam off his mouth. 'At any rate, I think we should stay together for the next few nights. Until Dal's had a chance to cool down.'

  'Do you think it's necessary?'

  'It couldn't hurt,' he said.

  'Couldn't hurt at all,' Connie agreed. 'Your place or mine?'

  'Which would you prefer?'

  'Yours. It's so rustic and romantic.'

  'How would you like to move in? Just for a few days,' he quickly added.

  'I'd like that. Just for a few days.'

  'Or as long as you'd like.'

  'When do we start?'

  'How about tonight?'

  When the waitress returned, Pete asked for the clams in the half shell as an appetizer. Connie, who'd never eaten them before, expected the clams to be served fried and crispy.

  She stared at the wet, slimy-looking things and said, 'This isn't the way Howard Johnson does it.'

  'Try one.'

  'I'll try anything once.' She scooped a clam out of its shell and slipped it into her mouth. She bit into it once. Unladylike to spit it out, she thought. So she swallowed it and managed not to gag.

  'What do you think?' Pete asked.

  'It's not for nothing they're called clams.'

  She took a long drink of margarita. Amused, she watched Pete finish off the serving. 'I guess we don't have as much in common as I'd thought,' she said.

  Pete grinned and chewed.

  The rest of dinner, Connie found delicious. She ate a side dish of linguini in a delicate sauce of oil and garlic, then a full plate of veal parmesan, sipping the house rose between bites. 'Great stuff,' Pete said as he finished.

  He paid the bill. Outside, Connie thanked him for dinner and kissed him. They walked to his car, holding hands.

  ***

  Dal waited in the passenger seat of Elizabeth 's Mercedes. She was gone for two minutes. Then she stepped out of the shadows near the house, and started across the street.

  She wore white shorts and a white halter top. By contrast, her skin looked very dark. Beautiful, Dal thought.

  The car light came on when she opened the door. She smiled and climbed in and shut the door. The car went dark. 'Not home,' she said.

  'What should we do?'

  'Wait.'

  'That could take hours.'

  'What's your hurry?'

  'I just want to get it over with, that's all.'

  'Someone's coming. Kiss me.'

  'Huh?'

  'We want them to think we're lovers.'

  'Aren't we?'

  'Of course we are.'

  He pressed his lips to her open mouth.

  ***

  Pete drove Connie to her apartment house. He entered first, and had a quick look around while Connie waited in the doorway, 'It's okay,' he said.

  They went into her bedroom. She knelt beside her bed. 'Did you check under here?'

  'If he grabs you this time. I'll let him have you.'

  'The little girl who cried wolf,' she said, and reached under the bed. As she gripped her suitcase, a hand patted her rump. 'My God, he's attacking from the rear!' She didn't move. The hand pressed against her skirt, slid lower and rubbed between her legs. 'You'd better stop him, Pete. He's getting fresh. Next thing you know, he'll be pulling up my skirt and-'

  He did. And then he slipped her panties down.

  She felt his touch. Her hand went limp on the suitcase. 'I guess I can get it later,' she said.

  ***

  An hour later, wearing fresh panties and nothing else, she again knelt beside the bed. She dragged the suitcase out, and threw it onto the bed beside Pete. He took a sip of beer, and grinned.

  'You look pleased with yourself,' Connie said.

  'I am.'

  'You ought to be.'

  He drank his beer and watched her pack. She didn't pack much: toilet articles, a few changes of clothes, her swimming suit, half a dozen paperback novels, and her manuscript. 'All set,' she announced, and shut the suitcase. 'You just gonna sit there?'

  'It's the best seat in the house.'

  'But the show's over.' She stepped into her corduroys, and pulled a blue velour top over her head.

  'Just an intermission,' Pete said. He climbed off the bed and got dressed.

  He carried her suitcase to the door.

  'I'd better take my own car,' Connie said. 'I'll want to come back for my mail and stuff.'

  'I can bring you by.'

  'Every day?'

  'Is your mail that urgent?'

  'You don't know much about writers, do you?'

  'I'll never know enough about this one.'

  She kissed him. Then they went outside, and down the stairway to the courtyard. They went through the gate. Pete put the suitcase into Connie's car, then patted her rump and went to his own car.

  ***

  'There he is!' Dal said as a Jaguar turned onto the road. 'Down.'

  They both ducked. The low grumble of the engine grew louder, and suddenly died. Dal raised himself enough to peer out the windshield. He saw the Jaguar in the driveway of Pete's house. As Pete bent over to raise the garage door, another car appeared at the end of the block. Dal hunched down. He heard the Jaguar engine start again. When he looked out, he saw a different car in Pete's driveway.

  Connie's Plymouth Fury.

  'Oh shit,' he muttered.

  Elizabeth pushed herself up, and looked out. Across the street Pete lowered the garage door and met Connie beside her car. He took her suitcase. They walked together across the yard, and disappeared into the shadows near the front door.

