Poisonous Kiss

by Andras Totisz

I got a childish grin. "Yes." He held his palms out from his sides. "But it saved my there. If they didn't believe I was ready to kill them, they would have attacked."

  "Come on …they wouldn't really have attacked you. The gun was in your hand."

  His eyes suddenly lifted to look into mine. His face showed surprise. "You can't be so sure. If I moved to slow, if they thought they had a chance, they would have tried something. They could have pulled out a gun first, or one of them could have jumped me while I was handling the other. But not that day. I was ready to kill them both. I knew it and they knew it." He spoke softly, as if he was shocked at his own words.

  "To most people it sounds so simple: You take your gun out, it's over. But it's not really like that. The gun is only one piece of the whole equation. It's a …" he smiled at the irony of what he was about to say. "It's more of a spiritual matter."

  I smiled back, mechanically. I felt my stomach grow lighter as I wondered where this logic was taking him. It suddenly occurred to me how dangerous this is—what I was doing. Maybe I should have told him everything from the start. He seemed too clever, too sensitive and self-aware to remain blind. How could I have known?

  "It must be some ancestral reflex." He spoke as if thinking out loud, but I could tell this wasn't the first time these thoughts had occurred to him. "We behave like fighting animals. A dog can tell right away who is afraid of it and who it should fear. Most human confrontations are decided in the same way. One of the participants feels fear and backs from conflict without any apparent reason. An outsider watching the showdown probably won't see any reason why the loser backs off and why the fear overtakes him at a certain moment. Often the loser has the appearance of being much bigger and stronger, but that doesn't matter. What counts is how far you're willing to go. It's like a gamble where the winner is the one who's ready to risk the most. You have to decide what you would do to defend your position: Argue? Hit your opponent? Get hit back and keep coming? Kill your opponent?" He yawned impatiently. "The stakes always go to the ones who care the least. The ones who don't worry about themselves, about anyone, about the consequences of their actions. Those are the people who come up winning."

  "What if you bluff," I asked, "and then you get caught at it."

  He laughed. I could see he needed the release. "Bluff, yeah. That can get you in a lot of trouble." His smile faded and he spoke seriously again. "But I know I wasn't bluffing. It's not only that I would have shot those guys in front of the club. I really wanted to hurt them. My hand was ready, almost eager to kill. I didn't just feel confidence—the knowledge that I could pull the trigger if I had to. I felt a desire to erase them, to watch their lives end …

  "Do you think I'm just exaggerating my feelings, talking tough now that it's all in the past?"

  The frightened look on his face really touched me. I hadn't realized until now how much he valued my opinion.

  "No," I answered. "I don't think it's just talk. You walked into that dangerous place, looking for Gladys Ferrow, and you brought her out. And you were alone."

  He nodded; his face was sad. "That's what I can't explain. I didn't have to do it that way. I could have been more practical and called for help, some kind of backup. Instead I just went in alone, like some kind of damn cowboy. How could I? What's different about me, Celia?"

  He had never called me by my first name before. He laughed again, and there was affection in his eyes. "I'm beginning to think it was you. You and your medicine."

  I'm not sure how, but somehow I could still laugh with him, even while he said these things. The only thing I was sure of at that moment was that I was falling in love with him. When he stopped laughing and looked into my eyes, he was like a puppy dog, so open and eager for approval. And I felt insecure, upset by this new knowledge. What would happen if I let myself go on like this? If I allowed love between us, and started to encourage him?

  He stood up, and glanced toward the massive leather couch.

  "Well, do I get a shot?"

  "No." And I swear, I said this with a smile. At least my mouth, the muscles in my face were smiling. "You don't get any more shots," I answered, thinking of Martin. I must speak with him immediately.

  CHAPTER 9

  They park behind an unused warehouse. The kind of dark, lonely place where Gladys Ferrow might bring her "car dates." Anything could happen here. What happens now is this: Detective Arany reaches in his pocket, takes out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and stares, as if surprised to find it there, then offers it toward Gladys.

  They say nothing, but Arany is very conscious that he is next to a woman whose outfit reveals more skin, and flab, than he asked to see.

  "Where is he?" Arany's words come out hoarsely. He feels sick again. He flicks a half-smoked cigarette through the window. He's afraid. He's afraid of himself, of the sudden dizziness and the attack of violence that followed. He ought to warn Gladys Ferrow. He ought to tell her to run away.

  She forces herself to laugh. She needs no warning. She's afraid. She's not sure why, but she knows she should be.

  "Who?"

  Arany doesn't answer. He has the feeling he's going to hit her. As a police officer he's seen his share of violence, but he's never been put in a situation where he had to hit a woman. Now he can almost see her head slamming against the glass, the blood pouring out of a gash above her temple and running down her over-painted face. He begins to sweat.

  "The last time I saw him, he was with you." She smiles, trying to lighten the situation. The smile is almost pretty. "I cleared out as soon as you took him away."

  The anger grows. A voice inside him screams help, Celia, please help.

