The Midnight Tour bhc-3

by Richard Laymon

Probably.

  “You were in your room all by yourself,” Monica told him, looking very pleased with herself. “I knew you must be missing me, so I phoned to invite you over for a little lovey-dovey.” Taking a drink of wine, she stared at him over the rim of her glass. “I was sprawled on the bed, all decked out in my birthday suit. I’d already opened my side of the connecting door. When you picked up the phone, I planned to say, ‘Come and get it, big fella.’ But then I heard your voice and realized that you didn’t deserve me. Not after what you’d done. I don’t put out for naughtly little boys who run away from me. So I hung up.”

  “What a shame,” Owen said.

  “You’ll have to earn your way back.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Oh yes, you are. Can’t fool Monica. I know you want me. You always want me. You’re so predicatable.” Stepping closer to him, she pressed her open hand against the front of his trousers.

  Owen took a quick step backward.

  Raising her upper lip, Monica growled softly.

  “Stop that.”

  She smiled. “You want me right now.”

  “Right now, I want a hamburger.”

  He turned and walked away, but Monica stayed by his side like a perky, vengeful shadow.

  How am I ever going to get rid of her? he wondered.

  He felt trapped, crushed.

  No matter what, tonight’s ruined. She’ll make sure of that.

  Owen sipped his drink, nodded and smiled at some of the other Midnight Tourists as he made his way toward the barbeque grills. There were three grills. On one, hamburgers sizzled.

  Dana was manning it with her loverboy. Sirloin steaks were being prepared on the second grill by the chubby, shy guide named Rhonda. The third grill held a combination of hot dogs and Polish sausages. Behind it, turning the food with tongs, was a young brunette who didn’t look familiar to Owen.

  “Over here,” Monica said, and headed for the third grill.

  “I thought I’d have a hamburger.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You know how much you love Polish sausage.”

  “I like hamburgers, too.”

  “You just want to flirt with your slut. Besides, look at her. She already has a boyfriend, and he’s a lot more handsome than you. She won’t give you the time of day. Now, come on. You know you’d rather eat Polish sausage.”

  I’ll get a burger later, Owen told himself.

  He followed Monica to the third grill.

  “May I help you please?” the worker asked. Like the others, she wore the tan uniform of a Beast House guide. Owen guessed she was no older than twenty. She had short brown hair and large, nervous eyes. Her nameplate read, WINDY.

  “We’ll have two Polish sausages with the works,” Monica told her.

  “Are you a guide?” Owen asked. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

  “I work at the snack stand,” she said, smiling a little.

  “I thought be did,” Owen said, and nodded toward loverboy.

  “Warren? He owns it. I help out part time at the windows. I served your lunch yesterday.”

  “Really?”

  “You and your friend.”

  Holy shit!

  “Ah,” Owen said. He smiled and nodded as if nothing had gone wrong. “That’s right. I remember you now.”

  Windy turned away to finish preparing the sandwiches.

  “What friend?” Monica asked.

  “Just some guy I met.”

  “Guy. I’m sure.”

  Windy came back with two paper plates. On each was a Polish sausage in a long roll. They were gloppy with yellow mustard, onions and peppers. Steam rose off the grilled sausages as she handed the plates to Monica and Owen.

  “Enjoy them,” she said, smiling pleasantly.

  “Thank you, Windy,” Owen said.

  “You’re an absolute treasure,” Monica said.

  Windy’s smile slipped crooked.

  Owen cringed.

  As he hurried away, Monica kept pace beside him and said, “So, Owie, tell me more about your mysterious friend.”

  “It was a guy.”

  “Mmm. I’m sure.”

  “If you don’t believe me, go back and ask Windy.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I believe you. If you say your friend was a guy, your friend was a guy.”

  He hurried to the nearest picnic table. A few people were already there, but one of the side benches had room for two. “Mind if we join you?” he asked.

  “Sit, dude,”

  “You, too, dudette.”