  'Who do you suppose she is?' Elizabeth asked.

  Dal suddenly realized she didn't know what Connie looked like. Good thing. What would Connie, his fiancee, be doing at Pete's house-with a suitcase?

  'I don't know who she is.'

  'I suppose it doesn't matter unless she sees me.'

  'What if she does see you?' Dal asked.

  'Do you want to call the whole thing off?'

  'You mean if she sees you?'

  'I mean right now. We can't kill this guy without taking chances. A hundred things could go wrong. You've got to want it bad, even enough to cut down anybody who gets in our way.'

  'But she's innocent.'

  'Not if she sees me.'

  'I don't know.' Dal shook his head, thinking. If they killed Con
nie, tomorrow's newspaper would certainly identify her. That'd finish him with Elizabeth. She'd see all his lies, know that he wouldn't be getting rich, and dump him.

  By then, however, they would've committed two murders together. Maybe he should threaten to turn himself in-and tell all-unless she continued the relationship.

  'What'll it be?' Elizabeth asked.

  'Let's get him.'

  Soon, the lights in the front windows of the house went out.

  'Let's give them an hour,' Elizabeth said.

  'A whole hour?'

  'I don't want to kill anyone we don't have to. Give them an hour, and perhaps the lady will stay in bed.'

  Dal hoped it would work that way. It just might. Connie, after all, wouldn't hear the doorbell.

  ***

  Pete thought, at first, that the ringing doorbell was only part of his dream. Then he opened his eyes in the darkness and heard it again.

  He glanced at the alarm clock. Nearly midnight.

  Who the hell would be ringing the doorbell at this hour?

  It frightened him.

  Heart thudding wildly, he rolled away from the warmth of Connie's sleeping body. The room was chilly. He stepped through the darkness to the closet, and pulled his bathrobe off its hook. The doorbell rang again as he rushed down the long hallway.

  Standing in darkness by the door, he turned on the outside light. His door had no peephole.

  'Who's there?' he called.

  'Please,' said a woman's voice. 'My car broke down.'

  Pete opened the door. The woman on the front stoop looked beautiful and frightened.

  'I'm awfully sorry to disturb you,' she said. She glanced at his robe, and smiled as if embarrassed, as if she knew he was naked beneath it. 'I just didn't know what to do.'

  'That's all right,' Pete said. 'Would you like to use the phone?'

  She looked behind him into the darkness, 'I don't know if I should. Are you alone?'

  'I'm harmless.'

  'Well… Who would I call?'

  'Triple A, I suppose.'

  'I don't belong.'

  'You don't have to. They'll just charge you a service fee.'

  'You mean money?'

  Pete nodded.

  The woman chewed her lower lip. 'But I only have about three dollars.'

  'What's wrong with your car, do you know?'

  'I've got a flat.'

  'Do you have a spare?'

  'Sure. I've got a real nice one. It's right in my trunk'

  'Okay. Hang on a minute while I get dressed, then we'll see if I can't change it for you.'

  'Oh, would you?'

  'Come on in, if you'd like.'

  'Well, thank you. I'll just wait here, though, if it's all the same.'

  'Whatever,' he said. Did she think he'd attack her?

  He didn't want to shut the door in her face, so he left it open and returned to the bedroom. As he shed his robe in the darkness, light filled the room. He saw Connie sitting up, her arm raised to the bedside lamp. She squinted and yawned.

  'What's up?' she asked.

  Pete stepped into his jeans. 'I have got to go out for a minute. Some gal has a flat.'

  'Gonna change a tire?'

  'Yep.' He put on a gray sweatshirt, and slipped his bare feet into sneakers.

  'Want me to help?' Connie asked.

  'Just keep the bed warm.'

  'Mmm. I'll leave the light on for you,' she said. She lowered herself onto the bed, and pulled the blanket up to her bare shoulders.

  Pete went down the hall to the open front door.

  'I sure do appreciate your helping me like this,' said the woman.'

  'Glad to help.'

  'My car's right across the street here.' She walked ahead of him, pointing to a pale Datsun. Its left front tire was flat.

  Connie, warm and drowsy beneath the blanket, suddenly came wide awake.

  Too damned bizarre!

  In all her life, nobody ever came to the door at midnight with a story about a flat tire. And if it ever had happened, she would've been too suspicious to fall for it.

  A set-up?

  Dal!

  She scurried off the bed, grabbed Pete's robe and pulled it on as she ran down the dark hallway. She jerked open the front door.

  A woman in the street, Pete close behind her.

  Connie looked both ways.

  To the right, a car shot away from the curb. No headlights on.

  'Pete! Look out!'

  He jerked around, and tried to leap out of the way. The speeding car caught him in the legs and Connie screamed as she watched Pete cartwheel over the car and crumple onto the pavement behind it.

  The car stopped.

  The woman climbed in.

  It sped away.

