Venom Business

by Michael Crichton

  “For God’s sake,” whimpered Jane. “For God’s sake, stop it, both of you.”

  The speedometer was down to 150. The bridge came closer by the second. At the last moment, Raynaud spun the wheel and they moved away, down the road. Pierce suddenly let go and swung with his fists back over his head. Raynaud took a blow to the back of the neck and the face.

  Down to 100. Raynaud was now the only person holding the wheel. He released it, counting on the balance of the Maserati to run straight, and punched Pierce viciously in the jaw. Jane grabbed the wheel and tried to steer them off the road as Pierce and Raynaud swung at each other within the narrow confines of the car.

  Suddenly they were off the road, onto the muddy shoulder, bouncing and jouncing. Raynaud landed a solid right to Pierce’s ear; Pierce gouged Raynaud’s eye with his thumb.

  Jane managed to swing her foot over the gearbox and stamp on the brake. The car came to an abrupt halt, throwing them all forward. For a moment, they were stunned, and then Pierce, bleeding from his lower lip, leapt out of the car and stood glowering.

  “Come on out, you son of a bitch, I’ll kill you.”

  Raynaud started to get out, pushing the bucket seat forward. When he was halfway out, Pierce slammed the door shut, pushing his whole weight against it, catching Raynaud’s neck and ankle. Raynaud saw gray for a moment, a wave of dizziness. He tried to push the door open. Piece swung, hard, and caught Raynaud in the throat beneath the jaw. Raynaud felt a wave of blinding pain.

  Pierce, holding Raynaud pinned by the door, swung again, hitting Raynaud in the nose. And then, with a mighty effort, Raynaud forced the door open, throwing Pierce back to the ground. Raynaud got out and stood over him.

  “Get up, you little bastard.”

  Pierce looked at Raynaud and got to his feet slowly, warily.

  “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time,” Raynaud said.

  “You’ve got your chance, old buddy,” Pierce said. He stood, and flung a handful of dirt at Raynaud.

  It missed his eyes. Raynaud stepped forward.

  “Nice try.”

  Pierce began to look frightened. He took a nervous step back.

  “Going somewhere?” Raynaud said. He grinned. “I’ll tell you a secret. I threw that gun away. The one with the phony bullets. So I’ll have to kill you with my bare hands.”

  Behind him, Raynaud was aware that Jane was calling to him, telling him to cut it out, to stop everything. But he paid no attention; he saw only Pierce, and felt only the blood trickling down from his nose and oozing into his sock from the cut on his ankle.

  “Come on,” Raynaud said. “Stand and fight. Old buddy.”

  Pierce took another step back, then stopped. He seemed to gather courage and sprang forward. His foot came up, going for the crotch.

  Raynaud caught it easily in his hand, and spun the heel. Pierce tumbled to the ground.

  Raynaud picked him up, held him by the collar, and swung at his face. Hard. As hard as he could, hoping he would break something.

  Pierce fell backward, clutching his face, covering it with his hands. Raynaud picked him up again, feeling fury now, a bloodthirsty sense, as all the rage, the taunts, the torments of the past week came back to him.

  He punched him in the stomach, sinking his fist into soft flesh. Pierce gave a gasping grunt, and his knees buckled. Raynaud did not let him fall, but punched again. Pierce vomited.

  Raynaud dropped him.

  “You’ve soiled my hand. Old buddy.”

  Pierce, rolling on the ground in pain, made gasping noises.

  Raynaud said, “You’ve got a lot of money, Dickie. But no guts.” He wiped his bleeding knuckle reflectively. “Pretty good with the broads, as long as you pay them enough. But otherwise, nothing. And no brains. Short on brains, Dickie. Did you really think I was going to kill you? I’m not going to kill you. Get up.”

  Pierce moaned and tried to roll away.

  “Get up!”

  Pierce made no move, so Raynaud kicked him as hard as he could, just above the left kidney.

  “Didn’t you hear me, old buddy? You think I’m talking just to amuse you, like the old days? You think I’m waiting for you to buy the next drink? Get up.”

  Pierce, grimacing, tried to get to his feet, fell once, and tried again. He made it the second time. His eyes were wide with terror. His mouth was purple and swollen. He spit out a tooth and said, “I’ll get you for this, Raynaud. I swear I will.”

  “No, old buddy. You won’t. Because you haven’t got the guts.”

  In a final, desperate lunge, Pierce attacked, butting Raynaud with his head, falling on him, his hands going to the eyes and the groin, tugging, pulling…

  Raynaud struck. The blow caught Pierce on the side of the head and knocked him sideways. Feeling spikes of pain in his body, seeing flashing spots in his eyes, Raynaud got up, dusted himself off, and said, “You shouldn’t fight dirty, old buddy.”

  He kicked Pierce twice more in the stomach and walked away. He did not look back at the body, and he did not hear the moans. He was afraid to look back, afraid he might change his mind.

  Jane was standing next to the car. Raynaud looked at the door, at his blood on it.

  Jane said, “Are you proud of yourself?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It makes me feel good all over.”

  “I thought you were going to kill him, for a minute there.”

