Lifehouse

by Spider Robinson

  They shared their heartbreak in silence for several seconds.

  “I dislike Paul Throtmanian,” she said then, her voice even gentler than before. “Let’s go see what he was protecting.”

  He helped her up. Her clothing was already starting to repair itself—as if to underline the point that she no longer could. Her temper was not improved when she found that Paul’s hiding place had concealed money. “Oh for God’s sake,” she snapped. “I thought it was something important.”

  He was almost as annoyed that the cash had been destroyed—it certainly could have come in handy for them, particularly just now—but he could not say so without implying criticism of her judgment. Worse, accurate criticism. Fortunately the stream of incoming data still being assimilated and analyzed throughout the house picked then to yield up a useful distraction. “Ah,” he said gratefully, “there’s a lead.”

  She held the flagged datum before her mind’s eye, studied it, and nodded just as gratefully. “Good. It’s a place to start, at least.”

  “Do we want to involve the law?” he asked.

  She started to answer…caught herself. “You decide. My judgment is a little off tonight.”

  It was one of the bravest things he had ever heard her say. He saluted it by ignoring it. “I’m on the fence,” he said at once. “My inclination is obviously to go for a full-court press; I’d call out an air strike on them if I could think of a cover story. But the way they bugged out of here, on a second’s notice, without even stopping for the cash…maybe our only chance is for them to think they’ve gotten clear, and relax just a hair. I think the cops might simply keep those two alert.”

  “Tough call,” she agreed. “Make it.”

  He juggled the universe, backstopped but all alone. As he thought, he heard a clock ticking, louder than one had ever ticked for him before. Sweat sprang out on his forehead for the first time in decades.

  “More data,” he said. “We know one of them; we know about the other—the one with the testosterone. We need to integrate everything we just got here with everything June knows about him.”

  Ignoring the ticking, they closed their eyes, joined hands, joined minds, and did as he had proposed.

  Chapter 5

  Cute Meat

  MEMORY SHARD:

  JUNE BELLAMY, 08 JULY 1993:

  June tried to walk as if the right shoe still had a high heel, and scanned both sides of the deserted street, searching the shadowed places for danger and the arc-lit places for a door out of the world.

  At age twenty-eight, she had just made what she intended to be her last professional mistake, overestimating not the character but the intelligence of her partner. The Slider was so innately lazy, she had assumed he realized what a valuable asset she was to him. She had trusted him completely to handle the blow-off; it was well within his talents. Instead he had simply skipped, left her standing there to take the gaff when the mark tipped. Caught flatfooted, she had been lucky to get clear with nothing worse than a couple of slaps, one good punch, and a broken high heel. In the Slider’s stupid estimation, the extra half of the take was compensation enough for the inconvenience of having to find and train another skirt at his next address; never mind that the new girl would have half June’s brains, skills or talent at best. As a result June herself was on the street at 4 AM in Toronto with no money, no safe address or identity, no local friends, and a dull nauseating ache on the left side of her face where the fist had caught her.

  She understood her error, and looked forward to explaining his to the Slider one day. Some equations, she would tell him, contain certain terms so valuable that they cannot safely be subtracted or replaced. Or perhaps she could match his own laziness and say it even more succinctly: a good place to carve an “equals” sign occurred to her…

  But first she had to make sure she was clear, get off the street. The mark might have yelled copper—or he might be in his Porsche now, casting through the night streets for a redhead with a hitch in her walk. Her hair and makeup would probably pass under streetlights—if she kept the unmarked side of her face to the street—but even the option of playing hooker and flagging down one of the rare motorists was closed to her: she looked like after the rape rather than before. It was so late, other pedestrians were rare, and none she saw looked like a serviceable champion. The cabs had all melted or corralled up or whatever it was they did when you really needed one.

  That left a rabbit hole. Scarce, at 4 AM in downtown Toronto.