  Connie raced to the telephone. She picked it up and dialed 0. She waited five seconds, then said, 'Hello, hello. Operator? I'm deaf. If you're there, send an ambulance to 186 Seafront Lane in Venice. A man's been hit by a car. It's a hit and run, so send the police, too.' She repeated the address, and hung up.

  She ran outside crying.

  ***

  'She saw it,' Elizabeth gasped. 'She was in the doorway. She saw it.'

  'Oh Jesus!'

  'Turn around. You've got to go back.'

  'Did she see you?'

  'Not close up. But she saw the car. Do it!'

  'This city has thousands of gray Mercedes. We covered the license plate. There's no way…'

  'Go back.'

  He'd already turned the comer onto Pacific, but there were no other cars nearby. He made a U-turn and headed back toward Seafront. As he slowed for the turn, he saw several people down the lane. He drove on by. 'Forget it,' he said.

  'We can't get them all.' With a shaking hand, he turned on the windshield wipers to clear off the spattered blood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A doorbell startled Freya awake. She sat up in bed, shaking, and flinched as the doorbell rang again.

  She looked at her alarm clock. Twelve-twenty.

  Who the hell…?

  The police?

  She cringed as it rang again. Swinging herself out of bed, she turned on a lamp. She crouched at her dresser, wiped her cold wet hands on her thighs, and pulled open a drawer. The bell rang again, again.

  Jesus, it had to be cops! Who else would come at this hour? They're rounding us up. Oh Jesus!

  She jerked a nightgown out of the drawer, and put it on as she rushed through the apartment. The bell kept ringing. She turned on a lamp in the living-room. Turned on the porch light. Opened the door.

  The chubby girl's T-shirt read, 'Save a tree-eat a beaver'. She smiled up at Freya and said, 'Greetings.'

  Freya opened her mouth to scream.

  She fainted, instead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  In Elizabeth 's garage Dal inspected the car. The only damage seemed to be a couple of small dents in the hood. There wasn't as much blood as he expected. Elizabeth filled a bucket, and he sponged the car clean. He dumped the bucket of pink water into a flower bed behind the pool.

  They went into the house. Dal flopped on the sofa. He was still shaking, his heart racing.

  'I'll stir up a batch of martinis,' Elizabeth said.

  She left him alone. He rubbed his face. He saw Pete in front of the car, heard the thud of the impact, saw Pete tumble toward him. He shook his head sharply. He didn't want to think about it. Getting up, he went into the kitchen to be with Elizabeth.

  She stood at the counter pouring gin into a beaker. Dal pressed his face to the back of her head. Her hair felt thick and soft, with a fresh outdoor smell. Reaching around, he held her breasts. They were bare under the halter top. The nipples pushed against his hands through the fabric.

  'Does it excite you?' she asked.

  'You always excite me.'

  'Not me. What we did.'

  'I don't know,' Dal said. He didn't want to admit that he felt dizzy and confused. But holding Elizabeth helped.
r />   'I feel absolutely grand,' she said.

  'It doesn't bother you?'

  'Only that we let the girl live. Unless she's a complete fool, she'll know it wasn't an accident. You may find yourself a suspect when the police start snooping.'

  Dal dropped his hands. He stepped away from her, and leaned back against the counter.

  'They'll find out, quickly enough, about your rivalry over Connie. A little more digging, and they'll learn how you got fired.'

  'My God,' he muttered.

  Elizabeth poured the martinis into a pair of glasses. 'None of this would've come up, of course, if the girl hadn't seen us.'

  'What'll we do?'

  She handed a glass to him. 'Cheer up, darling.' She clinked the rim of her glass against his, and took a sip. Dal drank. The martini was cool in his mouth, and made a hot trail down him as he swallowed. 'I'm your accomplice, remember? I certainly can't allow the police to arrest you.'

  'What'll we do?' he asked again.

  'An alibi would help, of course. You told Connie you were going to San Diego?'

  'Yes,' he said, though he'd told her no such thing.

  'Did you say which hotel?'

  He shook his head.

  'That's fortunate. At least they can't catch you in an outright lie.'

  'What'll I tell them?'

  Elizabeth leaned against the counter beside him. She frowned at the clear surface of her drink. She took a sip. Then she smiled. 'If they ask where you were tonight, you explain-reluctantly of course-that San Diego was a lie to appease Connie. Actually, you picked up a prostitute on Sunset. You went to a motel with her. You're not sure which one, but she signed in and you spent the night together. Voila! You have an alibi that can't be disproved. The cops don't have any physical evidence connecting you to the crime. You're home free.'

  'Why would I go to a prostitute, though, if I'm engaged to Connie?'

  Elizabeth shrugged. 'Perhaps you can say she's an old-fashioned girl who won't let you touch her before the wedding night?'

  'Nobody'd believe that.'

  'You're probably right. Ah! I have it! She's an old-fashioned girl who won't give head.'

  'Good. That's good.'

  'Okay, you have your story. They've got no evidence. We're home free.'