Skin Deep

by Timothy Hallinan

  "I was in college and someone threw an inoffensive little girl—a friend of the woman I was living with at the time— off the top of a dormitory." I drank some beer. "She splattered pretty good. The cops all seemed to be more interested in writing parking tickets, so I decided to figure out who did it."

  "And did you?"

  "Yes."

  "And then?"

  "And then I broke a few of his bones and turned him in. It seemed like a good way to make a living. I thought we were talking about Toby."

  "You were talking about Toby."

  "Would you like another beer?"

  "Does a chicken cross the road?"

  "Then tell me what Toby said. About his home. About his family."

  She finished her bottle before handing it to the waitress. "You're looking to get me killed, you know that?" She put both elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. Her wrists were smooth and slender. The brown skin on her arms was lined faintly by fine blue veins. I decided that the big vinyl wristwatch was definitely the yellowest thing I'd ever seen. I didn't say anything. She didn't, either. The beer arrived, and I took a slug at mine.

  "Toby," she said at last. "Real nightmare time. He grew up on a farm, you know that?"

  "South Dakota," I said.

  "Right. Just lots of dirt and a little house in the middle of it. Snowed to beat the band."

  "I already know about the climate in South Dakota."

  "No, but he said it made the house seem smaller. Like there was nowhere else to go, you know? Inside was awful, but outside was worse. Are you sure I should tell you this?"

  I shrugged. "Either you trust me or you don't."

  She picked up her beer. "He cried the night he told me," she said.

  "I promise I won't cry."

  "I cried, too."

  "Maybe you're an easier cry than I am."

  "Don't be flip." She drank. "This isn't flip stuff."

  "Nana," I said, "cut the shit and talk to me."

  She drew a deep breath. "Well, it was mainly his daddy."

  "What was mainly his daddy?"

  "Toby was the only boy. He had two older sisters, but he was the only boy. He was his daddy's favorite." She paused and took another drink.

  "And?"

  "And Daddy just loved to beat up on the girls. He drank a lot, and the only thing that really made him happy when he was smashed was knocking the little woman around. It didn't make much difference which little woman, his wife or Toby's sisters, although I guess his wife got the worst of it. She definitely did after the girls left."

  "When did they leave?"

  "Soon as they could. They went off to Sioux Falls or Bismarck, or wherever you go in South Dakota, and got jobs or husbands or something. That left just Toby and his daddy and his mommy."

  "His father never took it out on him?"

  "Oh, no. He was always the favorite. Daddy's boy. He took Toby hunting and fishing, all those smelly macho things, but he was terrible to Toby's mother and the girls. Sometimes Toby said he used to be bad just to get his daddy to whop him once in a while instead of the girls."

  "Bad like what?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Killing chickens and stuff. Leaving the barn door open in the middle of winter. But it didn't seem to matter what he did, old Daddy would just pat him on the head and say what a great little dude he was. Then he'd go belt the women."

  "And the women never fought back?"

  "No. That was what drove Toby crazy. They'd just take it and take it, until they could run away. And then they ran away."

  "But his mother couldn't run away."

  "I guess not. I would have been out of there at the speed of light."

  "But Toby's as bad as his father, and you kept going out with him."

  She took a long swallow of beer. "Maybe we'll talk about that later," she said, "and maybe not. Like you said, we were talking about Toby."

  "Okay, so his sisters left. How old was he then?"

  "Nine or ten."

  "And he remembers all of this?"

  "He remembers everything. Like he had it on home movies."

  "Or Polaroids," I said.

  She put the bottle down and looked out through the window at nothing happening in the parking lot. "You know about that?"

  "I've seen them."

  "I'll tell you about that later, too." She picked at the wet label on the beer bottle with a long nail. "Maybe."

  "Up to you. Toby's alone now with just his mother and his father."

  "Yeah. Then it got worse. Toby says his dad used to chase her around the house with a belt, just cracking it down on her back while she yelled for help. She never turned and tried to take the belt away. She never ran outdoors. Maybe it was snowing."