  Up ahead on this side of the street. A bar with a faint light on inside…

  Horse Shoes & Hand Grenades, it was called. The owner had hubris—June was absolutely certain every male who had ever spoken of it had referred to it as “Horseshit and Handjobs.” She squinted through the partially frosted window, saw a shadowy figure behind the bar. Thank God—someone as lazy as the Slider, still cleaning up at this hour.

  Her knock startled him; he spun and stared from side to side of the vast window that fronted the street, trying to locate her. He looked young and dumb and just cute enough to believe himself irresistible.

  Perfect.

  She knocked again, more weakly than before, and allowed herself to slump.

  This time he located her, and at once began shaking his head and waving his hands in a reasonably impressive catalog of all the myriad ways there are to pantomime Go away; we are closed, a statement so self-evident as to be insulting. Marceau himself could not have returned the serve more powerfully: she managed—long distance, in bad light—to convey need, desperation, apology, tremulous hope and earnest entreaty, without so much as raising her hands or ever drawing undue attention from her sexual desirability.

  It might not have worked in America, say, but in this blessed country even the bartenders were candy. Knowing he was defeated, but unwilling to acknowledge it yet, he stayed behind the bar and gave her harassed and frustrated. She riposted with abject surrender, and saw him fold. She was already digging tissues and another item from her purse as he put down whatever he was fooling with and came around the bar, and by the time he got the door open the tears she was wiping away looked genuine.

  He was still doing harassed, but now that he could see her left cheek and general state of disrepair, felt obliged to add concerned and just a touch of generically gallant. Nonetheless he began by wasting his breath. “I’m sorry, miss, but we’re closed.”

  “I know,” she said, wasting some of her own. “But I just…I…look, I just had a really bad experience, okay? I’m a little shaken up; I thought he was going to…look, can I just duck inside for a second and clean up? Maybe after that I can figure out what to…” She let her voice trail off.

  “Look, lady, I’d really like to help, okay? but the boss is gonna be back any minute, and honest to God, if he finds out I let anybody in here after closing he’s gonna—”

  He certainly had a lot of breath to waste. “I’ll only be a minute, I swear.” She paused a moment to let him begin his response, then overrode him with, “Look, I got female troubles, give me a break, okay?” and took a deep breath of her own to set the hook.

  He emptied his lungs in a sigh (breath smelled okay, a good omen) and, in the Slider’s memorable phrase, folded like a full wallet: slowly but thoroughly. “Jesus Christ, you’re breaking my stones, lady. All right, look, come on in, the ladies’ can is, uh, over there, just make it quick, all right?”

  “You’re very kind,” she lied, and brushed past him, leaving him to close the door.

  Once in the toilet, she relaxed and took her time. The cheek wasn’t as bad as she had feared (thank God the son of a bitch wore the diamond on his other hand). She decided it would pass with a little work, and did it carefully. Then she addressed the shoes; by wedging the remaining heel under the sink tap, she was able to snap it off—lowering her apparent height by an inch or two. The tear at the collar she managed to repair with a safety pin, although it required taking off the blouse. Since it was off, she took off her bra t
oo and treated herself to a full field bath, swabbing the sweat and fear-stink from her armpits with paper towels and rolling on fresh deodorant. The bra went into her purse, and several buttons were not rebuttoned when she put the blouse back on. She brushed out her hair and restyled it to present an altered silhouette. She removed and reversed her skirt, changing its color, and rolled its waistband under to shorten it by a couple of inches. She redid her lipstick with care. As an afterthought she slid a finger down her panties, moistened it, and rubbed it off on each earlobe. She assessed the results in the mirror, and felt some of her self-confidence flowing back.

  Time to boat this sucker, she thought. She made sure her purse held condoms, and left the toilet.

  He was exactly as she had imagined him: pacing behind the bar, muttering to his feet, drumming his fingers on every flat surface he passed, miming impatience to an empty house. He spun at the sound of her approach and stumbled slightly. When his eyes locked on her, there was an audible click. He had clearly been preparing to resume their Dueling Mimes with a strong combination of put upon and endangered by your thoughtlessness and in no mood, but the impression collapsed as his targeting computer claimed all available processing power.

