Come Out Tonight

by Richard Laymon

  “How ’bout me?” Jeff asked.

  “You’re a blabber-mouth,” Sherry said.

  Pete glimpsed a hurt look in his eyes, but it quickly vanished. Grinning strangely, Jeff asked, “But would ya kick me outa bed?”

  “Hey!” Pete snapped.

  “Jus’ kidding.”

  “Kidding aside,” Sherry said, “you’re a good guy, too. Even if you are a troublemaker.”

  “Does that mean you would or wouldn’t kick me—”

  “I’ll kick you in the nuts,” Pete warned.

  “No kicking allowed. You’re my heroes. You’re both great guys and my friends forever. So no fighting. How about another drink, Pete?”

  “Sure.”

  “Me, too,” Jeff said.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Come on.” Grinning, he held out his glass. “Like my old man says, ‘Can’t fly on one wing.’”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can’t let Sherry drink alone, can we?”

  “Well…” He looked at Sherry.

  A corner of her puffy mouth lifted. “Why stop now?” she said. “One more won’t hurt you. Not much, anyhow.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  With three fresh Bloody Marys on the tray, Pete stepped outside. Sherry and Jeff were both staring at the radio. Pete said nothing as he approached. He walked carefully, worried he might stumble but more worried that his trunks might suddenly drop around his ankles.

  Through the sounds of the wind, he could hear a female voice. But he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Her words were like bits of nonsense.

  Sherry and Jeff quit listening at the same moment. Their heads turned toward Pete.

  “You just missed it,” Jeff said.

  “The news?”

  “Yeah, man. It was the top story.”

  Pete held the tray toward Sherry. “Thanks,” she said, and lifted her glass.

  With the other two drinks still in place, he eased the tray down on the table. Then he hitched up his drooping trunks, took his glass off the tray and stepped over to his chair. As he sat down, he said, “So what’s going on?”

  “Well,” Jeff said, “looks like Sherry’s friend is doing okay so far. He’s off the cridigle list.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Sherry nodded, her eyes glistening.

  “Other two, still dead.”

  “That’s not very funny,” Pete said.

  “Ah, I know.” Jeff lifted his glass off the tray and took a sip. “Mmmm, good.”

  “What about Toby?” Pete asked.

  “They didn’t mention him,” Sherry answered. “I don’t think they know anything about him. How would they? I’m the only one who…” She frowned. “Actually, Jim probably knows his name.” She took a sip of her Bloody Mary. “Maybe he hasn’t been able to talk yet.”

  “Jim knows the last name?” Jeff asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I think so.”

  “What was it again?”

  “Trying to trick me, Jeffrey?”

  “Moi?”

  “I’m not going to tell.”

  “I’d tell you.”

  “But I already know,” Sherry pointed out.

  “If I did know ’n’ you didn’t, I’d tell. You bet I would. Wouldn’t I, Petie?”

  “Sure.”

  Jeff took a couple of swallows, leaned toward Sherry and said, “What do you wanta know? You ask, I’ll tell.”

  Looking him in the eyes, Sherry asked, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Sure do.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Mary Jane Thatcher.”

  Pete had never heard of Mary Jane Thatcher. He supposed Jeff must’ve pulled the name out of nowhere, just for an answer.

  “Now my turn to question you,” Jeff said. “What’s Toby’s name?”

  “Toby.”

  “Toby what?”

  “Give it up,” Pete told him.

  “I wanta know.”

  “I don’t want you to know,” Sherry said.

  “Why not?”

  “Come on, Jeff, leave her alone.”

  “If you know who he is,” Sherry explained, “you might try to find him.”

  “Durn tootin’,” Jeff said.

  “Yeah,” Pete said. “I wouldn’t mind that, myself.”

  “This isn’t a game, guys.”

  “We know that,” Pete said. “Look what he did to you.”

  “You want to get revenge on him for that, don’t you?”

  “Sure do,” Pete said.

  “Fuckin’-A.”

