Flesh

by Richard Laymon

  “Sure.”

  “He is.”

  “What’d he do, flunk three times?”

  “He worked after high school. Modeled, did commercials, that sort of stuff.”

  “What about his girlfriend?” Alison asked. “I thought you said he was going with some gal.”

  “Yeah, he was. Guess he saw the error of his ways.”

  “Maybe he likes to date cripples,” Helen suggested.

  “Wants to use her for a base,” Alison said.

  “Wants to slide in,” Helen added.

  “You two are a riot.”

  “We’re just jealous,” Helen told her. “We just wish we could go to the Lobster Shanty with a freshman.”

  “I’ll call him back,” Celia said. “Maybe he can set up one of you guys with Roland.”

  “I’m not selfish, Alison can have him.”

  Celia turned her head on the cushion and smiled at Alison. “We’ll make it a double date, just like junior high.”

  “Pardon me while I heave.”

  “I realize Roland probably isn’t as handsome and worldly as Evan, but hey, it’s Saturday night, you don’t want to sit around alone on Saturday night, do you?”

  “Besides,” Helen added, “he’s obviously got a good case of the hots for you.”

  “A case of the hards,” Celia said.

  “Way he was eyeing you yesterday…”

  “Stripping you with his eyes…”

  The talk made Alison feel squirmy. “I’d really like to double with you, Celia, but I happen to know that Roland has other plans. He’s got this ménage à trois scheduled for tonight.”

  Helen snorted.

  “Chortle, chortle,” Celia said.

  Alison eyed Helen. “She thinks I’m joking. Don’t you find it a trifle peculiar that Jason, who has never before asked Celia out—in spite of her beauty and wit—should invite her to dinner the very day after her chance encounter at the shopping mall with his roommate, Roland?”

  Helen stroked her heavy lower lip, and nodded. “’Tis passing strange.”

  Celia smirked. “Tell you what, Roland shows up for dinner, I’ll give him my house key and tell him I got two horny roommates just dying for a piece of him.” She winked at Helen. “And I’ll advise him to bring chips.”

  “So what do you think?” Celia asked.

  Alison, on the recliner, set her yellow highlighting pen into the gutter of the Chaucer text she had been studying for the past two hours, and looked up. “Not bad.”

  The bandage was gone from Celia’s brow. Tied around her head was a blue silk scarf that concealed the abrasion. The scarf was knotted over her left ear, and its ends hung almost to her shoulder. She wore big, hoop earrings.

  “You look like Long John Silver,” Alison said.

  “Cute, huh?”

  “Matter of fact, you look great.”

  “You’d never know I was damaged goods, would you?”

  “Just by your reputation,” Helen said, coming in from the kitchen with a stein of beer and a can of peanuts. She held the can toward Celia.

  “No thanks, I’m saving all my room for dinner.”

  “Where’s your sling?” Helen asked.

  “I’m not going to the Lobster Shanty with a goddamn sling on my arm.” She lifted the arm stiffly away from her side. “I’ve got a bandage on the elbow. And both knees.”

  “I’m surprised you have an outfit that’ll cover them,” Helen said.

  “It’s the best I could do.”

  The blue gown had sleeves to her forearms and its skirt reached well below her knees, covering her bandages but not entirely hiding them. They showed, Alison noticed, because of the way the glossy fabric clung to every inch of her. She appeared to wear three bandages beneath the gown, and nothing else.

  Celia looked down at herself. “I would’ve preferred something that showed a little in front,” she said, fingering the neck band at her throat.

  “Cellophane might show more,” Helen said, and dropped onto the sofa. “Peanut?” She tossed one to Alison. Alison snatched it out of the air and popped it into her mouth.

  “This is a problem,” Celia said, “but I don’t know what I can do about it.” She turned sideways and took a step. Her right leg, bare to the hip, came out of a slit in the gown. The knee was wrapped with a brown elastic band. “I tried taking off the bandage, but the knee really sucks without it.”

  “You could try a body stocking,” Alison suggested.

  “Har!” Helen blared.