  They climbed over the bench, placed their plates and glasses on the table cloth, and sat down.

  “Hi,” Owen said. “I’m Owen and this is Monica.”

  “Dude. I’m Dennis.”

  “I’m Arnold.”

  “We’re A.A. and D.D.”

  “Nice to meet you, guys.”

  Monica, ignoring them, took a drink of wine.

  “Dr. Clive Bixby, here!” proclaimed Jungle Jim. He waved from the other end of the table, then bit into a hamburger.

  Ignoring it all, Monica set down her glass. She turned her head toward Owen, smiled with mocking sweetness, and said, “So, what was your friend’s name?”

  “John.”

  “What an unusual name.”

  “It is?”

  “For a girl. And how was she in bed?”

  “John was a guy.”

  “So you say.”

  He stared into Monica’s eyes. In them, he saw cold, amused contempt.

  He picked up his icy glass in one hand, his Polish sausage sandwich in the other, stood up and climbed off the bench. “Excuse me,” he said.

  “Where’re you going now?”

  “Just stay here.”

  He rushed away. After a few seconds, he glanced back.

  Monica was twisted around on the bench, watching him but still seated.

  Fucking bitch, ruins everything!

  She was still on the bench when he reached the corner of Beast House.

  He hurried to the rear patio area and entered the men’s restroom.

  It was well lighted, clean-smelling, and it seemed to be deserted. It had five stalls. He entered the one in the middle. The toilet seat looked clean. He locked the stall door, then sat down.

  And drank his drink.

  And ate his Polish sausage sandwich.

  And struggled to keep from crying.

  After a while, Owen began to feel better. The vodka tonic had warmed him up inside, calmed him down—and the sausage had tasted awfully good.

  He looked at his wristwatch.

  8:40

  The movie wouldn’t be starting for another hour and twenty minutes.

  I oughta just wait here, he thought. Let Monica enjoy her own company till ten, see how she likes it.

  But I’ll miss the whole picnic.

  I want another drank. I want a cheeseburger. I want to be where I can at least look at Dana every once in a while.

  He suddenly imagined John Cromwell chuckling, shaking his head and saying “What’s the matter with you, buddy? Hiding in the john ‘cause you’re scared of that smirky twat? Fuck it, man. Go out and have a good time. She gives you any trouble, stomp her ass.”

  Owen smiled. Right on, he thought.

  Then he heard the restroom door swing open.

  Shit!

  He heard footfalls on the tile floor. Someone took two or three steps, then stopped. The door bumped shut.

  Silence.

  More silence.

  Is it Monica? Would she really dare come into a men’sjohn?

  It didn’t seem likely...but she might.

  Why is she just standing there? he wondered.

  He didn’t like that.

  “Helllowwww, Owennnn!” Not Monica’s voice.

  “Youuu-whoooo.” A second voice. Also, not Monica’s.

  One sounded like a female voice, but the other...sounded like Darke.

  I
t’s them.

  Vein and Darke.

  Oh my God!

  “We know you’re here,” Vein said.

  “Are you trying to hide from us?” asked Darke.

  “I’m not hiding,” Owen said. “I’m having...a little stomach trouble.”

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” sang Darke.

  “We know why you’re here,” said Vein.

  “She isn’t coming,” Darke said.

  “Nobody is.”

  “We’re all alone.”

  “Just the three of us.”

  Trying to keep the worry out of his voice, Owen said, “Uhhh.... This is a men’s restroom, you know.”

  “Woops,” said Vein. “Are you going to report us?”

  “No, but...”

  Footsteps.

  Here they come!

  “I’ll be done in just a minute,” Owen said. “Why don’t we meet outside, or something?”

  “This is such a nice, private place,” Vein said.

  The door of the stall to Owen’s left squeaked open. Footsteps strolled past his bolted door. A second later, the stall door to his right swung open.

  What’re they doing?

  They won’t try anything...

  He tipped back his head.

