Backteria and Other Improbable Tales

by Richard Matheson

“Mannix residence,” said Maria.

  Mannix cleared his throat, “Mrs. Mannix, please.”

  “One moment,” said Maria.

  As he waited, Mannix wondered where she was. She could still be in bed. She liked to sleep late after making love. Love? he thought. He’d never manage to associate that word with her again.

  She picked up an extension. “Yes?”

  Mannix licked his lips. “Hel-lo,” he said.

  “Who’s this?”

  “You know who it is,” he answered.

  “Do I?”

  Mannix tensed. “Sleep well?”

  “I always sleep well,” Inger answered.

  Yes, you do, he thought—you aren’t bright enough to suffer from anxiety.

  She yawned. “Look, I have to go unless—”

  Mannix cut her off. “Meet me,” he said. He knew it was absurd, and yet he smiled with mirthless pleasure at the thought.

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” she protested.

  Her coyness made his stomach turn. “Tomorrow,” Mannix told her. He could almost see her. She was sprawled across the bed, still naked.

  “What makes you think I want to meet you?” she asked.

  “Because you’d love it,” he answered. His fingers clamped in on the bridge of the receiver. “You and me in bed, like animals.”

  It was almost anti-climactic when she murmured, “Where?”

  The dressing room was blurred around him, swimming. Mannix felt like very heavy, very fragile glass. If he moved, he’d shatter. “Beverly Hills Hotel,” he said. It sounded like a first reading. “Three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  She’s going to do it, he thought. He couldn’t seem to breathe.

  “How will I know you?” Inger asked.

  The answer spun immediately to mind. “Just ask for Mr. Smith’s room,” Mannix said, “Eddie Smith.”

  “I don’t know an Eddie Smith.” She sounded suddenly confused.

  “Real names tomorrow, baby,” Mannix answered.

  “Oh, I see,” said Inger.

  No, you don’t, he thought, you don’t see anything, you stupid bitch.

  “Will it be fun?” she asked. He saw her face quite clearly now. The edges of her teeth were set together, eager and excited.

  Mannix answered. “You have no idea.”

  He’d yet to take the first sip of his Pimm’s Cup. He was sitting in a corner of the Polo Lounge, stirring with its slice of cucumber while he stared at the key on the table. The plastic tag was face up: 315. Eddie Smith’s room, Mannix thought. A faint smile drew his lips back. Right, he thought.

  Some men walked across the lounge and waved to him. He didn’t wave back. He had no desire to talk to anyone. He really should have chosen some more remote spot. Everybody knew him here. Still, what difference did it make? He wasn’t here to murder her—just to see a look of stupid bafflement across her face.

  Mannix had to smile. It was rather funny, actually—the idea of this Eddie Smith. Mannix saw him as a college football player gone to lard, maybe a small-time actor making out with women who set their standards at the minimum level: any stud in a storm.

  Smith could resemble that one over there: broad shoulders, curly blond hair, tight clothes—the jacket a shade too loud, the low-grade silk shirt. Sub-par all the way.

  He blinked. The blond young man was smiling at him. Mannix tensed, about to cut him off, when the idea came—instantly complete, completely beautiful. Mannix smiled broadly. How much more satisfying than a look of bafflement on Inger’s face. He gestured for the young man to come over.

  The young man stood with obvious delight and as he crossed the lounge Mannix realized abruptly that he was an actor—he had seen him somewhere in some undistinguished role performed with undistinguished flatness. Mannix almost chuckled. The young man would perform all right, he thought; through any indicated hoop. He’d have to—it was part and parcel of his hunger to succeed. They were all the same.

  The young man stopped in front of him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Mannix,” he said. His smile was that of all young, struggling actors, Mannix thought, straining for unwonted charm—too bright, too many teeth displayed.

  “Sit down,” Mannix said.

  The young man was unable to restrain a startled grin. “Why, thank you,” he responded. He sat with lithe dispatch. Lifts weights, thought Mannix. Studies at some one-horse acting school, played a few supporting roles in non-pay theater groups, has a list of TV credits adding up to zero. “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice genial, interested.