  She waited, let him speak first, and as soon as he did she overrode him with a husky “Thank you, kind sir. I really…owe you a lot.”

  “You’re welcome,” he had to say. “But look—”

  “I really hope you mean that,” she said. “Because right now I’d do just about anything for a stiff bourbon.”

  He wanted to say no firmly and at once, but was distracted by the half-grasped changes in her appearance; by the time he refocused, too much time had passed and it came out ineffective. “Jesus, lady, my boss—”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t begrudge a lady a single drink,” she said. “Not if he knew what I’ve been through tonight.”

  “Look, a cop glances in and sees you here this time of night and we got license trouble—really, they already gave us a couple of warnings: this time they’re gonna—”

  “I’ll sit over here out of sight, then,” she said, and at once took a seat at a table which was both well outside the cone of light from the single lamp above the register, and shielded from the window by a cigarette machine.

  He glared down at his shoes and relaxed to the inevitable. “One short one,” he said, and turned to hunt for a bourbon bottle.

  She studied him as he built her drink. He was younger than her; call it three calendar and about a century subjective. He was of pleasing height, shape and aspect, in shape but not obsessive about it. He was clean shaven, wearing a black turtleneck and dark slacks. He moved with easy grace, light on his feet, but appeared very tired, fumbling for things he needed and pouring with only a sketch of professional elegance. As he went by the register, she noticed the key sticking out of its lock, giving it the absurd air of a windup toy. Something indefinable about his upper lip gave her a mild but distinct urge to bite it. When he brought her the drink, she noticed the bulge in his pants, without being caught at it.

  She thought about all these things, and then she made him sit down and told him a long and gaudy and quite fictitious tale about how she had come to need succor at this hour, sipping her bourbon slowly as she created. The story might well have produced an erection on a statue of John Diefenbaker, and when she was sure he had one, she slid a hand into her purse. “I’ve taken up enough of your time,” she said. “Let me just pay for my drink and I’ll let you finish up and go home.” She stirred the trash in her purse. “Do you have change for a twenty?”

  He bunked at her, turned to look at the locked register, turned back to her. “You don’t have anything smaller?”

  “Afraid not,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  “Forget it, it’s on the house.”

  “No, really, it’s the least I can do. You want your accounts to balance.”

  “I already closed out the register. Thanks for offering, but it isn’t necessary.”

  “Well, let me give you something for your trouble, then. Really, you’ve been a life-saver: just give me back a ten and a five.” She began to take out the imaginary twenty. This was fun.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said quickly. “Look, have you got some place you can go for the night? That creep could still be back at your apartment—”

  “I…I’ll think of something,” she said.

  “Why don’t I go back there with you, right now, make sure the coast is clear?”

  “But didn’t you say you have to wait for your boss?” she said sadistically.

  He blinked twice. “Uh, well, if he’s not here by—” He glanced at his watch. “—now, it usually means he’s not coming. Really, I’d be glad to lock up here and—”

  “I don’t think I want to go back to my place, just yet. I don’t think I’m ready. You wouldn’t know of anyplace else…”

  He went for it like a starving trout. “Uh…look, what’s your name?”

  “Angela,” she said.

  “Angela, I know how this might sound, but…there’s a fold-out couch at my place.” He met her eyes squarely. “And I swear you can trust me.”

  She looked him over carefully. “I almost believe you,” she said softly.

  “You can,” he said. “I’ve got my share of faults, but I won’t ever lie to you.”

  “I hope you mean that,” she said.

  “I do,” he assured her, quiet sincerity in his voice.

  She took her time deciding, for the pleasure of watching him mime steadfast, and finally said, “I don’t even know your name—no, don’t tell me yet—but I’ll go home with you, if you’ll give me a truthful answer to one question.”

  “I’m not,” he said. “Never even been engaged.”

  “Good, but that wasn’t the question.”

  “What, then?”