  "That upset Toby."

  "Sure. He kept thinking that one day she'd just clobber him. The old man was always pretty drunk when it happened, Toby said. He figured she could have taken him if she'd really tried. He still doesn't understand why she didn't."

  "So what happened?"

  She drained her beer. "This is the bad part," she said.

  "It's already pretty bad."

  "I think I'd like another beer."

  "Fine." I waved at the waitress, who took the order with an air of disbelief. We waited in silence until the bottles landed on the table, and then we hoisted them in unison. Nana wiped her lips on the back of her hand and put her bottle down.

  "Now Toby's about ten," she said. "They're all in the kitchen, right? They always ate dinner in the kitchen. The old man was stewed, as usual, and there was something wrong with the dinner. Well, maybe there wasn't, but he said there was, you know?"

  I nodded.

  "So he popped her. But this time he did it with his fist. And then he hit her again. Toby says he remembers the blood coming down from her nose. He said he was screaming at his daddy and dancing around the kitchen, trying to get in between them, but his father just brushed him away and went on hitting his mother. His mother was on the floor, and his daddy kicked her. A couple of times, he thinks. And Toby kept screaming at her to get up and screaming at his daddy to stop, but it just went on and on."

  "What did he do?" I asked.

  "He got a knife, a bread knife, I think, and went after his daddy. Can you imagine? This grown woman on the floor, bleeding and crying, and this little kid waving a bread knife at his father. So, naturally, the old man took the knife away and smacked the kid around. I mean, he was only ten. And then he grabbed Toby by the neck and said to his wife, 'Go get the clothesline.' "

  I felt a shiver run down my back. "The clothesline," I said.

  "Yeah. And figure this. She did it. She hauled herself up from the floor, all covered in blood, and went and got the clothesline from the backyard and brought it back in. She gave it to him and then went back to the table and sat down. She didn't say anything, Toby said. She just sat there and cried, the damn sap."

  "What happened with the clothesline?"

  "Toby's daddy used it to tie Toby to the stove. First he tore off Toby's shirt, and then he tied him with his back to the side of the stove. Then he said something like 'You made a mistake, son,' and he turned on all the burners and both ovens. Then he grabbed his wife and made her stand up, and he said to Toby, 'We'll come back when the stove is red hot. We'll come back when we smell you cooking.' And then they both went away, into the living room or somewhere."

  "Jesus," I said.

  "Jesus was on shore leave. Toby said he waited. He could feel the stove warming up, but he still waited. He thought his mother would come in and get him, you see. He kept trying to pull the skin on his back away from the stove, but the ropes were too tight. His father could always tie a good knot, he said."

  We both drank.

  "After about a half hour, but who knows, it could have been less, he started to yell. He really thought he was going to get cooked, and Mommy wasn't going to help. Well, they let him yell. Then they let him scream. The stove kept getting hotter, he said. Final
ly, when he'd screamed his voice away, his daddy came into the kitchen and picked up the bread knife. Toby thought he was going to die right then, but the old man just leaned down and cut the clothesline. And then do you know what he said?"

  "What?" I felt sick.

  "He said, 'Stupid. Don't you know stoves don't get red hot?' Then he went away and left Toby sitting on the kitchen floor with his back to the stove, crying. Only he didn't have any voice left to cry with, so it was just air, you know? Just air."

  "Let's get out of here." I gestured for the check.

  "Poor little kid," she said. She looked down at the table- cloth, and when she looked up again, her eyes were wet. "Poor little idiot kid. Kids are so dumb."

  "They're surrounded by monsters," I said. I put some money on the table.

  "There really are monsters," she said. "They tell us that there aren't, but there really are. And they're all people."

  "Come on. I'll take you home. There aren't any monsters at home."

  She wiped her eyes on her napkin. "Promise?" she said.

  "Promise. Let's go."

  On the way to the parking lot she leaned against me, and I put my arm around her shoulders. At the car, she put her arms around me. "You asked me to tell you, and I told you," she said. "Did it help?"