  The young man swallowed. “Jeff Cornell,” he said sincerely. Who made that up? Mannix wondered. Probably some agent. “Cornell,” he tasted. “Seems to me I’ve seen you somewhere.”

  “I just did a part on L. A. Law,” Cornell supplied immediately.

  “Of course,” said Mannix. He hadn’t seen it. “And very good, too,” he added, smiling.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Mannix,” said Cornell. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Not exactly, Mannix thought. The young man’s dazzling smile amused him. Exactly what he needed. “Tell you what I have in mind,” he said. “I need a favor.”

  “I’ll do anything I can, Mr. Mannix,” Cornell answered gravely.

  I know you will, thought Mannix. Anything at all. “I want you to meet my wife at three o’clock,” he said. “I want you to seduce her.” Not even Olivier could mask a reaction to that, he thought.

  It wasn’t surprising that Cornell’s face went almost completely blank. “Is—?”

  “—this a joke?” completed Mannix. “No, it isn’t. I have reason to believe that my wife has been unfaithful.” With a platoon of different men, the sentence finished in his mind. “I want to divorce her, but I have to have some evidence.”

  “But—” Cornell looked distressed.

  “You have carte blanche,” continued Mannix, using the tone of whimsical bittersweetness that had endeared him to a generation of moviegoers. “You can go the distance if you want to. I have every reason to believe she won’t object. That part doesn’t interest me. My one concern is catching her. You understand?”

  He could see that Cornell was trying unsuccessfully to understand.

  “Let me give it to you once again,” said Mannix. Now his voice had bite. “Number one: I know my wife’s been cheating on me. Number two: I need evidence that will stand up in court. Number three: If I can trap her in a compromising state, I’ll have that evidence.” He leaned back, fingering the key tag. “Not too hard a job,” he said. “She won’t say no, I guarantee you.” He paused for effect. “And in return,” he finished, “you acquire a featured part in my next film which commences shooting this fall in London.”

  He waited, thinking: I can hear the wheels turn. A featured part in Dale Mannix’s next film? London in autumn? The big chance!

  Jeff Cornell would draw and quarter his mother for less.

  Mannix checked his wristwatch. It was only three-nineteen. Come on, he thought. He drank some Scotch and sat the glass down irritably. What were they doing now? He winced. His neck was stiffening again. Disturbances like this were bad for him. He should be home, relaxing in the sun, not sitting here. God damn her, anyway!

  He looked at his watch again. Seven minutes more. He drew in trembling breath. Play it cool, he told himself. He’d have it made in seven minutes: the delight of seeing Inger’s dazed expression and the evidence he’d need to dump her without cost. As for Cornell—He smiled. London in the fall would not see Jeff Cornell before any cameras. Idiot, Mannix thought coldly.

  The scene projected on his mind again. Inger entering the hotel at five to three, heading for the desk. Mannix had been standing where she couldn’t see him and observed her talking to the clerk, then smiling as she crossed the lobby toward the elevator. Room 315, he thought. He picked the key from the table and dropped it into his pocket. Cool, he thought. He pushed away the glass, then eyed his watch again. Time to go.

  Mannix sto
od. He dropped a five-dollar bill on the table and left the Polo Lounge. Crossing the side lobby, he ascended a half flight of steps and entered the men’s room. There he scrubbed and rinsed his hands. I’m washing my hands of her, he thought, the concept pleasing him.

  He stared at his reflection as he carefully combed his black and grey-streaked hair. Sixty-two? he thought. Absurd. He didn’t look a day past forty-five. He was lean and hard. To hell with Inger. Who needed her? He was Dale Mannix. He didn’t need anyone. He straightened his black knit tie. Hic jacet, cunt, he thought, you’ve had it. Mannix is about to dump you—right into the garbage can where you belong.

  The elevator was waiting. He stepped inside and pressed the button. He was Vince DeMaine in City Heat going up to kill his faithless wife. No, that was unreality, he thought. This was happening; he was merely getting rid of excess baggage. She could play around on someone else’s money. As for him, there were still a lot of numbers in his book.