  “I could use a little vengeance, myself,” Sherry said.

  “We’ll take care of it for you,” Pete offered.

  “No, you won’t. You might end up like Jim. Or worse. I’ve already gotten two people killed. So far. That I know of. Maybe there’re even more by now. I don’t want you guys added to the list.”

  “We’d wipe up the floor with him,” Jeff said.

  “You won’t get the chance. What I’ll have to do…I guess I’ll call the cops and tell them everything. Give them his last name.”

  “What is it again?” Jeff asked.

  “Very funny.”

  “Not really,” Pete said.

  “If you call the cops,” Jeff explained, “they’re gonna show up and haul you off to the hospital. That what y’want?”

  “Not much.”

  “Know what else? They’re gonna know we all been drinkin’. Me and Pete’ll be up the ol’ Shit Creek without the ol’ paddle.”

  Pete muttered, “Oh, man. If my parents find out…”

  “They’ll find out, all right. They’ll have to bail your ass outa jail.”

  “Nobody’s going to jail,” Sherry said. “And nobody has to find out you’ve been drinking. I can hold off on making the call.”

  “Good idea,” Pete said.

  “I’m all for that,” Jeff said. “Let’s wait till tomorrow.”

  “Afraid not,” Sherry said. “But I can wait a couple of hours. Why don’t we all have a bite to eat and then take a nap? An hour or two of sleep, we’ll probably all be good and sober.”

  “You saying we oughta sleep together?” Jeff asked.

  “Cut it out,” Pete told him.

  “Chill, man. I’m just kidding around.” Grinning at Sherry, he said, “It’s da booze talkin’.”

  “I know what it is. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not such a bad guy, you get to know me.”

  “You’re a fine guy. You’re both fine guys. I’m really lucky I was found by a couple of fellas like you two.”

  “Thanks,” Pete said, feeling a warm mixture of delight that she appreciated them—and guilt.

  She wouldn’t feel so kindly toward them if she knew the truth.

  But she doesn’t, he reminded himself. Thank God.

  “So what’s for lunch?” Jeff asked.

  Pete looked at Sherry. “What do you feel like having?”

  “Just about anything. Don’t go to a lot of trouble, though. Maybe sandwiches, or…”

  “How about grilled cheese?” Pete suggested.

  “Sounds great.”

  “Yeah,” Jeff said. “I could go for that, too.”

  “Why don’t you come in and give me a hand?”

  “Why don’ I stay out here and keep Sherry company?”

  “Why don’t you not?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Sherry told him. “Go on in and help, okay? It isn’t fair to make Pete do all the work.”

  “Yeah, well…if you say so.”

  “Anything I can get you from inside?” Pete asked Sherry as he stood up.

  “No thanks. I’m fine.”

  “Another Bloody Mary?” Jeff suggested.

  “Just started this one.”

  “How ’bout one for the other hand?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Okay. Well, don’ go away.”

  “I’ll try not to.”r />
  “We’ll be back in a few minutes,” Pete said. “If you need us for anything, just yell.”

  “I will.”

  He set his drink on the table, then muttered, “See ya,” and headed for the house. Jeff followed him inside.

  In the kitchen, Jeff said, “Soon as she gets that nap, man, she’s gonna call the cops.”

  “She should.” Pete took a skillet out of a cupboard and set it on the stove. “She probably should’ve called ’em a long time ago.”

  “Fuck that. We gotta stop her.”

  “We’re not gonna stop her.” He opened the refrigerator.

  “They’ll take her away!”

  “I don’t want her to leave, either, but…”

  “The cops take one look at her, they’ll have an ambulance out here. Presto-zippo, man, that’ll be the last we ever see of her.”

  A tub of butter and a pack of cheddar cheese in his hands, Pete stepped back from the refrigerator and kneed its door shut. “If she doesn’t call the cops,” he said, “that Toby guy might go after her family.”

  “They’ll be okay. She warned ’em, right? Told ’em to get outa Dodge.”