  Vein on the left and Darke on the right grinned down at Owen from the top of the stall partitions. He supposed they must be standing on the toilets.

  “There you are,” said Darke.

  “Such a modest boy,” said Vein. “Takes a crap with his pants up.”

  Blushing fiercely, he said, “I just came in here for some peace and quiet.” He stood up. He shifted his empty glass to his left hand. With his right, he snapped the bolt clear. “You can have the place to yourselves, now.” He pulled the stall door open. Stepping out, he said, “I’d better be getting back to the picnic.”

  Vein and Darke leaped from their stalls, Vein in front of him, Darke behind him.

  Vein blocked his way to the exit. Leering, she stretched her arms to each side. The motion spread the front of her black leather jacket. He glanced at her canyon of cleavage, at the snowy white breasts bulging from the cups of her bra. “You don’t want to leave,” she said.

  “I’d really better be going.” He looked over his shoulder.

  Darke gazed at him with languid, half-shut eyes and whispered, “Stay.”

  He turned toward Vein. She still held her arms out.

  What would happen if I plow through her? She’s bigger than I am, but...

  Her left leg swung up. Swiftly and gracefully, she bent slightly at the waist and swept her right arm down and withdrew a knife from inside her boot.

  Owen felt himself shrivel.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Vein grinned.

  Owen looked at Darke, then at Vein. Then he turned slowly sideways. As he backed toward the wall, he found that he could keep his eyes on both of them at the same time. They made it easier by closing in.

  “What do you want?” he asked, his voice shaking.

  “Some of your blood,” said Vein.

  “You’re...kidding.” His back met the wall.

  “Do you see us smiling?” Darke asked.

  They were both smiling, but not as if much was funny.

  Darke came in from the left, Vein from the right. They didn’t stop until they were close enough to touch him.

  “You can’t,” Owen said.

  “Certainly we can,” Vein said.

  “And certainly we will,” said Darke. Reaching out, she took the glass from his hand.

  “Somebody might come in,” he told them.

  “Somebody might not.”

  “It’ll only take a few minutes,” Darke said, setting his glass on the floor.

  “You can’t do this.”

  “Yesss,” said Darke. “We can.”

  Vein took hold of his hair and pressed his head against the wall.

  “I’ll yell! Somebody’ll come and...”

  His words stopped as his hand was lifted and slipped inside Darke’s open black shirt and guided to a breast.

  The bartender had been right.

  The breast was a small, smooth mound under Owen’s hand, tipped with a turgid nipple.

  Vein’s black lips pressed against his mouth. As her tongue thrust in, Owen felt fingers quickly unbuttoning his shirt. As he fondled Darke’s breast, someone unfastened his trousers.

  Pinned to the wall, he felt hands and mouths, tongues and teeth, quick hot flicks of the knife.

  They sucked him, both at once.

  What if somone comes in?

  Nobody came in.

  Not as they sucked and caressed him.

  Not as he fondled and sucked and delved into them.

  Not as all three of them sank onto the cold tile floor.

  Not as Vein smothered him between her pillowy breasts and Darke straddled him, impaling herself.

  Finally, drained, Owen lay sprawled on his back while Vein and Darke climbed off him and glided away.

  “Why me?” he asked.

  Vein, naked except for her boots, licked blood from her knife blade. “Don’t ask me, dahhling. It was Darke’s idea.”

  She raised her left leg and slipped the knife down into the top of her boot.

  Bending over, Darke stepped into her black leather pants.

  “You’re a nice guy,” she said, pulling them up.

  “I am?”

  “Sweet,” added Darke, fastening her belt. It had the white beast-head buckle, but Owen found that it didn’t interest him nearly so much as Darke’s breasts. They were so small and pale and had such large, dark nipples. He remembered their springy feel, their heat, their taste. He started getting hard again.

  Darke glanced at his rising penis, smiled and met his eyes.

