One Night Stands; Lost weekends

by Lawrence Block

  If they got busted they either bought the cop right away or got word to the fixer, who bought whoever had to be bought. Sometimes the fixer would get to the mark and pay him off to get him to drop charges. That was the way most of the cannon mobs operated. If that failed, the fixer bought the judge. Almost any judge would square a small rap for the right price.

  But amateurs! If a mark turned in Sally and her partner they would be lost. They might have the brains to get a lawyer, but if they did they’d still wind up doing a year or two apiece. Because the same judge who could be bought would go extra hard on an amateur, just to keep his record looking good.

  The hell with them, Baron thought. They deserved whatever happened to them.

  Mentally he went over all the ways the pair had played the game wrong. To begin with, Sally’s whole approach was too heavy. She should have sat down a stool or two away from him instead of right next to him. She should have let him offer to buy her a drink—the second drink, not the first. She should have mentioned her husband right away and then left the rest of it up to Baron.

  And, of course, she should have caught on to what he was talking about. The first words he spoke were, “I’m working the C out of Philly.” This meant, quite simply, that he was a confidence man who started originally in Philadelphia. But she didn’t even listen to him.

  Then, later, he had told her he had just finished pulling off a rag, a phony stock con. Anybody but a damn fool would have caught that.

  And her “husband” was just as stupid. He should have knocked first, then used the key. He was supposed to be expecting to find her in, so why in the hell didn’t he knock? And he should have had a gun. Not loaded, of course. Not even a real gun, if he wanted to play extra safe. But as soon as he came in swinging he was making things hard for himself. Hell, even a mark might have gotten lucky and clipped him one.

  Well, that was all over. In a day or two he’d get a wire from Lou and head either for Denver or the coast. And he would have happy memories of Tulsa.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Baron swung himself off the bed, wondering who was at the door. Maybe the telegram, he thought. Or maybe Sally, back for another round.

  He walked to the door and opened it.

  The “husband” was at the door. There was a gun in his hand.

  “Inside,” the man said. “Get inside.”

  Baron backed up, puzzled. The man followed him and closed the door behind him.

  “Look,” Baron said, “go home. You made me for a mark and you missed. Quit while you’re ahead.”

  The man said, “I’m going to kill you.”

  “You tried to cop a score and you blew it.”

  The man’s eyes were blazing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “All I know is you were with my wife. I just finished beating the crap out of her. She won’t be able to walk for a month. Now I’m going to kill you.”

  Baron just looked at him.

  “She told me she was going to the movies,” he went on dully. “I come back and she’s with you. I always knew she was a tramp. I had to knock her silly before she’d tell me your name. And I had to give the clerk five bucks before he’d give me your room number.

  “Now I’m going to kill you.”

  Baron started to laugh. No wonder their approach was so amateurish!

  The man pointed the gun at him. Baron laughed again, thinking that it was really no time to laugh. But what the hell else could he do?

  The man pulled the trigger.

  Baron sat down heavily on the bed and began laughing once more. He couldn’t help it. In a few seconds he stopped laughing because he was dead.

  BARGAIN IN BLOOD

  “YOU’VE GOT TO PROVE IT TO ME,” she said.

  He puffed nervously on his cigarette before answering her. She was a very beautiful girl, very well put together and very desirable, and it wasn’t often that a girl like this even bothered to talk to him. He had to be very careful; he didn’t want to say the wrong thing and maybe spoil everything before it even got off the ground.

  “How do you mean?”

  She took the cigarette from his fingers and dragged deeply on it. “You know,” she said, talking through the smoke. “You say you want me, right?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s important, Benny. A guy’s got to want me or he doesn’t get me. Dig?”

  He nodded. He wanted her, all right. He wanted her from the first time he saw her, before he even knew her name. He wanted her so much sometimes that he couldn’t sleep and just lay in bed thinking about her, thinking about the way her blond hair curled around her face and the way her body could twist a sweater out of shape.

  All the time he thought about her, but he never expected to get her. Not him. Not Benny Dix, the little kid with the pimples. The little kid with no dough and no car to drive around in, the little kid nobody paid much attention to at all.

  She had class and he didn’t; it was that simple. She was the type of chick who went with an important cat, a cat maybe like Moe. But she wasn’t going with Moe now. She and Moe split, and now she was there for Benny. Maybe it didn’t make sense, but it was nice. Real nice. She was so close to him now that he could reach out and touch her, and there was nobody else around the park, nobody to bother them.

  “If you want me,” she went on, “you got to show it. I need proof, Benny. You know why I broke with Moe?”

  “Why?”

  “No proof. Moe wanted me, but not enough to let me know it. You probably thought Moe was making it with me, didn’t you?”

  “I—”

  “It’s okay. Everybody thought so, but he wasn’t. Not Moe or anybody else in this jerkwater town. Not because I’m cold, because I can be hot as a Nathan’s hot dog for the right cat. But because I need proof. I could be hot for you, Benny.”

