I am the footsteps in the darkness
This is my cold and sweating hand that holds the .44—
You know it is the mongrel’s voice that leads me to your
door!
I AM THE HELLRAKE . . .
My wife’s head turns backwards in mock disbelief—
I have a freezer full of secrets and some most suspicious
beef . . .
I am the footsteps in the darkness
III.
Cloying Virtue’s sugared promise, bile upon my lips,
Dark Angel rising through The Well of Time.
Your cretin philosophies term each crimson masterpiece
Yet another violent crime . . .
I AM THE HELLRAKE . . .
I am the footsteps in the darkness.
Obscene Phone Calls
John Coyne
John Coyne tells stories. Whether in novel or short story form, he tells stories. About real people. About things people do—to themselves, to others—and he tells them plainly. Stephen King said it in a cover blurb: “Coyne plays rough.” He does, because—so often—that’s what people do.
His novel writing includes The Legacy and The Searing and heart-stopping numbers such as Fury, The Hunting Season, and Child of Shadows. None of them contains hit-or-miss experimentation; all of them are invariable in a way that’s important to readers: When you want to read a new book by John Coyne, that’s what you get. Not an imitation of another author.
Until Ed Gorman and Martin H. Greenberg edited their first Stalkers, John hadn’t written a great many short stories for publication. “Flight” changed that and led to Coyne-of-the-realm appearances in Cemetery Dance, 2AM . . . and Masques IV. Here’s one of those tales written so plainly that it penetrates, seems to have been around always. It’s about things that are done, not done, undone. It’s about people.
“You’re a sonovabitch!” It was a woman’s voice, strong and wide awake.
“Hello?” Steve yawned and glanced at his SONY Digimatic glowing in the dark. It was already past midnight.
“You’re a bastard!” She spoke again with authority. “I’ve been up half the night and you’re not going to sleep at my expense.”
“Hey, what’s this?” Steve whispered back. Beside him, the woman stirred.
“Why are you whispering? Got some woman with you?” Her voice was quick and sharp.
“Say, listen, sweetheart, you’ve got the wrong guy . . .”
“You really are something else!”
“It’s the middle of the goddamn night, and you’ve got the wrong number, sister.”
“Your name is Steve Mirachi and you live in an apartment on Hillyer Place above Dupont Circle and this evening at Discount Records you spent ten minutes eyeballing me and I just wanted you to know I think you’re a goddamn sonovabitch!” She slammed the receiver in his ear.
“Bitch!” Steve swore and then, shaking his head, replaced the headpiece.
“What’s that?” the woman mumbled.
“I have no idea. A wrong number, I guess.” He slid down next to the sleeping woman.
He remembered watching several women in the record store, but he always watched girls, and now no face or body came to mind. Whoever it was must have followed him home, seen where he lived. Weird! The thought made him nervous.
He had gone out again later in the evening, around the corner to Childe Harold and there he had met Wendy. He glanced at the girl burrowed in bed beside him. Or was her name Tiby? He couldn’t remember and he fell asleep trying to recall her first name.
The next morning he was up early and out of the apartment before the girl woke. He disliked awkward morning goodbyes and he only left her a note next to the Taster’s Choice.
I’m off; Saturday shopping day!
Leave a phone number, okay?
We’ll get together . . .
Love ya,
Steve
Steve had been transferred by his company to Washington only that spring and when he wasn’t on the road selling his line of leather goods, he’d spend his Saturday mornings in Georgetown, wandering from shop to shop, watching the women. Then he’d go to Clyde’s for a Bloody Mary and omelet and stand by the bar so he could see the door.
He had never seen so many women: tall and thin and braless. Breathtakingly beautiful women! They’d come through the door, toss their long hair into place with a flip of their heads while scanning the room with wide dark eyes. They never missed a thing, or a man. He could see their eyes register when they spotted him.
On Saturday mornings he always dressed well. The clothes alone attracted their attention this Saturday. He was wearing a bold flower
design shirt and had left the four top buttons open to show his chest and, in his patch of thick black chest hair, an imitation Roman coin dangled on a gold chain.
Steve was built like an offensive lineman, with short legs, a thickly trunk and no neck whatsoever. His square head appeared as if it was driven down between his shoulders with a sledge.
It was a head with surprisingly small features. The nose, lips, and ears were tiny and delicate, almost feminine. His eyes were gray, the color of soot, and set too close together. He had lots of hair and that he let grow, but it was fine hair and wouldn’t hold its shape, even with conditioner.
Steve spent at least two hours every Saturday at Clyde’s, watching and meeting women. It was an odd Saturday when he didn’t come home with a new name and telephone number. Steve was on a first name basis with all the bartenders at Clyde’s. He was also known at Mr. Smith and up Wisconsin at the Third Edition, and at most of the bars on M Street. For a newcomer in town, he thought with some pride, he had gotten around, become known.
“You’ve been a pig with a friend of mine.” She phoned again a week later, and again it was after midnight.
“Who are you?” Steve whispered. The girl beside him began to stir.
“Don’t you respect women?”
He strained to recognize the voice.