  The doors slid open. Mannix left the elevator, listening to his footsteps. Room 325. He pressed his shoulders back, visualizing himself as he walked: tall, distinguished, on top of the world. Room 323. If Academy Awards were given for true-life performances, he’d win one for the scene he was about to play. 321. He smiled. Let them be naked, he thought. 319. His words were going to hit them with far more impact than bullets. 317. A few more paces.

  Mannix stopped outside the room and listened. There was no sound inside. He waited tensely. What were they doing? He reached into his pocket and withdrew the key. Don’t let me fumble now! he thought in panic as he almost dropped it. It would be horrible if he unlocked the door so clumsily that she had time to run into the bathroom. They had to be in bed together, naked, staring at him. He would accept no less.

  He shoved the key into the lock, twisted it, and pushed the door ajar.

  A wave of darkness rushed across him. For a moment, he was certain he was going to faint. His fingers grabbed the doorknob as he wavered.

  Jeff Cornell was standing by the window, smoking nervously. Inger was sitting on a chair. Both were dressed. The bed was made.

  “Do come in,” said Inger coldly.

  Mannix gaped at her. Her face was pale and rigid, her expression filled with venomous distaste. “Well, are you going to close the door?” she asked. “Or would you rather everyone in the hotel found out about this?”

  Mannix pushed the door shut. He felt dazed and numb.

  “Disappointed?” Inger asked. “Is your big scene ruined? The outraged husband telling off the guilty wife? Did you rehearse it for a long time?”

  Mannix couldn’t speak.

  “You must think I’m awfully stupid,” Inger said.

  It hit him then. “You knew,” he said.

  “Brilliant!” she exploded.

  “But why—?”

  “I have to tell you, don’t I?” Inger cut him off. “I really have to tell you—it’s impossible for you to understand.” She stood up, glaring at him. “I’ve had it, Dale!” she raged. “Is that clear? Do you understand that? I have had it! Years and years of living with your damned suspicions! All right for you to have affairs! Oh, yes, of course! You’re Dale Mannix, you’re the big star! Mr. Romance! But me? Oh, no, not me! I had to be watched like a criminal! Questioned! Hounded! Constantly suspected! Well, I’ve had it, Dale! This is the last damned straw! Trying to trick me into having an affair with a total stranger so you can trap me with him! You’re sick, Dale! You’re sick and you’re too damned much for me!

  Mannix reached out feebly. “Inger.” He felt cold and sick. “Inger, please.” His neck was like a board.

  Inger closed the door and locked it, walked across the room, and sat on the bed. Lying down, she gazed up at the ceiling.

  That had been the closest one of all. If Cornell hadn’t told her what was going on- She shivered, gooseflesh rising on her arms. All that conversation on the phone and she’d never had the least suspicion it was Dale. She groaned. My God, he could have wrapped me up but good, she thought.

  She stretched luxuriantly. It was all right now, though. It had worked out perfectly—she might have planned it herself. Dale wouldn’t dare suspect her now. Not for a long time, anyway. She laughed softly. It was a riot that the man he’d picked to trap her had gotten her a long reprieve instead.

  Inger sighed. And what a man, she thought. She was looking forward to spending time with him. She clenched her teeth and murmured, “Kostlich.”

  She turned her head and looked up at the rows of photographs on the wall. Dale Mannix. The big star. Mr. Romance. She snickered. Old fool, she thought.

  Haircut

  Angelo was down the block having lunch at Temple’s Cafeteria and Joe was alone, sitting in one of the barber chairs reading the morning paper. It was hot in the shop. The air seemed heavy with the smell of lotions and tonics and shaving soap There were dark swirls of hair lying on the tiles. In the stillness, a big fly buzzed around in lazy circles. HEAT WAVE CONTINUES, Joe read.

  He was rubbing at his neck with a handkerchief when the screen door creaked open and shut with a thud. Joe looked across the shop at the man who was moving toward him.

  “Yes, sir,” Joe said automatically, folding the newspaper and sliding off the black leather of the chair.

  As he put the newspaper on one of the wireback chairs along the wall, the man shuffled over to the chair and sat down on it, his hands in the coat pockets of his wrinkled brown gabardine suit. He slumped down in the chair, waiting, as Joe turned around.