  “She left a message, that’s all.” Pete set the cheese and butter on the counter. “Who knows when they’re gonna come home and listen to it? Hell, maybe they’ll never hear it.”

  “They’ll hear it. Why wouldn’ they hear it?”

  “I don’t know,” Pete said, “but it’s not like a hundred percent sure. Maybe they’ll forget to check the machine, or…”

  “You worry way too much.”

  “I think we gotta let Sherry do anything she wants. Even like call the cops, you know? ’Cause what if we stop her and then Toby nails her family? It’d be our fault.”

  “They’ll be fine.”

  “Sure. If Toby doesn’t show up and demolish them. You wanta get some plates down?” He pointed to a nearby cupboard.

  “God I wish we’d get our hands on him,” Jeff said. He opened the cupboard. “Three plates?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jeff reached up for them. “If we just nail his sorry ass, Sherry hasn’t gotta call the cops—she can just stay with us, you know? Like overnight?”

  “She doesn’t want us getting involved.”

  “We’re already involved, man! We’re involved up the Grand Wazoo! You’re in love with her ’n I sorta got the hotsies for her my own self. That’s involved! Ain’t that involved!”

  “Yep,” Pete said.

  “Fuckin’-A.”

  Pete opened a drawer and took out a paring knife. “Bring the plates over here, okay? I’ll cut the cheese and you get the bread.”

  “Don’ go cuttin’ the cheese, dude.”

  “Very funny.”

  Jeff came over to the counter and set down the plates. “Where’s the bread?”

  With the knife, Pete pointed at the loaf. Then he started trying to cut open the plastic wrapper around the cheese.

  “We gotta do something,” Jeff said, “or it’s gonna all be over in a couple of hours.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “We gotta make her tell us Toby’s name. Then we gotta find him and take him out.”

  Pete looked around at Jeff. “Take him out?”

  “Take him right the fuck out. You know?”

  “I know.”

  “You got a problem with that?”

  “Why should I have a problem with a little thing like that? Do it all the time.”

  “I mean it, man.”

  “You’re talking about killing a person.”

  “You betcha.” Jeff’s eyes gleamed. “The fucker who did that to Sherry. You got a problem with that?”

  “Like murder him?”

  “Whatever. Murder him, kill him, cancel his ticket. Yeah. You betcha. You said you’d like to get your hands on him. Did you mean it?”

  “I meant it.”

  “So let’s do it.”

  “I don’t know about actually killing someone, though.”

  “He damn near killed Sherry. You saw what he did to her, man. And he raped her. You saying you don’t wanta kill him for that?”

  “I want him punished, that’s for sure.”

  “How you think he’s gonna get punished, the cops get him? Only way they’re gonna kill his ass is if he goes up against ’em with a gun or something. You know that. Chances are, he won’t get a scratch on him when they bust him. If they bust him.”

  Pete groaned, then turned away and tore the remains of the wrapper off the cheese. He placed the block of cheese on one of the plates and started to slice it. “How about buttering the bread?”

  “Sure.” Jeff stepped up to the silverware drawer, opened it and took out a dinner knife. “So the cops, they nab Toby, right? If they nab him. Then what happens?”

  “A trial,” Pete said, and cut another slice.

  “Right. Maybe like a year or two down the road. All that time, he’s in jail—if we’re lucky. And Sherry, she hasta wait and worry and be the center of addenshun. News people all over her like the fuckin’ vultures they are. Then comes the trial and she’s gotta testify against the asshole. And she’s probably on the TV all the time so everybody ends up knowing every damn thing about her and every single shitty thing Toby did to her. They’ll rip her life apart. Y’know? She’s the victim,’n they get crucified every fuckin’ time there’s a trial. ’N for what? For nothin’! Know what I mean?”

  “This being Los Angeles,” Pete said, “the jury acquits Toby and he goes free.”

  “You better fuckin’ believe it. They let Toby go and he gets to play golf the rest of his fuckin’ life—or maybe he goes on a little spree ’n takes out Sherry just for the fun of it.”