“You only make a woman once or twice, is that the average?
“Go screw yourself!” Steve slammed down the phone, and it rang again immediately.
“Who’s it?” the woman in the bed mumbled.
“Some goddamn nut case . . .” The phone kept ringing. Steve swore again and, climbing out of bed, took the receiver off the hook. He wrapped a towel around the headpiece, as if he were smothering a small animal, and put the telephone in a dresser drawer. The next morning, he told himself, he would have his number changed and left unlisted.
Nevertheless, for several weeks afterwards whenever he brought a woman home with him, he’d take the phone off the receiver and place it in a drawer, out of sight and sound. He also found himself searching for the caller. He listened carefully to all the women he met on the job and after work in the Washington bars. He made lists of the women he had slept with since moving to the District and eliminated those he knew wouldn’t call.
Still, he wasn’t certain. He became less sure of himself around women. At Bixby’s where he always stopped after work, he found himself drinking alone, like some married guy from out of town. And for awhile, he even stopped hustling in the bars.
“You’re doing lots better, Stevie,” she said, telephoning two weeks later.
“How did you get this number?” he demanded.
“Friends. Women stick together, Stevie, haven’t you heard? I just called to congratulate you.” She sounded friendly.
“Thanks.”
“I passed you at the bar in Bixby’s and you even kept your hands to yourself, didn’t make one smartass remark.”
“I probably didn’t see you.”
“You saw me.”
“Are you going to tell me your name? Let me take you out on a date.” He was nervous, asking her.
“Oh, Stevie, com’ on!”
“Why not? We’re probably neighbors.” He pressed like a teenager.
“You’re not my type.”
&n
bsp; “Bitch!”
She slammed the phone in his ear.
Steve sneaked about town on dates the next few weeks like he had done as a kid, looking for a place to park. He rented motel rooms in Virginia when he had to, or stayed overnight at the woman’s place. He was convinced the caller lived on Hillyer and he spent hours watching through closed blinds the houses across the street. He checked all the names on the mailboxes and then telephoned each one. He listened to the way they said hello. Nothing turned up.
A month later, the first time he did bring someone home, she called as he came into his apartment.
“I’m having this call traced,” he told her.
“Let me speak to the woman.”
“You’re crazy, did you know that?”
“And you’re a pig. Let me talk to her!”
“I’m alone.”
“She’s blond with shoulder length, five-six, wearing a knit blue shirt, carrying a sling purse with a gold chain strap. And she’s about eighteen, I’d guess. When did you start hanging around sock-hops, Stevie?”
“You live across the street, right? One of those brownstones.” He stretched the cord and peered through the front window. She was there, he knew. Somewhere in the dark houses across the quiet street, she was watching him. It gave him the creeps.
“Quit staring out the window. I’m not outside. I don’t live across the street.”
“How do you know I’m looking?”
“You’re the type. You don’t have much imagination. Now, come on, Stevie, let me talk to the woman, or are you afraid?”
Steve muffled the receiver with his palm and explained to his date. “It’s some crazy chick that keeps calling me. She wants to talk to you.”
“Oh, no!” The teenager backed away.
“It’s okay. I’m here.” He smiled his little boy smile to show she had nothing to fear and coaxed her towards the phone.
She took the receiver cautiously and, keeping it at bay, whispered hello. She was a cute peaches ’n’ cream high school graduate from Virginia that Steve had met that night at The Greenery. Steve wasn’t sure, but he thought her name was Shirley.
Shirley listened attentively to his caller and Steve had a moment’s panic. He had an urge to pull the telephone from her, but he didn’t want to seem nervous. Instead, he went into the kitchen to mix drinks, and when he returned, the girl was replacing the phone as if she had just heard bad news.
“I’d like to leave,” she whispered.
“For Chrissake . . . what did that dyke say?”
“She’s not . . . that way.”
“Like hell! That’s the reason she’s after me. I know about that stuff.” He kept talking rapidly, afraid to let the girl talk.
“Would you please call a taxi?” she finally managed to say.
“You can’t pull that crap on me! I have a right to know what she said.”
“It doesn’t concern you.”
“It’s my damn telephone!” He began to stride about the apartment, pacing to its walls, then spinning around and striking off for the other side of the room. “Goddamn dyke!” he mumbled and finished off his drink. To the girl, he said, “If you want to leave, leave, but find your own taxi!”
She left without a word and when Steve heard the door close behind him, he spun around and gave the finger to the empty room.
He now couldn’t find a date in Washington. The word, he knew, had spread about him. That woman had done it to him. At night when he wandered up and down M Street, women looked away. It was done subtly. Their eyes swept across his face when he walked into a bar. The eyes registered him, then moved off. No one seemed to even see him. It was as if he wasn’t there any longer.
He went home early after work, turned on the tube or worked with his weights. Then before ten o’clock, he took a cold shower and dropped into bed. He let the radio play all night to keep him company.
At work when he made his calls none of the saleswomen noticed him. And there were women in those stores that he had taken home, who had cried for him in the night, and whimpered against his chest. Now they let him pass. His swaggering attitude crumbled. He no longer winked at strangers, checked out women’s legs. He began to hedge with work, phone for orders, and never left his desk. He took days off to sit by the window of his apartment and watch the street like an abandoned pet, left home alone.