  "Maybe. Maybe Toby's just been waiting for some woman to fight back. I don't know, you don't know. Toby certainly doesn't know. I think Toby knows less about it than any of us."

  She shivered. "Toby doesn't know anything," she said. I gave her a squeeze and opened the door.

  "Simeon the southern gentleman." She tried a laugh, but it was a little shaky. I felt a little shaky myself.

  On the way home, the chaos of Toby's childhood filled the car like soft cotton, muffling anything that might have been said. The night was clear above us, and Hollywood sparkled like a handful of rhinestones scattered over the hills. As usual at that hour, half the drivers were loaded on various misrepresented chemicals, and I drove carefully. Neither of us said anything, but as I turned left onto Vista, Nana slipped her hand into mine.

  "Thanks, I guess," she said.

  "You'll sleep."

  "After a while."

  "But eventually."

  "Oh, sure. Everybody sleeps eventually."

  "There's no way to come out of it alive," I said. "Nobody has yet."

  "I wasn't being fancy. How about walking me to the door?"

  Three-quarters of a moon clung tenaciously to its corner of the sky as we walked hand in hand through the courtyard. The all-night traffic of Hollywood was muted by the Spanish-style buildings that surrounded us. Poking out of dark green hedges, the needlessly extravagant flowers of copa de oro yawned eloquently around us, their rich russet orange washed to a muted beige, and big birds of paradise, planted close to the buildings, cawed silently in the moonlight. The air was luxurious with jasmine. Stretching high above our heads, palm trees cut hard black California silhouettes against the dimmed stars, and a birdbath in the center of the courtyard trickled an invitation to sleeping birds. We reached the door, and Nana looked up at me.

  It felt like high school. "May I kiss you good night?" I asked.

  "Boy," she said. "What a stupid question." She smiled up at me and raised herself onto tiptoe.

  I kissed her, wondering what I was doing. It was a pretty good kiss, considering the circumstances. Then she stepped back abruptly and said, "Oh, shoot."

  "Was it that bad?"

  "No. It was sweet. It was the sweetest kiss I've had since I was twelve. But I forgot my damn cash caddy."

  "Your what?"

  "My cash caddy. The thing I put my tips into after I finish dancing. I was in such a hurry to get you to myself that I left it at the club."

  "So?" I said. "It'll keep."

  "Sure it will. It'll keep about as long as a hundred-dollar bill dropped in front of a Church of Scientology. That's my money, and I've got to go get it."

  "But the club's closed, isn't it?"

  "I've got a key. I can get it. Listen. Go home. Call me tomorrow, if you feel like it."

  "For heaven's sake," I said, "I've got a car."

  "For heaven's sake?" She smiled. "How dear. I'm not sure I ever heard anybody say that out loud before. You really want to take me?"

  "Sure. Alice is warm. Even if she weren't, I'd carry you down to the club on my back. It's not that far."

  "Obibah," she said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Obibah. It's Korean for piggyback. Let's go, hero."

  "Okay," I said. "But obibah to the car." I turned my back to her and bent down, waiting.

  "You really are crazy, you know? Here goes." She saddled up, her legs straddling my middle and her warm arms around my neck. "Giddyup," she said.

  "I'll go at my own pace, thanks." She hardly seemed to weigh anything at all. "You forget that I'm aged."

  "You're drunk, too," she said, "but I want to see a good brisk trot here. Mush, senior citizen." She dug her heels meaningfully into my back. I carried her across the courtyard toward Alice, who stood gleaming at the curb.

  "Hey?" she said into my ear. "I've always liked older men."

  I deposited her on the sidewalk next to Alice. The traffic noise was louder here. She opened the door and got in, and I went around and joined her.

  I flipped the ignition halfway and released the brake. We coasted down the hill in silence until I turned the key the rest of the way and popped the clutch to bring Alice into consciousness. She sputtered and then caught, and I swung left onto some nameless little street, heading south and downhill toward Santa Monica Boulevard. Several minutes passed in silence. Nana leaned against me and exhaled warmly on my arm. I made the last turn and cut the engine. "I'll come in with you," I said. The club was dark. Even the fleshy light of the neon in front had been shut off. The area looked like a slum that had gone out of business.