  “On the other hand,” Pete said, “they probably would find him guilty.”

  “Might. Not problee.”

  “Okay, might.”

  “So he goes to the slammer. Big whoop.”

  “Killing all those people is ‘special circumstances,’” Pete pointed out. “So he might get the death penalty.”

  “So they maybe kill him fifteen years down the road. If at all. And meanwhile, back at the ol’ ranch, Sherry has to keep dealing with it.”

  Pete smirked and shook his head. “You oughta be a lawyer.”

  “No way, man. Gonna be an assassin.”

  Pete laughed. “Sure.”

  “Waste bad guys.”

  “This isn’t the movies, you know.”

  “Tell you what. You write about my eggsploits. Forget them wimpy-ass novels. You be my Roswell.”

  “Boswell.”

  “Fuckin’-A! And we’ll start it all off with how we wiped Toby Asshole off the face of the earth.”

  “You’re nuts. Anyway, we can’t do anything to him unless we can find him.”

  “Eggzackly.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  With Sid’s key in the ignition, Toby drove the Mercedes to the house at 2832 Clifton Street.

  As he approached, he slowed down.

  There was no car in the driveway.

  He saw no sign of Sherry’s parents or Brenda.

  What if nobody’s home?

  He started to feel angry and cheated.

  Take it easy, he told himself, driving past the house. This could turn out really good. Maybe Mom and Dad took off in the car and left Brenda alone. Or maybe Brenda’s the one with the car.

  Any way you slice it, he thought, this’ll be fine. Things’ll be a lot easier if I don’t have to handle all three at once.

  At the end of the block, he turned the corner and parked his car. He pocketed Sid’s keys, climbed out, and went to the sidewalk.

  Sherry’s pistol was heavy in the right-hand front pocket of his shorts. With each stride, it swung and brushed against his thigh. Anyone watching him would see the swinging, but the pocket was very deep and the shorts were loose and baggy. Nobody should be able to tell that the pocket held a gun.

  Or that he had a folding Buck knife
with a four-inch blade in the left-hand front pocket of his shorts.

  Or that he carried a screwdriver, its handle hidden beneath the hanging front of his shirt, its eight-inch shaft underneath his belt and shorts, cool against the side of his right leg.

  Or that he had a pair of rubber gloves stuffed inside his right rear pocket.

  Or that his left rear pocket held a pair of pliers.

  Or that he was bare underneath his big, floppy shorts.

  So much that nobody could tell by looking.

  People did look, but he knew they weren’t seeing him with his hidden truths.

  An elderly couple walked by. They glanced at him, nodded and smiled. He nodded and smiled back. A dapper fellow came along carrying a white poodle. He gave Toby a curt nod and kept going. Across the street, a woman gliding along beneath a white turban didn’t seem to be aware of him at all. Neither did the gawky, darkly tanned gal who jogged by on the street. She looked wizened and breastless and carried a water bottle on her hip.

  None of you see me, Toby thought.

  All they saw, if anything at all, was a shaggy-haired, hefty teenager strolling along with a smile on his face and a song in his heart.

  What song in my heart? he wondered.

  He began to sing to himself, very softly, “Stuck in the Middle with You.”

  And smiled, picturing the scene in Reservoir Dogs.

  And wished he looked like Michael Madsen.

  If I looked like him, Toby thought, the babes’d be all over me.

  Oh, well. Who needs good looks when you’ve got weapons?

  He stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. He heard chimes, but no other sounds came from inside the house.

  Anybody home? Come on, come on.

  He rang the bell again.

  Nothing.

  He shrugged for the benefit of any neighbor who might be watching, then turned away from the door, stepped down from the stoop and went to the driveway. Its iron gate was shut.

  He smiled toward the gate, raised an arm in greeting, and said in a cheerful voice, “Oh, there you are. I’ll come through.”

  He walked to the gate, lifted its latch and swung it open. On the other side, he pulled it shut. The latch fell into place with a quiet clank.