  “It occurred to me,” Raynaud said. He felt suddenly tired, his body pained, his limbs heavy. He realized for the first time that he was gasping for breath, panting. He got into the passenger seat and said, “Let’s go. You drive.”

  “You’re going to leave him?”

  “That’s right. I’m going to leave him.”

  She got behind the wheel and closed the door. “Are you insane?”

  “Sure.”

  “You must be. He’ll have the police—”

  “No, he won’t. Drive.”

  She stuck out her chin defiantly and said, “I’m going to stay with him.”

  “The hell you are. Drive the car.” Her little game annoyed him. Showing all this concern for Richard, all of a sudden. Hell, she didn’t like Richard. Nobody liked Richard.

  “If only you weren’t so damned big,” she said, but she started the car and pulled onto the road.

  “Drive to the nearest petrol station, and stop there. We’ll leave the car, and send someone back for him. Then you and I will get a taxi.”

  “A taxi?”

  “That’s right.”

  “To where?”

  Raynaud sighed and closed his eyes. With his tongue he felt one of his front teeth; it was loose and bleeding. The pain in his head and his ankle was getting worse.

  “Some place romantic,” he said.

  11. GENTLE CONVERSATION

  EVERYTHING WAS WRONG. HE expected to feel cleansed. He expected to feel good. But he didn’t; he felt like hell and everything hurt. Then there was the gas-station attendant, who was stunned when he saw Raynaud. He asked no questions and did as he was told with quick, nervous gestures. They left the car there, and took a taxi back to London.

  “This will cost you a fortune,” Jane said.

  She seemed angry. Now why the hell was she angry? She could be anything, anything at all, but why angry?

  “I’m the last of the big spenders,” Raynaud said. He licked his lips and tasted salty blood. “You have a Kleenex?”

  She gave him one. He wiped his bruised nose and face. One eye was swelling up, and the pain in his throat was severe.

  “Why did you do that?” Jane said.

  “Do what?”

  “That fight, back there. Was it for me?”

  “No.”

  “Because I don’t appreciate the Neanderthal act. Dragging women away by their hair went out a million years ago.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t for you.”

  “Then why?”

  “It’s a long story.”

 
; “It’s a long ride into London.”

  She watched him for a moment, then said, “Here, give me that.” She took the Kleenex away from him and licked it with the tip of her tongue. She cleaned his face; he winced as she touched the sore spots. But still, he liked the way she touched him. She had a good touch.

  “Hurt much?”

  “Hell, yes,” he said. “It hurts a lot.”

  “I was just asking,” she said.

  She was silent then, wiping the blood away. She saw his ankle and took off his shoe and sock; the gash was deep and bleeding heavily. She cleaned it very efficiently and stopped the flow with more Kleenex. She seemed to regard the wound very matter-of-factly; most women would have fainted at the sight of it.

  Finally she said, “I wish you hadn’t done it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  After that, they said nothing at all. A dead and irritating silence fell. Raynaud reached into his pocket for cigarettes and came out with a mangled pack. He glared at it and tossed it out the window.

  “Got a cigarette?”

  She gave him one and watched as he lit it. His hands felt thick and sore and clumsy; the match wouldn’t strike. Finally he got it lit. He found himself suddenly very angry. He was angry with himself, and angry with her. He was angry with Pierce, with the boy in the gas station, even with the cab driver and the traffic on the road.

  Jane was staring out the window, doing a very good job of ignoring him. Finally, she said, “Are you really as brutal as you act?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because it’s frightening, sometimes.”

  “Yeah.”

  She spoke without looking at him. Like he wasn’t there; like she was holding a telephone conversation.

  “Why,” she said, “did you stare at me all the time?”

  “When?”

  “The last few days. Ever since we met at that party.”

  “I always stare at women. I’m brutal.”

  She sighed. “All right, I’m sorry I said that.”

  “Don’t be.”

  She turned to look at him, and said, “Go to hell, you stupid bastard.”

  At the next town, some shitty little London-suburban-town, he told the taxi driver to go to the railroad station. There he got out and gave the driver a ten-pound note, directing him to take Jane to her hotel in London.

  She frowned at him. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going back by train.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t stand the company.”

  “Oh?”

  She hesitated then, clearly angry, her face turning red. On her, it was rather attractive, but he was not in the mood to see her as attractive.

  “I’m going with you,” she said.

  She got out of the taxi and slammed the door.

  “You’re not,” he said.

  “I am.”

  “I can take care of myself,” he said.

  She said nothing at all, but strode forward to the ticket booth and bought two tickets. He insisted on paying for his own, and she told him, very softly and sweetly, to go to hell.

  “Pleasant.”

  “Think what you want,” she said.

  There was a twenty-minute wait until the next London train to King’s Cross; they went out to the platform. Raynaud was limping badly because of his ankle.

  “You ought to see a doctor about that,” she said.

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  He was getting strange looks from the other people on the platform. Jane noticed and said, “Why are they staring?”

  “I look funny.”

  “You do not.” She said it with vehemence; he glanced quickly at her.

  “No worse than any other beat-up gorilla,” she added.