  "So I guess you saw me and my partner lying in a pool of blood, unconscious, then?"

  "I guess I did." She suddenly sounds indignant, and Arany is confused. It couldn't have been her—could it? The dispatchers can tell him if it was a woman who dialed 911. He's not sure why it matters, it just does.

  "There's a pay phone …" he mumbles, almost to himself, "downstairs, across the street."

  "Yup. I know."

  He doesn't need a cigarette, but he has to do something. He reaches into his pocket again. His hand is shaking. Gladys Ferrow's hand disappears in the worn bag where she keeps the knife and the can of mace. The lighter with her monogram lights on the third try.

  "Why?"

  Gladys Ferrow looks at the smoke as if she could find an answer in it. They sit in silence. Arany is filled with questions, but he's too weak to ask. He feels paralyzed, like that night in the stairs, when he had the gun in his hand. Now he likes that feeling, greets it like an old friend he thought he had lost.

  Fortunately, Gladys is ready to tell her story without being questioned.

  "It was the first time I'd been with him. You don't have to believe me if you don't want to."

  Arany sighed. It would be nice to know, what he does want. To find Frost, of course. But then what?

  "Where did you meet?"

  "In the Rumball, the place you picked me up …how the hell did you find me there?"

  Arany starts to laugh, then glances at her sideways and the smile on his face dies away.

  "A nice place to pick somebody up. Was he a regular? Had you seen him there before?"

  Gladys shakes her head slowly. "You want more than I can give. Maybe it's better that way. I don't want to go ratting anybody out." She holds a hand up before he can speak. "Don't tell me what he did, I don't want to hear about it. I hate myself enough as it is. Maybe more than I should." Nervously, she drags hard on her cigarette, then looks for the ashtray. Arany flips it open and she crunches out the butt with fast, short stabs. The lipstick on the end of the filter looks like a drop of dried blood in the ashtray. Arany stays quiet.

  "Give me another and you can go on with your damn questions. You got any booze?"

  He doesn't and it hurts him. He wants to give something to her, this woman who saved his life for some reason.

  "Why don't we sit down
and drink something in a club?" he offers uncertainly.

  She snorts rudely.

  "I bet you'd love that. But don't even think about it. I don't date cops"

  "But I—" Arany begins but she cuts in.

  "Where could I show myself with you? I don't want to scare my friends off."

  Arany sits back and closes his eyes. My God, he thinks. Rejected. I would never— not if she begged. He almost laughs out loud, but something stops him. He had only wanted to be kind.

  "A pity," he says, and fishes out a cigarette. Only a few left.

  "Was this the first time you saw him?" he asks.

  "No. He came in once a while, had a drink, but he wasn't a regular."

  "Did he talk to anybody?"

  She looks into his eyes. She isn't afraid anymore, at least not of him.

  "Sometimes. But I don't know the guy."

  Arany nods, deciding to return to that question later.

  "What about his partner," he tries. "What do you know about him?"

  Her eyes grow suspicious. Is he laying a trap? She puts the cigarette in her mouth and flicks her monogrammed silver lighter nervously. It takes five tries to get a light.

  "What partner? Look, you don't have to give me this interrogation crap. If you wanted to question me you should have taken me in. But instead you drive me out here, to the middle of nowhere, like you were going to try something nasty. You probably would've too, if I hadn't told you it was me who …all right, to hell with it. I'll tell you everything. And after that you can by me a bottle and drive me home. I'm not going back out tonight, or people will think I gave you something. That's all I need, to be marked as a rat."

  Arany nods again and stays silent. His mouth goes dry, he is suddenly terribly thirsty for a cold beer.

  "He came in before midnight. Like I'd said, I'd only seen him a few times. But I remembered him. The first time he came in the bar, I figured he could get a discount. Hell, I'd take him on for nothing, though I figured he wouldn't even give me another look. He hadn't been alone that time. He had a girl with him. A young thing with an ass-kicking shape—and she knew it. She was in this tight little red number that showed everything."

  Arany finds it hard not to ask more about this woman.

  "You are interested, aren't you," Gladys grins. "Yeah, she was a hot little thing, blonde."

  Arany glances up quizzically. "Was she really blonde?"

  "Yes, a natural blond, and before you ask, yes, I know for sure, as sure I know I am not a virgin anymore. She had long, natural blond hair and wore a tight, red dress— the kind I use to wear twenty years ago, when I was sixteen. And it looked as good on me, too. The men's eyes almost popped out of their sockets when they saw her, and at first I thought there'll be a fight behind her before the night's over."

  "But there was no fight …"

  Gladys Ferrow seems eager to change the subject. "I saw him a few times after that. Sometimes with a woman, sometimes alone. But not with blondie, I didn't seen her no more. All the women with him were always young and good-looking, but never as beautiful as she was."

  What kind of women; did you know them?