  He felt his hands starting to shake and struggled to control them. He’d give her the proof, whatever the hell it was. It didn’t matter: he had to have her, and that was all there was to it.

  “What kind of proof?” His voice sounded hollow to him, hollow and nervous and tense, like when he was playing chickie and a cop car passed right by the hardware store, and then the cop car slowed down and he didn’t know what to do, whether he should holler chickie or just wait for the cops to take off. Then the cops stepped on the gas and disappeared, and that came out the right way.

  She was looking at him now, her eyes drilling holes in his, studying him very carefully. There was something so intense and direct about her gaze that he wanted to turn away, as if she were staring at him the way he did when he undressed a girl with his eyes. But this was deeper—she was undressing his insides, trying to decide about him.

  “I want you to kill somebody.”

  “What?”

  She smiled. “That’s right, Benny. You heard me right. I want you to take a blade and slip it right into a cat’s guts, understand? That’s the kind of proof I want.”

  “Why, Rita? I mean—”

  “To prove it. I’m nice stuff, Benny. I’m not easy, and I’ll be worth it. Then we can do whatever you want whenever you want to.”

  His mind was racing in circles. He knew she was telling the truth. She’d be worth it, worth almost anything. But killing a guy was a big thing. If they caught you, you burned. And it wasn’t like knocking over a candy store—they tried harder to catch you for murder.

  Murder.

  “Who’s the cat? Anybody special?”

  “You mean you’ll do it?”

  “Wait a minute. I just want to know who, that’s all.”

  She took a breath. “Moe,” she said.

  “Moe?”

  “That’s right. You slip the shank in Moe and it’s just you and me, Benny, for as long as you want it. What do you say?”

  This was big. It was big enough shanking someone he didn’t know, bad enough to slip steel into a cat he never met. But Moe was worse. Hell, he wasn’t tight with Moe and he wouldn
’t miss him, not Moe with the short car with wire wheels and a girl in the backseat whenever he wanted one. No, he could see Moe dead without crying about it. But killing him—

  “It’ll be easy,” she went on, her voice husky and all excited. “It’s about 9:30 now. I can go to his pad and pick him up. I’ll tell him some lies so he thinks he’s getting something now. Then we’ll come walking over towards the park and you can get him about ten steps inside the North Entrance. Okay?”

  He turned a little on the bench, looking off into the distance. He was shook now. Killing—He couldn’t pull a bit like that, not him.

  And then he felt her small hand on his thigh.

  “Okay,” he said.

  He saw them coming a long ways off. He heard them before he saw them, heard Moe’s low, relaxed voice and Rita’s, tense and shrill with anticipation. When they came into view he saw Moe’s arm around her slender waist, his hand gently squeezing her flesh.

  It made him mad, and he knew he’d be able to do it. He’d get even with Moe. He’d get even with him for all the girls he never had and the money he was never able to toss around.

  They came closer. He took his knife from his dungarees pocket and clicked it open, fearing for a moment that Moe would hear the click of the blade and know what was going to happen. But Moe didn’t notice. It was no wonder—Rita was leaning against him as they walked, and it would be tough for a cat to notice anything with a girl like her doing the leaning.

  He rubbed his thumb nervously over the blade, feeling how sharp it was and wondering how it would go into Moe. It would go in nice and smooth, he decided. One push and that would be the end of Moe. And that little push would also serve as the beginning of Benny Dix.

  They entered the park and stopped. They were just steps from him now, just steps from him and the knife and the murder. It was time now. He knew this, but he couldn’t force himself to move for a moment, as if he were made of wood.

  Now.

  He stepped out from behind the tree and closed the gap between them in three quick strides, impatient to get it all over with as quickly as possible. Moe looked up and saw him, and he saw the total surprise in his eyes and the excitement and joy in Rita’s. Then the expression in Moe’s eyes changed to fear when he saw the knife, and he started to move but he couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t dodge the knife that was coming up toward his soft belly, couldn’t even scream when the knife went in and up into him, could only clutch at his gut as he fell back and crumpled to the pavement.

  Rita came to him and stood next to him, and his arm went around her while she looked down at the body that a few minutes ago had been Moe. She was breathing hard now, hot and excited, staring as if she were hypnotized at the pool of blood below her. The blood looked almost purple in the light of the moon.

  They stood in their tracks for several moments without either of them moving or saying a word. He felt torn in half, sick at the realization that Moe was dead and he had killed him, and hungry for Rita and knowing that he was going to get her now, that the loneliness and emptiness were over from here on in. She had the proof she wanted.

  “Come on,” she said at last. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where to?”

  “My pad. The folks are away for the weekend and nobody’s going to bother us. You think you’ll like that, Benny?”

  “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse and tight.

  She slipped her hand in his and gave it a squeeze as they started walking swiftly out of the park. “I think you will, too,” she said. “I think we’ll both have a good time.”

  “Give me the knife,” she said. “I’ll wash it up so nobody can prove anything, okay?” She took the knife and walked off into the bathroom, and he kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed to wait for her. He hadn’t felt this way in a long time—wanting something so much that it was an ache instead of an ordinary hunger, and at the same time knowing that now he was going to get what he wanted, that she was in the next room and soon she would be in the same room with him, lying down on the bed beside him, and then he would have her.