  “The thing is,” Alison said, “he knows you were hurt. There’s no big deal if he happens to see your bandages.”

  “He’ll see them all anyway,” Helen said, “once you throw your dress on the floor.”

  “She won’t throw her dress on the floor,” Alison said. “Roland’ll hang it up for her.”

  “Comedians up the wazoo. What time is it?”

  Helen checked her wristwatch. “Six-twenty.”

  “Good. He’s picking me up at ten till seven. I think I’ll have a little—”

  “I’d want to get drunk too,” Helen said, “if I was going out in public wearing that.”

  “You went out in public wearing this,” Celia said, “the public should get drunk.” She grinned at Alison. “Get you something?”

  “Thanks. Whatever you’re having.”

  Celia went into the kitchen.

  “God, she looks fabulous,” Helen whispered. “I looked ten percent as good as her…” She shook her head and sighed. “Life’s tough, then you die.”

  “Let’s send out for a pizza after she’s gone.”

  Helen raised her thick eyebrows. “Well, maybe life ain’t so tough.”

  A few minutes later, Celia returned carrying a tray with her left hand. Two tumblers were balanced on the tray. “Double vodka gimlets,” she announced as Alison took one of the glasses.

  “You’re going to be polluted before he even gets here,” Helen said.

  “Just a little something for what ails me. Besides, he’s driving.” She set the tray carefully on the table, then lowered herself onto the sofa and lifted her glass.

  Alison took a sip. The drink was very strong. She frowned at Celia. “Are you sure about tonight?” she asked.

  Staring into her glass, Celia shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not going to call off my life just because some bastard wracked me up.”

  “Maybe you need some time.”

  “Sit around and think about it?”

  “I think it hit you pretty hard.”

  “You’re telling me?”

  “Emotionally, I mean.”

  “Alison’s right,” Helen said. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You almost got killed and that guy died. It’s pretty heavy stuff.”

  “I’m handling it, okay? What’re you trying to do, ruin my appetite?” She took another drink. “I’ll be fine. And I’ll be a lot finer after a couple of drinks and a lobster dinner with a nice guy who likes me and happens to be a hunk even if he is a freshman. I appreciate your concern, but knock it off, okay? I’m fine.”

  “It’s a good drink,” Alison said. “Pretty soon, we’ll both be fine.”

  “Yeah, but I’ll be with a charming gorgeous man and you’ll be with Helen. Eat your heart out.”

  “Hey,” Alison said, “you’re depressing me.”

  A peanut bounced off her forehead and plopped into her drink. It floated on her vodka. She picked it out. Grinning, she flicked it into her mouth. The salt was gone. She fished an ice cube out of her glass and studied it.

  “Hey, no,” Helen pleaded. “Come on, you could hurt somebody with that.”

  “You’re right. What could I have been thinking?” She tossed it at Helen.

  Squealing, Helen hunched her shoulders and twisted in her chair. She flinched when the ice dropped onto her lap. Her hand jerked. A foamy tongue of beer slurped over the edge of her stein and flopped onto her breast. “Yeee-ah!”

  “Woops,�
� Alison said.

  “Golly,” Celia said. “Maybe I’ll phone up Jason right now and call it off. I can see that it’ll be a lot more fun around here tonight.”

  Helen clamped the peanut can between her knees. Scowling down, she plucked the wet fabric away from her skin. She was wearing the same faded, stained, shapeless dress that she had worn only yesterday when they went to the mall. Or a different one, Alison thought, that looked the same. She had several. They were hard to tell apart. She sniffed a fistful of the wet cloth. “A definite improvement,” she said.

  “They’re gone,” Alison called from her recliner.

  Helen’s bedroom door eased open and she looked around as if to make sure the coast was clear before venturing out. Satisfied, she approached Alison. “So, how was he?”

  “He looks like an after-shave commercial.”

  “Huh.” Helen ran the back of a hand across her nose. “He’s probably a jerk. Every guy she goes out with is a jerk, you ever noticed that?”

  “I don’t know,” Alison said.