  They went into the British Railways canteen, a dilapidated cafeteria, and got two cups of tea. They sat at a corner table; Raynaud sipped the tea and winced as the hot liquid burned around his loose teeth. She offered him a cigarette and he took it.

  “I just don’t understand you,” she said. “I don’t understand you at all.”

  “Well, I don’t understand you, either.”

  “Did you have to beat him up, for Christ’s sake?”

  “Yes,” Raynaud said. “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because what?”

  “Just because,” he said.

  She was obviously annoyed by his answer, and she started looking in her purse for lipstick.

  He looked around the room at the other people in the canteen, and then out the window at the people on the platform. They were middle-aged, middle-class, nondescript people. Then he looked back at her as she pursed her lips and ran the lipstick over them. She was very beautiful. Startlingly beautiful.

  “I like that shade of lipstick,” he said, feeling like a fool.

  “So do I,” she said, not smiling.

  The loudspeaker announced the train to London, and they went out to board. They were traveling second class, in a small compartment, but it was an afternoon local, and not crowded. They had the compartment to themselves. The train started, and he felt the gentle rocking. He must have drifted off to sleep for a while; when he opened his eyes she was looking at him.

  “Tired?”

  He yawned. “I guess.” He started to stretch and felt the pain and stiffness in his body. He winced and sat still.

  “I’m sorry you hurt,” she said.

  “Kiss it and make it go away.”

  To his surprise, she leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek, then moved back.

  “Why’d you do that?”

  “I wanted to see what I thought,” she said.

  “And?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She dropped her eyes and made nervous movements with her hands. Finally she opened her purse.

  “You can’t put on lipstick again,” he said. “It wasn’t that much of a kiss.”

  She hesitated, then closed her purse. She folded her hands in her lap and sat quite still for a long time, her eyes moving over his face, noticing the cuts and the bruises, the slowly swelling eye.

  “You look like hell,” she said, and she kissed him. Very hard, very long, very nicely.

  When she stopped, she sat back with an odd expression on her face. She looked confused, afraid, and somehow pleased with herself.

  “Now can I put on lipstick?” she said.

  “No,” he said.

  He reached out and drew her to him and kissed her. He felt awkward at first, and then it was easy.

  For a while, holding her in his arms, he was aware of the rhythmic clicking of the train, and then after that, he was aware of nothing at all.

  She rested her head on his shoulder and said, “Are you a bastard?”

  “Sort of.”

  “All I’ve ever known is bastards. I don’t want another one.”

  “Reform me,” he said, and kissed her again.

  She turned her head slightly, so that he kissed her cheek. “Do I have a chance?”

  “Better than average,” he said.

  After that he slept, and when he awoke the train was rumbling into the cavernous spaces of King’s Cross station. She stroked his head and said, “You know, you haven’t been very fair.”

  “Why?”

  “The first night I got to London you had me in suspense.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You didn’t want Richard to know we had met in Mexico. You said I was in danger.”

  “You are.”

  “What kind of danger?”

  “A scandal,” he said, “and a murder.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Meet me tonight,” he said. “We’ll discuss it.”

  “Why should I meet you tonight?”

  “Because I’m in the scandal, too.”

  12. PROMISES

  “SIX BALL IN THE side pocket,” Jane said, and leaned over the cue. She he
sitated a moment, then shot; with a click the ball dropped. She straightened and rubbed the cue with the resin block. “Why are we here?”

  “Good place to talk,” Raynaud said.

  “About scandals?” she said. “Two ball to the center.”

  She shot: clean, perfect.

  “Among other things.”

  “You’re being very mysterious. As usual. Why will I be involved in a scandal?”

  “Because you are Jane Mitchell.”

  “I have been, for quite some time. Five into the left.”

  Raynaud watched as she shot. “Yes,” he said, “but Jane Mitchell is the sole heir to the Mitchell Mining fortune. Conservative estimate of twenty million dollars. Holdings throughout the world. Including some shares in copper mines at Darwin, Australia.”

  She stopped and set her cue down. She stared at him in astonishment. “How the hell did you know that?”

  “A tired old fag told me,” Raynaud said. “In Paris.”

  “It so happens I’m selling that stock,” she said. “Very soon.”

  “I know. Do you know who owns controlling interest in the mines?”

  She frowned and shook her head. “No.”

  “Pierce Industries, Limited.”

  “You mean…”

  Raynaud nodded. “None other.”

  She regained her composure quickly. She brushed the blond hair back from her face and said, “What does that have to do with scandals?”

  “I’m not certain. But I have an idea.”

  “It’s funny you should mention that stock business,” she said. “It’s really quite peculiar. My guardians got some kind of tip, telling them to sell. Apparently some Dutchmen want the stock badly and will drive up the price. We stand to make a great profit.”

  Raynaud frowned. The pieces did not fit, at least, not yet. They were falling together, but not interlocking.

  “That’s why you’re selling now?”

  “Yes. Apparently this tip was really good.”

  “Where did it come from? The tip.”

  “No idea. Three to the right side.”

  She shot.

  “I think,” he said, “that you should be very careful in the next few days.”

  “I’m always careful,” she said. “And you seem to forget Mexico.”