  “How much did you clear?”

  He shook his head slightly a few times. “Beg pardon?”

  “How much did you take off the guy tied up and gagged on the floor behind the bar?”

  His eyes went to her right hand, still deep in her purse. They were the only part of him that moved. His own hand must have yearned to go to the bulge in his pants she had seen earlier—the one a few inches from his erection—but it didn’t even twitch. She was impressed. “You heat?”

  “No,” she said. “And I’ll never lie to you, either. Not anymore. Sound like a plan?”

  It was his turn to take his time making up his mind. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I guess it does. When did you tip?”

  “You were too graceful to be such a lousy bartender. And you left the key in the register.”

  He was impressed. “You’re good.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I figure I’ll probably net somewhere around two large.”

  “Chump,” she said fondly. “It’s time you went professional. Let’s book.”

  “I’m sick of the place,” he agreed. He rose, got a briefcase from behind the bar, said, “Sorry ’bout that, cap,” toward the floor, and came back to take her arm.

  As they walked out the door they nearly collided with a cop. He glanced at them with idle curiosity, looked away politely, then registered the briefcase and began a double take. Before he could complete it his jaw collided with a male fist, distracting him so much that he failed to notice June’s foot rising like a Shuttle launch toward his groin. Its impact folded him like an empty wallet, presenting the nape of his neck to her companion’s elbow, and he ceased to be a significant part of their lives.

  “Now you can tell me your name,” she said, when she had made sure the cop was out.

  “I’m Paul Throtmanian.” He was breathing audibly but under control.

  “I’m Susan Hughes.”

  “Want a gun or a badge?” Paul said cheerily.

  “What would I need with a gun?”

  “Good point.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand, winced, and started to walk away.
/>   “Chump,” Susan said—but softly, to herself—and got the cop’s wallet and pocket change.

  She told him her right name after the third orgasm. His third; she had long since lost count.

  ABSTRACT ACQUIRED DATA:

  PAUL THROTMANIAN, 31 OCTOBER 1995:

  BIRTH NAME:

  Paul Donald Throtmanian

  BIRTHPLACE:

  Riker’s Island (holding cell, Women’s Corrective Facility)

  BIRTHDATE:

  1 April 1970

  MOTHER:

  Lada Loven (apparently legal name; birth name: Ilse Throtmanian; deceased)

  FATHER:

  not known

  CURRENT LEGAL NAME (THIS ADDRESS):

  Ralph Metkiewicz

  KNOWN ALIASES:

  Peter David Talbot; Philip Dwight Tanager; Sebastian Tombs; Richard Stark; Dick Starkey; John Archibald Dortmunder; Samuel Holt; Ernest Gibbons, Sr.; James Tiptree, Jr.; Dr. Lafe Hubert, M.D.; Neil O’Heret Brain; B.D. Wyatt; Edward Hunter Waldo; Preston Danforth Tomlinson; Parker Meyer Spenser; Travis T. Magee; Tak Hallus; Penforth Naim; Susan Donim; Dr. Winston O. Bourgee; Paul Nurk; John Nurk; Edison Ripsborn; Marcus Van Heller; Paul Teale

  CURRENTLY ACTIVE ID:

  Metkiewicz; Gibbons; Hallus; Naim; Donim; Smith; Teale (various)

  REGISTERED VEHICLES:

  1994 Toyota Camry to Metkiewicz (this address; disabled)

  1995 Porsche to Naim (location of record: 10659 Point Grey Rd.)

  KNOWN RESIDENCES, LOCAL:

  this address; expired

  10659 Point Grey Rd., Vancouver, BC V8U 4R6 (legal residence of June Bellamy as “Carla Bernardo”)

  KNOWN RESIDENCES, NONLOCAL:

  9787 Flagler St., Key West, FL [zip unknown] (summer home of “Ernie and Dora Gibbons”; currently sublet)

  CITIZENSHIP:

  Canadian (2); American (3); Cuban; Japanese; all valid and current