“Are you sorry?” She telephoned again, early one evening.
“I haven’t done anything. I’m no worse than the next guy. You’re being unfair.”
“Have you been fair to us? The women you’ve taken home?” Her voice had a curl to it.
“They came of their own free will. I’m the one being punished. No one in Washington will date me. You started this!”
“It’s not my fault you can’t date. Washington’s a small town. Word gets around.”
“You owe me at least one meeting, you know, after all of this.” Steve began to pace. “I’m not giving you a line. How ’bout a drink some night? I’ll meet you at Bixby’s . . . you like that place.”
She was silent and Steve let her take her time deciding. With women like this, he knew he had to be cool.
“I’m not sure.”
“One drink. A half hour. I’d like to ask you a few questions. I have to hear your rap, okay? Maybe you’ve got a point.”
“No drinks.”
“Okay. Lunch?”
“No. I’ll meet you at five o’clock in Dupont Circle.”
“Fine! How will I know you?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find you.” And she hung up.
Steve would have rather met her at the Dupont Circle Hotel. A nice, cool and dark afternoon lounge where there were private booths, well-dressed people, the feeling of leather under his fingers. He appreciated quality and operated best in such places. But Dupont Circle! The park was full of young people and the homeless. They cluttered the grass like litter.
He sat away from the center fountain, picked a spot in the shade away from the crowd. He had come ten minutes early to give himself time to be settled and positioned. Steve had taken time dressing. He wanted to look good for this woman.
He had dressed conservatively and wore a navy blazer, a striped tie, white shirt, and summer linen slacks. It would impress her, he knew. Also he had a couple days of early summer tan and his weight was down. Just thinking about the fine impression he’d make made him feel great.
He’d be boyish with her, he decided. He’d keep the conversation general, and not push her for a date. Only a name and a phone number. She was going to be someone special. Anyway, he thought, it was about time he dropped all those salesgirls and secretaries. A guy with his position, the whole District as his territory; he could do a lot better, he knew.
“Hi!” A woman spoke to him.
Steve glanced along the bench at the young girl that had been sitting there. He looked over at her defensively, expecting trouble. She smiled. She was wearing a short dress, sandals. Her blond hair was long and loose. She wasn’t bad looking, with big brown eyes and a bright smile. She looked, however, about sixteen.
“Your questions?” She tossed her hair away from her face and stared regally at him. Her brown eyes tightened and her wide mouth sealed up like a long white envelope.
“You?” He began to perspire.
She nodded.
“Well . . . ah . . . I was . . . I guess I was expecting someone else.” He shifted around, clapped his hands together as if gripping a football, and thought: she made the whole story up. She was some kind of sex freak. He had never in his life tried to pick up a kid. “Okay, sister, you’re not what I had in mind. Forget I arranged this, okay? We don’t have anything to say to each other.”
“You poor bastard.”
“Why don’t you stay with your gang?” He waved toward the grass.
“What’s the matter? You don’t hustle young girls?”
“I wouldn’t touch you with rubber gloves. No street traffic for me.” He wiped his f
ace with a handkerchief, looked away.
“I bet you’re something in bed.” She kept a smile on her face like an insult.
“Better than anything you’ve had, sister.” He sat up straight.
“I’m not going to call you again,” she said calmly. “I had this notion I might be able to reach you, but you’re such a pathetic person. Oh, you’ll get women to date you, Steve. Silly women who don’t know better. But you have nothing to offer a real woman.”
“Hey, bitch, you don’t know me.”
“Stevie, you boys are all alike.” And with that she left him alone on the bench.
He retreated to the cool, dark bar of Dupont Circle where he bought the only other guy at the bar—a furniture salesman from North Carolina—a round of drinks. Steve told him about the girl, about his phone calls and meeting her in the park, but the salesman didn’t see the joke. Well, Steve summed up, you had to have been there.
He stood back from the bar, shook his head and grinned, “Goddamn bitch!”
He’d get another apartment, he decided. He’d move out of the District. He’d live somewhere over in Virginia or Maryland, maybe Vienna. He’d live out where normal people lived, and get away from the crazies in the city.
Several months later, just before he did move out of the District, not to Vienna but instead to Gaithersburg, he saw her again. Steve’s boss was in town and he had taken him to the Hay-Adams for lunch. It was the kind of restaurant Steve liked to be seen in. People in position and with money, he knew, ate there, and sitting among them made him feel special.
He saw her when she was leaving the restaurant. She was passing tables and causing a stir. All around the room businessmen looked up and smiled at her. She moved gracefully and quickly through the tables, her long blond hair styled and swept away from her face. She was wearing makeup, but not enough to draw attention away from her brilliant bright eyes, her perfect white skin.
She was wearing a pinstripe trouser skirt, long-sleeve shirt, weskit and blazer. In one hand she carried a thin leather attaché case. Steve realized as he watched her that she was the most beautiful woman in the city.
Masques IV Page 21