  “They are. Someday, she’s going to be sorry.”

  “I hope not.”

  “You go out with enough jerky guys, sooner or later…”

  “What kind of pizza we going to get? Salami, sausage?”

  “I got some menus in my desk.”

  “Get ’em.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jake was still trembling when he climbed out of his car. With the flashlight in his left hand and the machete clamped under his arm, he stepped to the trunk. The point of the key missed the lock hole a few times before he managed to fit it in. He turned the key. The trunk opened. He put the machete and flashlight inside, next to the can of gasoline, then slammed the trunk shut.

  On the front stoop of his house, he clutched his right hand with his left to hold it steady and got the key into the door lock. Inside, he engaged the dead bolt, then slipped the guard chain into place. Though evening light still came in through the windows, he made a circuit of the living room and turned on every lamp. Along the way, he found himself checking each window and looking behind the furniture.

  “Nerves of steel,” he muttered.

  In the kitchen, he hit the light switch. He checked the windows and backdoor to make sure they were secure. Bending at the waist because his leather pants were too tight for squatting, he opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of bourbon. A drop of sweat fell from his chin and splashed on the toe of his boot.

  Stepping to the sink, he yanked a yard of paper towel off its roll. He mopped his face and wet, stringy hair.

  Then he filled a glass with bourbon. He took a few swallows and sighed as the liquor’s heat spread through him.

  He carried the glass down the hallway, turning on lights as he went, and entered his bedroom.

  He turned on his bedroom light. He looked around. The curtains were shut. The closet door was open, just as he had left it. Taking another drink, he stepped past the closet and looked in. He wandered to the other side of his bed. He had an urge to get down on his hands and knees and peer under the bed.

  Don’t be a jerk, he thought. You’re home now. This isn’t the goddamn Oakwood Inn, this is home and there’s nothing under your bed except maybe some dust bunnies.

  Besides, it’d be too much effort in this outfit.

  After taking another swallow of bourbon, Jake set his glass on the dresser. He unzipped his leather jacket and pulled it off. His blue shirt, dark with sweat, clung to his skin. He tried to open the buttons, but his fingers shook so badly that after getting the top button undone he yanked the shirt up and pulled it over his head.

  He unbuckled his gun belt, swung it toward the bed and let go. The holstered revolver bounced when it hit the mattress. He stared at it while he opened his pants and tugged them down to his knees. Sitting on the bed, he popped open the leather strap and slid the revolver free. He placed it close to his right leg, then bent down and pulled his boots off. His socks felt glued to his feet. He peeled them off. He slid the tight pants down his calves and kicked them away.

  In the lamplight, his legs were shiny with sweat. He rubbed the clammy skin of his shins, turned his legs and looked behind them.

  There were no quarter-size holes.

  Hell, of course not. Nothing could’ve gotten through the boots and leather pants. Not without me knowing it.

  Jake stood up. His rump had left sweat marks on the pale blue coverlet. He drew down his sodden shorts and stepped out of them.

  Okay, I’m a jerk, he thought.

  Picking up his revolver, he dropped to his knees and elbows. He lifted the hanging edge of the coverlet and peered into the dark space under his bed.

  A pair of eyes looked back at him.

  He yelped. He jabbed the gun barrel toward the eyes. He almost pulled the trigger before he realized he was looking at Kimmy’s Cookie Monster doll.

  Stretching out an arm, he pulled it out from under the bed. He pressed it to his cheek.

  God almighty, what if I’d shot it?

  Just a stuffed animal, he knew that. But, like all of Kimmy’s dolls, it was somehow more. It was part of Kimmy, as if she had breathed some of her own life into it. He could hear her say in a low grumbly voice, “Me want cookie!”

  Jake had a tight lump in his throat.

  “Close call, Cookie,” he whispered.

  He pushed himself to his feet. With the chubby blue doll in one hand and his revolver in the other, he headed for the door. He planned to put Cookie Monster back in Kimmy’s bedroom. Then he changed his mind and set it on his night-stand next to the telephone.