  Moe was dead. He killed Moe, but nobody was going to suspect him and no cops were going to prove anything even if they did figure it all out. Moe was dead in the park and he was in Rita’s bed waiting for her, and even if killing was a bad thing there was nothing to do about it. It was all over—besides, it had to happen just the way it happened. He couldn’t help it, not at all.

  She was running water in the bathroom, washing the knife. Smart girl, he thought. The chick would figure all the angles. If the cops made noises, she could tell how the two of them were together all the time. It was clear.

  She came back holding the knife in her hand and set it down on the little brown table at the head of the bed. “It’s clean,” she explained. “I’m leaving it open for now so it’ll dry out, but there’s no sweat now. Nobody saw a thing.”

  He nodded, and she sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes. “You did it,” she said. “You proved it to me, Benny. I knew you’d have the guts, and I knew you wanted me bad enough. That was the important part.”

  He didn’t answer. She leaned back on the bed, resting her head on the pillow beside his. He could smell her perfume and the fragrance of her hair and he wanted to reach for her and take her right away without waiting for anything. He’d been with chicks before, but never one like Rita, never one who was made for this sort of thing, one that oozed sex with every step she took.

  It was going to be good.

  “I want you, too.” She moved even closer to him and he turned so that their bodies pressed together tightly. He could feel every contour of her body and his arms went around her quickly, and then they were kissing. His heart was beating wildly and he couldn’t control his breathing and he was no longer conscious of the room or the bed or the naked lightbulb hanging over the bed or the knife on the night table.

  He was only conscious of his body and hers and nothing else mattered at all.

  When it was over he lay motionless on the bed while she sat up and rearranged her clothing. He felt complete now for the first time in a long time, complete and whole and relaxed at last. She was even better than she’d promised, better than he had imagined.

  He could almost forget Moe and the sick expression on his face when the knife tore into his stomach. Moe was something that couldn’t be avoided, something in the way that had to be removed. It wasn’t his fault for killing Moe, any more than it was his fault for being born or wanting Rita. It just happened that way.

  And it was good for her, too. She loved every minute of it, every second of the act. From here on in it was peaches and cream for Benny Dix, with Rita whenever he wanted her. And he would want plenty.

  “You liked it,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

  “Of course. Couldn’t you tell?” There was a touch of amusement in her voice, a note of her knowing something that he was missing.

  “Yeah. I mean—You like doing that. You like it every time, don’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Well, he’d give her plenty to like. He rolled over on one elbow and looked at her, sitting silently on the edge of the bed. She looked even prettier than before and it was hard to believe that he had actually made love to her, that he had scored with such a good-looking broad. But he could believe it. He could remember every second of it as if it were still happening.

  “I bet there’s nothing you like better,” he went on, talking slowly. “You proved that you wanted me, just like I proved it to you. Right?”

  She nodded, and he could just make out the shadow of a smile on her face.

  “That’s what I figured. A guy can tell if a chick’s faking, you know?”

  “I wasn’t faking.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. You must like it better than anything else in the world.”

  The smile grew wider. “Almost,” she said, softly. “There’s only one thing in the world I like better, Benny. Just one thing.” As she
spoke, it seemed to him as though she were playing some kind of a game with him.

  “Yeah?” he said, mildly curious. “What’s that?”

  “Something I just saw,” she answered, and he still didn’t know what she was talking about. “It was fun to see it, Benny, and I bet it’s even better when you do it yourself!”

  He opened his mouth to say something, and his mouth remained uselessly open as he saw the knife in her hand, the knife he had used on Moe. For one brief second he saw the answer to his question in her eyes; for one instant he knew what she really craved, what kind of excitement sent her blood racing. Just for that single second when he watched the insane stare in her eyes as she gazed at the blood gushing from the stab wound in his chest.

  A second later his vision blurred and he saw nothing.

  In another second he was dead.

  BRIDE OF VIOLENCE

  SHE DIDN’T SAY A WORD when I pulled the car off the road behind the clump of young poplars. I cut the motor and flicked off the lights. Then I pulled her to me and kissed her.

  The kiss sent my blood racing. This was nothing new. Just being with Rita, just looking at her and running my eyes over the full curves of her body was enough to send me into a sweat.

  I forced myself to pull away from her. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get into the backseat.”

  She smiled, teasing me. “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  I just looked at her. Her hair was long and golden and it spilled over her shoulders like a yellow waterfall. Her mouth was red with the lipstick I hadn’t managed to kiss away yet. Her eyes were a sort of cornflower blue that deepened almost to purple in the dark.

  I wanted her so much it was killing me.

  “Quit playing games,” I said.

  “Games?” The eyes widened.

  “Come on.”

  She smiled. “I just want you to tell me why we should get in the backseat, Jim. That’s all.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe you have designs on my virtue. How should I know?”