  "He had every kind. I tell you this man doesn't have to worry about being by himself. Except that night you came after him. He was alone that evening, having a drink at the bar. I saw him sizing up the choices in the place. I figured this was my chance. I waited till he glanced at me and then I gave him a big smile. He smiled back and turned away. But he went on staring at me in the mirror while he had another drink."

  Arany pictures the scene: Frost would be confident, cocky, not the kind to glance bashfully.

  "I expected him to come sit next to me. I knew he wouldn't care about the man I was with. But he didn't come, he just sat there at the bar, all cool, and waited for me. So I figured, why not? I walked up to the bar and my drink was already waiting for me. And that was that. He took me up to this place and you broke in in the middle of the night. I think that's what they call coitus interruptus."

  "I think so," Arany agrees. He sees everything again, he suddenly realizes that she was wearing the same cheap perfume that night. He can see himself walking with Carl and Frost, into the hallway, down the staircase.

  "And the guy on the stairs?" he asks, his voice becoming angry. He suddenly turns toward her and grabs her by the shoulders. "I'm not asking you about his friends in the club, I'll find those characters without your help. I just want to know who was the bastard in the staircase that night. His bodyguard?"

  "You're hurting me," Gladys says softly, and Arany's muscles slowly relax.

  "The bastard in the staircase …" he repeats wearily. "On the way up we thought he was just some homeless guy."

  She looks at him confused as Arany fiddles nervously with his cigarette, spilling ash on his pants and on the car seat.

  "We found him sleeping on the stairs under the second floor landing. And he shot at us when we were coming down. He didn't hit us, but it gave Frost the chance to stab Carl and me."

  "Stairs? Are you crazy? Do you think we walked up to the seventh floor? If I had known better, I would have taken the elevator down too, and I never would have seen you there, or called 911. Then I could be in the Rumball right now, instead of listening to your stupid questions."

  She stops and looks into Arany's eyes.

  "He had no bodyguard. None that I know of. Anybody sleeping in the stairs was just one of the neighborhood street people. Forget him. Now take me home, please."

  Arany silently starts the car.

  Dark rain again. Arany is beginning to feel the weather belongs to this miserable place, like the poverty and violence. He glances at the clock on the dashboard, shrugs to feel the weight of the gun under his shoulder. It gives him some reassurance. The place is empty at 1:30 a.m. The honking and unintelligible shouts are coming from some distant place, carried by the breeze.

  Arany is alone. He has no reason to linger in the car, but he gives himself a few minutes. He remembers. He wants to remember. To awaken memories about Carl, strong, dependable—intelligent too. The man had passed up a chance for an athletic scholarship and went for an academic one instead. For some reason he took his degree from Rutgers and became a cop. A cop who hated crime and respected Arany. And now he is dead.

  Arany wants to think about Carl, but his thoughts won't obey his will. They drift to Gladys Ferrow, to Celia, to the dizziness and attacks of anger. He wonders what he'll do if he finds the fat man. Hatred hits him as he imagines the enormous sagging belly bulging out from the open jeans, the stupid eyes. He feels hatred so much it hurts.

  He pictures the fat man's hand disappearing into the bag and then coming out with that big, old-fashioned gun. I hope he tries it, Arany thinks. I'll blow his fucking brains out. Just pull a gun. I'd love it.

  He wonders how Celia will react when he tells her these thoughts. He wonders how she would react if she knew he sat parked outside of her house before coming here. It had been after midnight, but the light in Celia's house had still been on. He reaches for a cigarette and finds the pack empty. Gladys had the last one while he took her home.

  "Let's go then," murmurs Arany as he steps into the street and starts toward the next doorway. It could be an exact duplicate of the one where he was injured, with the same smells, graffiti, darkness. Except this staircase is more narrow, the steps higher.

  He turns back at the third floor. Down on the street again he looks along the block at the row of similar houses. If Gladys is right, if he was just a street person, the man would be here somewhere. "His kind never travels very far," she had said.

  He could call Ericsson and get a whole army down there. The captain is not happy about the death of one of his men, and he would do anything to get somewhere on the case. The squad cars and SWAT vans would pack the block, and the air would be filled with chirping radios.

  And a fat man would sleep in one of these piss-smelling stairways, with his little plastic bag under his head.

 
Why were we so stupid?

  He tries more doorways. A few are locked tight, but he can get inside most buildings. Even though the rain is only drizzling, it begins to penetrate his thin jacket after a while. It encloses him and starts to creep inside of him. After finishing a block, he goes back for his car, drives to the next corner and begins walking again. He trudges up to the third floor, reasoning that the fat man would feel safe at that height, so he wouldn't bother going higher. The fatigue begins to accumulate in his legs after the fourth house. He's still weak. He lost a lot of blood and his doctors said he ought to rest more. But he wants to work. Or was it Celia who suggested it?

  He walks on mechanically, numbed by repetition. He is almost surprised when he catches sight of the body. He stops short and looks down. The same worn jeans, but another T-shirt, though this one is just as dirty and under-sized as the last one.