  Barbara’s side of the closet still had her full-length mirror on the outside of the door. He swung the door shut and looked at himself.

  You’d know if it got you, he thought.

  Maybe it can make you forget. If it can turn you into a cannibal…

  There were no wounds on his legs. His scrotum was shriveled and his penis looked as if it wanted to disappear. He slipped a hand between his legs, checking on both sides of the tight sack and behind it. He prodded his navel, and shivered as he imagined his finger going in all the way. But his navel was okay. The rest of his front appeared all right, though the knife scar under his right nipple looked a little more white than usual.

  He turned around. He looked over one shoulder, then the other. He probed between the sweaty cheeks of his rump.

  You’re all right, he thought, unless the damn thing went up your butt. Couldn’t have done that, though, without going through the leather pants, and the pants didn’t have any holes.

  Satisfied that the thing hadn’t invaded him, Jake took another drink of bourbon. The glass was almost empty. He carried it, along with his revolver, into the kitchen. After refilling the glass, he opened a drawer and took out a large, clear plastic freezer bag.

  He wondered if he’d flipped his lid.

  Nobody will ever know about this, he told himself. It makes you feel better, so do it.

  Some kind of cop, scared as a kid.

  He slipped his revolver into the bag and pinched the zip-lock top shut along its seam.

  Jake locked himself into the bathroom. He searched the floor, the walls and ceiling, the sink, the tub. Then he turned on the shower. He had a couple of drinks while he adjusted the heat of the spray, then set the glass on the toilet seat and climbed into the tub. He slid the frosted glass door shut.

  The built-in soap dish had a metal bar above it for holding a washcloth. He slipped the barrel of his bagged revolver between the bar and the tile wall, wiggled the weapon until he was sure it wouldn’t fall, then picked up the soap and began to wash himself.

  The strong, hot spray felt good. Jake told himself that he couldn’t be much safer: the door was locked, he’d checked the bathroom, he was shut behind the shower doors, and his revolver was within easy reach. Nothing could get him.

  Then he noticed the sudsy water swirling down the drain.

  Gooseflesh crawled up his back.
r />   Don’t be crazy, he told himself. There’s a metal drain basket down there, nothing could come up.

  He dropped to his knees. His fingertip went into the drain only as far as the first knuckle before it touched the obstruction.

  Okay. No problem.

  Your only problem, pal, is your head.

  Two hours alone, searching that damned restaurant.

  If it was going to get you, it would’ve gotten you then.

  It didn’t come home with you. It’s probably already found a new home—in whoever broke into the restaurant between Thursday night and this afternoon. Some lucky bastard is running around with the thing up his back, looking for a meal. Give us this day our daily broad. Good old Barney, he can joke about it. He should’ve gone in there. He might be worried about drains, himself.

  Jake stayed in the shower until the water started turning cold. Then he climbed out, dried himself, took another drink of bourbon and took the revolver out of the bag. In his bedroom, he combed his hair and put on a robe. He carried his drink and revolver into the living room. Sitting on the sofa, he crossed his legs to keep his feet off the floor. He rested the gun on his lap. Then he swung the telephone over from the lamp table and dialed Barney’s home.

  Barney answered by saying, “Higgins.”

  “It’s Jake.” His voice sounded all right. “Did Applegate get back to you?”

  “Sure did. Y’were right on the John Doe from the van. Perfect match on the teeth ’n blood type. How’d it go from yer end?”

  “I checked out everyone who was at the crime scene Thursday night. Nobody was carrying.”

  “How’d y’make sure?”

  “Strip searches.”

  “They musta liked that. Tell’m why?”

  “Damn near. I said Smeltzer had a parasite infestation. They were pretty cooperative.”

  “Coulda told’m I’d ordered a circumcision survey.”

  Jake ignored the remark. “After I finished with them, I went out to the Oakwood. Somebody’s been in there. The front and back doors had both been forced. I found a bag of flour on the kitchen floor.”

  “A bagga what?”

  “Flour. Like you use for cooking. You know.”