  “Nice guys shouldn’t always have to finish last,” she said. Digging a hand into a front pocket of her pants, she walked over to him. She pulled out a few bandages, then crouched beside him and tore one open.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  FINAL WARNING

  With only half an hour left before showtime at the movie theater, there wasn’t much activity on the front lawn of Beast House. All the tourists seemed to be done with their main courses. Some sat at a table, chatting as they nibbled cake or sipped drinks. Others stood around in a small cluster, each holding a cocktail or a glass of wine. Several had drifted away.

  Monica sat at one of the picnic tables, sipping red wine, talking and laughing with Dr. Clive Bixby and the two late arrivals, a young, married couple named Phil and Connie.

  Phil and Connie seemed like nice folks. Real Beast House fans. While Warren had prepared their burgers, they’d told Dana about ordering their Midnight Tour tickets six months in advance, then driving all the way up from San Diego (with a stopover in Boleta Bay) for tonight’s festivities. They’d almost made it without incident, but a radiator hose had popped on Pacific Coast Highway only five miles south of town. So they’d walked the rest of the way and arrived an hour late.

  Though Phil and Connie hadn’t missed out on any of the food or drinks, they’d gotten ambushed by Monica and the professor.

  Must be loads of laughs, Dana thought.

  Maybe I should go to their rescue.

  She put a hand on Warren’s back. “I think I’ll join our friends over there.”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “You could come, too. Doesn’t look like we’re being overrun by customers.”

  Rhonda and Windy had already abandoned their grills. They were sitting across from each other at a picnic table, eating steaks and talking.

  “I think I’m about ready for some food,” Warren said. “How about you?”

  “I’m starving.”

  “You could’ve gone ahead and eaten.”

  “Without you?”

  “What’ll you have?”

  “How about a cheeseburger with the works?”

  “My specialty.” He glanced at the three dark, dried-up pa
tties already on the grill. “Guess I’ll throw on some fresh ones. You can go ahead and sit down. I’ll be along when the burgers are done.”

  “I’ll get the drinks,” Dana said. “What would you like?”

  “Maybe a beer.”

  “Coming up.” She patted his back, then walked over to the bar.

  Biff was there, getting more refills for himself and his wife, Eleanor. Though Dana hadn’t been trying to keep track, she’d seen Biff over here a number of times.

  They’re really gonna be juiced, she thought as she watched the bartender pour Scotch into two glasses half-full of ice.

  “After that,” Biff told him, “it was hit the ball, drag Bob, hit the ball, drag Bob.”

  Dana recognized the old joke. She wondered how many times the bartender had heard it.

  He laughed, though.

  Biff paid him, tucked a bill into the tip glass, then picked up his drinks and turned around. Dana sidestepped out of his way. He didn’t seem to notice her. He walked carefully toward the place where his wife was standing with Tuck and the Lawrences. In spite of the chill, Eleanor hadn’t put on her sweater. It was still tied around her neck and hanging down her back.

  “They’re feeling no pain,” the bartender said.

  “The way his wife is dressed,” Dana said, “she needs all the antifreeze she can get.”

  “And what’ll you have?”

  “A couple of beers.”

  “Bud, Bud Lite, Corona...?”

  “A couple of Buds would be great.”

  He turned away from the counter and bent over an ice chest.

  “My name’s Dana, by the way.”

  “I’m Hank.”

  “Nice to meet you, Hank,” Dana said as he came back to the counter with a can of beer in each hand.

  “Haven’t seen you around before,” he said, snapping open the cans.

  “This’ll be my first Midnight Tour.” She opened her purse, took out her wallet, and found a ten-dollar bill.

  “You’re going inside tonight?” Hank asked, taking the bill.

  “Yep.”

  “Couldn’t pay me enough to do that. Not at night. Hell, no.” He counted change into her hand. “Not that I’m chicken. Just got more sense than that. Not that I’m saying you haven’t got sense.”

  Laughing, Dana slipped a bill into his tip glass.

  “Thanks.”

  “Have things happened on the Midnight Tour?” Dana asked.