  "Fine, hero. Come on in."

  She yanked the car door open and got out, and I followed. The parking lot was empty, a black asphalt wasteland faintly striped by parking lines and littered with crumpled paper bags wrapped tightly around empty bottles. The late night lights of Hollywood glared and winked across the sky. I caught up with her and took her hand. She turned to me.

  "One more kiss," she said. "I promise not to get possessive."

  "That's what they all say." We kissed, and she chose a key and thrust it into the lock on the door.

  "Dirty money, here I come," she said. She pulled the door open, and we faced the hallway I had come through earlier with Toby. It was completely dark, but as my eyes adjusted I could see a narrow horizontal strip of light low down at the other end. Nana fumbled for a second and then flipped a switch that brought a naked electric bulb above us to attention, flooding the hallway into a sparkling dark red. My sixth sense kicked in like a flood of cold air.

  "Turn it off," I said.

  "What?"

  "Just turn it off. Now." I reached past her and pushed the switch down. Light gleamed below the door at the other end. "Why is that light on?" I said. Hairs bristled along my spine.

  "How do I know?" She paused, then spoke more thoughtfully. "It shouldn't be. Tiny always turns everything off when he closes up. This is not a boy who wastes electricity."

  "Well," I said, "it's on now."

  "It sure is. So what?"

  "So stay here. I want to go in first."

  I groped my way down the corridor and found the handle of the door. It turned easily in my hand, and I pulled it open.

  The club was dark except for the pink lights above the smallest stage, the one that hadn't been used while I was there earlier in the evening. Something was spread out on it.

  "Stand right where you are," I said over my shoulder. "Don't come in unless I call you. Just stay the hell out of here."

  "What is it? What's wrong?"

  "Keep your hand on the doorknob," I said. "Be ready to leave if I tell you to."

  I went into the club. The velvet nud
es gazed imperturbably down from the walls. The thing on the stage was Amber.

  She lay flat on her back, stark naked, staring sightlessly up into the lights. Her eyes couldn't have been any deader if they'd been marbles.

  "Simeon?" Nana called.

  "Quiet," I said. "Be quiet and stay there."

  Amber's face was battered and swollen, both lips split wide open. The blood hadn't caked yet, except where it was matted into her dry, broken-looking hair. She had bled from a wound hidden by the hair. Her arms were outflung. Normally my attention would have been drawn to the angry-looking tracks on the insides of her elbows, but now I could only look at her hands. Her hands were horrible.

  The fingers splayed back grotesquely, angling every which way in a gesture that was both humanly imploring and humanly impossible. Every one of her fingers had been broken. They had been broken at all three joints.

  A noise behind me told me that Nana had come into the room. I couldn't be bothered to turn around.

  There was something totally wrong about Amber. Something about her posture. First I registered that her hands hadn't been tied, and then I realized that her feet had been. I slipped my hand under her body to check the temperature—the lights would have kept her front warm. She wasn't much colder than I was. Trying to keep my eyes from her hands, I checked her wrists for rope burns, imprints, anything. There weren't any. Then I turned my attention to her bound ankles.

  They were wrapped in several turns of rope. The rope was thin and cottony. I took it between my fingers, feeling the unshaved roughness of Amber's shins beneath my knuckles.

  The rope was clothesline.

  "Dead nudes," I said.

  6 - Saffron Says

  I backed away, a thin, reedy singing shrilling cricketlike in my ears, a fine violin string being drawn back and forth through my brain. My heart was battering madly against my ribs. The dead woman on the stage gazed up blankly at the pink lights, her wide-open eyes as empty as those of a dog listening to music. Behind me, Nana shuffled nervously from foot to foot. The sound of her shoes seemed to scrape their way straight through my skin.

  "Dead what?" she said. "Don't scare me." She moved closer. "Ducks in hell," she said. Her swallow carried all the way across the garish, empty room. "It isn't ... she isn't..."