  “Yes, sir,” Joe said again, looking at the man’s sallow, dry-skinned face, He took a towel from the glass-floored cabinet. “Like to take your coat off, air?” he asked, “Pretty hot today.”

  The man said nothing. Joe’s smile faltered for s moment, then returned.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, tucking the towel under the collar of the mania faded shirt, feeling how dry and cool the man’s skin was. He put the striped cloth over the man’s coat and pinned it in place.

  “Looks like we’re havin’ another scorcher,” he said.

  The man was silent. Joe cleared his throat.

  “Shave?” he asked.

  The man shook his head once.

  “Haircut,” Joe said and the man nodded slowly.

  Joe picked up the electric shaver and flicked it on. The high-pitched buzzing filled the air.

  “Uh…could you sit up a little, sir?” Joe asked.

  Without a sound or change of expression, the man pressed his elbows down on the arms of the chair and raised himself a little.

  Joe ran the shaver up the man’s neck, noticing now white the skin was where the hair had been. The man hadn’t been to a barber in a long time; for a haircut anyway.

  “Well, it sure looks like the heat ain’t plannin’ to leave,” Joe said.

  “Keeps growing,” the man said.

  “You said it,” Joe answered, “Gets hotter and hotter. Like I told the missus the other night…”

  As he talked, he kept shaving off the hair on the back of the man’s neck. The lank hair fluttered darkly down onto the man’s shoulders. Joe put a different head on the electric shaver and started cutting again.

  “You want it short?” he asked.

  The man nodded slowly and Joe had to draw away the shaver to keep from cutting him.

  “It keeps growing,” the man said.

  Joe chuckled self-consciously. “Ain’t it the way?” he said. Then his face grew studious. “Course hair always grows a lot faster in the summertime. It’s the heat. Makes the glands work faster or somethin’. Cut it short, I always say.”

  “Yes,” the man said, “short.” His voice was flat and without tone.

  Joe put down the shaver and pulled the creased handkerchief from his back trouser pocket. He mopped at his brow.

  “Hot,” he said and blew out a heavy breath.

  The man said nothing and Joe put away his handkerchief. He picked up the scissors and comb and turned back to the chair. He cli
cked the scissor blades a few times and started trimming. He grimaced a little as he smelled the man’s breath. Bad teeth, he thought.

  “And my nails,” the man said.

  “Beg pardon?” Joe asked.

  “They keep growing,” the man said.

  Joe hesitated a moment, glancing up at the mirror on the opposite wall. The man was staring into his lap.

  Joe swallowed and started cutting again. He ran the thin comb through the man’s hair and snipped off bunches of it. The dark, dry hair fell down on the striped cloth. Some of it fluttered down to the floor.

  “Out?” the man said.

  “What’s that?” Joe asked.

  “My nails,” the man answered.

  “Oh. No. We ain’t got no manicurist,” Joe said. He laughed apologetically. “We ain’t that high-class.”

  The man’s face didn’t change at all and Joe’s smile faded.

  “You want a manicure, though,” he said, “There’s a big barber shop up on Atlantic Avena in the bank. They got a manicurist there.”

  “They keep growing,” the man said.

  “Yeah,” Joe said distractedly, “Uh…you want any off the top?”

  “I can’t stop it,” the man said.

  “Huh?” Joe looked across the way again at the reflection of the man’s unchanging face. He saw how still the man’s eyes were, how sunken.

  He went back to his cutting and decided not to talk anymore.

  As he cut, the smell kept getting worse. It wasn’t the man’s breath, Joe decided, it was his body. The man probably hadn’t taken a bath in weeks. Joe breathed through gritted teeth. If there’s anything I can’t stand, he thought.

  In a little while, he finished cutting with the scissors and comb. Laying them down on the counter, be took off the striped cloth and shook the dark hair onto the floor.

  He rearranged the towel and pinned the striped cloth on again. Then he flicked on the black dispenser and let about an inch and a half of white lather push out onto the palm of his left hand.

  He rubbed it into the men’s temples and around the ears, his fingers twitching at the cool dryness of the man’s flesh. He’s sick, he thought worriedly, hope to hell it sin’t contagious. Some people just ain’t got no consideration at all.